Sungold and green. The golden Seraph, the Emerald-Winged Archangel. The artists had always had a certain Truth about them. They also misunderstood. He was traditionally portrayed as a tall slender youth, blond ringlets haloing a sweet round face, body clad in golden armour, wings a deep green. Peacock feathers. Everyone knew the Seraphim were the many-eyed angels, and so his wings were vanity, their eyes watching behind him.

Michael stood on the battlefield like something immovable. His black hair was matted and tangled from sweat and blood and worse things, he bled from combat, his face was harsh and lined with too much battle and too little laughter. He was breathing easily, his axe dripping. He'd lost some of his armour earlier, when he'd found it too restrictive, and stood now in a coarse woolen undershirt, in his leather pants and greaves. His helmet was under one arm. He gazed out over the piles of corpses, organs, parts. Crows circled, voices a shrill cry of victory.

A whisper behind him and Dominic stepped forward, dressed in a priest's cloak and robes. "War."

"Judgment. What brings you?"

Dominic pushed his hood back. His hair was shoulder-length and a thin white. He looked young. "Duty brings me, Michael. This was a human battle. A human cause. Why did you come here?"

"A human battle," Michael agreed. "But demon-wrought. I was called, I came to raise morale and to bring triumph. Such is *my* duty, Judgment."

Dominic's voice lowered. "You allowed yourself to be seen Celestially over the field."

"If they saw me, they must have been truly perceptive."

"You flouted our laws!"

"I did my job."

Silence. Michael gestured out at human bodies. "...and I did my job well. You cannot tell me how to live, Dominic. I am War. And I *will* win."

Dominic's eyes glittered sapphire-blue. "You are prideful."

"I have earned my pride."

"You remind me of the Lightbringer."

Michael span, pulled Dominic off his feet with a fistful of cloak. "You bite your tongue, cur."

Dominic did not flinch. "I call you to Trial, Michael, accused guilty of the sin of pride."

"What harm is pride in a job well done?" He turned his head and spat. "You run and prepare your Trial, hyena among hyenas. Stare into the dark and your eyes forget the light. God shall see me right." He released Dominic, who brushed himself off too-calmly and picked his way off the battlefield.

Michael collected his armour, strapping pieces on as he found them. The helmet went on first, its crest of peacock feathers glistening dully, stained.

Behind him, a crow perched on a corpse's face and leaned down to peck.