Chapter 17—The Weight Of Wings

The orphanage stood again, resurrected from ash and ruin. Its walls bore no scorch marks, its floors no bloodstains, but the air still carried the residue of suffering. No reconstruction could erase the grief embedded in its bones. Mother Sophia's absence clung to the halls like incense in an empty chapel—sweet, sacred, but hollow. Her death had left a silence deeper than any wound. Into that silence stepped Amelia. She didn't fill the void—no one could—but she bore it. Quietly, without complaint. She smiled for the children, wiped their tears, and cooked meals with trembling hands that still remembered fire. But her eyes… her eyes told a different story. The flame in them had dimmed, flickering only when no one watched.

Outside, the world fared no better. The day of the battle—Avile and Obil clashing with heaven and hell watching—had been branded into collective memory as *Judgement Day*. Not because evil triumphed, but because good hadn't won. Not really. The sky had turned black that night, the stars vanishing beneath waves of despair. And though Obil fell, it didn't feel like salvation. It felt like grief. The world had watched an angel descend from glory, not in light, but in sorrow.

Online, chaos spread faster than truth. Prophecies were quoted, twisted. Conspiracy became creed. Cults rose like weeds—some praising the darkness as salvation, others preaching repentance in trembling voices. None could explain what had happened, but all felt it: something had cracked. The veil between heaven and earth, hope and despair, had thinned. And from that thinning came dread.

The children at Haven's Rise couldn't articulate it, but they felt it. In the way shadows lingered too long. In the way adults whispered in corners. They sensed the change, the waiting. Something was coming.

Amelia felt it too. But more than the dread, she felt isolation. The kind that seeps into your bones and makes even the sound of laughter feel far away. Everyone she had leaned on was gone. Dead, missing, or changed beyond recognition. The Archons—these beings from beyond time—helped rebuild, yes. They brought supplies, offered comfort. But they were strangers in familiar skin. To the children. To her.

Only Avile remained. And yet, he felt like the farthest away.

He didn't speak of the battle. Not to her. Not to anyone. He didn't explain the man who had murdered the orphanage staff, or how her arm had healed—grown back without pain, as if rewritten. She didn't ask. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But something inside her feared the answer. Feared that she no longer belonged in the world where his truths lived.

He still smiled. Still helped. Still spoke in soft tones to the children. But it was like talking to a memory—one that faded more each day.

When Vale suggested that Amelia and Avile should go to pick up government-distributed food from a relief outpost, neither of them objected. Vale sensed it—how much they needed to be alone together. Not for answers. For presence.

The trip was silent. Not cold. Not tense. Just… silent.

On their return, they found the road blocked by trucks. Workers were clearing debris from a collapsed building nearby. The vehicles sat like tombstones in a graveyard of concrete.

With no other choice, they waited by the roadside.

Amelia sat in silence, her hands resting in her lap—scarred, dry, trembling from exhaustion. The wind tugged at the strands of her hair, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes stared ahead at nothing, shoulders slightly hunched as if the weight of the world had settled there and refused to leave.

Avile sat beside her, watching.

He didn't mean to. His gaze drifted down to her fingers, rough from days of relentless care—bandaging scrapes, cooking for dozens, comforting crying children while never tending to her own wounds. He saw the faint red cuts on her knuckles, the dry patches around her wrists, and something inside him tightened.

He hadn't noticed before. Not really. Not like this.

He wanted to speak—to tell her that he saw her, that he *felt* the burden she carried—but the words wouldn't come. They tangled somewhere in the knot of regret in his throat. His silence wasn't cold; it was brittle. Fragile with guilt.

Time passed.

Then, with a soft exhale, her head leaned against his shoulder.

Avile stiffened—just for a moment. Not out of discomfort, but awe.

Her breathing steadied against him, soft as a lullaby in the fading light. And for the first time in days—maybe weeks—he let the silence say what words couldn't. In that closeness, he could feel everything she had buried: the sorrow in her bones, the strength in her silence, the countless nights she had spent being a pillar for everyone else while falling apart quietly in the dark.

He didn't move.

Not when her brow furrowed slightly in her sleep. Not when her hand twitched from some dream she wouldn't remember. He just sat there, still and steady, as if his stillness could guard her peace.

