he's unholy

/‘hir,āeth/

They told you, when you were young, that angels had eyes of gold and tongues coated with honey and lilting voices made for the sweetest melodies. They told you there was nothing more beautiful than their feathery wings.

He proves you wrong.

His eyes are gray, colorless, and subsequently, devour all color. His tongue is coated only in smoke, not tasting of cheap cigarettes so much as it tastes of the fire from the impact of his fall. He can never wash away the smell, even as he bathes in waterfalls of glory or holy water that scorches his skin, it will stick to him until the end of time. His voice is not the sugary songbird which you were led to believe, it’s booming and menacing and angry, it stirs up flames in your chest with every word. And his wings, well, he doesn’t have any. Only two scars down his back, vibrant red and still sensitive to the touch, a bitter reminder of all he has lost.

They told you that angels were radiant beings made of iridescence. They told you angels were beautiful. They told you angels were powerful.