Three things:

1) Did you see that last Zesty X episode?! I've watched it so many times, just for Rose and Dezel's interactions, that the episode's page has shown up in the "Frequently Visited" section of Safari, haha whoops. I love the concept of Rose knowing Dezel was there all along, especially as this rude invisible seraphim who hangs around and is a smartass. Except how long has she known him? Did she know Lafarga too, then? Does she know what really went down five years ago? Is she aware of how Dezel's using her? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS. 2017 can't come sooner. (I will say this, though: I hope any and all Dezerose fanservice dished out in S2 isn't Dezel sexually harassing Rose, because that's just ... eugh. What he did to her was skeevy enough without potentially adding a sexual component.)

2) In this chapter I've put a pet headcanon of mine about the cause of Dezel's blindness.

3) There's some suicidal ideation in this chapter, so ... just so you know.


The morning sun warmed Dezel's back. Judging by how clear and open the air felt, he'd have bet the sky above spread azure and cloudless. Aifread's Hunting Grounds lay before him, a rugged landscape befitting its proximity to Morgause, all rocky ridges and sharp crags. Here, only thorny bushes and the hardiest of wildflowers could survive.

He'd spent most of last night in ethereal form, coursing along with the wind, but since the earliest hours of the morning—just when the birds were commencing their song and the sun was a mere sliver on the horizon—he'd travelled by foot. Still in a weakened state from two nights ago, having denied any healing Lailah or Mikleo had offered him, he relished in the bone-deep ache that crept into his legs, and the way his muscles strained with each step. It felt good.

Dezel knew he should go back. But he couldn't. Every time he considered returning, his mind, unbidden, conjured the impression of Rose's face when he'd tried to apologize. With the wind, he'd felt the revulsion clearly etched on her face—crinkled nose, curled lip, clenched jaw. Not sorrow, not despair. Disgust.

He used to think he'd reached the pinnacle of shame after he'd prompted Lafarga's death and the Windriders' disbandment. It had been far more than he could bear, and in the depths of his despair, frantic with grief, he'd made an oath.

Most seraphim, like the Prime Lord, or even humans like the Storyteller of Time, made noble oaths for noble purposes—fettering themselves, so to speak, so that they could use their unique powers for the betterment of all. But that's not what Dezel had done. He'd made a pathetic oath, for a selfish purpose.

To forget his shame, and the events leading up to it, he'd foresworn his own sight.

Even now that he remembered all, his vision still hadn't returned. When he'd woken yesterday, still blind, he'd vainly hoped his sight would gradually be granted back to him. Perhaps it hadn't because he didn't choose to remember—rather, he'd been forced to.

So his oath was not only pathetic, but pointless as well.

The old shame lingered, of course, but it was dwarfed by an entirely new kind of shame—a shame that gnawed at him, stripped him bare, hollowed him out until he was nothing but a husk. At least with Lafarga, though it didn't excuse him one jot, he could take a shallow sort of solace in that the outcome had been an accident.

But the moment he'd even begun to consider using Rose, he knew the act was reprihensible. Unspeakable. Yet he'd proceeded without hesitiation, to violate the one he was supposed to protect. That was truly unforgivable. He'd never blame Rose for hating him, or wishing him dead.

His only consolation was that she could never hate him more than he already hated himself. Even now, craven as he was, he toyed with the idea of relinquishing another of his senses in order to forget everything. That, or to walk off the edge of one of Aifread's Hunting Grounds' many cliffs, to plunge into the depths of the sea, pulled to and fro while his lungs filled with saltwater, as his mind grew hazy and dim ...

Two nights ago, he'd meant to die; to atone for his sins by way of sacrificing himself.

But he wasn't dead. Much as he'd like to be. As if I deserve such an easy escape.

He detected a flicker of movement to his right, and whirling around, he found himself face-to-face with, of all people, Symonne. He was too shocked to even recoil.

"We meet again," she stated, as if they'd just happened upon each other and that she hadn't been stalking him for who knew how long.

"What do you want?" he asked harshly.

Her lips twisted into a haughty half-smile. "Your friends have already replaced you, you know. Sad—you only had to leave for one night to already be superseded."

"Don't make me laugh. They need my powers." Who was it, Zaveid? He'd been hanging around like a leech before Dezel had left, the double-crossing son of a—

"Come, now, you can't be so dewy-eyed as to think they specifically need you. There are dozens of wind seraphim who would jump at the opportunity to become Sub Lord to the Shepherd. Ones without baggage," she said, putting special emphasis on the last word.

He said, "Lailah hasn't broken my pact." Yet.

His words were so empty, she didn't deign to answer with more than a short, contemptuous laugh.

Something punched him in the gut. He lurched, letting out a huff, but nothing more—he wouldn't give her that pleasure. A pressure on his shoulders shoved him to the ground, to his knees. He made a feeble attempt to slash at her with the wind, but she easily waved his efforts away. She strode toward him, holding her baton out.

He was too weak to fight. Too weak to even care. But even as he lay prostrate, heaving through gritted teeth, he burned with his hatred of her; everything else would fade away, but never that.

"If you're gonna kill me, just do it already."

"Oh, I don't think so. I have plans for you yet, angel of death." She slowly ran the tip of her baton down his back, almost like a caress. That scared him more than anything else.

For a moment, all was still.

Then he screamed.


Uh-oh ...