[ fallen verse ] it's a bad religion
Eames didn't think it was possible for him to Fall any further. When he'd been in heaven he'd been a good angel, a good warrior for his charge and a good guardian; when he'd fallen with the rest of the angels, he'd both lost track of his charge and had to start consuming souls to be able to fight his brothers and sisters.
He'd limited himself to impure souls, drug dealers, murderers and rapists; he'd thought that'd be the only line he'd cede, even as he grew bitter and more bitter.
Then he'd found Arthur again. Arthur had adapted even without his angel's guiding hand, and Eames had remembered how the Corrupted had come about. Fallen angels, guardians, consuming the souls of their charges. The souls called to a hungry angel like benediction. (The souls replaced veneration, something that had fallen out of favor as they Fell.)
Arthur's had always called since Eames had found him again, tempting.
And then the rogue Corrupted had arrived when Arthur was out hunting them down. Too many of them, and they wanted him. Eames had stepped in, not as degraded as they were but with his sharp teeth they knew he ate souls. He had claimed Arthur, then.
And then he had taken from him part of his soul, with teeth in his neck and holding him close. The Corrupted, not yet degraded enough to just steal the kill, had left. And Eames was left with his bleeding, trembling former charge.
Eames knew full well what would happen. Arthur would be listless and depressed until the rend he had ripped in his soul had fixed itself. But now Eames had tasted Arthur, the purest form of his essence, and it called to him - a thread, between Arthur and the little piece of his soul that Eames had.
Carefully tucking his brown, white-tipped wings into his back (normally they were invisible but now Arthur could see them) he moved over to the solider turned hunter, plucking the now-cold mug of coffee from his hand.
"Want me to reheat this, darling?"
He'd limited himself to impure souls, drug dealers, murderers and rapists; he'd thought that'd be the only line he'd cede, even as he grew bitter and more bitter.
Then he'd found Arthur again. Arthur had adapted even without his angel's guiding hand, and Eames had remembered how the Corrupted had come about. Fallen angels, guardians, consuming the souls of their charges. The souls called to a hungry angel like benediction. (The souls replaced veneration, something that had fallen out of favor as they Fell.)
Arthur's had always called since Eames had found him again, tempting.
And then the rogue Corrupted had arrived when Arthur was out hunting them down. Too many of them, and they wanted him. Eames had stepped in, not as degraded as they were but with his sharp teeth they knew he ate souls. He had claimed Arthur, then.
And then he had taken from him part of his soul, with teeth in his neck and holding him close. The Corrupted, not yet degraded enough to just steal the kill, had left. And Eames was left with his bleeding, trembling former charge.
Eames knew full well what would happen. Arthur would be listless and depressed until the rend he had ripped in his soul had fixed itself. But now Eames had tasted Arthur, the purest form of his essence, and it called to him - a thread, between Arthur and the little piece of his soul that Eames had.
Carefully tucking his brown, white-tipped wings into his back (normally they were invisible but now Arthur could see them) he moved over to the solider turned hunter, plucking the now-cold mug of coffee from his hand.
"Want me to reheat this, darling?"