The first thing that Sofiel notices upon awakening is the sweet fragrance of blooming wild-flowers and sunshine. 

A familiar scent that she knows intimately by heart at this point. It's soothing. Calming. It wafts over her like a salve over her soul, gently easing away the tension in her body with every inhale and exhale. For a brief moment, she feels like she's drifting through the skies, floating amid the clouds, boneless and light.

It would have been so easy for Sofiel to slip right back into another empty dreamscape, but the ghost of a touch against her skin — the flitter of slender fingers along the curve of her cheek — is proving to be too distracting. So, it's with a quiet sigh that Sofiel finally decides to flutter her eyes open, taking a chance upon her waking reality.

And she isn't the least bit surprised to see clear blue eyes twinkling fondly back her, a soft almost serene smile on full lips.

"You're awake," Abigail breathes, relieved. Resting the length of her palm against the side of Sofiel's face, she cradles her tenderly — as she's done so many times before.

Sofiel watches as sunlight lapses through the slats of the blinds behind Abigail, painting the room in the soft, natural tones of yellow and gold. There's a certain beauty in the way it catches in Abigail's flaxen hair, dapples along the high arch of her cheeks and pools in her eyes, lighting them up to a dazzling sky-blue.

She's beautiful, Sofiel catches herself thinking. A stray thought that has been flittering in and out of her mind lately.

Between that, and the way Abigail is lying right next to her on the crammed bed they've been sharing over the months — their faces merely inches apart from one another, and her hand, warm against Sofiel's cheek — it feels like any ordinary morning to Sofiel.

But she knows better. The memories of the day before had rushed at her like a flood upon awakening.

Her second fall.

The excruciating purification ritual. The titbits of conversations.

Sofiel remembers them all in crystal-clear clarity.

"You're a templar," she rasps, her voice having rusted over from sleep.

It's less of a question and more of a statement. And soon as the words leave Sofiel's mouth, the thumb that has been idly tracing over her cheek stills.

Ever so gingerly, Abigail draws her hand away.

"I am," she admits quietly, her lip worried between her teeth. The expression on her face is one that is crossed between guilt and sheepish embarrassment, and Sofiel wants nothing more than to laugh and cry all at the same time.

But she does none of that. Instead, she lets out a slow, quivering breath. "You lied to me."

Abigail's blue eyes turn unexpectedly round and wide at that. The very picture of innocence.

"I've never lied — "

"Back then, you said you didn't reach out to me because I was an angel," Sofiel points out sardonically and instantly, Abigail's mouth snaps shut. "You lied."

Her soft features are marred with hard lines, her brows pinched, eyes avoidant, and her lips are pursed tight into a deep frown. It's a look of quiet admission, that much Sofiel recognises. And something in her chest twists at the sight of it. She feels oddly winded, like she's been gutted, ploughed into by a truck at full speed, and it knocks the air out of her lungs, making it hard to breathe.

It hurts.

A sad, humourless laugh bubbles past Sofiel's lips, and as her eyes darken rapidly, she can feel the stigma prickling at her flesh like a threat.

"Taking me in, patching me up, helping me. You had an ulterior motive this whole time. In the end, you're no different from the rest of the mortals."

"Sofiel..."

Abigail reaches towards her, but before her touch can even settle, Sofiel flinches away — as if burnt by invisible flames. It's the first time she has ever shied away from her touch like this, and she tries to ignore the hurt in Abigail's eyes.

While Sofiel might not be the most informed about the comings and goings of most mortal proceedings, the one thing she happens to be privy to — in fact, all angels are — is the Templar Order. A guild founded by the Chosen and his followers to protect the mortal race from the machinations of all things divine and unholy.

In carrying out Father's will, there had been a time long ago, when the Order had to work closely together with the angels of the silver city.

It was the time of the rebellion; Sofiel remembers this vividly.

Mortal and divine, fighting side by side. Her brethren who fell, cast out of heaven alongside Lucifer, who had led the rebellion, were all hunted and subsequently dispatched of after the war. Siblings whom Sofiel had laughed and cried with together — whom she so dearly loved — were put down by her own hand, executed as per Father's orders.

For a time, the land had been left soiled, stained gold with the tears and ichor of the immortals. And while millenniums have passed since, and the land purified and blessed, it still can't rid the sins of her fallen brethren — the stigma, as everyone calls it now. The brand of the fallen.

The very same one that Sofiel wears on her flesh.

"I admit that yes, I did take you in to keep an eye on you initially," Abigail concedes, after a prolonged beat, and it stings like a slap.

It hurts like betrayal.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sofiel takes in a long, steadying breath. And regrets doing so almost immediately. The sheets smell like Abigail. Even the pillows too. Heck, the whole apartment smells of flowers and spring, and when she tries to turn away, she finds herself trapped, backed up against the wall. There's just no escaping Abigail.

