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The balance needed to be restored, the inevitability of death returned to the world.
The being that was both Remiel and the Death Angel floated in the darkness of space, just above the vaporous atmosphere, attuned to the heartbeat of a world.
Remiel knew he should be in awe of what he witnessed below him, a beautiful blue marble nestled in a black velvet blanket of stars, vibrant with life, but there was something about sharing his body with the Angel of Death that dampened his enthusiasm.
There was a job to be done; one that Israfil had been derelict to perform for at least a week's time. Remiel dreaded what was to follow, but there was no other way if the balance was to be restored.
He fixed his gaze upon the earth, his every preternatural sense awakening at once, making the planet aware of the Angel of Death's return. Desperate for release, everything that had been destined to meet its end but couldn't cried out in one powerful voice, calling for his attention.
The power inside him was nearly overwhelming, and for one brief moment, Remiel suspected that he knew what it must feel like to be God, or as close to one as his kind was ever likely to be. The power inside him began to grow, intensifying toward release. Knowing what he was now capable of, and what he was about to do, Remiel experienced painful pangs of fear.
As well as guilt.
Floating above the earth, he extended his arms and let the Angel of Death's purpose flow through his body. He felt it move inside him, building at his core, spreading up from his torso and down his arms into his hands. A sort of ethereal webbing flowed out from his fingertips and drifted down to cover the world.
Still co
He saw them all, each and every thing: the large and small, the human as well as the inhuman, the sick and the suffering.
"Come to me," Remiel said, his voice an odd mixture of his own and the angel Israfil's. Given permission to go on, the life forces were released from their places of confinement, flowing up from the planet to collect within the vast netting he had cast about the world.
As the souls were collected, he saw the existences that had once belonged to them, entire life experiences flashing before him in the blink of an eye.
Life, in all its myriad shapes and sizes.
The souls of humanity, what stories they had to tell.
From birth to death, and everything in between, he saw it all.
Tales of lifetimes, better than anything that could be crafted by the world's most skilled authors. The sadness and the joys, the hatreds and the loves: it was all there, everything that defined them as a species, that set them apart from all other of God's creations.
Their huma
And among the seemingly countless existences, he found a life of joy that spoke to him in a voice so famil- iar. It sang of life filled with accomplishment and the sweetest of loves between man and woman.
Remiel knew this life, for he had been honored to be part of it, overjoyed to be accepted into the loving embrace of one of the Almighty's most blessed creations.
To love and to be loved was the greatest of His gifts, and Remiel reveled in the honor that he had been allowed to experience.
He did not want to let this life go. He wanted to hold on to it — keep it, like a precious stone, admiring its beauty and complexity for all eternity.
But the Angel of Death had other plans.
Israfil stirred within Remiel, his strength and purpose regained. Reassuming his mantle, Israfil emerged in an explosion of brilliance, like the dawning of creation, leaving Remiel alone in the darkness of space, suddenly no longer co
What a horrible and empty sensation to be cut off from an experience so vast, so intimate.
And he drifted in the cold of space, feeling so very alone.
Yearning for the touch of the world he had saved, and all the beauty it offered, Remiel moved closer to the planet, allowing its pull to draw him from space, pulling him back to the place he had adopted as his home so very long ago.
He fell to the world again, plunging deep into the restored ocean of the Cape.
Remiel emerged from the boiling sea, flapping the excess water from his cooling wings as he walked up onto the shore. Francis was waiting for him on shore, along with Sariel and other surviving members of the host Grigori.
"Thought you might've… y'know, gone back or something," the former Guardian insinuated, gesturing with his chin to the glorious blue sky above.
"No," Remiel answered, noticing that Francis had found his missing appendage. "Your hand?" he questioned.
"Yeah, found it just before the water came back," he said, flexing his fingers. "Good thing, too. I don't think I'd look as hot with a hook."
Remiel managed a fleeting smile before turning his attention to the Grigori. Their clothes were torn and stained, and they stunk of violence. There was a gleam of excitement in the survivors' eyes.
"I didn't expect to see you here," Remiel said to them.
Sariel stared out over the ocean.
"This is our world whether we like it or not — at least until the Lord calls us home. And until we hear His call, we aren't about to allow something to happen to it."
The fallen angel suddenly seemed distracted, glancing down at the Rolex watch that had somehow managed to remain intact upon his wrist. "Look at the time," he said casually. "We're having a little party tonight," he explained. "Celebrating the world not ending and all."
He and his followers began to walk away. "You're welcome to come." He nodded toward Francis. "You and your winged friend."
The Grigori chuckled as they continued up the beach.
Francis waved good-bye, a smile beaming upon his features.
"He's such a dick," Francis said, still smiling as he continued to wave. "Pretty good in a fight, though. Not a fucking Black Choir to be found. Doubt they're all dead — we couldn't be so fucking lucky — but at least they're not around giving us a pain in the balls."
Remiel looked about the beach, the roar of the surf behind him. "The bodies?" he asked.
Francis shrugged. "Taken by the sea, with most of my friggin' weapons, I guess." He placed a hand over his brow, looking out over the restless ocean. "Wasn't much time to move them when the water came back."
"And Lazarus?"
"Lost sight of him after the shit hit the fan," Francis said with disgust. "Doubt he's dead. Think we should look for him?"
The Seraphim shook his head. "He'll turn up eventually, and besides, he'll have worse than us to deal with now. The guilt over what he has done will be torment beyond anything we could ever do to him."
"Yeah, I guess, but I'd still like to kill the bastard a few times. Y'know, to get even." The Guardian paused, checking out the reddish line where his hand had been reco
Remiel remembered what it was like to touch the world and to bring death back to it, but sensed that the memory would be fleeting. How could one being hope to retain memories so vast? There was only so much of the experience one mind could contain. He recalled the lives and endings of those co
Peter Mountgomery, Carol Weir, Casey Burke, ready to let the memories go with the seemingly countless others.
But there was one in particular that he would not allow himself to forget.
"Yes," he answered, feeling so terribly alone. "It's been taken care of."
Francis accepted his answer with a satisfied nod. He removed his glasses from the pocket of his tattered shirt and held them up to the sun. Somehow they had remained unbroken. "So, do we want to get out of here?" he asked, adjusting the glasses to his face.