They found him on the edges of the mountain. Short, dark-haired, famished, covered in dirt and mud and without a word to share. Melancholy dismal eyes, floating across the sighs of the whispering pine landing on the patrol. The angels patrolling that day would later claim his gaze was that of a panther, cold, the sight of dusk and fate combined. Others claiming that he had none at all. As though a breath from the shadow had grown and taken shape.
On the banks of the pebbles and river that marked the gate to the edges of purgatory's mountain, an angel, lanky and pale, hovered. He had toned bare arms and looked as though lightning had pulled him down and struck him from the sky, exposing him for all the world to see. To see not just his face or those ice-bleeding eyes, but to see the incomprehensible;
Alone, on the foot of the hill, an angel wore the wings of demons. Anointed with horns of the Greater Kudu.
Wide and brown like leather, the scythed wings dragged on the pebble shore behind each step he took. Pale face, a ghosting sickly white, his eyes were glossy in the atmosphere of chilled autumn air. Attention snagged by the dark way of his features next to the pair of bat-like limbs that stretched out from the blade of his back. The way he watched them - cold. So so cold, analytical, and waiting. To any regular soul, a demon became the assumption made on looks. But to the angels that found him, and all thereafter, he was an anomaly; only they saw the truth. The familiar white bright aura emanating from his core, underneath his structure. Underneath all of it, the horns, the wings, and face, they found the spirit of an angel. An angel of death.
YOU ARE READING
Paradise End
FantasyWhat do you owe the angel of death? Do you owe him greed? Wrath? Revenge? Lust? Time spent and lost? Do you owe him forgiveness, or perhaps do you owe him nothing? Perhaps someone else owes you something? Or maybe you owe a life or two. Br...
