Bellamy's Adventuring Log

He doesn't remember much of the time Before.

Snow; sunlight; wind between the mountains; birds high up in the sky; an angelic warmth that pulsed beside his heart; flying between those mountains, high up enough to match those very birds; a faint but unfulfilled happiness. And, of course, his name. He would never forget that they'd called him Bellamy.

Things start to snap back together later on.

First, there came pain. Horrid pain, scorching, blazing, bleeding; a scalding knife, a hellish brand. The pain was so horrid all he could do was cry out; first with his lips and teeth and tongue, then with his heart and mind and soul. Nothing responded at first. The angels who had made him were commanded to simply let things take their course, for goodness was only good when it was selfless. And what could be more selfish than raising the dead?

But selflessness as a virtue meant nothing to those who lurked in the Lower planes.

Something, now, was near him. Its shape was faint, but it was a stark, pure white against the scourged and blackened world. Then a tingling sensation; that of a gentle touch brushing across his tender skin, of something holding him close. Of something wrapping itself around his throat. Of a promise, whispered solemnly; shakily honest words, a pact made true between him and whatever had answered his plea.

No. Whoever.

Then, a pain. A ripple. A breath.
And, again: he was alive.
But something was... different.

Bellamy had always been pale, but now he was eerily so. Nearly all the color had been drained from him; even his eyes, now, were a ghastly ruby red. He was weak and shaking, the strength not fully restored to his risen body. That, though, wasn't the worst part of it.
He was cold.
Frigid. Numb. Empty.

No. This couldn't be right. He couldn't be missing a piece.

The celestial-touched called up his wings, and they burst free of his skin. They were as thick and comforting as they'd always been, fledged and plumed in thick, soft feathers--though now, they were darker. Heavier. Bound by nonexistent chains and dragging him down to the earth. He cloaked them over himself, sheltering his weakened body from the wind. But even as the shivering slowed, he still wasn't warm.

And in that moment, he knew he would never be again.

The fires had claimed more than just his life; they'd claimed the light at the heart of his core. That little, perfect piece of star that made him the aasimar he was. Every burn and cut and scrape may have been cleared from his skin, and life restored to his body, but his soul had died as it was supposed to.

Then, a voice spoke in his head. Its tone was shaky, but curious. Uncertain. Almost... empathetic.
"Hello? Are you awake yet, falling star?"