He polishes his sword, bending over it, hair bound back. The taste of blood is in his mouth, hot iron-like flecks. He is used to it by now. Women hiding in trees to escape his sword. White nobles on horses. A pair of goat-furred youths making frantic love as if they could save their world by losing themselves in each other. Old gods with anger in their eyes, What gives you the right, they demand. If they chose us, what gives you the right to place your sword against my breastbone and push? He is used to it by now.

This is his right: to protect Christianity, to unite Heaven, to win a rare smile from his Pure Lord.

But Uriel has been called to Council so he sits instead of killing, and polishes his sword, because Uriel has always told him that a Sword, a good Sword, is sweet beyond words to have at your side.

A knock. He looks up. "Come."

"You are called to Council, Laurence."

He goes and stands under gazes while they tell him: God has called Uriel to the Higher Heavens. You are to be an Archangel and the commander of God's Army.

"As my lords wish," he murmurs, and then weight upon him, weight, heavy, thick, and he bears responsibility for so many lives, so many lives. He rises. He can taste blood.