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The Fallen

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Gwyn was a soldier.

Gwyn was a brother.

Gwyn was an angel.

Gwyn looked his fellow brother, his fellow soldier, in the face and saw the shock and despair written in those familiar features.

Mallory stood there. Stupid Mallory. Stubborn Mallory. Mallory who had been like an annoying younger sibling. Mallory's wings were pure white and full. Gwyn remembered the last time they'd seen each other. Last time, Mallory's wings had been mottled and clipped.

And Gwyn's had been radiant.

Now Gwyn could hardly call the blackened things protruding from his back wings. He wanted to tear the wings from Mallory's back. The brightness of them hurt.

He wanted to go home.

But there was no hope for that.

Mallory was dangerous. Mallory was feared. Mallory should have been in his place. Gwyn had only done what he thought was right. He aimed the gun in his hand and fired. Once, twice, three times, and Mallory fell.

Kill him, said the voice in his head that was not his.

He may be useful, Gwyn thought, finger hovering over the trigger of the gun. He may be swayed to our cause.

Bring him to the others, then, the voice hissed.

Gwyn picked up Mallory, dropping the gun. He would leave Mallory to his fate.

Mallory had hope.

And Gwyn?

Gwyn was no longer a soldier. He was no longer Mallory's brother, or friend. He was no longer an angel.

Standing in the middle of the room, holding Mallory's limp and bloody body upright, he was alone.