Chapter 3 – Of Men and War

Jophiel lingered at the edges of the field, watching. His brothers milled before him, and he had so far concealed his presence from them. In the short weeks since he had found his vessel, he had been keeping mostly to himself, but he felt the loss of his family keenly and when he discovered that this meeting was occurring he knew he had to be there.

He smiled, enjoying the feeling of being close to so much grace. He yearned for more, and after a moment of hesitation he finally stepped out of the shadows and went forward to meet his brothers.

"Jophiel," he heard a joyous voice exclaim, and he recognised the grace of Remiel tucked snugly behind a youthful, freckled face before him. His smile grew broader as he returned the greeting, and for a moment he basked in the comfort of being so close to another angel. Remiel and he had fought side by side long ago, and the bond that they had forged in the fires of hell was as strong as it had ever been. "Where have you been hiding?"

"Not hiding, I just fell far away from the others," Jophiel explained. "Travel is so slow as a human, and with all the chaos I didn't even know where to start looking for other angels."

"Everything is so slow as a human," Remiel responded, shaking his head in disgust. "Sometimes I don't understand how we are supposed to love these creatures as our Father demanded."

With a jolt of surprise, Jophiel realised that he couldn't agree with the sentiment, and the smile fell from his face as he frowned at his brother. "They have their moments," he argued gently. "My vessel offered himself to me to protect his friends. That is a noble trait, worthy of respect."

Remiel raised an eyebrow in reply. "Then you are one of the lucky ones, brother," he responded. "Your vessel is one of a rare few. The humans I have come across are cowards, looking out for only themselves. There is little to respect in any of them."

Unsettled, Jophiel glanced around the crowd of angels, and for the first time felt uneasy around his family. It was a strange sentiment, and he wondered where it had come from.

In all his millennia of existence, this was Jophiel's first time on Earth, and when he first Fell he was terrified of this strange unknown. However, his journeys of the last few weeks had awakened a part of him that he had no idea existed. Curiosity burned through his very core, and he had been unable to contain a sense of wonder as he had taken in the atmosphere of the small towns, tight-knit communities and wide open roads.

It scared him, a little. After all, if Raphael was to be believed, then curiosity and sentiment had led to the disastrous collapse of the Apocalypse, had led to Michael being imprisoned with Lucifer himself. And more than a few of his brothers had whispered that it was the same traits that had led to Castiel turning against his own kin, rending utter destruction in Heaven before casting his brothers out altogether.

The contradiction tore Jophiel apart. At once, he was supposed to love this creation of his Father's, and that was something that he was finding increasingly natural to do. There was beauty in this world that Heaven had never known, and he could not deny that. But at the same time, there was an inescapable fear that he was taking the first steps down a path that had led to nothing but ruin.

Remiel was eyeing him oddly, and Jophiel smoothed his face, hoping that he had not given too much away. A thread of fear ran through him, and for the first time he wondered if he had made a mistake coming here. His brothers had been through so much in recent times, and if they had an inkling of his thoughts on this planet, he couldn't help but think that his very life might be in jeopardy.

Still, it was that same curiosity that made him stay. He had discovered that this gathering was taking place after crossing paths with a Reaper several weeks ago, but the purpose of it had not been revealed. He had been so desperate for the company of his brothers that he had not cared about the details, but now he felt within him a strange drive to find out, to discover, to know.

"Remiel, I have not had contact with any angels since the Fall. Tell me, what is this meeting for?"

Remiel stared at him incredulously, before his face glowed with anticipation. His voice was filled with hope as he spoke. "Bartholomew has taken control," he explained. "He has been gathering angels, creating an army to retake heaven and bring us home. One of his commanders called this meeting; he is coming to keep us informed and to instruct us on our next move."

Jophiel's hand twitched, an inherently human gesture of anxiety that he had inherited from his vessel. The prospect of returning home was before him, and he thought that he should be grateful, but instead he found himself filled with foreboding. Something wasn't right.

He opened his mouth to question more, when a movement from his right caught his eye, and he turned.

The sunlight glinted off the cool silver of an angel blade swinging dangerously close to his face, and a millennia of instinct was the only thing that saved Jophiel from injury. Without pausing to think, he reflexively threw himself to the ground, and heard a sickening crack from above his head. Glancing upwards, he saw Remiel's face contort as his hands flew to the angel blade buried in his chest. The angel wielding the blade – Malachi, Jophiel recognised with a jolt – sneered before yanking out the blade, and Remiel opened his mouth in a scream, grace exploding from his eyes and mouth in a brilliant burst of pure white.

Sickened, Jophiel tore his eyes away from his long-time friend and found Malachi advancing on him, blade dripping with blood. Jophiel scrambled to his feet and took a few unsteady steps backward, summoning his own blade. He curled his hand around its comforting weight, and he took a second to glance around the field.

It was absolute chaos. Where the new angels had come from Jophiel had no idea, but there was suddenly twice the number of bodies in the field as there had been moments before, and they were tearing into each other with slashing blades and iron fists. Grace was leaking from wounds and bursting from eyes, and bodies were falling to the ground, one by one with deafening thuds.

