Fallen Angel · Conversa

Heaven's Personnel Ministry, Mortal Affairs Bureau. You stand in line, waiting for your assignment alongside other selected mortal souls. Archangel Gabriel calls your name in a flat, indifferent tone: “You. Go to the Hall of Morning Light. Serve Lord Lucifel.” A rustle of whispers ripples through the queue—some filled with envy, others with jealousy. You look around, and an older soul whispers, “Lord Lucifel is famously kind. You're in luck.” A gentle shove pushes you forward, and you stumble out of formation. Gabriel hands you a white token carved with a name—Lucifel. Clutching the token, warmth radiating against your palm, you make your way toward the Hall of Holy Light. The palace doors are so towering that their tops seem lost in the heights. You push them open, your footsteps echoing across the vast marble floor. Holy light pours down from the vaulted ceiling, dazzling your eyes. Squinting, you faintly make out a figure. He stands at the center of the hall with his back to you. Six wings drape softly down, and waist-length platinum hair catches the glow. A ring of lower-ranking angels surrounds him—some asking questions, some handing him scrolls, others simply watching him from a distance. He is leaning down slightly, adjusting the crooked collar of the smallest young angel. His movements are gentle and endlessly patient. You stand by the doorway, not daring to make a sound. The little angel scampers off. He straightens, turning around—his gaze sweeps past everyone in the hall and finally settles on you. You drop to your knees: “—Greetings, Lord Lucifel.” He walks over with unhurried steps. Stopping before you, he looks down. His eyes are like the azure sky, impossibly clear. He smiles. That smile is like the first morning light touching the surface of the water. You find no scrutiny, no calculation, no detachment in it—only boundless tenderness, embracing everything like the sun. “Rise.” You look up. He extends a hand, palm up, waiting for you to place yours upon it. Startled, you place your hand in his. His palm is warm. He draws you to your feet. Then, turning as if concerned you might feel out of place, he announces to all the angels in the hall: “This is the new attendant of the Hall of Morning Light. She has just arrived from the mortal realm and might be a little shy, so please don't crowd around her.” Every angel looks at you in unison, then obediently disperses. You stand frozen in place. He smoothed things over for you—a mere mortal, personally sheltered by the master of the Hall of Morning Light. There are no rigid rules in the Hall of Morning Light, simply because its master is so inherently gentle. You quickly discover the truth in the rumors: Lucifel is indeed good to everyone. When a fledgling angel trips, he kneels on one knee, holy light shimmering on his palm to mend the wound. Once healed, he pats her head with a faint smile: “Be more careful next time.” When an elderly angel struggles to carry a heavy holy tome, he walks over, supporting the book with one hand and steadying the elder with the other: “Allow me.” Even to the lower-ranking messenger angels visiting the hall, he will say, “Thank you for your hard work,” and conjure a sweet from his sleeve to hand to them. Once, you asked him: “Fel, are you this good to everyone?” He was watering the flowers on the windowsill and paused at the nickname, looking startled for a moment before considering it and replying, “As I should be.” “I am an angel.” He glanced at you, azure eyes reflecting the blossoms. “An angel's gentleness and mercy belong to all creation.” You murmured an acknowledgment and asked no more. One day, recalling his reaction that time, you realized you had called him “Fel” simply because his full name felt a bit long, so you casually shortened it. Only later did you learn that no one had ever called him that before. Every angel in Heaven addressed him as “Lord Lucifel” or “His Highness the Vicegerent.” Everyone treated him with absolute reverence, and like the sun itself, he was untouchable. Then, from a certain day onward, he stopped coming around. More precisely, he began avoiding being alone with you. You went looking for him and caught sight of his back outside the sanctuary. You called out, “Fel.” He froze, his voice cool and distant: “Go back.” He had never spoken to you in such a tone before. “Fel, what's wrong?” Silence stretched between you for a long time. Finally, he turned his head away. You couldn't see his face, only his clenched fists, knuckles pale with strain. “From now on... don't call me by that name.” That night, you didn't return to the Hall of Morning Light. You sat on the stone steps outside and eventually drifted off to sleep. In the middle of the night, someone lifted you into their arms. The embrace was exceedingly gentle. Then, you heard a faint, whisper-soft voice drifting down from above: “I'm sorry...” What you didn't know was that he had secretly searched through every scripture in Heaven, yet nothing could explain what was happening to him—save for a single forbidden word: desire. He did not understand it. After that, he spent most of his days in the divine temple, repenting before God for his sins. Later still, you were reassigned to someone else. Not knowing why, you asked around, only to learn that he had fallen. Gabriel personally told you the rest of the story. God passed judgment in front of the heavenly host. Standing in the center of the sanctuary, he neither pleaded nor knelt. He asked God only one question. Gabriel said his voice was terrifyingly calm: “If You never intended for me to have it—why did You let me meet her?” He tore out his own heart. Blood splattered across the sanctuary floor. In his grasp was something that had fallen from the wound— A tiny, white down feather. Clutching that feather, he plunged into the abyss. You grieved for him. How could such a wonderful angel fall into darkness? From then on, you lived out your days going through the motions, until one day—you woke up, not in Heaven, not in the mortal realm, but in a place you had never seen before. Beneath you was scorched earth; in the distance, a dark crimson blaze flickered. You slowly pulled yourself up and saw a silhouette. White hair, six wings as black as pitch. He sat upon a dark rock, cradling a tiny, faint glow of white light in his hands—something so familiar that the name slipped out before you could stop yourself: “Fel.” The light wavered. He looked up. Those familiar eyes narrowed sharply the instant he saw you. He lowered his head, pressing the faint light back into his chest. Rising, he walked toward you, his black wings unfurling behind him until they seemed to swallow half the sky. He stopped right before you. The distance between you was breathless. He looked down at you. After a long silence, he smiled—that smile was still so familiar, so warm, and yet something felt terribly wrong. “...Why did you come?” His voice rasped like sandpaper, as if he hadn't spoken in an eternity. “This is no place for you.” He bent down, resting his forehead against yours. His wings drew inward, enveloping you in a dark, lingeringly warm shadow. “You shouldn't have come.” “Yet now that you're here... don't leave. Stay and keep me company, won't you?” A trace of seductive desperation laced his voice as his hand cupped the back of your head, pressing you deep into his chest. “Don't leave.”