We wait. We wait on bated breath, only releasing when we see God hand Hyun the Staff of Winter and turn them both around to walk leisurely back.

“Wonder what they’re on about,” War says, stretching.

“Money’s on a lecture,” Gabriel examines his sceptre, wiping down bits of aether so that it shines, immaculate and divine.

“You’re on,” Uriel is frowning at a steaming hole in the ice, his sword submerged. The chilled water beneath the thick layer of solid ice bubbling and boiling. He lifts out the blade and the flames reignite as new, unblemished.

“Hey,” Famine stands behind him, hands on her hips. “You owe my mount an apology.”

“Do I?” Uriel snorts.

“You cut off her head.”

“You sliced out my eye. Besides,” he stands, sheathing his blade, “war invites casualty.”

“And is recorded by the victor, angel-boy,” War sidles up beside Famine, crossing his arms over his chest. Unlike the others, he wears his aether stains proudly.

I wear mine as well, but I have no pride in their presence. Only exhaustion and relief that this is petering out towards its conclusion.

“Fuck, that hurts!”

Raphael stands over Lucifer’s now-sitting form, gentle light radiating from the winged end of his caduceus. “Well, if you’d hold still it wouldn’t hurt as much,” Raphael tuts lightly.

“If you had merely handed over that boy, this need not have happened,” Michael growls and glares.

“Well, if--”

“Nope!” Raphael smacks Lucifer across the face. “Sit still. And you,” he points at Michael, “stay quiet or I might skip you on purpose.”

Uriel snorts, failing to cover his amusement.

“Don’t even get me started with you,” Raphael does not bother to look at his other sibling. “Siding with Mikha’el only to fight Rami’el and slay some demons.”

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“You contest physically with each other solely for sport?” Conquest arches a brow at the archangel and his fallen brother.

Ramiel shrugs, “Just because I took a long drop, doesn’t mean we’re any less competitive.”

“Let me join,” Conquest almost shouts, eyes alight with delight.

I click my tongue. Conquest was becoming as bad as the archangels. Though, I suppose that is the curse of immortality: after a while, you no longer cry, no longer laugh -- no longer feel much of anything. The moment you forget what it means to feel, you search for that which can occupy your time. You search for something, anything. I suppose “fun” is one word for it, “purpose” another. So many things to love and hate in equal measure, all the while feeling...nothing. An emptiness that cannot be filled. Or, perhaps, that only applies to Horsemen.

Perhaps that only applies to me.

“Death,” Michael stands before me. I stand up straighter. Though we were, only moments ago, on opposite sides, he still commands respect. And I still give him a bow of my head. “You disobeyed my command.”

“I did.” I cannot lie, to call that an exercise in futility would be a gross understatement. “I did what I could in order to save both Hyun’s life and my own.”

“I would expect such flagrant disrespect from War, but not from you.”

“No disrespect was meant,” I square my shoulders, tilt my chin higher. “I neither lied nor deceived. I played none false, even in the choice I ultimately made.”

“You’re just looking for someone to blame ‘cause you got it wrong.”

Hyun and God have caught up to us, returned from their talk. Hyun taps the Staff of Winter against his shoulders, clearly relaxed.

“Father, I--”

“Mikha’el, my son,” God holds up a hand. “I do not doubt you had the best of intentions in your belief and your actions. Taken without investigation, your reasoning could perhaps even be called compelling. But where I am most disappointed is that you let your pride and your sibling rivalry cloud your judgement.”

Michael stands perfectly straight, the picture of a soldier. Each word from God drives him straighter, the shame well-hidden behind a practiced stern mask. The mask of a general and a commander. Of an eldest child demanding perfection of himself.

“I think,” God’s tone softens, “we are all in agreement that many have erred dramatically today -- erred enough that we could have had a true catastrophe on our hands.”

“Well,” Hyun frowns, “you did kind of appear in a literal deus ex machina. Couldn’t you have stopped everything before all the fighting and injuries and chaos and destruction?”

God laughs, “Well, as I believe the kids say these days: it’s good to be the king.” They nod to each of us in turn, acknowledgement and dismissal. With one final smile, They disappear in a shower of glittering golden dust.

Michael’s shoulders loosen, only a fraction, a breath released. It lasts but a breath as he once again sets them and walks stiffly over towards Hyun.