• Curls spilled from her head, speaking a sort of soft rebellion. They were the strands of a light-spoken anarchist, defiantly twisting their path down her head, defiantly twisting from the grip of god. She gently pushed them back behind her ears, revealing the glistening eyes of a lithe killer. Like mine, they were a firey orange, as heated as the hatred that ignited her white flame. A white flame that blared like the highlights of her hair. But that flame as slowly shrunk, as her desire for passionate blood shed died. The girl was now a woman, knowing the horrors of war. She was fighting on the front lines, fighting God himself. Why I even let my princess fight, I did not know. I just knew that I was in love, a completely incorrigibly unrequited love.
    But I would never be able to confess to her. I would never speak, I knew it. My own sister's religious fallout as imminent, and I could not tell her. I could never tell her, her innocence locking away my speach. Locking away my words. Draining the colour from my wings. But it also drained the apathy from my soul. It cleansed my very heart, planting seeds of compassion.

    Would she ever feel anything but compassion for her best friend, a fallen angel of the lord? An angel whose heart was once black with the emptiness, but now silent and forever in debt to the demon he loved?