They were being slaughtered, he realised, and turned back to Malachi just in time to duck to avoid his swinging blade. He spun, slashing out with his own, and was rewarded with a cut on Malachi's shoulder. Malachi growled at him, and Jophiel danced backwards out of reach, raising his arms in protest.

"I'm not part of this," Jophiel implored, clinging to the hope that Malachi was not as ruthless as his reputation insisted. Malachi paused, tilting his head in curiosity, and Jophiel took advantage of his hesitation to power on. "I swear, I'm not working for Bartholomew. I'm not working for anyone!"

Malachi's lip curled in disgust, and Jophiel's heart plummeted. "Then you are just as bad as they are," he snarled, and raised his blade once more. Jophiel frantically brought his own weapon to meet it, blocking his blows once, twice, three times. He missed the fourth slash, and cried out as Malachi's blade cut deep into his side, grace spilling from the wound.

Malachi smiled, stepping closer to him. Panting, Jophiel dropped his blade to press his hands to the wound, desperately trying to contain his grace. "Brother, please," he pleaded.

He felt a small swell of hope as Malachi's face softened, and he lowered his blade. He stepped closer to him, face inches away from Jophiel's own, and brought a hand forward to gently cup Jophiel's cheek. Malachi's eyes were studying his face, and finally he spoke.

"You are no brother of mine," Malachi whispered, before his arm moved and Jophiel gasped in agony as pain exploded in his abdomen.

His world contracted, and Jophiel lost track of Malachi's movements as he fell to the ground. His own grace was swelling within him, growing larger and larger until he knew that it would not be contained. The burning pain overwhelmed his senses, and he knew he had only seconds left before he would be gone.

His thoughts turned to his vessel, the boy who had given himself away without hesitation to help others. He did not deserve to die like this, Jophiel thought, and with one last burst of energy he forced himself to focus. His grace was growing out of control, but he gathered what he could, held it tightly, and with deliberation wove the boy's wounds back together.

He did not have enough control to heal him fully, but, Jophiel thought, satisfied as he gave himself up to the inevitable, he had given him a chance.

Then his grace swelled, and he burned.

Castiel stepped out his car, letting the door slam close behind him. He had a recent run-in with an angel that had let slip some interesting news about a meeting, and he knew he should be staying as far away as possible, but he couldn't help himself. He was curious, and anyway, he reasoned, the more he knew about what his brothers were up to, the better prepared he would be to defend himself from them.

Of course, his lack of grace made it impossible for him to arrive on time, and he hoped that the meeting was still ongoing as he softly made his way toward the field. He kept to the shadows, betting his life that his brothers would be distracted enough to not notice his approaching footsteps.

The trees thinned, and he paused. The field should be just ahead, but he couldn't hear any voices. Frowning, he gripped his blade tightly, daring to move closer and brave a glimpse of the clearing.

Castiel's eyes widened in horror at the gruesome scene before him. Vessel after vessel lay in the clearing, and the grass was soaked in blood. Blank eyes stared at him and open wounds gaped at the sky. So many vessels, so many angels, all dead. His heart clenched and he fought against a wave of despair. This was his fault. How had it come to this?

A choked groan distracted Castiel from his thoughts and he spun to his right, heart rate ticking up. Finally, he spotted the source – one boy was lying apart from the rest, chest rising and falling erratically as his breath stuttered. He was alive, Castiel realised with shock, and without hesitation he sheathed his blade, racing toward the body.

There was no grace left in the boy, that was evident, and there was a gaping wound in his abdomen as he lay in a pool of blood. Somehow, the wound had stopped bleeding, and for a moment Castiel wondered if one of his brothers had finally learned to value humanity as he had himself. He dismissed the thought, however. There wasn't time. The boy's skin was incredibly pale, his breathing shallow, and Castiel knew with bone-deep certainty that without help this boy would die in the field.

No, Castiel thought furiously, gathering the boy to his chest. There had been too much death here, he would not let this boy add to the destruction. The hospital was nearby, and he could drop him off at the front entrance. Shifting the weight in his arms, he turned his back on the field. Today, there would be one survivor. It would have to be enough.

She stepped softly through the woods, leaves crunching underfoot as she concentrated on the path ahead.

There was no map to follow, but the veil was thin in this area and she could almost see the tendrils of darkness reaching out to her, leading the way to its source. It was ominously quiet, no bird calls or rustling of leaves breaking up the silence, and so she knew she was heading in the right direction.

The tendrils grew thicker as she walked, and she noticed that there were others off in the distance on either side of her, running almost parallel to the one she was following. Ley lines, she realised. They were following the ley lines, and they would soon be converging ahead of her. She must be getting close, and she felt excitement swell within her as she picked up the pace.

Another few minutes and finally she was there. The trees gave way to a clearing, at the centre of which was the remnants of a giant tree. It had been cut down long ago but it was still alive, thrumming with the power of recent sacrifice.

Abaddon looked at the Nemeton and smiled.