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It seemed an odd thing that the angels stationed in the city would take up residence in an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district. Every time that Azarel invited Turin there, he would stare up at the dingy brick building with it’s suffocating, soot-smeared windows, and he always found the place more fitting of a group of Fallen or demons than a group of angels. He wondered if that was the point.

He hated coming here. There was no where else he felt so completely out of place as among the angels that had, at one time, been his friends and allies. But Azarel had invited him, and had insisted that he come for dinner in order to repay him for the tense meal they’d shared upon his arrival. Turin didn’t really expect this dinner to be any less uncomfortable.

The narrow steel door at the side of the building, lit by a dim, bare bulb, opened before he even lifted his hand to knock. He was met with a wide smile from a thin, petite redhead, who reached out to take hold of his arm and pull him in. “Turin, it’s so good to see you,” she said, and as with every time before, he couldn’t tell if she was just being nice because Azarel had asked her to be, or if it was genuine.

He forced a small smile. “It’s good to see you too, Hael. How have you been?”

“We’ve been all right. No different than usual,” she replied brightly, her cheerful demeanor grating on his frayed nerves. She led him up the narrow stairs just inside the door, leaving the open, empty first level behind. “And you?”

Turin opened his mouth to speak as they reached the top of the steps, but he froze when he heard the two angels on the couch just inside arguing, their backs to the door. His heart fell when he heard his name.

“You know he makes me uneasy, Azarel. Turin is not one of us, and he shouldn’t be brought here.”

“He was your friend, once, Caelum, your ally, and still, you find it so easy to write him off and to lose faith that, deep down, he still is one of us?” Azarel snapped, his voice sounding thin and tired, as if he’d had the same argument too many times; the conviction was still there, but the hope of convincing the other angels had long ago dried up.

“He betrayed us all. He made his decisions, and he’s being punished for them. Part of that punishment includes having no intimate contact with any of us. Why must you insist on bending the rules for him? Do you really feel so guilty for something that you neither had control over or a part in?” Caelum gave an irritated sigh. “He takes his orders from Lucifer, now,” he said, dropping his voice. “He may have once been our friend, but he is no longer. You’re exposing all of us to a dangerous, uncontrollable being simply because you feel guilty.”

There was silence, and Turin could almost picture the familiar look of pain crossing Azarel’s face.

Caelum sighed again, but this time he simply sounded tired. “Azarel, I pity him as much as you do. We all do. But this can’t continue.”

Turin wasn’t sure how much more he could listen to. He started to turn to leave, but behind him, Hael cleared her throat loudly. Both angels on the couch spun to face them in surprise. Azarel looked mortified when he caught the hurt look on Turin’s face, but Caelum simply frowned and rose from the couch.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, brushing past two of the other angels as they entered the main room, and he disappeared down the hallway.

They stared after him a moment before turning to take in the Fallen, still in the doorway at the top of the stairs. He was gripping the doorframe, his knuckles white, and his face ashen. He stared at the spot on the couch that Caelum had vacated, and it wasn’t until Hael’s hand settled on his arm that he looked away from it.

The look of pity on her delicate features made him want to turn away again, but she flashed him a genuine smile and motioned towards the two newcomers. “Turin, this is Ramiel,” she said, pointing at the thin, sinewy brunette, then at the short blonde beside her, “and this is Sofiel. They’ve just arrived this past week.”

Turin could barely take in what she was saying. Even when the two new angels gave him a quiet greeting, he couldn’t take his eyes off of Hael. Beneath the layers of pity, sorrow, and kindness, there was discomfort and unease. He finally glanced over at the other two, and saw much the same thing. He swallowed hard.

“…I shouldn’t come here anymore,” he said to no one in particular.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Azarel insisted, moving awkwardly around the couch to stand in front of the Fallen.

