On Broken Wings

Chapter 21

Lucifer

Satan stared at Micheal for a mere second before a haughty grin split his face. "Justice?" he sneered. "How laughable." He rose to his feet, blood running from various wounds, hair sticking on ends from our fight; he limped toward Micheal, a wild, predatory gleam to his eyes. "How has that justice of yours served you all this time? It hasn't interfered with personal relations, I hope." At this, Satan glanced at me.

I glared back, struggling to sit up, the wound in my abdomen screaming. The whole of my body ached and throbbed as if I had been the one to be dropped down from the heavens.

"Slowly," a feminine voice said. Her warm hand braced against my back, guiding me up. She let me use her as a crutch as I stood there, taking in my old friend.

"Gabriel?"

"Yes?" Her face was soft, caring, and just as I remembered it as.

"You're here. Why?"

She smiled sadly, warm eyes crinkling in the corners. Her thick eyebrows knitted together worriedly. "I begged Michael to help you. But before that, I begged for his permission to let me come down here. I wanted to find my friend before it was too late. However, the situation has changed drastically, and I am no longer here for my original goal." Gabriel looked me over, her gaze snagging on my various injuries. "I am afraid Raphael is at the other battlefield putting his healing abilities to use there. Here, I will bring you to him."

"No need."

"You're practically bleeding out. If you don't see Raphael soon, you will surely—"

"Gabriel."

She paused her rambling.

"I must do something first." I looked over to where Micheal and Satan stared one another down, blue eyes clashing against red.

When Gabriel spoke, her tone was soft. "I understand."

Now steadily standing on my own legs, I pushed myself from her brace. Each step was a thousand white-hot thorns embedding in my nerves. Micheal's gaze shifted to mine as I grew closer, his halo fading away to a whisper of flame before finally sputtering out.

"Make it quick," was all I said.

Micheal gripped his specter. "Centuries of separation, and not even a greeting from you?"

"We did not exactly part on good terms."

"I suppose," he mused. "Very well."

"Planning my death right in front of me does not seem to be the most effective," Satan snarled, his lip curling to reveal sharp canines.

It was foolish of me to believe that he would fight no longer. Satan shot forward, light glinting off a small, concealed knife that he swung at Micheal's throat. The Seraph dodged, the weapon catching on his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. He scoffed, and before the Sin could make his next move, pressed the flame end of his scepter to Satan's chest.

The pungent smell of burning flesh filled the clearing. Micheal's scepter sparked bright blue embers as he pushed it further into Satan's skin. His face held no remorse, not even as the other man's screams erupted from his throat, clawing at the smooth black wood of the scepter. I watched as the wound opened, blistering and boiling before burning closed, only for the process to repeat. Over and over this process repeated, a never-ending cycle of purgatory.

Micheal did not let up, not even as Satan keeled to his knees, and then collapsed to the ground, quivering. Only when his labored breathing ceased and his eyelids drooped did the Seraph remove the flame, leaving a gaping hole behind.