There was no denying that what he had done could not be undone. His betrayal would forever taint how his nephew would remember him. Yet, even if he felt shame, he would do it a hundred times more if needed. He had not doubted, and he did not show a trace of regret for it.

He still held the hammer tightly, even when he had swung it in a way that had made his hand ache. The hit had been direct, strong, but held back enough to not cause any wounds.

He did not like that son of a devil, but he did not despise him enough to kill him.

After all…

“You got him now. You better keep him safe, hear me?”

There was no way they would hear him, yet he said it anyway, while leaning near the edge.

He allowed himself to stare for a few seconds into the blackness, lethargically. He lost sight of their figures, yet he knew they were still struggling to phase through to their own world. The blackness covered any sight of their bodies, yet moved and tangled in a way that hinted where they had sunk. The abyss kept flowing and shifting, like if it was trying to consume a mass that did not belong inside it.

If he wanted to, he could still throw his hammer, and strike the space where Uriel was falling.

However, that was not what he wanted. It was what he wanted to prevent.

His fools were still awake, still fighting the black portal’s influence. They were easy targets while they descended into nothingness, in a void that had no end, but no distance either.

He could not follow them. Not yet.

Angus took a deep raspy breath. He shook his soaked wings strongly, and then prepared his muscles with a few subtle moves. His glare was intense, as he greeted with a high stance the squads that neared the edge of the abyss.

The soldiers and him were separated by the blackness, one at each side of their world. He waited for their arrival, for a standoff he would welcome.

While the rebel waited for his next and last fight, a grim calmness reigned. Meager under the vast skies, the waters had subsided. There was no trace of the fugitives in them.

However, a loud splash broke the silence near the plains. A loud gasp echoed. Two hands slammed themselves on the once calm shore, pulling and clenching desperately. The figure dragged itself on the sand, until the sea could not touch or threaten it.

Einar breathed loudly and unevenly, wide eyed. His clothes were torn and ripped, but not as much as his body. His wings had lost many feathers, and while his face had been cleaned of blood, it was still red. The once proud angel whimpered pathetically, as he raised his scorched hands in front of his disturbed eyes. Lying there, weak and breathless, he let out a small pained stutter while he stared at the burns on his arms. He had burns everywhere on his upper body, because boiling the water around him was the only way in which he could free himself from the beast. Snatched and bitten, he had slammed his fingers over its raspy skin, and had thrashed when they both felt the desperate heat he invoked. The release was instantaneous, but it did not end his troubles. Shoved and hauled by the scared creature, he had crept through the water blindly, tortured by the salt on his wounds.

He had made it out. In time for him to turn his head shakily, and look at the edge where he had last seen them. His eyes widened more. He held his breath again. He saw Angus there, alive, and triumphant.

As he realized his failure, he let out his most furious of wails, which echoed through the landscape. And even with all the rage in the world, Angus did not even give him the satisfaction of being acknowledged. He kept looking at the angels that marched to him, who were finally halting their hasty heavy steps.

Leading, patiently but intently, the one who wished to stop the blackness from fulfilling its purpose arrived. Philander gave Angus a glance; but instead of speaking and wasting time, he acted. His interest shifted fast towards the darkness, where he noticed the uneven shapes and mists. Without second thoughts, he raised his free hand sideways, and blinded the soldiers behind him when he invoked raw lightning. His incantation shot fast and deadly, aimed straight for the figures that lurked in the fog below them.

And with another blinding flash, the spell made collision.

Philander took a deep breath, troubled that his spell had not reached its objective, but something that flew in the way.

Angus heaved, hand smoking. His flames had soared over the abyss, shielding it fiercely from any ill intent. He returned the hateful glare that Philander gave him, much more tiredly and smugly.

“Not going to fry them while they sleep.” Angus took a defensive stance, ready to answer any thunders that tried to descend on them. “Not while I stand here.”

Philander frowned intensely. His eyes showed worry, because he realized that his enemies escaped from within his grasp. As their presence faded, he knew it was too late to send his soldiers onto Angus to prevent his interference. It was too late to end their departure and their lives.

He could only ask, with a soft tone that held all too much resent.

“What has he done to you?”

Angus scoffed. There was nothing but skepticism and anger in Philander’s eyes, an impotence he found stupid. That old fashioned mind was brewing many ideas and hypothesis, which revolved around a supposed sinful catalyst. A catalyst that had been taken away from his justice.

