A/N: Hey, faithful readers of this very out-there fic. I want to say thank you for your support and kind words. This story is spilling out of me but it's causing me almost as much anxiety. So, I really do appreciate every review and fave, even the lurkers among you.
Thanks as always to Sam and Kim, and to Disney, for making a readaptation of Sleeping Beauty, without which I might not have nearly as much enjoyment in life ;)
MWAH xoxo


The Fallen

Chapter 8.

As my wings begin their agonizing exit through my flesh, the cotton of my shirt strains as it's jerked away from my back. I can feel each stitch pop as the material begins to give.

On impulse alone, I jump from the bench, facing Isabella fully to shield my fledgling wings while I will them to retract. But it's almost impossible to withdraw them while they're not fully extended.

She leaps off the bench alongside me, her expression morphing with alarm as she reaches out to me. Her mouth falls open to react, and fully anticipating what she's about to proclaim, I shake my head, silently, desperately, pleading with her.

"Oh my god—are you okay?!" she exclaims regardless, just as her words once more impact with me. The force of them thrust me several steps forward, and I all but collide with her in attempt to keep myself on my feet.

My wings have torn through my shirt and have advanced at least three feet from my back. I can feel the breeze sweep across the wing-tips, fully knowing I'm about to be unveiled.

Isabella grabs me around my waist, attempting to help me upright, when she suddenly draws her breath violently. "Oh my..." she attempts to articulate her shock once more, when I clamp my hands over my ears.

"Please...stop," I strangle out, fighting to breathe past the unrelenting pain of a third of the length of my wings slicing through my flesh like razors. It won't stop until they're fully ejected, but it's not something I can allow to happen in a park full of children—and they're ever vigilant parents.

She nods, her eyes wide and plagued with shock.

"Help me..." I plead with her, my eyes darting in emphasis to the gathering of adults and their toddlers, who have not yet noticed us. The nuns, however, who have stopped their pursuit of Isabella about fifty feet from us, I cannot say the same for.

She nods again, clearly comprehending my meaning as she quickly composes herself. Cautiously, I remove my hands from my ears, when she grabs my right one and pulls me after her. Keeping the two of us within the shadows created by the border of trees and shrubbery that aligns one side of the park, she drags me through to the back entrance; past a group of kids on a skate ramp, who pay us no attention, until we reach a back street.

On one side is a collection of townhouses, and on the other St Francis' Catholic school that's set adjacent to the convent. This is where Isabella leads me, through the parking lot of the school where the gates remain open. We weave between several buildings until we reach a small, single-person entranceway that leads to the rear entrance of the convent. This takes us to a courtyard, off the east-facing, windowless wall of the main building, with a single rear door and enclosed by ten feet tall brick walls.

"No one ever comes out here when's school's over—except me," she hastily explains, just as I drop to my hands and knees on the semi-damp grass of the early afternoon.

With my wings partially released my scapula bones are pushed forward, forcing my ribs and spine against my lungs. I can barely breathe, and am so paralyzed by the torture of it, I barely have the strength to fully surrender to them. Grabbing fistfuls of turf in both my fists, while attempting to suppress the agony I'm temporarily locked in, I force my wings free. The pain instantly halts and my relief is so immense, I collapse face first into the damp earth.

My wings, now fully unfurled and extended, almost subconsciously move back and forth, facilitating my circulation so I can catch my breath and calm myself. I can feel the coolness of the early afternoon breeze against them, and the flurrying of my feathers in the light wind is the only audible sound in the near vicinity. I have no idea if Isabella remains close by, and the fact that I cannot read her mind makes the silence between us deafening. Then slowly, over my own abating heartbeat, I begin to hear hers. It's racing, and her breath is short.

Inevitably, I raise my head, braving her response, only for my eyes to meet the completely accepting astuteness of hers. I expected her to be shocked, perhaps to faint again, but she doesn't even appear ruffled.

"I knew it," she whispers, to me or to herself I can't be sure. Her eyes break from mine, falling to the ground beneath her feet, appearing suddenly unfocused, before she cements it, louder this time, "I knew it!"

Slowly, precariously, I pull myself to my feet. I don't retract my wings; I leave them fully extended above us both. They're quivering, but it's not something I can control; no more than a human can stop their hands from shaking when they're anxious.

If exposing myself to Isobel was a part of the second clause of my existence, I was never able to ascertain, but I'm out now; salvation be damned.

"Bella..." I utter in complete uncertainty, my voice still aggrieved by the pain by which my wings were forced from me.

"Yes?" she whispers before waiting for me to continue. It's becoming evident she's retained no memories of her previous lives. No conscious memories, at least. Though, considering she's human, I'm unsure why this surprises me. Nevertheless, I'm truly at a loss as to how to explain the four thousand years of human history behind the both of us in a way that she'll be able to comprehend, and without scaring her.

