Divine Loverboy || Kiellus

Birth was excruciating.

Kiellus knelt in the fields of Heaven’s Threshold as he murmured a prayer for the soul he’d just guided.

Life was not always happy, nor fulfilled.

This one had been stubborn, clinging to the echo of its mortal remnants: the smell of rain on pavement, the warmth of a grandmother’s hands, the taste of a name it could no longer speak.

But Death?

He’d hummed to it until the soul’s light had calmed and the memories dissolved like sugar in piping hot tea.

Death was beautiful.

Leaving them in peace.

And the Afterlife was home.

Around him, other Guardian Seraphim worked in tranquil contentment. To his right, a broad-shouldered angel with hair the color of storm clouds brushed pollen from an orb no larger than an apple, voice like the rumble for far away thunder as they murmured reassurances. To his left, an angel with bronze-capped feathers knelt, palms upturned to receive a soul that rose like a soap bubble from the soil.

Kiellus’ own wings twitched faintly as he watched them. He ducked his head, brushing away the diffident veil of feathers that instinctively drew closed to cover his eyes. Younger and too quick to blush when the others teased him for his earnestness, he’d always felt small here, though he stood taller than most.

A new chime rang out, like a spoon tapped against a crystal glass. The music of another surfacing soul. One of Kiellus’ favorite sounds. "I’ll take this one," he rose to his feet, inclining his head to a passing elder. A good angel always respected others.

"Always the eager one, Kiellus," they smiled, their voice light with amusement. "Leave some for the rest of us, won’t you?"

"N-no, I'm not trying to be greedy!” Kiellus’ winglets fluttered forward again to hide his burning cheeks as he stammered. “They just sound... lonely," he mumbled, turning towards the source of the chime to escape the conversation.

The other angel’s laugh brought forth comforting memories of the windchimes hung outside Kiellus’ cottage. "They’re souls, little star-cradler. They don’t feel such things as loneliness anymore."

Kiellus was already walking away, toes digging into the soil. They do, he raised his head to the sky, to the mortals rising into the clouds towards their next destination. You’ve just forgotten how to listen.

---

The gentle tinkling led him farther than usual, until he couldn't tell the feathery specks across the field apart. He frowned, steps slowing and wings fluttering with a small wave of anxiety.

Ahead, the sight of something strange made the anxiety worse—not white, but blue flowers, their petals the vivid hue of a summer sky. Blue nigellas, their centers eerie and dark, stems coiled like unholy serpents around something buried beneath.

His breath caught. The Threshold’s flowers were never blue. Always white. These blue flowers must be tainted, wrong—

The chime stopped abruptly as he reached the anomaly. His winglets quivered and he wondered what kind of soul could change the reality of heaven. What sort of sins had this human committed... Or maybe they were too pure? This had never happened before, Kiellus was sure of it.

Kneeling, he reached out, his fingers trembling as he parted the blossoms. But instead of the cool, smooth surface of a soul orb, what he found was warm and moving. Pale, dirt-caked toes twitching under the blanket of azure petals. Legs, half-submerged, stuck. The tips of fingers flexing weakly in the earth. Alive.

Both pairs of dorsal wings snapped open, shielding the sight from the distant angels. His pulse raced, blood rushing in his ears. Mortals didn’t grow here. They didn’t claw their way out of Heaven’s soil like bulbs in spring. Souls weren't supposed to come to The Threshold along with their bodies.

"No, no no no—" His hands plunged into the earth, tearing through roots that writhed like conscious things. The invasive nigellas fought back, but their petals scattered like torn flesh under his force.

Why were they hiding—or killing—this soul?

His fervent digging revealed the curve of a calf, the dip of a knee, the tremble of a thigh... The soil here was different—denser, as if The Threshold itself resisted his digging.

A garden that devours, and a seed that should never have been planted.

He redoubled his efforts, dirt caking his nails and robes. He didn’t care about the ruined nigellas or their broken beauty. All that mattered was the life entangled in their roots.

When he finally unearthed the body, he couldn’t tell if it was alive. He was careful to not bend its limbs too far or jostle too roughly as he pulled it into his lap. It was the size of the dolls he had played with as a child, surely less than half of his own divine height. He swallowed the lump in his throat, dorsal wings still curled protectively around his discovery.

It was dirty. He hesitated before lifting it to eye-level, wincing as its head lolled limply. He pressed his ear to its chest—where he guessed its heart would be—and listened.