So he answered, shrugging and smiling angrily, in front of a man who could not look past his long gone glory. He said one simple word, which was the truth. A truth that would not be welcomed.

“Nothing.”

That was all he would say. And that was all Philander would hear.

Angus had seen that they were gone too, that they were safe. And that was enough. He did not need to stand still anymore.

Philander tensed and reacted; the two soldiers at his sides gasped in surprise. In a dash, he dodged the fireball that Angus sent him, the first to attack. Their clash was bound to happen, and he took the chance to start it.

Two red wings folded tightly, experienced and agile. Philander began to inch forward through the hellfire, hiding his body behind his long shield. He glared behind it, rueful and strong against the flames that caressed his golden weapon.

Angus had to stop targeting Philander when two soldiers tried to flank him from above. With two fast swipes of hand, he invoked two walls of fire that made them recoil in the air. Those moves left an opening, right in front of him, even if the abyss was still in between.

And Philander took the chance. With no hesitation, he leaned his shield sideways, and outstretched an arm towards Angus. Sparks were not the only thing he could invoke. He decided to fight fire with fire, to cast his own. Smaller than Angus’ spells, the heat was compressed, enough to reach a form similar to magma. It was something that no flames would stop, but only intensify. Only something solid would manage to halt it.

Angus growled, cornered into a single option. Philander’s eyes glinted, like Angus’ hammer did when hauled against his raging projectile.

The ancient soldier pondered every action that could happen, like a game of chess. After the clash against the spell, the hammer fell out of Angus’ reach inside the blackness. And then, there were only two paths that Angus could take. Surrender… or leap.

Angus would do anything to shield Alexis; even if only for a second, even if it meant very little. And both knew that fact well.

When Angus lunged next, it was not to dive into the abyss, but to soar over it. He opened his soaked wings strongly, he bolted with a fast jump at the edge. While he used what little drive his limbs could give him without flight, he raised an arm, with a desperate spell meant to end the one who wanted his loved ones dead.

Angus yelled in anger, flying for a moment over the void… and in the next instant, he gasped and convulsed. Frozen in the middle of his leap, he felt the heat of the electricity flow through his whole body, sinking deeper into his flesh thanks to the water on his skin.

Philander let his hand fall down, and let the sparks die out. Because his target was not soaring towards him anymore. Angus only plummeted downwards, body and wings limp and unresponsive. The blackness twisted when his figure sunk into it, without resistance. The abyss flowed like a stormy sea over him, devouring any trace of his presence under its dark waves.

The angels behind Philander stared at the scene, silent and troubled. There was no more fight to be joined, and no more threats to be eliminated. Their prey had escaped, leaving them in arms but without war.

Or so they wanted to believe.

Philander was staring as well, but much more intensely. It was not for Angus. After seeing him fall, all his thoughts for him were gone. Instead, he could only think of the others, the ones who had ripped through their city, the ones who had evaded all justice in the core of their strength.

If they could reach their sanctuary so easily… so impudently, there was nothing they could not afflict. Their very home had been burned and left vulnerable. Their world had always been a safe haven, an impenetrable sanctuary where no devil could enter.

There was something he sensed that no other angel felt. Philander shivered, his vision flashing to a time in which his worst enemy stood over many corpses, all ripped from their beautiful wings. He could see Zelophehad there, at the edge, smirking grimly at him, holding his bloody trident over a corpse’s neck. The weapon soon pointed up, like many years ago, to signal the tyrant’s promise of slaughter over the land.

His land. Bloody, broken and unsafe. Plagued by a race that had no self-control or end in its numbers.

“We must kill them.”

All heard his whisper.

Even the oldest of soldiers around him exchanged wary looks. All fixed their eyes on the abyss, wings folding slowly.

“They are gone.”

Philander turned slowly. He did not understand the lethargy he was seeing in his comrades. All were still; all had lowered or sheathed their weapons. He stated the obvious, like if they could not see it.

“They are still alive.” He spoke again, seeing that no one refuted it. “We must chase after them.”

“Sir…” Even a nearby chief seemed to hold reluctance. Philander’s view of his living kin seemed to shatter, not at all what he had believed to be. “They have jumped. We must not descend without being chosen.”