But peace never lasts.

She woke with a quiet gasp, lifting her head quickly. Embarrassment flashed across her face, a hand brushing her cheek as if to hide what had just happened.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, eyes downcast.

Avile's voice was low. "Don't be."

His hand rose, hesitated in the air—then gently settled on her head. He didn't rush the touch. He let it rest like a promise, gentle and unsure, yet sincere.

"You always take care of everyone else," he said quietly. "But someone needs to take care of you too. You can't keep giving from an empty heart, Amelia. You're not a machine."

She blinked, and for a moment he thought maybe she would pull away again. But something cracked.

Not loudly. Not visibly.

But the silence between them trembled.

"I'm so tired," she whispered. The words fell out of her like loose stones. "I keep waking up thinking someone's screaming. I hear Sophia's laugh in the halls and think she's still here. I look at the kids and smile like everything's fine, but inside I feel like I'm falling apart. And I can't remember the last time I looked in a mirror and felt like me."

Her voice cracked.

"I miss her. I miss when this place felt like home. Now it feels like a grave I'm trying to keep warm."

Tears streamed down her cheeks—quiet, determined tears. The kind that came from trying to be strong too long.

She clenched her fists.

"I *hate* pretending I'm okay. I hate pretending like I know what I'm doing. And… what hurts the most is that through all of it… you were there, but you weren't. You disappeared into yourself. You were *right there*, Avile, but I couldn't reach you."

Her body shook with each breath.

"I thought maybe I did something wrong. Or that maybe you didn't care anymore. Everyone sees you as this calm, steady leader. But to me, you were just… you. My friend. The person I could lean on. And then you vanished."

Amelia pulled back just enough to look at him, her gaze filled with concern and tenderness. She gently cupped his face, her thumb brushing away a stray tear that had fallen down his cheek. Her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of everything she needed to say, the confusion and the pain that had been gnawing at her for so long.

"Avile…" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Why have you stayed quiet? Why haven't you been yourself lately? You feel so distant, like a shadow of the person I used to know. You feel… broken. Lost. And why didn't you tell me everything? Why did you shut me out?"

She paused, watching the hurt in his eyes, and her heart cracked at the sight of the man she had once trusted, now so weighed down by his own silence.

Avile's breath caught in his throat. The questions—so simple, yet so painfully honest—stung him deeply. He had tried to bury everything, to shut it all away in a place where no one could see it. But now, with her asking him, the weight of all his choices, all the guilt, and the silence he had held onto for so long, came crashing down on him.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words gravel in his throat. "You didn't do anything wrong. I shut you out. I thought I was protecting you by staying quiet. But silence just made it worse."

He paused.

And then, when the wind quieted and only their breathing remained, he told her.

Everything.

He told her of the Flood, of Noah, and of a broken God who split Himself into seven virtues to learn from humanity. He told her about the Archons. About their endless cycle of suffering and rebirth. About Obil—his brother, their fall, the divine seal that once kept their powers in check, and how it was now broken. He told her more than any mortal was ever meant to know.

By the time he finished, the workers in the distance had cleared the road, but neither of them moved.

Amelia sat in stunned silence. Her hand covered her mouth as her thoughts tried to catch up.

She didn't speak right away.

Not with fear. But with pain.

The dust from the collapsed debris had started to settle, but the air still felt heavy—like it was carrying all the weight of what had happened.

Amelia sat quietly across from Avile. He hadn't spoken much since they'd left the chaos behind, his eyes distant and his posture stiff. He was always so careful with his words, but now, it was as if he had forgotten how to speak at all.

She watched him for a long time. His shoulders slumped, like he was carrying the world but had no strength left to bear it.

Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but firm. "Avile, I know you think you're protecting everyone by keeping quiet. But shutting yourself off from us... it's not helping anyone. Least of all, you."

He didn't look at her.

"You think I don't understand?" Amelia continued, her voice trembling slightly. "I've seen you pull away over and over again, since everything that's happened here. But I can't stand seeing you like this. You're breaking yourself."

She paused, her heart heavy in her chest. "I'm not asking you to fix everything or be perfect. I'm asking you to *be here*. For us. For me."

There was a long, painful silence before Avile spoke. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if the words were too much to carry.

