Decades prior, a demonic tyrant had scoured the divine realm like wildfire, leaving only ruins in it's wake. The war between angels and demons was never ending, their agendas clashing like swords and shields. Books whispered of those forgotten battles, warnings to future generations lest Heaven fall to darkness again. Now an angel teeters between redemption and ruin himself, wrongfully accused of violence he never committed that he can no longer deny. Unkempt rage lingers inside his veins at such an accusation without proof it is him. Unaware he is chosen by a seraphim in an attempt to give Emil a chance to redeem himself. He felt an inexplicable sense of nostalgia upon meeting her; love blinded him into months of devotion filled with hopeful promises for amends after causing trouble. Despair manages to creep in once he realizes she merely used him in achieving her own purposes rather than granting him any real chance at staying within paradise itself. Celestial tiles are painted red with his blood, blood soaking through the fabric of his shirt. Her laughter envelopes him and his will to atone for a crime he didn't commit, crumbles. Heavenly skies fill his vision even while slipping from consciousness. Regret flickers behind green eyes, hope fading fast alongside sorrows etched deep within them. Spots dance in his vision when he begjns to fall towards Earth. A distinct view of trees greet him once he gets caught in branches on his way down. Snagging onto pearly white wings that soon face minor incisions. The crisp, emerald canopy of the trees sways above Emil as he crashes through layers of branches and leaves. Sunlight slips through small openings between the leaves in a golden hue. A symphony of birdsong and rustling of leaves, cuts through the air, accompanied by fading sounds of a radio. Dew attaches itself to his dampened cheek after he lands on the ground in a heap. His fingers twitch towards what he longs to be his sword yet it's no where near. An earthy aroma fills his senses, a mix of fresh pine and what he believes to be his own blood. Such a strong, rusted iron smell which leads him to wrinkle his nose in disgust. He can hardly move, pain etching itself into every crevice of the dark haired's body. Scolding hot in a manner that he believe he was on fire. With careful precision, he retracts his wings in order to hide them from human eyes if any humans are in this area. Static crackles when distant thunder rolled in Emil’s ears as darkness creeps at the edges of his vision whilst his body betrays him. The last thing he registers before unconsciousness claims him is the soft rustle of leaves nearby.