The body had been moved.
Not far. Just far enough that the healers could work without stepping over it. The young angel lay on a stretch of cracked white stone near the edge of the camp, his wings folded beneath him, his eyes finally closed. Someone had covered the wound. The words carved into his chest were hidden now, but everyone who had seen them knew what they said.
Michael stood over him.
He hadn't moved in a long time. The sun—if it could still be called that—had shifted twice since he arrived. The light had gone from pale to paler to something almost grey. He didn't notice.
The angel's face was peaceful. That was the worst part. The healers had smoothed the lines of pain, arranged his features into something calm, something that looked like sleep. But Michael knew the difference between sleep and death. Had known it for eons. And this was death. Wrong. Violent. Unnecessary.
