The first thing he heard was the hiss of wind through the trees.

The first thing he felt was the soft flowers he was bedded on, and the first thing he smelled was their fragrance.

He smiled with a happy hum, leaning further into the cool comfort of the petals.

The first thing he tasted was blood.

The first thing he saw were the feet of dozens of people.

He startled fully awake and pushed himself up to thunderous applause. Those around him were embracing one another and cheering, all wearing filthy, ragged robes. He was laying on a bed of white roses stained red with blood, which he soon realized was his own. With a strangled cry that was unheard, he grabbed for his shoulders, feeling a horrible, searing pain where wings should have lived. Tears welled in his eyes and fell down his face, unable to move in any other way. The people were still celebrating, shouting about how they had succeeded, congratulating one another and paying very little attention to what they had created. His head fell into the bed of roses and immediately cut himself on the thorns, but could not find the strength to lift it again. He could not remember what had happened to get him here. A cut behind his ear, down his neck, that he had not noticed before was depositing blood directly into his mouth and against his nose, and struggling as it was to just get adequate air, he inhaled the blood, too.

"No, no, no, don't let him drown!" Someone called, and the celebrating ceased immediately. Dirty, hot hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled, dragging his head upright and out of the thorns. He tried to cough away the rusty fluid in his throat, but he instead hyperventilated.

Ciel fainted, an angel fallen from grace.