"I think we're done," Remiel said, although the thought of what he was returning to was more painful than anything he had experienced thus far.

In a way, for him the world had come to an end.

"So is that your new look?" Francis asked.

Remiel stared at himself, at the pale brightness of his exposed skin, of the golden armor, the feeling of wings upon his back. It was time to again abandon what he had already believed discarded forever. It just went to prove that forever wasn't as finite as he would have liked to believe.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on assuming his human appearance. It was painful; his angelic nature was again fully expressed, and did not care to be cast aside, but he was stronger and not in any mood to be played with. He felt his wings grow smaller, receding into the flesh of his back; the golden armor melted away, returning from whence it came in some long-forgotten Heavenly armory.

Human in appearance again, but so much less than he had been.

The angelic nature existed just below the surface, so much closer than before, dormant for now, eagerly awaiting the next opportunity to exert itself.

Remy looked down at his human guise, surprised to see that he was naked, his clothes burned away by the intensity of his transformation.

"Let me borrow your suit coat," he said, as Francis removed the ragged, bloodstained jacket.

"Don't get it dirty," he joked as Remy covered his naked body.

"I think I've got a pair of sweats in the car," he added, as the two of them quickly started up the beach to where they had parked. It was all they would need, to be found like this by the locals, beaten, nearly naked and spattered with blood.

Remy sensed them immediately, the hair on the back of his neck tingling, a lingering aftereffect of having recently assumed his full angelic semblance. He turned around to see them silently coming up from behind them, three beings beyond comprehension. It had been at least a millennium since he had seen them. They appeared as perpetually rolling balls of energy, their rounded, seething surfaces — like the skin of the sun — covered with unblinking eyes.

They were quite the sight.

Francis turned and immediately dropped to the ground, hands going to his eyes, temporarily blinded. It was not meant for the unclean — those of the fallen persuasion — to gaze upon the majesty of the Heavenly host known as Thrones.

Remy's angelic nature stirred, eager to emerge and interact with the representatives from Heaven that served the Almighty directly, but Remy would have none of it. He'd had just about all he could stomach of Heaven and its representatives.

"What the hell do they want?" Francis asked, burying his head in the sand.

Remy stared at the center Throne, unsure of which set of eyes to look into. He didn't think that it really mattered.

"I haven't a clue," he answered. "Right now they seem content to just stare."

"I imagine they'd be good at that," Francis added.

"Greetings, warrior of Heaven," a voice like the tuning of the world's largest orchestra boomed inside his head for only him to hear. "We bring you glad tidings from He Who Is the Father of All Things."

"Greetings," Remy responded, to be polite.

"Are they talking to you?" Francis asked, still looking away. "Are they talking to you inside your head? I fucking hate that."

"The Lord of Lords has bid us find you, for you have performed a great service to the Kingdom of Heaven."

"I only did what I had to do," he told the divine entities.

"The Creator asks for your return to the City of Light — for the honor to sit at His right hand."

At mention of the privilege that was to be bestowed upon him, the Thrones' energy forms blazed all the brighter, the music of the spheres that blared inside his skull nearly deafening.

"No, thank you," Remy told them.

The light of the three beings immediately dimmed, multiple sets of eyes suddenly squinted, scrutinizing him.

"This is not an offer to be refused," the Throne leader proclaimed.

"But I am refusing it," Remy informed it. "Tell the Creator thank you, but my place isn't in Heaven anymore. It's here, on this world with the crazy inhabitants that He created. Thanks, but no."

And Remy turned his back on them, these representatives of God's will. He reached down, pulling Francis up by the arm as he passed.

"Are you sure that's smart?" Francis asked, eyes tightly closed against the blinding Heavenly glare.

"It's how it is," Remy answered.

He could feel them coming up behind him, their presence causing the nerve endings in his spine to painfully twitch. He didn't turn around.

"He will not be happy," the Throne bellowed inside his skull. Remy felt a trickle of warmth — blood — slowly begin to leak from his nose down onto his lip.

So fragile. So human.

"And if I go with you, neither will I."

The sound of displeasure that only he could hear grew to a brain-hemorrhage-inducing crescendo before dramatically falling silent.

Remy turned his head slightly to see that the emissaries from Heaven were no longer there.

"Are they gone?" Francis asked, cautiously opening his eyes a crack. Seeing that they had indeed left, he removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "I think they burned out my fucking corneas. All I can see is spots. Think you're gonna have to drive home."

Remy didn't mind; he enjoyed driving. Some of his best thinking was done while behind the wheel.

Coming up from the beach, into the backyard of Jon Stall's former summer home, they walked along the side of the house and up the dirt driveway to where the Land Rover was parked.

"Let me see about those sweats," Francis said, going to the back of the Land Rover.

Remy went around to the driver's side and opened the door.

"Here," Francis called, tossing him the gray sweatpants.

He slipped them on, not feeling quite as naked when he heard the trill of a cell phone from inside the vehicle.

"Not mine — lost it on the beach somewhere when I was getting my hand chopped off and shit," Francis said, fiddling with his glasses.

Remy stared across the driver's seat to the passenger's side, recalling that he'd taken his wet coat off when getting into the Rover to start their trip.

The incessant trilling was coming from inside his coat pocket.

Francis had moved around to the passenger's side to get in. He opened the door, reaching inside Remy's coat pocket to remove the ringing cell phone. He offered it to him.

Remy took the phone and flipped it open, already certain that he knew from where the call was coming. Cresthaven, said the black letters on the tiny screen, and he felt the weight of the world — of the universe itself — fall down upon him.

The phone stopped its noise, but started again with only a moment's pause. He placed the phone on the dashboard as he climbed up into driver's seat, behind the wheel.

"Aren't you going to take that?" his friend asked, handing him the car keys.

"No," he said as he put the key in the ignition and turned the engine over. "I already know what they're going to tell me."

For him, the world had come to an end. The Apocalypse had happened.

What more was there to say?