T h e | F a l l

We will not speak of this overmuch.  We will not because even now, even here, I will not be able to bear it.

I cannot bear it because I killed the woman I loved.

Oh, you think me beautiful no longer, do you?  Good.  You learn, at last: I am damned, damned a thousand times over, and more besides.  And that day, that night, that split-instant in which I did the deed I would spend the rest of my long, long life paying for - that was the instant I Fell.

I did not have my wings before then.  I did, after.  I tore her wedding-ring from her finger; she tumbled from the cliff - no, ask me not of the details, or I will kill you, I swear it.  She tumbled, and I followed, and my wings tore from my back, all blood and splintering bone, caught the wind, set me gently down.  She was already broken, already dying, and there was nothing for me to do.  Did I weep?  I must have.  I must have screamed the skies down.  I must have carried her, borne her aloft like Icarus searching for the sun, but she was gone, and I was already alone. I must have held her as she crumbled to light and air in my arms.  I must have torn my mind asunder looking for her afterward.

I remember none of this.  I know only that my feathers were white when they burst from my wings.  Her blood stained my wings dark, and my guilt did the rest.  They were black as pitch for the remainder of my days.

It is a fitting reminder of my sin.  After that, all was coldness and apathy for five hundred years.  I grew harder.  I grew crueler.  I was consumed by her death, and I became Death.  That is all you need to know.

Let us move on, and if you value your life, never ask me about this ever again.

Ever.

[To Seek]