Falling.

The ultimate disgrace, to be cast out of Heaven, to be thrown from the Gates into the empty air below. To have your wings burn black, the flames engulfing you, feathers turning to char, skin blistered and bloody.

To have to navigate Hell alone, as a fledgling demon, your lungs burning with each inhale of sulphur, every angelic instinct in your formerly celestial body screaming that this is wrong.

Time held no meaning as you clawed your way up from the pits of the earth to the mortal realm above. You’re changed past recognition. Your flowing white locks are now the color of dull rust, your skin marred and ruptured from the sheer amount of damage you took during your Fall. Your eyes, once a sweet, soulful amber, are now a sickly dun-yellow with slitted pupils.

You ache with grief. Your mother, God, abandoned you. And that is a pain that will never leave. You had been so devoted, her favorite young angel, not even old enough to have seen Shakespeare.

There will never be a place for you in Heaven now. Any Angel who sees you will kill you on sight.

And so you lurk in the alleys of the mortal world. Starving, weak. Fading. Nearing discorporation from sheer neglect.

It’s Anthony Crowley, the demon who fraternizes with the Angel Aziraphale, who finds you. He likely sensed you and then hunted you down.

You don’t fight when he gathers you in his sinewy arms, reminiscent of his serpent form. You’re too far gone for him to heal, but maybe a Miracle could save you.

When you come to, you’re in the bookshop, tucked into a warm bed. You’re laying on your stomach, ragged wings bandaged and freshly preened. Everything feels too warm and you’re afraid in this unfamiliar place.

“Poor fledgling,” murmurs a soft voice. There’s a figure sitting on the edge of the bed, tending to the burns and bruises on your back. Aziraphale. “You’re so young…” You try to move, but he gently holds you in place. “Shh, little one. You’re injured and ill. You need to rest. You’re safe here, even if you are… one of them now.”