The Angel extends his arm across and obscures his brother's path; they are both breathing heavily, the Angel sporting a painful burn along his thigh. The woman is slumped against the wall, clutching a limp arm tightly to her side as she glares up at them. Blood drips between her fingers; scarlet coats the edge of the Angel's golden blade. His brother remains relatively unharmed, having wielded his bow during the brief but vicious fight.

The woman regards him with seething eyes, her lips curled in such anger as she winces, clutching her arm. The Angel's skin burns where she struck him – with lightning no less. It astonishes him beyond measure to see her wield such a force of nature as her weapon, and on more than one occasion it almost costs he and his brother their lives. But in the end, they prevail.

The Nymph is not what she once was; her strength has waned and fatigue and grief haunt her body. It does not take long for the angels to overpower her. Her body simply will not answer to her call and soon she finds herself at the point of the dark angel's arrow. But the Angel will not let him kill her. Not yet.

With their battle at an end, the Angel finds that he cannot turn his eyes away from her. She may have been bruised and bloodied, exhaustion drawing her features tight, but yet still he is entranced by her.

Her eyes are hot with anger and cold with hate, yet they sparkle like a stone of pure amethyst. Her skin is fair, cheeks rosy in the wake of her exertion. Her hair – oh, what a strange thing! The Angel is accustomed to the long, luxurious tresses of his mistress, but the woman before him wears her crown short, golden locks barely reaching below her neck. Beyond that, he can see that the tips of her locks are tinted with the hue of her cheeks in a peculiar yet enticing fashion.

She glares at him with a meaning he cannot confuse, but yet he sees something upon the surface of her eyes, something that stirs some part of him deep within his being and calls for mercy.

"What are you doing?" he hears the hiss of his brother as he turns away his arrow.

"Wait", the Angel bids. "Wait just a moment", he says. He grips his blade and points it at the woman.

"Tell me why you did it", he commands her. "Tell me why you sent ruin upon humankind".

"I and my kin did nothing!" she answers fiercely, her eyes ablaze.

"Liar", the Angel's brother growls, raising his bow.

"Wait!" the Angel bids once more, this time standing between his brother and the woman. "The truth", he says to her as he searches her beautiful eyes.

The Nymph regards him in stubborn silence for a time, refusing to speak or even blink, but eventually she relents. The Angel and his brother listen as she tells them all that she knows. The sound of her voice fills the room and the Angel remains attentive to it. As he hears what she has to say, her words inspire something within him, and he cannot ignore it.

Trust; everything that she is telling them sounds ever so peculiar to his ear. He and his brother never descended to the world of Man but to destroy the spawn of the dark, cavernous realm beneath it when the Keeper of Souls grew bored. They had witnessed the companionship of the Nymphs and humankind from afar and there was no strife between them.

"I believe you", the Angel hears himself say before he truly realises it. The Nymph's eyes widen as she starts in surprise; his brother hisses at his back.

"You would not show her mercy", his brother says. But the Angel must; deep within his heart he knows that something is amiss, and that to slay this woman now would haunt his dreams.

"We will return to our realm", he tells his brother, "and present this news to our mistresses".

But his brother will not be appeased; he is loyal to his mistress, promising to return only with news of success.

Before the Angel realises it, he stands in the way of his brother, golden blade raised with clear intent. He cannot let him take the Nymph's life, not while the truth of the matter still remains unclear. Shock is evident upon his brother's face, but that is soon replaced in favour of a snarl.

He raises his bow.