[???]
Whilst in our physical forms we bled crimson.
The irony of it was not lost on me. One would think beings such as us, sculpted from Father's will, steeped in divinity itself, would be beyond such crude mortal things as bleeding. One would think our essence would spill forth as radiant light, or some ineffable ichor, shining gold like the tales of the Greek gods. But no. The truth was far less glorious. Our wounds ran with the same putrid red that mortals carried, staining feathers that once glowed with holiness, soaking into ivory armor until it dulled like rust.
I had seen it too many times. The crimson that clung to our wings, our bodies, our blades—it no longer shocked me. It had become almost ordinary. A sight I had grown accustomed to, though never numbed to.
