Perfect Little Angel

The beautiful creature on the forest floor could not be a fallen angel.

He was an angel on earth. 

It was like heaven itself had fallen.

Alistair had never seen the angel before, and he was certain he would have remembered such a unique angel. It was not strange, though. Although angels did not reproduce and were all created before the beginning, they were countless, and heaven was vast. 

But Alistair could still not get over what he was seeing. 

Unlike other angels, the one before him had a slight figure that was almost delicate. All angels were not tall, dark and handsome, but they all had an incontrovertible strength that radiated in their bones. 

It was part of the perfection. 

Their presence was often imposing even when they appeared human. Their intrinsic nature of power would manifest in their outward appearance, inspiring admiration and fear towards the lesser humans. 

This angel appeared weak in his small body. 

His face was also delicate. It looked waifish, as if he did not have enough to eat. It was a strange thought because angels in heaven did not need to eat as such, although they did, and their bodies did not change since their creation, even with human food. 

His skin had a smattering of freckles, which stood out against his pale skin like a constellation. That was another anomaly because angels did not have marks that could mar their beauty. 

Yet, the freckles lent a sweet charm to the delicate face framed in golden hair.

But the strangest thing was the light. 

Alistair discovered why he found the energy of the newly fallen angel strange compared to the others who had fallen in the past. The little angel still had the divine light clinging to him like a second skin.

In addition, his injured wings were a delicate white with a slight shimmer of gold on the edges. This was not only a sign of the light. It was an indication that the angel had never rebelled against the divine. 

Yet, there was no doubt about it. 

The beautiful angel was indeed fallen. 

"What do you think he is?" One of the rangers asked while gesturing at the angel with his gun with both curiosity and fear tinged with some disgust.

Alistair tore his attention from the ethereal creature and looked at the men staring at the angel like he was a pot of gold. Anger flooded him at the leering gazes as well as the threatening guns, even though a bullet could not kill an angel. 

These men did not deserve to even lay their eyes on this treasure. 

Alistair did not feel like he was being unreasonable even though he did not know the angel. All he knew was that his world had shifted from the moment he saw that angel on the ground. He understood he would never be the same again. 

It felt like his existence had led to this moment. To him…

Anything that threatened his angel had to be eliminated. The eyes that had turned gentle and soft as they looked at Tristan became cold, hard and cruel when they looked at the rangers with their guns. 

The dark wings on his back seemed to burn with fire, giving them a hellish quality. The same fire burned in his heart and threatened to consume him as he looked on at the unaware rangers, discussing what they did not have a right to even see. 

"Are you an idiot? This thing is obviously an angel," Someone responded to the earlier question. 

"There is no such thing as angels," Another ranger drawled. "This creature is an alien from another planet or galaxy. The government has been hiding aliens for centuries, just like I have been telling you."

"Shut it with the aliens, Cory," Someone snapped. "And who cares what he is? All I know is that we are about to be rich. I say we pluck the feathers and sell them as a miracle drug. People go crazy for that kind of thing."

"Maybe we can sell it to the government," Another said. "The government is crazy about faith these days. We could get a good price for an angel."

"No way. We would be silenced before we saw a coin. If we pluck the feathers ourselves, we can have an endless supply of cash. I am sure the feathers will keep growing back," The response was followed by laughter. 

These words made Alistair snap as he imagined his angel losing even a single feather from his beautiful wings. Fury, which had been lying dormant in him for ages, burst out as he descended on his dark wings. 

His actions were swift as he first attacked the ranger who had the audacity to make the nefarious suggestion against him. Alistair could have killed them in countless ways, but he wanted to hurt them. 

When he stepped on the ground, he grabbed the man by his neck and lifted him in the air. His fingers tightened around the throat with a malicious look on his face. The man looked at him with horror and fear. 

The frightened man lifted his hands, hoping to pry off the hand that was killing him. However, Alistair did not give him the chance. With his other hand, he punched the man in the chest. 

The sound of the ribs shattering was cathartic to Alistair, so he punched him again and again until his hand was bloody. When he was satisfied, he broke the neck of the man, ending his miserable life. 

His stunned companions realised the danger they were in and turned their guns to Alistair and started shooting at him. Unfortunately, their efforts were futile. Alistair turned his steel grey eyes to them. 

Within a few moments, the rest of the rangers met the same fate as the first one. When Alistair tossed away the last member of the offending group, he walked to the still-unconscious angel on the ground. 

With something akin to reverence, he squatted beside the beautiful creature and looked closer at his pale face. Alistair could not describe the feeling he was experiencing. It could only be described as completion. 

This angel was his. 

He lifted his bloody hand and traced the freckles on the soft face. It felt sacrilegious to mar the perfection, but Alistair felt some odd satisfaction at being the one to dirty up this ethereal creature. 

It felt like he was marking him with his darkness. 

Alistair ran his fingers from his small nose across his cheek before touching the shell of his ear lobe. The skin warmed beneath his fingers, and the tip turned a little red despite his unconsciousness. 

Alistair's lips turned into a small smile as his fingers traced the jawline and ran to the exposed collarbone. His index finger pressed lightly on the hollow of his neck and felt the light heartbeat.

The rhythm reminded Alistair of the melodies he composed and played when he was in heaven. It almost made him like music again. He wanted to capture the sound of the beating heart and immortalise it in a song. 

Feeling a little overwhelmed, Alistair took his hand back and took a deep breath. He needed to keep his control before he hurt his little angel. He did not want to harm this gift which had been dropped at his doorstep. 

Once he felt in control, he picked the angel and took flight back to New York.