Michael, the Archangel of War, walked among the wounded and the dead. He didn't walk so much as float -- as one of the most powerful Celestials conceivable by mortal minds (and, if you believe what they say, the first being ever created apart from God), he seldom takes a human vessel. Michael prefers to manifest as a blue cloud, like a shimmering scrim in only the vaguest shape of a man.

He floated across the encampment, taking in all the sights and sounds of this most recent of human battles. One of his favored servants, Ryan, walked behind him. Ryan, a Mercurian angel, prefered to wear a human vessel.

"Death," moaned one of the wounded soldiers, lifting a weak arm toward Michael. "Death!"
The Archangel drifted towards the man, who lay slackjawed and bewildered. The other soldiers paid no attention; many of the dying were having similar hallucinations as their ends approached.

"Who is this man?" Michael asked his servant. He could've easily read the man's entire life by lifting it from the Symphony, the ineffable construction of God's plan that flows through all living things, but this was supposed to be Ryan's job. Michael was just there to observe.

Ryan stepped over bodies and made his way to the frightened soldier, who couldn't take his eyes off of Michael's wraith-like form. With one hand on the man's forehead, the angel relaxed and let his resonance sort out the soldier's story from the background noise of the Symphony.

"I think he's a child of the Grigori," he whispered only loud enough for his master to hear. "He has True Sight. He's got a family back home. Two children. He likes dogs, but he's allergic to their hair. "

"I have seen and heard enough," said Michael, and made a noise that was not quite a whistle and not quite a whisper. It was as close to sighing as the Archangel ever came. "Save this one, disband the rest."

The angel's eyes grew narrow. "You mean, kill them?" he asked.

"Yes," said Michael. "Take this one to a place of safety, then arrange an airstrike. I am needed elsewhere now."

"But --"

"There are reasons for everything," the Archangel said, the formless impressions of his eyes glowing with a pure radiance. "This side must lose this battle if we are to end the war with any chance of starting the healing process."

"Surely," Rhymeal's mouth raced, "there's some way to --"

"I have made my request, onerous though it may be to you," said the Archangel. If he were human, he would have pursed his lips together. "Please follow my instructions."

The Archangel's blue form flickered, like the image on a broken television, then disappeared.

Ryan clenched his hands into fists and surveyed the battlefield's doomed and broken men. He threw his charge over one shoulder and started walking, then running, for the forest's edge.


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