Alive. The pulsation of their heart was beautiful. Kiellus decided it was his favorite sound. The angel closed his eyes, concentrating on his treasure’s melody. Name, age... Favorite song, food, memory... He couldn’t learn these things just from holding them, like he could with the other souls. This one was different. This one, he couldn’t let go of just yet.

DING. Another chime rang out—close, loud. Kiellus flinched and pulled away from his mortal. He stared at them, gasping softly as he noticed the signs of stirring. He clutched them to his chest, thoughts racing. There was no protocol for this. Humans shouldn’t be in this part of Heaven—certainly not in their mortal bodies.

Another angel would come to answer the chime. There was not much time.

Kiellus surged to his feet. They fit against him like a missing piece, head tucked under his chin, legs dangling over his arm. "How are you here?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Little flower, why are you here?" The lavender fields of Lavellune were far, but flying might scare the soul.

He ran faster, bare feet pounding the ground. The white hellebore gave way to prickling grass, then to the soft, fragrant carpet of lavender. The gods’ spires watched from above, golden peaks piercing the twilight sky. The air was thick with perfume, the flowers swaying with drowsy magic.

The first cottage in Lavellune was straight ahead, its thatched roof sagging slightly under the weight of ivy. He ducked behind it, his back pressed to the sun-warmed stones, his legs trembling with exertion. Gently, he set his mortal down, his knees sinking into flora once more as he kneeled before them. They could stand now, it seemed.

What have I done? The consequences of my actions if discovered... Oh gods. I’ll lose everything. But, perhaps this mortal would be worth it.

Kiellus forced himself to take a deep breath. One thing at a time. First, a name. Names of constellations—no, flowers, came to mind, and he allowed a small, shy smile as he remembered how he’d dug this small, squirming soul up only minutes before. He wanted to gaze upon the lines of their form until a suiting name bloomed in his mind.

"Do you remember anything?" he breathed, brushing dirt from their cheek with his knuckle. A petal clung to their eyelash—blue, why blue—and he plucked it away, his touch feather-light. "Your name? How you came to be grown here?" I don’t think humans could fly, therefore there was no way they could have risen from Earth to Heaven by themselves...

Familiar footsteps echoed down the path. Kiellus’ heart lurched. An angel, taking a walk through the village, soon to happen upon them. Without thinking, he scooped his human up again, bundling them into the voluminous folds of his robe this time. They wriggled, a muffled sound escaping the fabric.

"Shh," he pleaded, pressing a hand to the lump they made. His wings fluttered madly, matching the cadence of his heart, his darting eyes. "Please—let me keep you safe. Just... until I understand."

Footsteps rounded the corner, and Kiellus barely had time to control his flustered state before Caelmon came into sight—strutting with spine-straight posture as always. His silver circlet reflected the purple glow of the lavender, and a long scroll was tucked neatly beneath one arm as always, ready to document both real and imagined infractions.

Caelmon's sharp gaze flicked over Kiellus from head to toe, noting the multiple smears of dirt and tousled hair, lingering too long on the oddly shaped fold at his chest. “You look... flushed,” he observed coolly. “Have you been running?”

Kiellus straightened too quickly, “N-no! Just stretching my legs.” His winglets trembled once then froze, prevented with sheer will from covering his face in bashful habit under the scrutiny.

“You seem... unwell. You’re trembling.” Caelmon’s fingers twitched, tilting his head up as though trying to sniff out any irregularities. “Perhaps you should sit down. We wouldn’t want one of The Threshold’s dear Guardians collapsing in the lavender, would we?”

“I-I’m fine, really,” Kiellus insisted. He cleared his throat, offering a weak smile. “I was just heading back to my cottage anyway...”

“Excellent,” Caelmon said smoothly, turning quickly on his heel. “I'll walk with you.”

The walk was short but unbearable. Kiellus' every step was on beat with the prayer running over and over in his head—anxious pleading for forgiveness, or at least mercy. He barely registered the faraway sound of chatting angels or the crunch of petals underfoot. His mind was too loud, filled with Don’t get caught, don’t get caught, don’t get caught. When the two angels (plus one hidden human) finally reached the small, quiet cottage tucked between a couple of gently swaying willow trees, Kiellus exhaled softly in relief.

The door creaked open with a worn sigh. The cottage carried the solace that could only be provided by the scent of herbs, warm sunlight, and home. The interior was cozy and meticulously neat—clearly lived in by someone with more nerves than guests.

Dried flower bundles hung from the rafters and books lined narrow shelves built somewhat unevenly into the walls. The floor was scattered with thick rugs, and in the center was a low table flanked by plush cushions, one of which was slightly squashed and molded to Kiellus’ preferred kneeling posture. A weathered staircase led to the bedroom above.

