The Seraph's mirror flickered to the past.
The images were clear, perfect. He had been there, after all, but now he watched from the third person.
Burning buildings filled with death and screams were the backdrop for the final battle. Blood rained down in a heavy downpour, the sign of a daemon world in pain. It had been so for days, and rivers and lakes of blood were forming in every gully and depression. The Seraph of old, in his warrior form, screamed at his foe in darkest rage. It was ten feet in height, tall, thin and dressed in armour like carapace, golden and decorated with countless jewels. It carried no weapons, fighting with fists inside gauntlets of polished platinum studded with rubies and tipped with diamond claws. It wore no helm, and pure gold hair spilled behind it, caught in the wind. A beautiful but androgynous face was twisted in hatred. It had silver eyes, and gleaming teeth whiter than snow could ever hope to be through which a red tongue flickered.
The Seraph smiled at its young self who thought gold and jewels mattered. How it had matured since then.
"Doomed One! You will not destroy me!" the young daemon screamed, its voice still harmonising with itself even in such murderous anger.
"You are young, daemon prince. You cannot stand against me. I have toppled your city, destroyed your legions. You are defeated," replied the old Doomed One slowly.
He was similar yet different to the new, the self-styled Hand of Malal. As far the Seraph knew this one had no name, he had not given one. He had been a shot from the dark, leading armies driven by spite and malice.
He was tall and wore armour, which looked as though it was made of polished plastic, skull-white and jet-black. A simple black cloak spilled behind him, and he carried a white katana in one bare hand and a black mace in the other. The sword was so white it was dazzling, the mace so dark it was hard to make out the shape. The warrior's face was thin, sallow with eyes of black and white. The man's hair was a spiked crown of onyx flecked with white.
The Doomed One attacked, swinging the midnight mace at the Seraph, who raised an armoured fist to block the blow. It struck hard upon the daemon's arm, and it hissed in pain, slamming an open palm into the chestplate of the Doomed One. The Malalite flew backwards a good fifty metres, smashing into the foot of burning skyscraper, leaving an actual indentation in the metal. Such a blow should have killed anything. The Chosen of Malal rose with hatred in his face, and threw aside his cloak. The Seraph charged, and the katana swung, leaving a crimson cut on his perfect face. The Doomed One was thrown angrily into the air, but wings of white fire seemed to burst from his back, holding him suspended in the air. The Seraph grinned up at him and flew up after him, levitating effortlessly. They flew into each other in the red sky, fists smashing into the Doomed One, the mace denting the armour of the Slaaneshi lord, and the sword slicing off a hand. It burst into flame as it fell down towards the ever-more distant ground, another growing from the bleeding stump in moments.
The broke apart, circling in the air before smashing once more into each other. The mace and sword were thrown aside, tumbling to earth as the Doomed One struggled to fight the daemon from such a close distance. He had no need of them anyway, they were just focuses for his power. A fist would serve just as well.
They rained blows down upon each other, drenched in the crimson downpour. Fist, knee and elbow met hand, chest face and both screamed in pain and rage.
The Seraph grabbed its foe from behind, the wings of purest fire burning his body with all the hate and spite of Malal. It screamed, and flew downwards, dragging the struggling Doomed One. An abt name, it seemed now, as the ground approached. A visibly extending lake of blood was below. That was where they were to hit the ground.
The wing-fires went black and the Seraph's musical screams grew louder, but his grip grew tighter and the two smashed into the lake of blood and to the concrete floor below it. There was a great explosion of blood, and a great crater beneath the surface showed where they had struck. They slammed fists and knees into each other, rolling on the bottom of the lake, injured and as bloody as what they fought in.
There were no watchers, few were still alive and those who were were struggling to remain so. The surface of the lake rippled, and finally something emerged.
The Seraph, drenched and red exploded out of the lake, screaming its victory to the wounded sky.
A second later, the screaming Doomed One burst out, flying towards the Seraph, blood flying off his form.
For the Seraph that watched, time slowed to a crawl.
The daemon turned, his eyes widening in surprise that his foe was still alive. His expression hardened as the Malalite closed in, and he swung his arm one last time in a punch that slammed into the mortal's head, snapping his neck and sending his broken body falling into the blood below.
He had done it before. He could surely do it again.
Still, this Vermillion Knight was an abomination and it would exalt Slaanesh for him to be put down. When the Hand returned in the distant future he would be destroyed by the Seraph once and for all, and so the machinations of Malal would break once more. Nothing could stand before the power of the Dark Prince, master of pleasure and pain, the twin vices of all humanity.