"With them all dead and gone… He'll love us best," Nathanuel said, attempting one last time to convince the Angel of Death that his plans were just.

Israfil aimed the pistol, firing off a shot before the Seraphim could speak again. The Hell-made bullet hit him in the center of his forehead, his eyes turning upward as if attempting to see the extent of the damage that had been done to him.

Nathanuel fell backward to the ground.

Remiel flexed his wings, shrugging off the injured Seraphim soldiers, and was about to put them down when further shots rang out. Jumping aside, he saw that Francis had snatched the pistol away from Israfil and was firing with coldhearted efficiency, taking out those Seraphim loyal to Nathanuel.

"Not dead yet, but they will be," Francis said as his legs grew unsteady and he dropped down to the ground. "Think I'll take a seat."

He had torn off his suit coat sleeve and tied it tightly around the stump of his hand to stop the bleeding.

"Soon as Israfil gets his shit together, we'll be all set."

Remiel approached the Angel of Death, who stood staring off into the mist-enshrouded distance. He was pale and trembling, skin burnt a bright pink in many places. His eyes had started to leak a dark-colored ooze.

The body he inhabited was breaking down.

"I just wanted the pain to go away. As much for myself as for the world." Israfil turned his dripping eyes to Remiel. "But I kept hearing your voice, telling me that it wasn't the time."

An ominous rumble shook the air, and they both looked out through the fog to see the Horsemen growing restless. Death, in his armor of bone, upon his horse of the purest white, had left the line of his brethren, as if urging his master, the Angel of Death, to get on with it.

"They're waiting for you to decide," Remiel said.

"There's still a part of me fighting to end it… to drop the curtain on it all, to take away its pain, and I'm not sure I have the strength to fight it much longer."

Remiel moved closer to the angel. Israfil stared at him — as if seeing him for the first time. "Look at you," he said, voice no stronger than a whisper. "I never believed I would see you this way again."

"He looks good," Francis said. He was lying on his back now, his speech starting to slur. He'd lost quite a bit of blood. "Don't you think he looks good? I remember when I looked as good… better."

"We're done here," Israfil said. "But I'm not sure that I'm strong enough to do what still needs to be done."

The angel swayed, buffeted by the storm, his human shell looking worse with the passing seconds.

"Will you help me, Remiel?" he asked. "Will you help me return it to the way it's supposed to be?"

For a brief moment of selfishness, Remy hesitated. How much more can I give?

Israfil waited for his answer, and it was as if the angel suddenly knew the cause of his reticence.

"I'm sorry," the Angel of Death said, tears of black flowing more freely down his gaunt face.

Remiel shook his head, steeling himself for what had been asked of him. "There's no reason to be sorry," he said firmly. "This is how it's supposed to be… how it has to be."

And with those words, Israfil gathered what remained of his strength and turned. He walked toward the horizon, across the sand, which was until recently beneath the ocean, heading toward the riders of the Apocalypse.

And Remiel followed.

They stood side by side, gazing up at the awesome sight, at the personification of the world's last days. The harbingers of the end.

"Are we ready?" Israfil said wearily.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Remiel answered, laying a hand upon Israfil's shoulder, lending him his strength.

Israfil seemed to take a moment, as if wanting to hold onto this moment — this fragility — for as long as he was able.

Remiel squeezed his shoulder tighter, signaling that it was time.

Israfil gasped, an awful gurgling sound filling his throat as he turned his face up to the crying Heavens, and left the body of Jon Stall. The human shell that the Angel of Death had inhabited these past months dropped to the ground, a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Israfil floated in the air like smoke, his ethereal form weak and undefined, as if part of what he was had atrophied.

They both stared at the abandoned body lying upon the ground.

"His soul is still trapped inside," Israfil said sadly, his voice like a cool fall breeze rustling through the leaves.

"Like so many others."

"Yes," Israfil agreed. "But first things first."

In his angelic form again, the Angel of Death spread immaterial wings the color of smoke and flowed toward Remiel.

"Your strength to mine," the angel whispered as Israfil's essence merged with his own.

Remiel tensed as the angel flowed into him, instinctively reacting to the invasion. His wings flapped wildly, fighting the attempt of another being to take up residence within him. He imagined that this was what the human Jon Stall must have experienced as he surrendered the last of his life, giving over his body to the curious Angel of Death.

And Remiel was suddenly filled with an awesome and fearful power. His body began to glow; crackling energy hummed and throbbed through him, leaping from the ends of his fingers, from the tips of his wings. He had always known the Death Angel was powerful, but never could he have imagined the magnitude.

All at once he saw the world — saw it as Israfil did — and he was in awe of it. Every living thing, down to the smallest microbe, anything that undulated, squirmed, swam, flew, or walked upon it; he saw it all as he was reconnected to the life pulse of the planet.

The power at his disposal was immeasurable, a wild and terrible force, but he handled it with ease and grace, taming it with a gentle yet firm thought, pulling it to his side, demanding its obedience.

And the power of death obliged.

He took to the air, powerful wings tossing off arcs of crackling energy as he soared upward toward the fearsome representatives of the Apocalypse.

Hovering in the air before them, the force of one of Heaven's most powerful radiating from his body, Re-miel was able to capture the attention of the unearthly beings. They turned their awesome gazes upon him, waiting.

"Not today," he told them. He was suddenly aware of the sacred scrolls lying upon the beach below, seals regrowing upon the open parchment like fresh skin over an open wound, in preparation for a time when they truly would be needed.

At first he wasn't sure if they had heard him, the fearsome aspects of the end, continuing to study him as he floated in the air, little more than an annoying insect to them, he was sure.

The way they stared, it was as if they were giving him a chance to reconsider — to change his mind. But the being that was both Remiel of the Seraphim and Israfil the Angel of Death held strong to their decision.

The world would not end this day.

And after a time, the Horsemen of the Apocalypse came to realize that their presence was no longer required, and one at a time, they turned away from the world, returning to that otherworldly realm, where fearful beings such as this awaited the time when they would be called again.

And their duty to the one that created them, done.

Remiel watched as they receded into the horizon, the storm that had blanketed the region since their summoning drawn along behind them, clearing the sky so that the sun was allowed to shine again.

Riding the winds above the Cape, Remy heard the roar of the ocean as it rushed in to reclaim the land that belonged beneath it. He thought briefly about Francis, whom he had left lying on the beach, but pushed the concern from his mind. The former Guardian could take care of himself, and there were other, far more pressing matters still to be concerned with.