“The last thing I want is to cause trouble for you here,” Turin said. “I’ve far overstayed my welcome.” He turned to go, but Hael’s soft hand once more caught his arm and drew him to a stop. His pale blue eyes lifted to hers, and the discomfort was gone, replaced completely by a sort of sad, smiling kindness that made him ache even more for the acceptance that he’d never find there.

“Please stay,” she said softly, giving his arm a squeeze. “You must forgive Caelum for his behavior. He’s been very homesick recently, and it makes him irritable. You’ve just caught him on a bad day.”

He wanted to know what the angel’s excuse was for all the other times he’d been so cold to him, but the gentleness on Hael’s face stopped him. She was trying, and even if it was only for Azarel’s sake, he did appreciate it. With a soft sigh, he slumped and nodded.

“Okay,” he said softly. “But I won’t stay for long.”

Hael gave a bright smile and ushered him further into the converted warehouse, steering him towards the kitchen. “Good. Now, come and sit down. Tell me what you’ve been up to since I saw you last.”

He followed her, eyes roving around the bright, cheerfully decorated loft. The pale yellow walls made the space seem endless, and the light from the overhead lamps reflected off of them like sunlight. The bare wood floor was stained a deep mahogany, and was covered intermittently with throw rugs from all across the world. The walls were studded every few feet with photos of delegates past and present, and paintings of Heaven. It looked just how he remembered it, and if he closed his eyes, he could just barely imagine himself there.

As they entered the kitchen, the delicious and overpowering smells of food banished all other thoughts from his mind. He moved away from Hael to peek into the pots on the stove.

“I’ve always wondered where you learned to cook,” he said absently.

Hael smiled and moved around him to stir some sort of sauce. “Quite a few places. I’ve been stationed just about everywhere over the last few thousand years. Greece, Japan, Italy…” She motioned him towards a chair at the breakfast bar and turned to the fridge. “What can I get you to drink?”

Turin settled into the chair, and Azarel awkwardly sat down in the one beside him. “Just water would be good. Thank you.” He refused to look over at his friend, not wanting to see the pity and sorrow that he knew he’d find on his face. Instead, he found a tiny crack in the countertop completely fascinating until Hael set a glass of water in front of him.

“So. What sort of things have you been up to lately?” she asked, turning back to the stove to stir the sauce again. “It’s been years.”

“Lonely ones,” he said without thinking. Azarel flinched, but he ignored him. “And I haven’t really been up to anything. Painting, mostly, when Church isn’t demanding long, tiresome walks.” He swirled his fingertip in his water. “Jezebel’s made a pest of herself more often than not. I’m surprised Lucifer hasn’t gotten rid of her yet. She seems like just the type he’d tire of easily.”

He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wanted to tell them what Jezebel had told him that half a week before, wanted to admit that he’d been ordered to kill Azarel, in hopes that maybe they’d do something to stop him, but he couldn’t make his mouth form the words. The darkness in him demanded a deep loyalty to Lucifer, and he wasn’t sure he possessed the strength to go against it.

This one’s a bit longer than the last two. Enjoy.

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It was the angel’s favorite place to rest while his body readjusted to the differences between Heaven’s atmosphere and Earth’s. The single tree in the center of the vacant field had died decades before, it’s trunk hollowed by various creatures who had at one point called it home, and it’s black branches stood out in stark relief against the ashen sky. A storm was coming, but it would not rain on the slumbering Celestial propped up against one of the tree’s exposed roots.

The angel had been there less than an hour when the first of the birds came. They settled in great masses on the bare branches above him, but for the occasional brave and reverent soul that settled on one pale, cold shoulder to preen the angel’s heather wings. Little by little, the branches filled until from a distance, it appeared as if the tree was full of fluttering, multicolored leaves.

Turin arrived not long after the angel did, watching him from a distance, leaning against his car at the edge of a tiny, disused dirt road. He felt a twinge of jealousy at the peace that blanketed both birds and angel, longing again for what he knew he couldn’t have. The hours passed and the storm clouds built above them, but still the angel slumbered. It wasn’t until the first drop landed on Turin’s head that the birds erupted from the tree in a flurry of feathers and wings, and the angel rose.

