The Angels

“Ramiel,” Sammy said, “I might have expected as much,”

With Chazaqiel's ominous arrival, the surreal wonder of the Fallen was replaced with an undercurrent of fear, and the Fallen themselves clearly felt the same.

“Are you sure she's gone?” Azalea asked, “We might still-”

“She's dead,” Chazaqiel said, growling and not raising his head to meet the eyes of the other Fallen, “The last thing I saw there, Munkar took her head.”

Eita realized what he thought the Fallen might not have – Chazaqiel was holding back tears.

“Let me ask the important questions,” Gadreel said, “We can grieve once they're answered. How did you get away?”

“In the time we've been down here, Shamsiel figured out a trick. She opened a door and pushed me through first. She would have followed, but they were too fast. It closed when she died.”

“A door?” Penemue asked.

“To something like ten blocks away,” Chazaqiel answered.

“Alright,” Gadreel said, “And how sure are you that you weren't followed?”

Chazaqiel froze. His silence was all the answer that was needed to know that he did not know.

“We should disperse,” Gadreel said, “If we slip into the crowds-”

“We'll be picked off one by one,” Azalea said, “With our full number, we might be able to fend off a few.”

Eyes began to turn to Sammy, and Eita realized that she may have understated the degree to which the other Fallen looked to her.

“I agree with Azalea,” she said. “If we leave here, we leave as a group, and split up only when we can be reasonably sure it's safe.”

“At least,” Gadreel said, “Ikami-san, I think this is your time to depart.”

Eita looked each way, and grabbed a length of pipe that had been left among debris. Unbidden, an image came to his mind, what he'd seem when facing Raphael. With it came the same conviction, not to run away.

“You won't convince him,” Penemue said. Then she fixed Eita with a glare.

“That's not much of a weapon,” she said, “Angels don't feel pain, and shouldn't know fear or doubt either. Aim for the halo; we still don't know exactly what it takes to crack one.”

Sammy turned to Eita.

“You're sure?” she asked.

“If it comes to it,” he said, “If I left, and something happened, I-”

A trumpet sounded, an ethereal clarion that seemed to echo down from the sky, and the Fallen tensed. If there was any chance of them not being found out, that chance had evaporated. A flurry of wings appeared, Sammy's pale gray joined by raven-black, shimmering blue-green, dappled brown, and seemingly every other color of feather that nature had envisioned.

“I want to try to talk,” Sammy said, “Don't strike first.”

“They won't listen,” Penemue said, the first words she had uttered tinged with something other than bored disdain being here a hint of regret, “even if they could hear you, the only one of the Weaver's angels less inclined to listen than Ramiel would be Apollyon.”

“I still have to try,” Sammy said.

“They killed Shamsiel!” Chazaqiel shouted.

“I know,” Sammy said, “I know better than them how much that means. That's why I need to do it this way.”

Then, the angels descended. There were four of them surrounding the Fallen and Eita by standing at the cardinal directions. They were all like Raphael in some ways, painted fully in radiant white and gold, halos over their eyes. Two were men, one broad-chested and broad-shouldered, looking like a weightlifter. He held a lance like the weapon Raphael had borne and the one Sammy had again drawn. The other was older in appearance, or at least stood less straight, his build lean and hungry, his face dominated by a long, sharp beard, and both his hands full with long knives. The other two appeared to be women. One looked like she would have been the age of Eita's parents, but her jaw was set in a stern frown, and she held the long trumpet still. The last was young – younger even than Yomiel in appearance, like she was either late in grade school or a middle-school first year. She stayed hovering somewhat above the ground, and held in both hands a broad sword that was longer than she was tall.

“Ramiel,” Sammy said, addressing the strong man. She then turned to the lean one.

“Munkar,” she said. Then she faced the trumpeter.

“Muriel,” and then finally the child, “Nakir.”

“Presumptive of you to speak our names.” Nakir said. Her voice was childish, but her manner was nothing of the sort, every word dripping with ice-cold spite.

“Submit,” Ramiel declared, “And you will be taken to face the judgment of the just. Resist and perish.”

“Do you not question why I stand before you?” Sammy asked, “Do none of you wonder why nine of your own would abandon their places?”