“Have you no eyes?” Philander looked all around him, still able to see the smoke in the sky. “I have served twice in that world, and neither for the orb’s will! Our home has been attacked!”

All knew he was right. And yet, none took a single step to join his choice.

“God always lets his will be known. I trust in our deity.”

“We must wait for a sign; I am not worthy of acting without guidance.”

“Too many to hunt. None bound to our souls to take us back.”

Again, he pleaded, each time with less confidence in his home.

“The angels of my time always served for a hundred years, and then we…” A flash ran across Philander’s eyes, as he remembered what could bring courage to his younger brothers and sisters. “We would cross the portal. It has always welcomed us back.”

All angels exchanged looks, too young to know of a site that had been long unused. Their whole lives had been dictated to aspire to be tied to a demon, to end it to find glory and closure.

Philander beckoned them to the edge, leaning himself to peek to a world he had roamed for far too long.

“At the far end of the northern coastlines, it lies there. See with your own eyes; see it stand untouched by time and evil.” He pointed with an arm, all ever hopeful. “I have ridden it of menace, it is peaceful once more. Nothing roams near it. It is ours. I have killed the tyrant who prevented us from taking it without guilt. It is-”

Philander froze. He saw before all did, and it did not ease the grimness of their reactions. The abyss would always grant small glimpses, it would gift sight into a place that could only be reached with selflessness.

If they were to jump, they would have to be willing to abandon everything, even their own lives; because they did not see what Philander last remembered of those hills and coastlines. They did not see a vacant and free undisputed land, but a claimed one. Small, yet all too obvious, the horizon offered hints of what could only be humans. They roamed free; they had entered the fortress, which still stood unburned. And even if the grounds were dressed with demonic corpses, not all were gone.

His red wings shivered, as he was offered a glimpse of two red eyes, a feral creature. His mind had whispered his hope of their complete eradication, and the abyss answered him with the truth. A hulking black figure lurked between the dark trees, creeping on the humans unseen. Its bear like features were horrifying to stare at, because its presence should be obvious to the men that scouted the place like it was theirs.

“Is that the holy library?”

Philander did not answer the incredulous whisper of the soldier at his side. He could only watch how a young woman collected angelic wisdom near some pillars; forbidden wisdom, which he had spent ages trying to keep safe.

And worse of all…

“No.”

He could see it. He could not believe it.

A tomb, for all humans too see at the feet of the fortress. They were looking at it, at its well-placed stones and markings on the ground. They were exchanging unheard whispers, which he knew to be said with formal respect. The humans did not know which grave they were nearing, what was under that tainted earth. And still, they offered it a few silent acknowledgments.

Zelophehad did not deserve to be buried after all he had done, both to humans and angels. He did not deserve to be given peace, only eternal hellfire.

Years he had spent in those meadows and forests. And now, even the shore where the portal rested was taken from his conquest. All his fights meant nothing. The cave had given in. However, the humans walked near the shallows like if they sought something. Their curiosity and heresy had no end, no limit.

He looked away from the vision. He let out an uneven breath when the blackness returned. The sights were gone, but he could still feel what he had seconds before. Horror, sorrow and endless triviality.

Philander looked back. And then he realized he was alone once more.

None stood near him anymore. They were looking back, wishing nothing more than to return to their temples and garrisons, where they would strengthen their convictions and forces. All refused to descend. Even the most dedicated between them. Humans had reached even their most sacred of places; their god would need to voice its will against it. The angels did not wish to risk their long commitment just to fight senselessly in that world. It would be an endless quarrel.

Philander knew that fact too. There was no end. Again and again, the roots would grow again, each time stronger.

He did not know, but his conquest had been foiled in more than one sense. Deep below, in waters where no angel would ever reach, a trident rested. A remnant of his worst foe had breached the barriers between their worlds; part of him had finally found the place he was never meant to roam. Reut’s spear had found its way back home.

All of Philander’s struggles, his values, challenged; another taunt, this time much more scarring and torturous.

Slowly, he faced the edge again. His eyes did not lose their vacant look, but it was different. His expression was haunting, in a way that only ones who suffered would recognize. In a flash, his wings opened wide, and all stepped back when lightning entangled them. His slow leap was full of resignation and yet all unhesitant. The edge welcomed his crusade once again.

This time, he would not return until the firstborn’s horror was gone forever.