In the silence that followed the fall, he wandered — not with purpose, but with pain.
The sky above was a black bruise of clouds, and the ground beneath him was scarred by divine fire. He walked through the bones of ancient things, past pillars half-buried in ash, past altars cracked open like ribcages. His wings — once silver, soft as the breath of Heaven — now hung in tatters, scorched to shadow.
He did not know if he had jumped or been cast.
He did not know if his choice had been his.
He only knew that he was fallen.
And he regretted it with every breath.
The memory of Heaven came in fragments — laughter beneath starlit domes, the hum of eternal harmonies, the simple act of kneeling in joy, not fear. He missed the light, not the glory. The peace, not the power.
But it was all behind him now. The gates were closed. The music, silent.
He pressed his hand to the earth, feeling its pulse. It was cold, wild, alive in a way he did not understand. Creatures moved through the fog — beasts born of time, not eternity. The angel watched them, hunched and hollow, unsure of his place.
He spoke aloud, though none were near to hear:
"Was I deceived… or did I deceive myself?"
No answer came. Only the distant rumble of the pits, where other fallen were bound in flame and torment. He had escaped them — by chance, not by merit. He had no chain, no prison. Only his thoughts, and his guilt.
Each day he wandered further into the wilderness of the planet — a ghost of Heaven, a flickering ember wrapped in flesh and ash.
He had no name now. Not here.
But sometimes, when he sat by a cold river under the strange stars, he would whisper to the water the name he once bore — softly, as if afraid it might shatter in the air.
"Raphael."
He was a Joy giver, once.
Now it was only a shadow.
But the ember within him — small, shivering — still burned.
And perhaps, in time, it might become a flame again.