He didn't notice the sulfur anymore. It was as much of a part of the scenery as was the dirt and sweat, the suffocating holy oil that surrounded them. Meaty thuds and the dull packing of flesh and bone compacting created their own vaudeville rhythm in tandem to the crowd's yells. There wasn't enough time for cohesive thought, as Balthazar's vessel reacted out of sheer instinct. Later he might reflect that it was a pity, the animals they have been reduced to. As it were, the sprightly little shit of an angel that he was currently locked into a match with had him retreating from a flurry of blows. One after another they came; a jab-jab cross uppercut combination that would have been impressive had it not become predictable. He just had to hold out a little longer. Three years on the circuit had taught him that. The angels that came into the ring with garrison tactics alone burned out fast- both metaphorically and literally in certain cases.
They were out for blood, the demons. Of course, they didn't care whose blood, though the blonde angel would like to think he'd gained a sort of reputation in this pit. He didn't fight fair, and he didn't fight remotely clean. To punctuate this point, a parry that took his enemy off guard smoothly morphed into an elbow to the philtrum. Blood sprayed the ring, flecks adorning his skin in an unsophisticated scheme. He wasted no time, taking his stunned opponent by the shoulder and forearm. With one concentrated effort, Gazardiel was bodily thrown across the ring. Balthazar didn't even realize he'd moved, glancing down at his brother contritely. The angel spluttered, mucus mixing with the blood streaming from his nose.
"B.. Baltha…. Don't," came the winded plea. Instead of offering a response, he knelt beside Gazardiel, forcing him back to the ground with one knee to the stomach. Both hands reached for the smaller angel's face, twisting counter-clockwise viciously. A cry split the air. While being excruciating, it wasn't fatal to an angel, even without his grace. A hand gripped his forearm, Gazardiel's legs bucking up to gain momentum. As soon as the angel's chest moved up, Balthazar took him by the neck. He pushed with all his might, taking care to withdraw his hand as soon as they had crossed the line of holy oil.
That scream would give him nightmares for days.
"I'm sorry, brother," he muttered bitterly in Enochian. Balthazar screwed his eyes shut, yet no amount of self-censorship would remove that image from his eyes in the coming week. The crowd roared its approval, oblivious to the exchange.