i. She is beautiful. Atop her head, a halo glisters golden like a second sun. Sometimes, when the breeze reaches her, it caresses her thick locks and causes tendrils of her hair to wrap themselves around the golden halo. In her eyes, there is a fierce gentleness—her gaze is as soft as the lilting melody of her voice.

ii. He is otherworldly. There is something about the crown of curls on his head that suggests they were meant to have tinsel and stars and dandelions weaved through them. His skin is flush with life, even though he is not truly alive, for he has immortality in his bones—and life is naught without death.

iii. They are broken. They are broken, because angels are perfect and perfect things break all the time (though that doesn't make them any less perfect). Where their wings once were, there is simply puckering scar after puckering scar, stark and prominent against their soft skin. Once their feathered wings grow back, the blemishes can no longer be seen—but they are not erased. They are never erased.

iv. The irony is that angels are the epitome of Heaven, and yet are still so blasphemous, for they have been soldiers and lived through wars of the divine and condemned Lucifer's children to eternities of misery. They have played the roles of God, and hurt, and killed, and saved.

v. Sometimes, angels are foolish. Sometimes, they sing or scream until their throats are raw. Sometimes, their anger brings about thunderstorms and tsunamis. Sometimes, they make themselves bleed just for the sake of seeing ichor pool on their skin.