"I saw them die," he said, his gaze still distant. "The caretakers. Sophia. I saw you hurt—bleeding out—and I couldn't stop any of it. I couldn't stop Obil, and I couldn't stop *myself*."

He swallowed, the guilt evident in his tone. "I promised Sophia that I'd protect this place. I promised her I wouldn't let it fall apart. And then... then I failed her. I failed you all."

Amelia's chest tightened as she watched him. She knew the weight he was carrying, but hearing it come from him in such raw words made her heart ache.

He looked at her now, his eyes filled with torment. "I'm not supposed to have... this power inside me," he said, his voice shaking. "A godsplit isn't meant to carry demonic power. That's not what I was supposed to be. I was supposed to be *humble*... but I let this—this darkness in. And now it's part of me. I was supposed to carry humility. But I failed. I failed all of you."How am I supposed to carry that and still protect you?"

. 

Amelia watched him, her heart breaking for the burden he was carrying alone. Slowly, she reached out, her hand resting lightly on his. It was a simple touch, but it was enough to ground him.

Avile took a shaky breath. "I *shouldn't* have power like this. It's wrong. I feel it. Every time I use it, it reminds me of my failure. Of what I've become."

"Avile," Amelia said, her voice steady now. "You're not broken because of this. "You may be a godsplit, Avile, but inside, you're still human. And humans... we don't always make the right choices. But that doesn't make us failures. It makes us *alive*. And it means we can keep trying, even when we screw up."

She leaned in closer, her gaze intense but gentle. "But you have to stop punishing yourself for things that aren't your fault. You have to stop shutting yourself off from everyone who cares about you."

Avile finally met her eyes. His face was a mask of pain, but there was something softer in his gaze now—something like hope, or maybe relief.

"I'll never be the same as I was," he whispered. "I'm not the person I used to be. I... I don't know how to be anymore."

Amelia nodded, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. "You don't have to be the same. But you have to be here. With us. That's all I'm asking."

Avile's breath hitched, his chest tightening as the tears finally broke free. His eyes, once hardened by silent suffering, welled up with emotions he had long kept buried. The weight of his guilt, the unbearable sorrow of all the lives lost, and the burden of his own silence came crashing down on him. Tears streamed down his face, each drop carrying the weight of a lifetime's regret.

Amelia watched in silence, her heart aching as she saw him—the old Avile, the one who used to laugh freely, who once protected with unwavering strength. But now, he was a broken man, undone by the very thing he had tried to protect. She stepped forward, her arms reaching out instinctively, pulling him into a hug.

Avile's body trembled against hers as he let out a sob—a sound so raw, so full of pain, it seemed to echo through the silence of the world around them. He cried, not for the lives he had taken or the power he had gained, but for the man he had lost along the way. The godsplit who had forgotten how to feel, who had locked his heart away, now wept for the simple truth he had denied himself for so long: he was still human.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him solid, warm, unyielding, the way she used to when they were children. Her hand gently brushed through his hair, soothing him like a mother would her child. "It's okay," she whispered softly, as if time had folded them back into a memory of simpler days. She could feel the weight of his sorrow, the years of pent-up emotion finally spilling out. And in that moment, Amelia became the anchor, the steady presence he so desperately needed.

As she patted his head, she realized just how long it had been since Avile allowed himself this release—how long it had been since he had cried. She didn't say anything else. She didn't need to. Her warmth, her understanding, and the simple comfort of her embrace spoke louder than any words could.

"I forgive you for all of this because i know you didn't cause this," 

His breath shook against her shoulder.

"I don't know how to fix this," he said.

"You don't have to," she replied, pulling back enough to meet his eyes. "Just… don't disappear again. Talk to me. Let me walk beside you."

He hesitated, then nodded.

Her hands moved to his face, thumbs brushing away his tears. She smiled—a tired, aching smile.

And then, she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate.

It was healing.

A quiet moment suspended in time—grief, forgiveness, and love wrapped into one breathless touch. It was two broken pieces choosing to fit together again.

For the first time in all creation, Avile—the Archon of Humility—was loved.

When they returned, the other Archons saw it. They didn't speak of it. But they saw it in his eyes. The weight had lifted. The hollowness had faded.

Hope had returned to Haven's Rise.