The angel is gone, the phantasm of heaven sent down to lay waste to his domain vanished back into the abyss of eternity from whence she sprang. In her absence he is left empty, void, purposeless; he is suspicious of his apparent victory. He sees his castle as one of sand, quickly demolished by the raging elements, the scornful wind and tearing rain laughing in his face as he reels from the abruptness of her departure. She has pulled some cloak of invisibility over herself, she thinks; she is not gone, and if he only looks, he will find her again. But everything is blurred in the rain, all firm edges erased into meaningless shadows; even the demon is flawed, distorted, a melting palate of dark shades and silver streaks under the weight of the falling sky.

"My angel, why have you forsaken me?" he cries, and the call rings out from a trio of throats, a chorus of concerned youth, an offensive sound to the demon's ears, swept away on the wind and devoured by howling rain. Three figures circle, circle where moments before their foe stood, and in the cacophonous silence that follows, lightning paints an abrupt picture of disorganized raindrops falling in erratic patterns, miniscule splashes that cascade off something which simply is not there, followed suddenly by her laugh. A haunting noise muted by rain and yet still so sweet, so confident, so rich and similar to the haunting melody of his mother the seraph, the hymn sung by that treacherous purveyor of injured truths and misformed lessons. He longs to find its source, to look once more upon the creature that is so unlike the dam he remembers, this opposing angel of fire and night. He wants to see her, to speak to her and hear her reply, to slice open her throat and examine the vocal folds that impersonate his begetter so perfectly and understand why they work.

Three figures continue to pace, tight and wiry muscles of youth moving in tandem, a duo and a lone child circling anxiously about the vanished dragon. Heterochromatic eyes gaze intently at the space between them, watching the shift of darkness that swirls in their midst, snorting gently in the rain and shielding their ears to its assault. For a minute they play, cat and mouse and wolf and prey, the demon and his imaginary army dancing with the shadow. He follows her disguised movements with oversized hooves and gangly legs, plastered feathers creating no shadows in the light streaked sky as he dances, the illusions following suit. It is a challenge, an intellectual stimulation and a test of his endurance to watch her. Within moments the pain begins within his frontal lobe; by the minute mark, his head has begun to throb.

The demonchild relishes the pain. He exalts in the challenge and clings to this chance to match his foe. One by one the illusions flicker and vanish, forgotten; now, in these final moments, he is dancing with the shadow of an angel, and they make a fantastic pair, a duo of dark, the pure and the putrid. The demon stretches his cranium to the sky; in his mind he is full grown, a behemoth of hell, her equal in this battle and something to fear. He wears his crown of thorns with pride and distinction, black spires cutting into the electric sky. Of course, he is merely a child, an outmatched demon in a fight far above his level of capability or control; in the flickering light he is dwarfed even by her shadow, a yearling pitted against a lioness, a sparrow locked in combat with a dragon. He gazes at her mirage with intelligent eyes, his fleet steps matching the contours of her cloaked body, and finally, he blinks. He can gaze no more.

They have been fighting for minutes that stretched into eons. Their conflict is universal and unsolved, and yet now, he knows, it has ended. After the hair's breadth of a century they have concluded their duel, and abruptly he steps back. In the flashing dark, in the pouring rain, he stands, a king of his domain facing his avenging angel, and he feels nothing. The demon loathes and loves her, for he has shared something with her, an experience, a fight; and yet the only thing that matters is whether or not he found victory. Does the field still fall under the banner of hell, or have the legions of heaven won on this day? He asks it silently to the drowning downpour, and the whisper of Zuriel floats on the wind – no answer, simply the refrain that shaped his childhood, that guided his steps and carried him here. Do not disappoint me, Belial.

"I will not, Mother.”

[ ooc || 800 words. ]