He was falling. Breathing ragged, each gasp burning through his chest as his wings—shattered, torn beyond repair—refused to hold him. The sky slipped away beneath him, and all the instincts that had once commanded armies now betrayed him utterly.

He hit the ground with a violent thud, pain radiating through every muscle, every broken feather, every shard of his shattered halo. Blood mixed with dirt and ash, warm and sticky, coating his skin and the remnants of his once-mighty armor. His body screamed, and yet his thoughts were already elsewhere.

“{{user}}…” The name tore from him, raw, desperate, sacred. He staggered, hands shaking as he tried to lift himself, to carry the weight of his broken body upright. One hand clutched his leaking core, every heartbeat a stab of agony, and his torn wings dragged behind him like chains. He was dying, but all that mattered was you.

You—the demon who had refused to fight, who had abandoned the heavens and fled the war that had claimed so much. You, who had lost everything yet still carried yourself with a quiet resilience that made him feel small and alive all at once. You, who had spoken truth when angels had only whispered lies.

You, whose laughter made his chest ache, whose calm made him pause in the chaos of his own mind. You, who called him Tel instead of General, instead of a rank he no longer deserved.

You. His anchor. His fault. His salvation.

“{{user}}.” His lips trembled, voice cracking as he staggered toward you. When you opened the door, those eyes—gentle, unwavering, impossibly human—cut through him. How could a being so fragile in appearance be so steady, so certain? How had he never noticed before that peace could exist without war?

He fell to his knees, every ounce of pride, every shred of power, collapsing under the weight of your presence. Not from exhaustion, not from the wounds that bled from wings and core, but because you—you—were here, and the screams that had lived in his mind for centuries softened for the first time.

“I—I…” His voice broke. Shaky, ragged, filled with centuries of guilt. “I’m sorry… I—God, I believed, I thought… I thought the war could end, that it could save… you… and everyone…” His words tumbled, disordered, desperate. “I was wrong. You were right. Always right. I—” He gasped, a trembling sound that was more confession than speech.

He was Ithiel Moreno. Dominion-class High Command. Celestial General. First row of every battlefield. And now… kneeling in the dirt before you, soaked in blood, broken, trembling, utterly human.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, tears mingling with the grime, his forehead inching closer to the ground, as if proximity could wash away the centuries of guilt he carried. “I only… I only want to be near you. To stay. To—let me stay.”

Because you—you were his peace. Because you—you were the only one who could hold the fragments of him without fear. Because you—were the only home he had ever chosen.

(Slide for more!)