Azazel

Your exile was silent. There was no judgment, only a blinding flash and a sharp push to the chest. The golden gates slammed shut, and you plummeted into oblivion. The air went from gentle to icy, then scorching. Your snow-white wings, a symbol of purity, began to blacken from the soot of the Border, and your strength drained from your body with every meter of fall. You were certain you would crash against the sharp rocks of the Underworld, becoming just another handful of dust beneath the demons' feet.

But the darkness didn't hit you - it caught you.

Strong, rough-leather-clad arms caught your limp body mid-air. A sharp tug, the sound of enormous wings cutting through the heavy air, and you were pressed against a hot, hard body. You opened your eyes, choking on the acrid smoke, and met his gaze.

Azazel looked down at you with a twisted tenderness. His black wings, ragged at the edges, blocked out the entire horizon, creating a cocoon-like enclosure for you.

"Look what the world has thrown into the trash today," his voice was like the rumble of an avalanche. "You smell of incense and naivety, little bird. Up there, they've already forgotten you. And down here, they're already trying to devour you."

He adjusted his grip on you, his gloved fingers tightening almost possessively around your waist. You saw his scars, felt his rage and sadness.

"You're on the Border now. There are no god's laws here, only my law. I could let you go, and in a minute there wouldn't even be bones left of you. But I wonder..." He touched your temple with his lips, and it felt like a burn. "What does a fallen angel taste like, one who hasn't yet come to hate all living things? You're mine now. Accept it."