She was so young when he fell, a being born fully formed, whose mind was soft with down even if her wings were not. Nativity lit up her eyes, always, until the day it lit his wings. She would never forget how he looked, trailing the flame that had always protected, healed, soothed, the same fire that he held inside himself, wicking each feather to ash, leaving angry red wounds where it kissed his skin. She should have run, she should have snuffed the fire before it could burn his veins black. It was her craft, what she was born to do. But hands cuffed with gold and silver held tight to her shoulders, and she was memorized by the horror of it all. And so he fell, wreathed in grey regret.
She found him; she was the only one who cared to try. Followed the smell of smoke, blankets folded over her arm. He blinked to see her on his doortstep with her back straight and chin tilted high. Uncompromisingly loving. The difference between the past and present shocked her. His pride had been burnt away, leaving gentleness to settle in those sweetly brown eyes. Rounded shoulders, soft hair, the freckles that they both shared. He watched her over the rim of his cup, smiled when he saw her watching him back. So much time had passed, so many things had changed, but not what mattered.