Sofiel wheezes; an ugly, ragged sound that tears right through her being, rattling her ribs as she gasps and struggles for air. She gags, choking back on the gurgle of ichor – the blood of the angels – rising up the back of her throat, only to flood back down into her lungs, drowning her.

Being an immortal, Sofiel has always been what the mortals on Earth would deem invulnerable.

But for the very first time, she bleeds.

She hurts.

Beneath her, her wings are completely and utterly crushed, and from the corner of her eye, she can see that it is jutting out, contorted at an unnatural angle.

Sofiel shudders out another breath, grimacing at the throb of pain that shoots right through her being like hellfire surging through her veins. It’s the kind of pain that she’d imagine reading or hearing about through the many wild tales spun up by the mortals living beneath the silver city, albeit never really quite experiencing it herself firsthand – what with her (literally) god given invincibility.

But this…

This is far more excruciating than Sofiel has ever expected. She can barely move a muscle, much less crack open an eyelid from the torrential rain pouring down on her relentlessly. But as a guardian of the silver city, she powers through nonetheless, peering through her heavily laden lids to stare past the silver sheets of rain at the stormy heavens above.

Her vision is a deep blur of liquid gold and grey, and for a split second, Sofiel thinks she might have caught a familiar outline peeking through the tumultuous clouds. And she lets herself hope – no matter how dire her current situation is.

With all the strength that she can possibly muster, she raises a battered hand, outstretched and shaky; and with all the desperation imbued in her, she calls out in a broken whisper, praying that the whistle of the wind would carry her voice despite the drumming of the rain drowning her out.

“H-help…”

Please, Father.

A flash of lightning, followed by the frightening clash of thunder.

The rain seems to fall a little harder after.

Closing her eyes with a cough and a sputter, Sofiel allows her hand to fall limply back to her side, resigned and broken.

Because in it all, she knows – the heavens have spoken.

And help never did come.