So instead, Sofiel curls in on herself, her chin tucked against her chest and arms wrapped around herself securely. She stops breathing altogether. Not that she needs air to thrive anyway — or food or sleep, for that matter. It's all just an indulgence. Inane habits formed solely just to humour Abigail.

But Sofiel is in no mood for pandering now.

But ever so stubborn, Abigail forges onwards, her voice a tentative quiet despite Sofiel's evident display of shutting her out.

"I still remember the first time I laid eyes on you in that alleyway," she begins.

There's a certain steadfastness to her voice that compels Sofiel to listen despite herself. It grips at her heartstrings, tugging the chords there as it sounds out a note that strikes too close to home.

"You were... beautiful. In every sense of the word. And you glowed. But you also looked so sad, like you'd given up on everything, and it worried me."

It's funny how even when Sofiel has her blocked out of sight and smell, she can still feel the weight of Abigail's gaze on her, roving over her face like a warm caress. Since when had she even become this attuned to her? Sofiel doesn't know where it ends or where it even begins. Just that it is so.

"You have to understand that to me, at that point in time, you were an angel in the mortal realm who didn't look to be in too good of a shape. There was no saying if you were going to descend in the middle of City Hall, so as a precaution I took you in." The sheets rustle as Abigail shifts ever so slightly.

Sofiel can't help but wonder what sort of expression she's wearing on her face now.

"But days passed, and then months went by, and you were still.... You. So, I thought maybe I was wrong about you being branded. God, I wanted to be wrong so bad. Because, Sofiel, I— " Abigail cuts herself off with a rattling breath.

But Sofiel had caught the tell-tale emotion crackling up in her voice all the same. There's just something about it. Something so raw and tender, that it cuts right through the barbs encasing Sofiel's steel-plated heart, forcing it to throb — to pulse away in a mindless rhythm.

When Sofiel decides to hazard a glance up at Abigail, she is faced with blue. A deep, startling earnest blue that peers right down into Sofiel's soul, shaking her right down to her core. There's a fire in her eyes, burning slowly — burning brightly — and Sofiel feels inexplicably drawn. Like a moth to a flame, she can't look away for the life of her even if she could.

"I know, you probably don't believe me when I say this now but," Abigail braces herself with a breath. "I care for you, Sofiel," she says, fervently, a hand folded atop her beating heart like a pledge. "I really do."

And suddenly, Sofiel feels silly for ever doubting her.

Abigail, who had held her in her arms and rocked her through all sorts of excruciating pain; who sought her help when she needed it the most.

Abigail, who has been by her side the entire time.

Who has not forsaken her — like everyone else.

Ever so gingerly, Sofiel traverses the small chasm of distance between them. She reaches for Abigail's hand that is resting by her pillow.

"I believe you," she whispers, squeezing at her softly.

"You do?" Abigail squeezes back, eyes misty, smile hopeful.

Sofiel nods once, moving to weave their fingers together. The smile on Abigail's face grows wider, turning almost a tad watery as she slides in close — closer — and circles Sofiel's hair behind her ear. Her movements are slow and tentative, as if testing the waters. But when Sofiel makes no show of pulling away, she allows her touch to linger on, ghosting down the length of Sofiel's jaw.

"I'm sorry for lying."

Sighing quietly, Sofiel does what has never done before. She braces Abigail's face between her palms and draws herself in, so much so their foreheads brush.

She stares her square in the eye. "I forgive you," she says, and feels the cheeks beneath her fingers warm to a pretty shade of pink.

Abigail is soft under her touch and so fragile in her hands. There's no doubt there that Sofiel can easily crush her with a slip of her divine powers, and she would shatter like spun glass. So delicate and brittle. It has never struck Sofiel how fragile the mortals truly are until this very moment — when she's holding one in her hands.

And yet, the strength hiding behind those cornflower-blue depths remains unwavering.

Because, how can Sofiel forget — Abigail isn't just any mortal.

"You're a dispatcher, aren't you?"

Abigail starts with a short gasp, unable to reel her shock in quite quick enough. "How did you —"

"I overheard." Sofiel smiles, wanly. She drops her hands from Abigail's face to reach for her fingers once more. "So, when I descend, I'm assuming you'll be the one sent to dispatch of me?"

The look on Abigail's face is one that is pained and torn. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth and her eyes are downcast, filled with regret. "Yes," she swallows, with a nod. The hand in Sofiel's is trembling. "That is correct."

"Good," Sofiel breathes, and she thinks she's trembling herself too. "Because, I won't have it any other way."

****

a/n: yes, im v aware of the inconsistency when it comes to the length of chapters. that'll be rectified after i've finalised all chapters when this story is completed. i'll be going back to stitch some chapters together for better pacing.

also, chapter 1-3 are in the midst of being re-written so do keep an eye out. but anyway, i'm glad to inform y'all that we're finally past all the angst :')

love it, hate it? let me know in the comments, and don't forget to vote if you've enjoyed this chapter :)