Disclaimer: Good Omens is the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
Author's notes: I initially planned to stop after the damned do not cry. But then the rest started writing itself in my head as I hung wet laundry out to dry, and I couldn't not write it down. Many thanks to my wonderful beta Moczo!
Chasm
A long time ago, an angel Fell.
Many centuries later, he would simply laugh and say that he had sauntered vaguely downwards, but laughing was the last thing on his mind at that point in time. The angel Fell, and he burned, and it hurt. And when the pain died down enough that he could observe his surroundings (which is not to say that the pain was no more; simply that it was comparatively lesser than what it had been, which still isn't saying much) he saw the darkness, and the fiery glow, and the gruesome things his fellow Fallen were morphing into, and he saw the look in the eyes of the one who had always been First, whether as angel or as Fallen. And there was a void within him, where before there had been the constant love and Presence of his Creator; a deep, gaping chasm, almost a physical hole, of nothing but nothing, of pure emptiness, and this emptiness hurt more than the pain of Falling, though a few moments ago he would not have thought it possible.
The other Fallen tried to fill that gaping void within themselves, pouring into it their rage, and hatred, and pain, and violence, and more hatred; but like a black hole, or some dreadful primordial god, thirsty for sacrificial blood, the void remained in its state of nothingness, and seemed to demand more rage and hatred. And the Fallen angel watched this, and he smiled a twisted smile, a grotesque parody of the smile he had had as an angel. He left the chasm within him untouched, and simply tried to pretend it wasn't there, but one cannot pretend something like that. And every now and then, when he was alone, he would allow himself to feel the emptiness, and he would try to cry, but what came out were scorching tears of blood that raked and burnt his skin deeply as they fell over his cheeks; for the damned do not cry.
One day, many millennia later, he realised that he felt different. The chasm that would not fill up with rage or hatred seemed to be accepting the love and compassion in the bright blue eyes of an angel; it did not grow larger at the sight of white, glowing feathers, so unlike his own. The chasm was healing, and in the soft light of an angel's smile he found absolution.
He realised all this in a little park, under a duck-patterned umbrella held by his companion, as the rain fell around them. And under the soft, merciful gaze of the other angel, he found himself crying. It was no longer blood that fell from his eyes; it was clear, slightly salty water. He was no longer damned.
~ Sivaroobini
Reviews would be loved!