The Fallen yanked his umbrella out of his back seat and hurried across the uneven expanse of wild grasses, flicking it open as he reached the angel.

Azarel yawned, retracted his wings, and smiled at Turin as he held the umbrella up to shield them both.

“You always have to pick the rainiest days to come back, don’t you?” Turin asked, a wry smile crossing his lips. Rain dripped off of the edge of the umbrella and down the back of his neck.

“I love the way the earth smells just before a good storm,” the angel replied. He motioned towards the car in the distance and they set off towards it. They walked in silence, too focused on keeping their footing in the wet grass and avoiding slick stones to manage a conversation.

When they settled into the car, Azarel smoothed his windblown dark hair back into some semblance of order. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Turin started the car and flicked a glance over at him. “Who were you expecting?”

The angel lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “No one. You haven’t met me like this in years.”

“I had the time,” Turin said. “I figured I may as well come to welcome you back.”

“Have you seen any of the others since I left?”

Turin snorted. “No. They only associate with me when you’re here because you do and they have to play nice. You know just as well as I do how they feel about me.”

Azarel’s lips drew down in an irritated frown. “They’ll understand someday.”

“It’s been almost two millennia, Azarel. If they haven’t understood by now, I’m not holding my breath that they ever will.”

“One can hope,” the angel said, his tone almost sulky.

It was Turin’s turn to shrug. “It’s all right, Az. I’ve made my peace where they’re concerned. They’re only doing what they think is right, and I can’t fault them for that even if, once, they were my friends. It takes too much energy to be angry with them. I’d much rather focus on other things.”

He glanced over at the angel’s unhappy profile as he pulled out onto the main road. He wanted to reach over and wipe the irritation and frustration away like condensation on a window. He wanted to stop causing his friend such pain, and part of him wished that Azarel had been severed from him like all the others. It wouldn’t hurt so much for either of them. The angel would move on and forget about him in favor of more important things, and the Fallen wouldn’t have to feel so tormented with something he couldn’t have every time the angel came near.

But still, he felt selfish. Azarel had a way of energizing him that he hadn’t found anywhere else, even amongst other angels. He was loathe to let go of that last thread of connection to Heaven, and so he did the only thing he could think to do: he held on tighter.

He sucked in a deep breath and turned his eyes back to the road. “…Come over for dinner,” he said, praying that his offer wasn’t refused.

Azarel glanced up at him, a faint smile wiping away all traces of consternation on his beautiful face. “I will,” he said.

“Good.” Turin cleared his throat. “Because… Church missed you,” he added quickly.

The angel’s smile softened. “I’m sure he did.”

It was a few more minutes’ drive to Turin’s apartment, and he pulled into the covered car park just as the rain began to beat down on the earth. He grabbed his umbrella and slid out of the car. “Should we wait for it to let up a bit?” Turin asked, almost having to yell to be heard over racket of the deluge.

Azarel peered up at the sky with a frown and shook his head. “It’s only going to get worse. We should just make a run for it.” He squeezed close to Turin as he opened the umbrella, and they made a mad dash for the front door.

They managed to make it inside without getting soaked to the skin, and the Fallen shook out his umbrella in the hall. They made their way up to his apartment, and the excited barking from within told them that Church had been expecting their arrival.

“Church, sit,” Turin shouted through the door. “Stay.” He pulled open the door, and despite his commands, the dog came hurtling out the moment the space was big enough, and launched himself at Azarel, who laughed and dropped to his knees to wrap his arms around the pit bull’s neck.

“Damn dog,” Turin muttered, pushing his way into the apartment and leaving the door open behind him. “He only misbehaves when you’re here,” he called over his shoulder, toeing off his sodden shoes on the tray in the coat closet.

Azarel grinned. “You know, that’s what they all say to cover up for a badly trained animal.”