She continues to stare at me, her gaze rising to my wings before they again settle on my eyes. Hers are wide and awestruck, but with a growing measure of caution. "It was you yesterday, wasn't it?" she asks. Though, it's more of a statement; an accusation.

I nod only once, severing my gaze from hers to collect myself in the silence that exists between our minds.

"Edward...?" she asks after a moment, and when I again meet her enquiring eyes, her expression has turned cynical. "Is your name even Edward?"

"Yes," I answer, a slight smirk growing across my face before I can stop it.

"Edward," she questions, her tone growing in doubt and skepticism. "An angel named Edward."—And mocking.

"My...human name is Edward," I'm forced to explain.

"Your human name..." she echoes in a mumble to herself. "What's your angel name?" she asks, tilting her head to one side, as if she's momentarily lost in her thoughts.

"Are you sure you don't know it?" I canvass her expression; though, it's becoming increasingly obvious that it's almost as difficult to read as her mind.

She shakes her head in answer as her eyes pull back to my wings while her brow knots.

"You almost spoke it yesterday," I remind her tactfully, and this seems to surprise her.

Her entire expression smooths out for a moment, before it settles back to the cloak of troubled distraction that she appears to be wrestling with.

"Did you kill those lads?" she asks several moments later, her cautious eyes blatantly avoiding my own as they fixate on the movement of my wings in the breeze.

"Yes," I answer truthfully. "Well, four of them, at least."

"Why?" she demands, her gaze this time fastening to mine in a way that almost intimidates me.

"Because they were going to kill you," I disclose in a quiet voice, just as her breath audibly catches.

"Why would they do that?" she exclaims, her tone flooding with alarm.

"Because..." I begin with a sigh before abandoning it. I can hear the minds of several approaching humans. Word has quickly spread among several of the sisters regarding the recent event in the park. I blink, taking a slow, inevitable breath, and when it becomes obvious that the several prying, excited minds are headed in our direction, I withdraw my wings in a quick, fluid motion.

By doing so, I startle Isabella. She takes a hasty, clumsy step backward and almost loses her footing. I spring forward to steady her. Her breath draws in sharply, and I'm unable to detect the emotion behind it. Her eyes remain wide, incomprehensible, but they're as equally circumspect.

The knob of the rear entrance door rattles, preparing to open.

"I should go," I blurt out apologetically to her.

She opens her mouth to respond, appearing suddenly panicked, but time has run out. Leaping up and over the side wall with ease, I quickly vanish from view.

In the dwindling daylight I take to the shadows, hastening my step as I scan through the minds of every human and possible demon within the confines of the city as a means to put myself at ease. I'm fretful and overrun with so much uncertainty and conjecture that I cannot quiet my mind and concentrate.

Isabella was not how I expected her to be, but I'm no longer certain of what I expected. And while the overwhelming desire to protect and avenge her is still as prevalent, I can't help but feel conflicted. Michael must have been right; I'm more human now than I've ever been a member of the Angelic Order, because I'll be damned if, in all my human naivety, I didn't expect her to fall straight into my arms. It's ridiculous and sentimental, but I expected her to recognize me, to remember me. Remember me in the same way I had suffered for four millennia searching for her. There is one thing I can't deny, however, and that's that she took the revelation of what I am with entirely too much calm.

After five rotations of the city, and when I'm positive no danger lurks close by, I return to the convent. I'm tempted to return to the dilapidated terrace house I've been occupying the last several days, to put on a new shirt, but I'm no longer obligated by any charade. I doubt Isabella will be under any misapprehension as to the reasons I'm bare-chested.

There's somewhat of an uproar happening inside the stone building. The sisters have been interrogating Isabella all afternoon and into the evening. They believe me to be fallen and repeatedly question her on how I was able to get so close to her while she wore her amulet, as well as the nature of my wings and my physical description.

They're fully aware of the fallen angels—the ones who stalk Isabella especially—but me, neither fallen nor angel? I am an anomaly, and they've never heard of a single precedent throughout history or in scripture.

"They were grey—how many times do I have to repeat myself?" she hollers, the exasperation in her voice evident, before it turns sarcastic. "His wings came out when I committed blasphemy."

Doors are slammed, by Isabella I can only presume, while animated minds are torn. The two sisters who'd followed her earlier are convinced I am no threat, but they too are conflicted over what or who I am, and if I am wholly on "their side".

One thing they all agree on is that they must consult Michael.

Michael...? I ponder it.

Surely, they don't mean my brother Michael? The archangel? The archangel they've made a saint?

I scoff bitterly to myself at the very notion. Of course, Michael can intervene at will and with impunity, but I'm sentenced to an eternity of wretched human evolution.

