But Luziel was fading. His wings, once of silver and sapphire, had become translucent. The melancholy was not a poison—it was a thinning. He had given his substance to the village: a little warmth here, a little hope there, a dream of a full belly to the deserter, a memory of her husband’s laugh to the widow.
Luziel sat on a stump. Snow fell through him like he was already a ghost. Melancholie der engel AKA The Angels Melancholy
“No,” said Luziel.