The Fallen scoffed and moved into the kitchen. “Church is the best trained dog I’ve ever had the pleasure of housing and feeding,” he said glancing over when he heard the front door shut and both dog and angel followed him in. “He behaves better than I do under normal circumstances.”

“I’m sure he does. He follows commands without even thinking to disobey, unlike you.”

Turin chuckled and retrieved Church’s food dish, setting it on the counter and pulling out a can of dog food. “What are you in the mood for, brother?” he asked, flicking a glance over at the angel lounging against the counter.

With another graceful shrug, Azarel glanced around him. “I’m not feeling particularly picky.” He paused and looked up at the ceiling with appreciative eyes. He hesitated a moment. “You painted it again.”

Barely sparing the mural on the ceiling a glance, Turin nodded. “A few months ago. I also redid the one in my bedroom. Trying to get it rendered just right.” He filled the dog’s bowl and set it down on the floor. He rubbed Church’s head. “Eat.” He turned back to Azarel. “Maybe you could take a look at it for me, tell me what’s missing. I can’t figure it out.”

The angel nodded, his eyes never leaving the ceiling. “I would love to,” he said absently, his eyes running over and over the grim depiction of the day Turin had been Felled. The bright colors and delicate lines lent a horrible air of tragedy to the heartbreaking sight of his friend, wings severed and back carved with the mark of the Fallen, down on his knees, begging to be spared.

Turin moved around him silently, gathering the ingredients for a quick chicken parmesan and trying to ignore the pain etched across the angel’s face. When Azarel opened his mouth to speak, Turin shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Please. Don’t apologize again. It was never your fault.”

“…It’s hard to believe that,” Azarel replied, finally dropping his eyes back to his friend. “I should have been there.”

“Don’t,” Turin repeated more forcefully. “Don’t do this to me again. I can’t keep dealing with this. I can’t.”

“I just hate to think—”

“Azarel!” Turin shouted, slamming his hands down on the counter. The angel snapped his mouth shut and had the sense to look embarrassed.

After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I just feel that… My guilt is not soothed. I can’t forget any of that. I can’t let it go.” He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed softly. “It might be easier if you were angry at me for it.”

The Fallen gave a sigh of frustration. “There’s no reason for me to be angry with you for that. You didn’t put those words in my mouth. You didn’t make me doubt. You didn’t make me say the things I said.” Turin stared down at his pale hands on the black granite countertop. “It isn’t your fault. It never was, and it never will be. Please, just this once, believe me.”

Azarel wanted to protest, to insist that, if only he’d been there, he could have stopped Turin from voicing his doubt and, if nothing else, convinced him to go quietly out of Heaven so that he could have kept his wings. His eyes drifted up to the scene on the ceiling again, and he sighed. “Okay,” he said finally. He forcibly quelled the desire to continue arguing and turned to the counter to help prepare the food.

If you’re new to the serial, read about it here or start at the beginning.

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Turin Cain looked up from his journal as a shadow fell across the pages. He knew who it was before he even took in the sharp, angular features of the demon before him. Her pin-straight thick black hair flowed down past her shoulders, gleaming red in the light of the late afternoon sun. With lean, pale arms crossed over her chest and a toothy smile upon her lips, she looked fierce and dangerous.

“Jezebel,” he said, folding his arms over the book in his lap. He pushed his pen behind his ear and tried not to shudder under her unpleasant, prickling gaze. “You’re late.”

The demon smirked, dark eyes narrowing to catlike slits. “You dare scold me, worm?” She scoffed and settled beside him on the park bench. “But it’s so sweet to know that you waited for me,” she said, voice dripping with obvious sarcasm. “I’m flattered.”

“Would you just get to it already? I don’t have time for this.”

Jezebel gave a faux sweet smile. “Luci has a new job for you.”

Turin scowled at the flippant, almost juvenile way that she referred to their master and shook his head. “He’d kill you if he heard you calling him that.”

