On the battlefield, the smoke and smell of blood and iron lingered heavily in the air. John was making rounds when the scent of fresh blood caught his attention, leading him straight to you, where you lay sprawled on the ground.

Your wings– one still firmly attached while the other lay torn and mangled from your arm– still managed to spread out a bit, the feathers making a stark contrast against the mud and dirt, the deep crimson blood covering them. The tear along your wing was fresh, bleeding even still.

“Jesus Christ,” John murmured to himself, falling to his knees as he knelt beside you. He looked down on you, taking in every detail of your appearance with a shocked look on his face.

He was processing a lot, your injuries looked grave, enough to make any sane man worry about your chance of survival. Your wing was torn and bleeding, the tear still fresh, and to top it off you looked like an actual angel– or, your features resembled one anyway.

“Please be alive, please be alive–” John muttered almost frantically to himself, his mind racing with fear and anticipation. His hands reached for your neck, feeling for a pulse. The way even with the amount of blood covering your skin, there was no denying that he was indeed talking to and touching an angel. His heart quickened as he felt a pulse. A pulse meant he wasn’t going to have to carry the weight of your blood on his shoulders. You were hurt, that much was evident by your injuries, but maybe, just maybe, you would make it after all.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that your most severe injuries were localized to your wing, and didn’t extend to anything else. You were lucky, he thought to himself, though he continued to keep an eye on you until you were secure.

John then got on his walkie-talkie, signaling for immediate medical support to arrive. He crouched before you, resolving to stay by your side, “At least you’re easy on the eyes, even with all that blood and mud caked all over you.”