The Nymph sits cross-legged besides the pool of clear, crystalline water, her eyes turned to her side where the Angel lies in slumber. Crystal formations sit afloat in the air, encircling the shimmering pool, fractured light captured within their faceted depths. The Nymph knows not how long they have hidden themselves within this dark domain; she is cold and weary, and her body protests with each movement she makes. She can find nothing with which to bring a flame into being to chase the chill away, and so gripped in unconscious, the Angel sidles close to the meagre warmth of her body.
She does not mind this; in fact it is something of a comfort to her. Curled up against her, the Angel sleeps gently, his great wings tucked flat against his back. She has been quietly fascinated by them ever since laying eyes upon them and now, for the first time, reaches her hand towards them. The tips of countless feathers whisper against her palm, softer than the clouds. It soothes her to merely touch them in this manner, and she feels the echo of a peace she once knew so well settle upon her.
The slumbering Angel does not in fact slumber, but keeps his eyes pressed shut as he feels the Nymph's warm body against his own. Though her touch is slight, he feels her upon his wings, exploring with curious fingers. His wings are sensitive, and her touch sends a pleasant sensation pulsing along his skin. His senses spring to life and he wishes more than anything to open his eyes to grace them with her visage. He smells the forest – the rich scent of the earth and the perfume of wildflowers; he hears the morning song of the birds, a soft sound that soothes his pain.
He does open his eyes then, and turns his head to find that she is already looking down upon him. She does not smile, and he can see the shadows that cling to her gaze still. He imagines that she can see darkness in his own. He tries not to think of what he has done, but it haunts him daily. Despite this, he could not imagine a circumstance where he would not have protected the Nymph. She spoke with a truth that he believes; Light, his mistress, would understand surely…
The Nymph…she does not understand why the Angel fought his one and only brother to spare her life. She knows not whether to show her gratitude or reprimand him. She cannot imagine sacrificing her kin for a stranger. Perhaps all she can give to him is comfort. They are alone, with only each other to rely upon, and he has not failed her yet. So she takes her hand and lays it upon his cheek as he gazes up at her, eyes dimmed with sadness and guilt. She would never have thought such a simple thing difficult, but she labours to bring even just a small smile to her lips. When she does so, however, she does not regret it.
The Angel returns it in kind.
Suddenly, there is a flurry of wind and laughter upon the air. It is a voice that the Angel knows. He and the Nymph find their feet swiftly, but even before they can truly gather their senses, Calamity is upon them.
The battle is violent and swift, over almost as quickly as it begins. The Nymph and the Angel fight heroically, though their bodies scream in protest, but Calamity is peerless in her swordplay and her strength far exceeds their imagination. When calm settles once more, the Angel lies upon the ground, limbs askew as his garment is slowly stained with scarlet.
The Nymph is limp within Calamity's grip, feet dragging beneath her. Calamity's lips no longer know laughter and glee as she holds the creature tight by her golden crown. Her eyes burn with triumph as she splits the shadows of the Keeper's domain and steps through into her own.