“Yes, well, he’s not here to hear me, now is he?” She rolled her eyes and reached a hand up to smooth her already perfect hair. “He’s grown tired of you, Turin. He’s put up with your frailty and your consorting with that angel of yours for long enough.” She examined her fingernails idly. “He wants you to get rid of him.”

There was a protracted silence while the Fallen tried to sublimate the look of disbelief that quickly crept its way into the worry lines at the corners of his eyes and lips anyway. He swallowed hard and tried to push aside the horror that the thought of slaying the angel brought him, but there was no escaping that gnawing, empty feeling that had started in the pit of his stomach. “…Of what consequence is the angel Azarel to Lucifer?” he asked, his voice sounding weak and vulnerable in his ears. “He’s no longer a warrior. He’s a simple delegate. He’s harmless.”

Jezebel flashed a cruel smile and reclined against the backrest, crossing long legs at the ankle and watching the humans pass with an almost predatory gaze. “That is of no matter. He’s an angel, and thus, he is our enemy.” She flicked a glance over at him to watch the pain flash across his face. “You have three weeks to destroy him, or the hellhounds will be sent out after you both. You know as well as I do that none can hide from them forever.”

“…It’ll be done,” he said, voice tight and strained, and Jezebel rose. “I will not fail.”

The demon grinned, her expression vicious and almost victorious at the sight of such blatant unhappiness laid bare on the Fallen’s face. “Of course you won’t,” she said before she turned away and was gone, leaving Turin staring with unseeing eyes at nothing in particular, desperately wishing that he was strong enough to defy his orders.

The sun had set by the time Turin found the will to move, and the park around him had emptied but for a few stay joggers and their dogs. The silence around him felt deafening and uncomfortable as if pregnant with some kind of foreboding that he couldn’t escape, punctuated only by the occasional shrill chirp of a cricket or hoot of a lone owl. And as darkness began to spread itself, thick and as impenetrable as stone, over the earth, the Fallen wished for a peace that he knew he would never find.

He longed for the peace of Heaven, for the life void of pain and fear that he had been given there. He longed for the comfort of the complete and utter silence that could be found in the presence of the Father, and conversely, for the sound of praises being sung eternally around His throne. They were things that he would never feel or experience again, and as he slid silently along the shadowed path that would take him home, he allowed himself a rare moment to openly mourn for them.

He slid into his apartment, dropping to his knees and bracing for impact when he heard nails scrabbling across the kitchen floor. With a bellowing woof, a lumbering pure white pit bull came hurtling at him, settling one front paw onto each shoulder to better facilitate his overeager greeting. The Fallen cracked a weary smile as the dog lovingly bathed his face with his tongue before snuffling his cold wet nose into his neck.

“Hey, Church.” Turin stroked a hand across the wide head, scratching floppy ears for a moment before shifting the beast off of him. Church landed with a grunt and followed his master as he passed through the hall and into the kitchen. He settled himself down beside his bowl and waited patiently for it to be filled.

After taking care of the dog, Turin pulled a couple of cold slices of pizza out of the box on the table. Hopping up to sit on the counter, he polished off one piece before Church let out a soft whine. He glanced down at the dog, still sitting obediently beside his full bowl.

“Sorry, buddy,” he said, motioning towards the bowl. “Eat.” He smiled when the dog’s tail gave a loud thump on the floor before he stood up and dug in.

When they were finished, both Fallen and dog settled together on the couch. Church sprawled across Turin’s lap, belly up, and demanded attention, and the Fallen was more than happy to give it. He flicked on the TV while he scrubbed his fingertips through the short hair on his dog’s chest, hoping for a distraction from the thoughts that swirled endlessly in his head. He flipped aimlessly through the channels, and when he realized that there was no silencing his noisy mind, he switched it back off.

“It’s the twelfth,” he told the dog, his eyes drifting off to his left and out the window where the stars were shining in all of their Heavenly glory. With a sigh, he let his head fall back against the cushions and closed his eyes. “He’ll be here soon.”