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Uriel dropped his sword to the ground, held Vetis close to him with one trembling hand, and pressed a kiss to his lips.
Once, such an act might have been detestable to him. Once, the very thought of speaking with - laughing with - befriending a demon would have been ludicrous - they were mere prey to him, no more than work, existing only to be cut down by his sword. Once, a demon had held out his hand to him, had looked him in the eyes and asked him a question, and instead of his usual loud bragging and arrogance there had been only tenderness, tenderness and a hint of hesitation, as if he feared Uriel’s answer. But you have nothing to fear, Uriel had thought, I cannot hurt you, I will not hurt you, now that the two of us have come this far.
Before him, Vetis kept his eyes closed. His hair, always wild and unruly, was even more of a mess than usual; in places, it was tangled and coated with blood. His horns were covered in scratches and cuts. For a moment, Uriel almost let his hand wander lower, seeking the familiar feel of Vetis’s back, the gentle brush of his wings - soft, wide, sturdy, powerful wings that had touched him, teased him, embraced him - but he stopped himself just in time. There was nothing there, now, left for him to feel. Warm blood poured from Vetis’s severed neck, trailing down Uriel’s sleeves and pooling sickly on the ground beneath them.
Through the thick silence a single voice was shouting. Whose was it? Not his own, surely - he had sobbed so much by now that his throat ached from the effort, heaving drily, painfully; if he tried to speak, all he could manage was a harsh, desperate gasp. Was it Raphael’s then? No, not his either - no trace of Raphael remained in this place. When had they last spoken together? Uriel could not remember. Had Raphael laughed, cracking one of his usual jokes? Or had he scowled, admonishing Uriel for his actions, actions that had led to - led to - Mettatron, Mettatron and their demon weapon, the silence they had cruelly forced upon Raphael, such that he could not even cry out in pain when they drove their trident into -
It was not Vetis’s voice. It would never again be Vetis’s voice.
A shadow fell over Uriel’s face, and he looked up to see Leviathan, bleeding, wounded, her expression a grimacing mix of fury and disbelief. She, too, had been crying, but unlike Uriel she could still speak, and she had strength enough in her body to send him sprawling to the ground with a single kick.
Ah, so it had been Leviathan’s voice that he heard. But what was she saying? It was difficult for Uriel to tell; for a while all he could register was the roughness of the ground chafing him through his robes, the dull numbness of his left shoulder, the searing pain in his right as he held up his arm before his face and bore her blows, her kicks, her insults, her rage. At last, through the dense fog in his mind, he heard her words:
Give me back my best friend!
Uriel moved his hand away from his face and let it fall to his side. Leviathan’s next blow struck him square on the face, her heel digging into the fresh cut across his cheek. He grit his teeth, but did not otherwise make a sound. When Leviathan brought out her weapon, Uriel seemed almost glad, raising what little he could of his head to meet it.
Kill me, he said to Leviathan, and though his words had been silent, she understood him perfectly.
She glared at him, breathing hard. I will, she answered him in her mind. I will make you suffer for what you have done. I will cut you, curse you. I will tear your head from your neck with my own two hands. She clenched her fists around her weapon, her nails drawing blood. Her whole body shook and trembled. But she did not take another step forward.
“No,” she said to him at last, sheathing her weapon. “I refuse to grant you that pleasure.”
She turned, shakily, and staggered a short distance away, leaving Uriel alone in the dust. Very well, he thought, as he watched her leave. Then I shall bleed to death myself, here.
But Death was cruel, and refused to take him. There he lay, tattered, exhausted, barely more than a bruised and bloody heap upon the ground, but still he breathed, still he lived. This was to be his punishment: to live, forever, under the crushing weight of his guilt - to feel his heart sit heavy and cold within him - to taste the acrid pang of blood upon his tongue with every word he spoke. The tears that fell from his eyes were hot, and seemed to burn him as they fell.
A breeze blew in and cooled his face, and he felt a softness against his cheek.
Once upon a warm summer night, in a tree in a valley when the moon was low, Vetis had pressed his cheek against Uriel’s and given it a light rub. His horns had bumped his angel’s head, while his hair tickled his nose and almost made him sneeze. What on earth are you doing? Uriel had asked, and Vetis had been happy to explain the rituals of intimacy in Inferno, so different from the ways of Paradiso.
So it is like a kiss then?
Maybe. Would you prefer that instead?
Uriel had pondered for only a moment, and then he reciprocated Vetis’s act himself. An angel copying the manners of Inferno - it ought to have felt sacrilegious, wicked, wrong. But in that moment, Uriel’s heart had known only love.
No. This is fine. But if we stick together like this for too long, I might start to sweat.
I’ll cool you down. And with one strong flap of his wings, Vetis had called forth a summer breeze, bringing with it the scent of peaches and barley, and setting the leaves all dancing about them in the tree.
There were human beings, Uriel knew, who believed in ghosts. There were those who, against all reason, believed that the dead sometimes stayed on in the world of the living, invisible, silent, but present all the same. Uriel had never paid such beliefs much heed; to him, a human soul was no more than food. And, before today, he had never wondered if angels and demons had souls themselves. Did they disappear, in death, into nothingness? Or could some essence of them remain, however briefly, however small, like an echo of an echo, like a memory of an afterimage?
Uriel had kissed Vetis. With the very hand he had used to bring his sword down upon his lover’s neck, he had held Vetis to him and kissed him. And now, as he turned to see the gift the evening wind had brought him - as he turned to see the familiar head that had rolled, miraculously, to his side once again - as he felt the touch of that hair upon his face, those horns upon his head, the bloody skin against his cheek - Uriel could almost believe that, in death, Vetis had kissed him back.
Fin.