A/N: So this is kind of different from my past fics. Okay, a lot different, but I've wanted to write an angel fic for so long. I have an affinity with angels. I always have. An angel fetish, you might say. What can I say, I swoon for an avenging angel. My mother claims I used to talk to Gabriel when I was 2. I have no memory of this, but hell, I wish I did! This fic is kinda/sorta biblically correct, and then pure fiction. I have taken fallen angel names from the Book of Enoch, and some I made up. Dashiel, for instance, is made up. There is mention of Yeshua Ha Maschiac (aka Jesus), but just that. You don't have to be religious to get it, and it won't be preachy, but it will be mostly biblical canon. Dashiel will sometimes speak in Hebrew. But mostly just to swear when he's frustrated ;)
This fic is rated M for a reason. It's going to get VERY DARK. There'll be no rape, or anything like that, but some mention of the demons modus operadi and other such evil shenanigans. There will, however, be murder. A lot of it. Mostly angel on angel. They will battle and shit will get bloody and gruesome. Edward will also get fairly sadistic towards some. It's written from Edward's/Dashiel's POV. No POVs from Bella.
I am 15 chapters in, and I'm going to update once a week. The chapters will be around 2-3k long. I'll try my hardest not to fall behind. I'm deliberately keeping chapters shorter for that reason, and I'm not beta-ing at the moment, so I'm pretty freed up. Chapter one will be uploaded with the prologue. It's backstory in the beginning.
So, I guess that's it. It's not going to be everyone's cup of tea, but hope you give it a go.
And thank you to my spankee doodle loveling, Sammy Hale, who takes the art of fangirling to a cringey new level, but I love her immensely.
The Fallen
Prologue
I hate to be born. Never let it be said that the infant does not feel the pain of childbirth. They do. I would choose any method of torture over the arduous torment of birth, and the prospect of having to endure it for hundreds of years to come makes the idea of Hell a very desirable alternative.
I envy that humans forget it almost immediately after. I remember; I've remembered all ninety-one of mine. Ninety-one births and over four thousand years of human existence.
As it is, with human advancement in science and technology I no longer have to be forced headfirst down the birth canal. All that's required is to tear the placenta from the uterine wall—just a little. Not enough to suffocate and die, but enough that I'll be removed virtually pain-free from the womb of my human mother.
I'm not going to lie, more than once I've completely severed that temporary organ of life, cutting off all oxygen to myself and dying a relatively peaceful death. My father does not allow the purest and most innocent among us to suffer, after all, and that includes me. I'm immediately conceived, of course, but I'm blessed for four human months with a complete lack of consciousness. Until my fetal brain develops where I become cognizant I have no memories or knowledge, and I am in the blissful state of oblivion.
It's not something I've entertained too often, though, because all it does is delay the inevitable. If I want to go home I have to find her, and in order to find her I have to be born a human. It's inescapable.
At the end of the twentieth century I am born for the ninety-second time, via caesarian-section, to a couple from Connecticut in the United States. It's the third time I have been born in North America, and for that I'm somewhat grateful. While the US is not devoid of corruption, I no longer have the tolerance to be born in a country wracked by pestilence or war. I don't need to be reminded of how pitiless and barbaric humans are capable of being.
I am an only child, and a long awaited one, at that. My mother cries as she holds me; my father gazes down at me with pride glistening in his eyes.
Edward, they name me. A strong family name. Edward Anthony Cullen.
It doesn't matter to me what I'm called. As soon as I'm forced to run I'll discard it, along with all remnants of my human life. They're one of the very few particulars of life that I readily forget, my names. My last name was Paul and my second to last was Youssef, and that's as far as my recollection really extends.
My father, Carlisle Cullen, is a Cardiac Surgeon; a man of high esteem in his profession. He's intelligent, which will work to my advantage; they'll expect me to be as equally smart. So, when I start speaking in sentences before I'm a year old it shouldn't become too much of a shock to them. My mother, Esme, is a freelance writer. Writing is her passion; second only to the love she has for my father. They're two humans I probably wouldn't be so averse to being born to under any other circumstance, but I'm not born to be a part of their family, or anyone's. I was never intended to have a place within humanity.
I remain detached from my parents as a rule. It makes the inevitability of leaving them easier; for them, not myself. I'm unable to relate to them, or any human, and I don't—by the very nature of my existence—require the nurturing normal human children do. Still, during my first several lives I felt a strong sense of loyalty and protection towards them—traits inherent to every member of the Angelic Host, and something I had to fight to resist as a matter of my own survival. My human family can be incredibly dangerous for me; as I am to them. They're a burden I'm forced to bear until I go through the earthbound angel's bar mitzvah; when my wings come in.
When human males go through puberty their voices break. I, on the other hand, sprout a pair of wings that span over nine feet when fully extended. My wings, pale grey as opposed to the stark white of my celestial brothers and sisters, are my biggest detriment, because the moment they shoot from my back they signal a beacon to every member of the Sons of God who walk the earth.
That includes those who are fallen, and the fallen want me dead.
