The sky had closed again, but the floor did not feel like a floor anymore.
James was on one knee in the mud with one hand around his own throat. The grip was gone. He could still feel it. Five points of cold pressed into his skin where her fingers had been, and no amount of breathing pushed them out.
Around him the square was wreckage.
Ronan was on his back near the broken shield, eyes half open, chest moving and not much else. Finn sat in the mud with one arm pressed to his side, trying to get upright and failing the first time. Cillian was on his knees a few meters off, cradling the burned arm against his chest, lightning long gone from his hands. Maeve was the only one still standing, and she was standing the way a person stands when sitting down would mean not getting back up.
The Dark Knight's body lay where it had fallen.
The Succubus Cross was dead on its broken base.
And in the center of all of it, the golden angel stood like none of this had cost him anything.
