Perhaps if Hester had known better he would have gotten them out in time, maybe he could have given them an extra second, or maybe not have tried to blow it up at all.

Perhaps he should not have left Wilbur alone with Alexander that night, or should have warned Alexander of what he thought would come, maybe he should have tried to get there faster.

Or, maybe he should have never left.

Maybe he should have never left that night, in the storm. Maybe he didn't deserve death, but instead a torturous existence of purgatory, maybe he should have continued to be the Angel of Death.

Perhaps it would have hurt less, knowing he's a monster and not wanting to change, he was a living embodiment of 'lived as he died' a selfish monster that hurts everything he loves.

There will be no:

Reasoning.

Justification.

Redemption.

Yet here he was breathing, and still very much alive no matter how much he prayed, he hurt Wilbur, saved him just barely—he was alive, and so was his son, but the pain of losing something to find it again was one he had never prepared for.

Hester is Wilbur's everything, Wilbur is Hester's whole world. Yet there are three things they are the most like, more similar to them than that.

They are two stars pulled by each other's collapsing gravity.

They are two ghosts trapped in limbo for all eternity.

They are a father and a son, a cruel father and an unforgiving son.

Trapped inside a raven's wings, as the building cracks around them, the ember splintering the wood travels and rotting it from the inside, if it was anything it was beyond beautiful, hearing the stone pillars crush under the weight of rubble. Justice in one loud tumble finally served.

Hester's ears rang from the explosion, it felt like the dust that kicked up cracked his skull and permeated each and every one of his thoughts making them dissipate like trying to cup sand in his hands they slipped right through his finger tips.

Hester smelled the air, it was sickly sweet that became brittle and turned sour, the side of his mouth ached and had the metallic tang of blood from where his teeth bit into his tongue from the force of the explosion.

For a moment all was still, the world took a breath in and out again. And then the sky opened up and the heavens wept like it could wash the burn with water and cover it. The area was salted and gone, nothing remained and nothing would regrow for a very, very long time.

He heard movement, but did not open his wings to see if it was friend or foe. He needed to keep Wilbur warm and safe and never would let anything happen to him again.

He felt the rain beat on his wings, the pounding anger of the Gods Hester slid his wings ever-so-slightly making a cut of moonlight drip in.

He was meant to be in debt to the Gods, to Death, for giving him and his family something only few could ever dream of, flight. Hester opened his wings, and was free.

His wings, his wings were broken, burned and gone. He was free, and he was trapped.

His wings were gone.

But Wilbur was not.

He saw the silhouette of Alexander, alive, and somehow well. Digging in the rubble, a small pale hand greeted him in...