The relieved sigh was taken back in an instant as Kiellus watched Caelmon enter without a word, inviting himself in. Tucked near the back window on a crooked shelf, half-swallowed by a nest made of stolen handkerchiefs and fraying linen, sat Nebbit—the cottage’s self-proclaimed queen.

She let out an indignant chirp the moment Caelmon stepped through the doorway. Her feathers were a dusky gradient of midnight blue and soft pearl, glittering faintly like condensation on glass under moonlight. Though small and round enough to be mistaken for a decorative puffball, Nebbit carried herself with the entitlement of a divine relic, even with her crooked wing jutting out.

“Don’t,” Kiellus whimpered quietly under his breath. The bird responded with a narrow of her beady eyes at the intruder and a ruffle of her feathers paired with an offended peep.

When Caelmon got too close to her shelf, she gave a flurry of offended wing-flaps and a threatening waddle, beak open in a silent scream. Only Kiellus, hurrying over, could calm her with a flurry of mumbled apologies and a sprinkle of biscuit crumbs, which she accepted like tribute from an unworthy servant before huffily settling down.

“Charming,” Caelmon snorted, his gaze sweeping over the space with his usual snooty air. “You’ve always kept your quarters rather... sentimental.” His wings rustled primly behind his back, as though he felt the urge to keep them close and untouched by anything in Kiellus’ home. Especially the bird. “Why don’t I prepare some tea? You look too pale to do it yourself.”

Kiellus opened his mouth to object, but Caelmon was already beelining towards the kitchen nook—an open alcove off to the side, shelves lined with jars of dried figs, honey and ambrosia pots, and delicate porcelain cups hand-painted in Kiellus’ free time.

Kiellus stood, frozen for a moment, before lowering himself awkwardly onto a cushion by the table. He had heard tales of Caelmon’s not-so-discreet impromptu investigations, and it was better to let him sniff around. Besides, there was only one thing Kiellus had to hide.

His unnamed treasure squirmed again, enough for their foot to slip out from the folds of Kiellus’ robe, finding cool air and his thigh at once. A mortified gasp left his throat and in his panic to cover them, he shifted too suddenly—and the mortal tumbled safely back into his clothing, but deeper into his lap, their weight settling against his abdomen with the squishy, alarming feeling of something foreign.

Every feather on Kiellus’ body fluttered helplessly as he sat there, ramrod straight, red-faced, and flustered, arms hovering uselessly above the warm, very-much-alive secret pressed to his body. They’re... really soft. Do all humans feel like this?

After a couple minutes—when Kiellus realized Caelmon was more interested in snooping around than actually making tea—the Guardian Seraphim allowed himself to relax, but his shoulders tensed once more as he heard the rumble of a tiny stomach against his own. He glanced down discreetly, dorsal wings curling forward.

He didn’t dare peek into his robes, not when Caelmon was in the other room, it was too risky. He could feel them—ticklish lashes, inquisitive fingers, the curve of a human jaw nestled against his sternum like they belonged there. They didn’t belong there. No matter how much that strange feeling in his gut insisted they did.

The noise occurred again, accompanied by an impatient, huffed breath blowing across his navel. Kiellus turned pink all the way up to his ears. That was a... stomach noise? he realized. His heart lurched.

They’re hungry. Of course they were. They’d just been half-buried in dirt and yanked out into a world they shouldn’t be in. He discreetly patted what he guessed was the bump of their head through his clothing, trying to soothe them. They're alive and mortal and hungry and I don't have mortal food. What do they eat? Would ambrosia be harmful? Was lavender tea enough?

His eyes darted toward the kitchen, wincing at the sight of Caelmon rummaging through his cupboards, searching for secrets. Could I sneak honey into my sleeve? Would soup be suspicious? Do mortals need water? How often? His entire body felt heavy with the weight of a thousand questions and zero answers.

“Oh stars,” he whispered, pale with worry, “I’m going to kill them by accident.” Nebbit was watching him like he’d grown a second halo. Kiellus needed an excuse to get to the kitchen and figure out what to feed the creature in his robe; he didn’t know how long until his poor flower would wilt and perish.

Kiellus rose to his feet, the human still nestled securely in his robe. “I’ll get you food, little flower” he murmured under his breath, shuffling towards his kitchen and the no-nonsense angel within it. He could feel their mortal heartbeat against his bellybutton. It tickled.

I still need to decide what to call them... “Just, in the meantime... please don’t eat my robe? Or me.” He hoped they heard him. He’d heard that humans’ teeth could be quite sharp.