I agilely navigate my way over the clay tiles of the sharply pitched roof until I reach a dormer window that I'm confident leads to Isabella's room. Glancing discreetly inside, I barely make out her silhouette through the lace curtains as she paces back and forth across the room. She's throwing objects around that land soundlessly. Pillows, I quickly conclude, smiling to myself before I quietly rap on the window pane.

She rushes over, throws the window up and stares out into the darkened street, back and forth in an anxious manner. I'm sitting directly above her, positioned on the slanted roof of her window.

"Bella," I speak quietly, but she jumps, shrieking on impulse regardless, and for a moment she disappears.

Once she reappears she glances apprehensively up at me, and when she catches sight of me her expression softens, her breath releasing. Into what I'd like to believe is relief.

"Edward," she says, and that same relief is reinforced by the timbre of her voice.

"May I come in?"

She quickly nods, before moving away to allow me to enter.

Keeping my grip on the shallow eave on the roof of the window, I glide my body through the moderate rectangle opening before turning to close it behind me. She'd moved away, standing almost flush against the opposite wall, her palms flat against the surface. I don't move and she continues to regard me with that same curious disquiet, without a word spoken between us. Until that is, when her eyes dip to my lower torso, where they promptly widen.

"You have no belly button!" she gasps, her hand rising to her mouth where she appears to contemplate it more.

I break into a small, amused smile. "No, I heal quickly and without scarring."

"So, you weren't born?" she puts the question to me while her eyes remain glued to my torso. They slowly trace a path from my obvious lack of umbilicus up to my chest before venturing further down to the path of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of my pants. For an extremely uncomfortable second or two, her gaze settles to where my unproductive manhood is situated. It's only fleeting, but her curiosity immediately makes me self-conscious. My jeans are fractionally too big, and they hang a little too low on my hips. I'm not wearing underwear. I rarely do; I refuse to confine the one part of my anatomy that I am forbidden to use.

"I was born, but I don't scar," I reiterate, hastily clearing the awkwardness from my throat. "The navel you have is still a scar."

She nods, though she remains distracted. Her eyes everywhere but on mine, and I take the moment to inspect her room.

There are depictions of Michael everywhere. Art work and posters align the walls, while statues and figurines litter the room, along with other portrayals of the Cherubim and Seraphim. She likes angels—Michael in particular, and I know it's my brother because only he wields the Sword of Light.

"You're fond of Michael, are you?" I murmur, while I struggle to prevent myself from tensing.

She looks up, her forehead quirking. "I-I'm sorry?" she stammers. "Who?"

"Archangel Michael," I clarify, motioning to his image throughout her room, and cringing to myself upon the realization that I sound like a jealous, petulant child.

Her eyes widen in realization and she almost smiles. "Oh. I didn't know they were of Michael. I-I just like angels in general."

I relax a fraction, ashamed of myself and the very human emotion that had overtaken my senses for one moment. I haven't behaved like this for four thousand years.

"How-how do you know it's Michael?" she puts to me in a timid voice, breaking me from my stranglehold of self-disgust.

"Do you see how he's carrying a sword and defeating a serpent in almost all depictions of him?" I point out, and when she nods, I smile. "That's usually the giveaway."

"Oh," she repeats simply. "Do you know Michael?"

"Yes."

"You don't like him," she asserts and she appears suddenly amused.

"I tolerate him. I have no other choice," I reply stiffly, before changing course from my self-important brother. "Tell me about this infatuation with angels of yours."

She immediately blushes. "I've always loved them. I dream about them every night. At least, I dream about one angel every night. I have for as long as I can remember," she admits, her voice wavering as if it's hallowed to her.

Her confession has stumped me—more than I can grasp. Perhaps she has memories, after all. Memories of me.

"What does he look like—this angel you dream of?" I ask in an utterance that doesn't quite sound rational.

She opens her mouth to reply, before she pauses and the barest hint of a smile twitches at her lips. "What makes you think it's a 'he'?" she queries, her brow arching.

"Because there are no female angels in your room," I answer, my smile pulling in echo to hers.

She chuckles lightly, conceding. "He has black hair, and the most otherworldly gold eyes you could ever imagine. He..." she falters, her forehead bridging, "he looks a lot like you, but at the same time, he-he doesn't..."

She breaks my gaze again, and awkwardly she sets them at her feet, while I feel as if I have turned to stone. All angels, whether watchers, guardians or archangels, have gold eyes; it is not a widely known fact. I however, in spiritual form and in the flesh, had black hair.

"Isabella?" I prompt her gently, using her full name in an attempt to break her disconcertion. She looks up, slowly, her flushed complexion becoming more conspicuous. "This angel of yours. He was me."


A/N: No memories, but she dreams of him every night... I hope you enjoyed. Let me know your thoughts and feel free to ask any questions. I will reply to all, even to anon reviews.

xoxo