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A scattering of colored flags across the map seems almost chaotic — as if a flower field of Elysium had sprawled across the table, rather than the tactical plans of Heaven. It had taken Iomedae herself no small amount of time to memorize all these colors and shapes, but now she recognizes every single one without fail. Sarenrae, Arqueros, Cayden, Torag, Milani — and dozens, if not hundreds, of other names. Her own red-and-white flags seem like a mere drop in this sea, barely distinguishable among the rest.
If you don't know exactly where to look, that is.
A new flag rises between the purple ones, like a patch upon a canvas. The Threshold of Heaven will be the first to take the blow, which means its defenders have no margin for error. Which means its defenders will have a single chance to hurl the enemy back, allowing them no advance higher.
The Worldwound had been sealed at last — a triumph for mortals, the long-awaited end to a century-long war. And only the beginning for the Upper Planes. Baphomet would not let an insult such as this go unanswered, and Deskari's death would serve as a perfect pretext for an invasion, should the remaining Demon Lords manage to unite.
If they manage.
But it is always better to overestimate the enemy's strength than to underestimate it. The Inheritor, perhaps, knows this better than anyone else.
Heaven has long had a plan for this eventuality — and for a hundred, perhaps two hundred others besides. A sensible precaution, a jewel of strategy upon which all the Upper Planes had labored together. Everyone had their place within it, like a cog in a perfectly calibrated mechanism. Iomedae knew it by heart.
And still she bent over the maps, running through possible scenarios again and again in search of vulnerabilities. More for her own peace of mind than anything else.
"What do you think?" She brushes the hair from her face and raises her eyes to her sole companion – and the most attentive listener.
Who would have thought that, of all possible celestials, it would be the General of Vengeance.
Who would have thought that they would have so much in common.
The angel's gaze wanders across the map, and the Inheritor suddenly thinks that few have ever seen him like this. Calm and thoughtful, as he is now. At last his gaze settles — not on the map. On her.
"When was the last time you rested?"
The silence stretches, answering the question better than any words could.
***
"Your knights have already rid Heaven of two great problems. The borders are quiet, and it is hardly a calm before the storm," Ragathiel's voice behind her shoulder is as steady and sure as his movements. The straps of her second bracer yield to him faster than the first. "Do not shoulder too much."
There is something personal — almost intimate — in such a simple, deeply human expression of closeness. Especially for those for whom armor has long since become a second skin. In the very idea of trusting someone with... yourself.
And when Ragathiel extends his hand to her in a reciprocal gesture, Iomedae trails her fingers along the straps and thinks that she will never find it in herself to give up this habit.
It is only armor. Yet when the weight of the breastplate ceases to press upon her shoulders, a soft sigh escapes her lips all the same. She smiles. And she does not need to turn around to feel that Ragathiel is smiling with her now. And that they are thinking of the same thing.
How many times had they been branded as too unfeeling, unapproachable, equally foreign to romance and desire.
No, flickers through her mind as hot palms settle upon her waist — so hot that their warmth seeps through the thick gambeson beneath. She covers his palms with her own and laces their fingers together. Knights simply have a different love language.
***
"Your absence will be noticed," she whispers, pressing her cheek to bronze skin. A stray thought flickers through her mind unbidden — that no one has ever seen the General of Vengeance like this: relaxed, at peace, save her. But here he is. Lying beside her. Reach out a hand — and she could touch a wing of living flame.
"Not so soon. My warriors are more self-sufficient than you think." He smiles and brushes his fingers along her cheek. The touch is tender, barely perceptible, and Iomedae suddenly realizes she is leaning into it, chasing it, until at last the warm palm comes to rest fully against her cheek.
"Meda," — she hears his voice and closes her eyes as Ragathiel leans down and presses a careful kiss to her forehead, — "allow yourself to relax. If only for now."
"If only for now," she agrees, burying her face into the offered shoulder. Wings rustle softly as they enfold her in their warmth. "If only... a little while."