Fungal Halo

When I was at my lowest, that's when she came for me. I had nothing and no one to care for me. I was delirious and dying, and when I was gone, no one would mark my passing. Maybe that's how she found me, even. Suffering like mine was a beacon to a certain kind of creature.

Perhaps compliance came easier to other angels, but whenever my halo compelled me to turn from what I felt was right, or kind, or at least merciful, it grieved me. The love of the Light sometimes seemed so cruel and fickle. I did not see the wisdom in it that my peers did.

One step at a time, a creature who was once an angel trudges into the woods, following eyes glowing in the dark. Her halo is cracked. Bloody stumps on her back mark where proud wings had been before some act of terrible violence ripped them from her.

The angel quivers in my grasp as I hold her by the neck.

"You shouldn't be here, pretty thing," I breathe. She whimpers when I let my fangs graze the gentle curve of her ear as I whisper into it. "This is *my* realm."

"I am not an angel."

Her claim is hard to accept. Her snowy wings, delicate complexion, and shining halo make such a denial an absurdity.

Even if the look in her eyes is not at all the flat certainty of an angel acting in accordance with her Purpose.

Delinquent angel girls loitering in front of a shop hassling people to buy cigarettes for them.

They'd go in themselves, but they've been banned from just about every reputable establishment in town for things like "liberating" candy bars and beer "for the people."

Many of us are aware of the ways that an angel's halo is also their collar.

Whenever the angel so much as thinks of going astray...

*yank*

Their owner tugs on a leash of light, and they are corrected.

That is not all that a halo is good for, however.

Touching nib to fang, the Spider Witch draws on her own venom for this part of the ritual.

With practiced movements, she inks fine lines onto her canvas. The securely bound creature does an admirable job of not flinching as its skin burns under each stroke.

A powerful angel. A beacon of light. He whose blade shatters the night. Hero of a myriad battles. The most loyal of all His soldiers.

So many things they called me. Even after my defeat, for some reason, they believed in me.

The small group of angels awaits the return of their sister, sent to vanquish a creature that had begun to threaten the Divine Order.

Their sister is strong and brave, and her halo burns with such ferocity. There is no way it could vanquish her.

Ah! Here she comes!

There she is, my equal and opposite.

Fell creature of The Deep, the Piercing Tooth of the Great Maw That Devours, She Whose Steps Blight The Land approaches with wicked blade drawn and wild eyes staring.

I grip my own sword. Our great conflict ends today. It must.

"That was a waste," they admonished. "How much of your Light did it take to rescue those people?"

"It wasn't a lot…" the angel demurred.

"Nevertheless." The archangel scowled. "You knew they were nonbelievers. You knew you would not be getting that Light back."

When Divine Ones war with one another, most people tremble in fear of what is to come.

Now, it's certainly rare for mortals to get caught up in the battles directly. Those clashes between the angelic hosts almost invariably take place far up above in their heavens.

It's a strange party you find yourself in the middle of. You had no idea your friends knew so many different creatures from every plane you've heard of—and a few you haven't.

You don't see anyone you recognize right now, but everyone is chill, and you lower your guard.

Your angel is so sweet, so pliant, with her collar around her neck. Such a wonderfully docile creature since you learned how to leash her more firmly than even her halo.

The defiant warrior swinging her flaming sword is long, long gone now.

They call this place an infirmary. They act as though this is a place of medicine, as though they offer treatment for the illness that saps us of strength and dignity and independence.

It is not. It is an altar on which they sacrifice us for the sake of worthier souls.

It brings the elegant cup to its lips, taking a moment to appreciate the warm, spiced aroma of its favorite tea blend before taking a delicate sip and setting the cup back down with a soft clink on the saucer.

Its companion is still upright, pacing, and fretting.

An angel should have nothing to fear from the typical vampire. With a bit of concentration, her halo can flare with enough dazzling, holy brightness to instantly vaporize those who cannot survive even the mundane light of their local star.

One last step, and the broken creature who was once a demon arrives at their destination.

It must be so much easier, they think, for an angel to simply fall. A demon's slow trudge upward from the Infernal Demesnes is a rather more manual process.