“You speak madness, Heretic,” Ramiel declared.

“I'm speaking of the truth. If you can't hear it, read my lips. If you cannot see it, think for yourselves.”

“I had hoped you would be above such blasphemy,” Muriel said, “for Cassiel's sake if not your own.”

“Just what is it you think I said?” Sammy asked.

“More lies,” Ramiel declared, “This is your last chance. Will you submit? Or will you fall like the other?”

Sammy closed her eyes. Slowly, she took deep breaths. When she opened here eyes within, Eita could swear he could see the determination blazing within.

“We won't yield.” she said.

“Then die,” Ramiel commanded.

The angels descended with astounding speed, but the Fallen were ready for them. Ramiel and Sammy clashed, her sword against his spear. Munkar leaped into the fray like a predatory beast, but some invisible force tore through one of his wings as he surged forward, and Eita saw Jeqon, pointing as though his extended finger were a gun. To the opposite side from Ramiel, Sariel grappled with Muriel and seemed to get the upper hand, while Gadreel was at the front holding off Nakir's blade as she danced through the air.

Eita didn't hesitate, and swung the pipe towards Ramiel's head. The angel, seeming to recognize something of a threat, dodged, and that gave Sammy an opening, allowing her to begin forcing Ramiel back.

“Despicable,” Ramiel declared, “You'd use a human-”

Eita swung again. Ramiel only evaded; he didn't strike at Eita, and Eita's pulse quickened as the battle was joined. The angel was fast. For every move Eita could make, Ramiel could make three. But Sammy was almost as fast herself. Ramiel was strong. When Sammy ducked his spear, back towards a wall, concrete shattered. But though Sammy teetered or lost ground every time she had to parry such a strike, she could keep up.

Alone, Eita would have been dead in an instant if Ramiel wanted it, and Sammy would have been outmatched. Together, maybe, they could manage. Together-

Ramiel lashed out with the haft of his spear, slamming the blunt end into Eita's stomach. Eita was launched backwards, staggering and falling as pain dimmed his vision and made him retch.

Sammy stepped between them.

“Don't!” Eita croaked, tears in his eyes and bile in his mouth.

The last thing he wanted to be was a burden.

Eita squirmed to the side, trying to get out of the way, and though he couldn't see it clearly, Sammy gave him a pitying glance, but took his meaning all the same, and faced Ramiel with renewed vigor.

“Distraction out of the way,” Ramiel said, “is this all a former Seraph is worth?”

Sammy didn't respond. She had no time for banter as she lost ground against Ramiel's relentless assault. A sweeping attack cut a gash in the outside of her thigh, a quick jab pierced her wing, but still she stood, resolute.

And she wasn't alone. As Eita's vision cleared, he saw that Munkar had vanished. Sariel was on top of Muriel, grappling the Orthodox angel and calling for aid. Gadreel had fallen to one knee in a pool of his own blood, but he was unbowed and continued to take swings at Nakir where he could, while Azalea, Yomiel and Chazaqiel. Penemue stood next to Jeqon, talking quietly, and Jeqon took aim.

“Bang,” Jeqon said, and it was as though a mighty wind forced Sammy and Ramiel apart, twisting Ramiel's left arm unnaturally back as it did.

Disengaged from his foe, Ramiel looked over the scene.

“Withdraw,” he commanded, a word filled with more disgust than Eita thought possible.

“Like I'll let you,” Sammy said, but before she could do more than raise her blade, Ramiel vanished in a burst of golden light. Nakir spun her massive sword about, forcing her foes back, and vanished the same, almost as though she leaped into the sky at impossible speed.

Muriel, however, only struggled weakly against Sariel.

“Finish it!” Sariel called, “I don't know how long I can keep her like this.”

Sammy looked, a thousand-yard stare in the direction of the struggle. Her grip on her sword tightened, as she knew what Sariel was asking.

“Samyaza!”

Sammy staggered forward. As she arrived, Sariel threw herself back off of Muriel. The orthodox angel struggled for her feet, and Sammy struck, cleaving through her at the waist. Thus, Muriel disintegrated the same way as Raphael had the day before.

“I know you don't want to kill them,” Penemue said, “But mercy is the luxury of the strong. They'll be back, and with reinforcements.”