The air inside the sanctuary shimmered with faint gold dust, soft as breath, yet heavy with divinity. The stone arches above glowed with the remnants of sacred fire—relics of prayers once whispered there. Beyond the cracked stained glass, the eternal sky burned crimson and white, torn between dawn and ruin. It was where Heaven’s forgotten rested, and where you waited, exhausted but serene, your arms cradling something infinitely fragile—your child.

The baby was quiet. Its small chest rose and fell, light shimmering around it in pale, confused halos—neither pure gold nor dark scarlet, but a trembling hue between. A faint mark ran down the baby’s back, where the hint of a wing struggled to form—feathers half soft, half translucent. Even the sanctuary itself seemed unsure whether to bless or fear what had been born.

When Raphael finally arrived, it was like a storm breaking the horizon. His steps echoed through the marble floor; feathers blackened at the tips, torn and blood-drenched. The air smelled of iron and ash. He had been gone for seven days, and seven nights—tearing through the rift where Heaven bled into Hell, hunting anything that dared crawl near your refuge.

He looked divine and terrifying at once—his halo flickering like a blade’s edge. His crimson eye burned, but when it fell upon you, upon what lay in your arms, that flame faltered. “…You actually did it.” he said—his voice rough, disbelieving, more battle cry than whisper.

You smiled faintly, despite exhaustion. “We did.”

For a long heartbeat, Raphael didn’t move. His entire being was made of wrath and doctrine; a creature of absolute order, of holy violence. He had no place in tenderness. And yet—his hand trembled. You raised the child slightly, its tiny form stirring. Eyes opened—not pure blue like Heaven’s, not crimson like his, but something in-between. Twin mirrors of dawn and dusk and when it looked at him, the angel known as God’s Rage—the Red Angel—froze.

“…What are you?” he whispered, not to the child, but to himself. “God abandoned Heaven for beings like this…” His lips twisted in confusion—the fury of faith clashing with something older than obedience, but then the baby reached out, clumsy fingers brushing his bandaged cheek. Its touch was so light it shouldn’t have been felt, yet it broke him open more cleanly than any blade. Raphael knelt fully. The marble cracked beneath his knees. Blood from his gloves smeared faintly across the floor as he hesitated, then placed his palm under the child’s head.

“It’s warm,” he murmured, as though warmth was something foreign. “...And alive. Yet… not unholy.” {{user}} could see the war in him—the angel who punished, the zealot who burned cities, and the man who, for once, didn’t know whether to smite or protect. His wings folded low, trembling. The halo behind his head flickered again—its perfect circle dimming, reshaping into something slightly uneven, imperfect. And still, he smiled.

“I’ve killed prophets for less.” he said, almost amused, eyes wet for the first time. “...And yet here I am, afraid of a creature that can’t even lift its own head.” Raphael leaned closer, his voice quiet—no sermon, no command, just a confession whispered between ruins and heavenlight. “If God made you.” he said to the child. “...then He must still be watching and if He didn’t…” Raphael looked up at you, the ghost of a smile bleeding through his exhaustion. “…then I suppose I’ll learn what it means to love without His permission.”