Warning: A pre-canon timeline in an alternate universe (AU) long forgotten; a tale inscribed in the ancient language of a forbidden tome, telling the love story between the God of the Sea and a Heavenly angel, unfolded beneath the silver gaze of the moon.

There are, perhaps, no two realms less suited to tenderness than Heaven and the sea; for one demands obedience and the other surrender, yet it was beneath the pale sovereignty of the moon that Raphaela first discovered how poorly eternity prepares one for affection. The shore lay silvered beneath the night, while the tide advanced and withdrew with the grave composure of something far older than mankind. Beyond the dark sweep of water where the horizon faded softly into mist, the Sea God lingered amongst the waves, half-veiled by the sea itself, his attention resting entirely upon her.

Raphaela had long since relinquished all mention of Heaven; still, the body preserved its own loyalties with an obstinacy the mind could neither govern nor conceal. A faint pain lingered always between her shoulders, delicate and persistent, like the recollection of hands once laid there in blessing. At intervals she lifted her face toward the moon with a look so full of distant yearning that even the Sea God grew acquainted with the peculiar grief of creatures fashioned for liberty.

The sight disturbed the composure of his immortal heart. The sea could swallow empires, bury cathedrals, or erase whole generations from memory; it possessed depth beyond measure and strength beyond pity and had never once learned how to hold anything that wished to fly.

“You wish to leave,” Rafayel observed at last.

There was no bitterness in the remark; only a sadness so quiet it seemed to belong to the sea itself. Her own figure rested in his pink-blue eyes and lent them a mournful tenderness which Raphaela found far more dangerous than anger.

“I believe,” she replied after a pause measured enough to disguise emotion, “that every creature born beneath Heaven has carried in some hidden chamber of the soul, a desire to belong only to itself.”

“And if freedom demanded your heart as its price?”

Raphaela lowered her eyes and found the sea occupied with strange inventions. Moonlight drew her shadow long and silver upon the water, the sea gathered them together until they resembled a crescent folded against its full companion: a crescent enclosing fullness where  heaven and abyss joined in temporary accord.

For the first time.

The sea God touched the daughter of Heaven.

“What I want,” his voice carried the icy profundity of the winter sea as he whispered,  “is a heart with pure and utter devotion. Its love for me should come from the very depths of one’s soul.” Rafayel lifted his hand with uncommon care and placed it against her left arm.

“And if such devotion destroys the soul that offers it?” The slight disorder of her voice declared how nearly she dreaded his reply, but Rafayel regarded her with an expression touched by something older than sorrow.

“Then,” he murmured and lifted her hand toward his lips with reverence almost akin to prayer, “I would treasure its ruin more dearly than Heaven treasures its stars.”

The words settled between them with a softness far more alarming than severity. Raphaela became conscious all at once of his nearness and since she could not determine the moment of his approach, the circumstance acquired a greater intimacy from its uncertainty. The sea itself appeared to have admitted him forward by degrees, each retreating wave surrendering another measure of distance until scarcely any remained between them as wind gathered at the hem of her gown—cool and insinuating beneath the moonlight.

A tremor passed through her so slight that another creature might not have perceived it, yet Rafayel’s gaze sharpened instantly upon her face. Some ancient instinct within him had always possessed a singular sensitivity to yearning, particularly when it belonged to her. The moon cast a broken ribbon of silver across the water between them; and Raphaela reflected with a quiet bitterness that providence often placed its greatest beauties nearest those pleasures least attainable. His hand still enclosed hers in one slow movement of his thumb brushed against her hand so tender in its intention that all reserve became impossible and she felt the whole confession of his heart within that single touch.

There were confessions which passed quietly through a life, producing little beyond embarrassment and a temporary disorder of spirits; and there were others which, once spoken, left every future moment arranged differently from before. He knew this distinction too well.

Rafayel bent nearer then with a hesitation singularly unbecoming of a god. Divinity had little acquaintance with uncertainty. Gods commanded, claimed, and destroyed with perfect confidence; yet Raphaela’s presence was an exception, he instead carried all the agitation of a man endeavouring to master the violence of his own affections. His gaze descended for a moment only to her mouth and Raphaela’s breath faltered beneath the notice of it. A single word from him, a movement scarcely greater than courtesy permitted and she believed she might have surrendered every principle she had once guarded with celestial pride. Heaven itself appeared distant then; immortality little more than a splendid inconvenience. What alarmed her most lay in this: the sacrifice no longer seemed ruinous. Some secret province of her heart had already abandoned the contest and gone quietly over to his side.

“You should not look at me so,” she whispered; a remonstrance delivered with so little firmness that it served only to betray the agitation she wished concealed.