A glint of silver. A flash of gold. Vibrant red dimmed from violence.

Gleaming eyes. Pearly teeth. Palest skin, stranger to the soaring sun.

And the heart of their focus is an angel, rare and radiant, illumed to beauty with light from within. She sits on bowed knees, her spirit almost broken, helpless and fragile and tantalizingly vulnerable. It would be so easy to extinguish that inner light, the darkness carelessly muses, so very easy. Only the barest hinting remains of the blazing that was.

And yet, the shadows tenderly caress the angel's form like an artist caresses the figures he paints with pigments and kisses of brushes. They do not encroach upon the light's waning domain; instead they dance quietly on the border, enhancing by contrast the beauty of the paling in a perpetual dusk.

And it is lovely.

The darkness broke her, the loneliness, the lack of life. The darkness could unmake her, change her into more of its kind, lightless, lifeless, lonely. But the darkness will not. The light, faint and fragmented as it is, is beautiful. And that light belongs to the darkness now.

Just as the angel does.