Those who were too young to be used to reality that was completely and utterly subjective - they were dead by now. Many had died already, old and young - those who'd fought in the Marches before were somewhat better off, able to hold their footing as the world shifted around them, as concepts bent out of shape, as the Symphony itself altered and screamed and wailed.

Michael didn't have enough attention to spare to look around at how others were doing. One manifestation only, and that was for Baal, all for Baal. He fought currently in human form, axe clasped in his sweating hand. White knuckles. He could hear his breathing raspy, though that might not be real (he couldn't hear Truth, the Symphony was too broken up and twisted out of shape for the Truth to be heard or seen or even felt not even felt) because he didn't have to breathe. But he could hear it in his ears: Gasp. Pant. Gasp. Pant.

Baal towered over him, monstrous form wet and slick and gleaming, the spikes of him outlined in the flashes of - Lightning? Shells falling as they had before? Michael couldn't tell, though he believed both Jean and Vapula were alive still and so either was possible. Both. Other than that occasional lighting, the sky was black - if you could call it a sky. Roiling - something. Before his time. Welter and waste.

The massive form before him heaved, a barbed tail slashing down where he'd been standing before and he rolled in mud or the memory of mud or something like mud to safety, then to his feet, swinging the axe. The rain - from where, he wasn't sure, but it was raining, or at least - wet, red and wet; easier to focus on it as fighting in less than satisfactory conditions (rain) and to let the fact it was raining blood - go, just let it go - the rain plastered his hair to his face and he thought of switching to his Seraphic form but no, no time, even as his axe sank into the tail and sprayed some kind of liquid, cold as the falling rain, over him. Baal flailed, his tail whipping up and Michael cursed to himself, a quick sharp whistle, as he was whipped off, the handle of his axe finally sliding through blood-slick fingers and then sudden pain - bearable pain but pain, pain - as he landed in - brambles? No. Barbed wire.

The Symphony was remembering barbed wire.

Michael ducked beneath the wire, which bought himself a few moments to glance about, see how others were doing. Janus was dead, he'd seen that a while earlier, but - good. Laurence was still in sight and still alive. The mud shifted under his hands and he crawled around for a better position and grinned fiercely to himself with paternal pride. (So the boy thought he was Uriel's alone - let him. It was enough to see he'd learned things Uriel couldn't teach him. He'd survived, that was proof enough to Michael.)

A massive spiked thing - hand, paw, claw? He couldn't tell - crashed through the barbed wire behind him and he slipped free, flung himself into the air, uncoiling into acres and acres of green feathered serpent and crashed into Baal, jaws locking on the armour plates (hard against his teeth, but he was going to fucking do this, he was going to fucking survive no matter what) and closing, slowly, feeling Baal's hard carapace dent in his mouth.

Baal's body wrapped around his in a mockery of love (though if the desire to surpass wasn't love, what was? Staying, he supposed, fighting for a cause instead of just fighting) as he tried to break free. Screaming wails and flailing and then silence and he dropped into human vessel, falling fast enough that he'd freed himself and Michael's jaws clenched shut on air behind him.

If it was air.

Baal didn't land well, though, not well at all, fell limply and crumpled on the ground, curled inward, small despite the build of his Vessel. Michael peered at him, waiting for a trick, but a shift of the Symphony showed him, suddenly, that he'd won - or almost won, something like winning, showed him Baal desperately trying to hold his own Forces together as if he could renew the bonds between them by will alone.

One more hit, he thought, one more and the battle's won, Heaven's General's succeeded over Hell's, I've proven to him that he cannot win over me just because he wants to.

Michael dropped into human vessel himself. He walked towards Baal and stood over him, looked at the holes torn in this Vessel's throat - not normal, no, what was normal in these end times? He could barely hear Baal talk over the twisted, broken wail of the Symphony, though he watched Baal's mouth move - no. No, Baal wasn't talking. His mouth was moving but his voice wasn't coming out.

"What?" he said. He stepped closer and Baal's hand shot out, grabbed at his ankle. He hauled himself up Michael's body, fingers clenching, reaching for Michael's throat and Michael, grief tasting like blood in his mouth, put his foot on Baal's stomach and shoved.

Baal tumbled into the barbed wire. Michael watched him try to get up, fail as his foot - bleeding, armour gone God alone knew where - tangled in it and pulled him under. Barbs deep in his flesh and, God, when hadn't they been?

Michael knelt beside him.

There was a wheezing sound as Baal's lips moved again.

Michael shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, and felt the regret curling deep in his stomach. "I can't hear you."

Baal snarled wordlessly and reached for Michael, whose axe came easily enough to his hand.

"You want me to end it?" Michael asked, gentle, and couldn't restrain a chuckle at the coldly arrogant look he got in response, even now. "Of course not. Never surrender."

He leaned closer as Baal mouthed: You wouldn't love me if I did.

"Not as much, no," he agreed.

I am a challenge.

It was dangerous, this, wishing he could lie. "No," he said, and made it as gentle as he could. "You were never good enough to be a challenge."

Baal's face contorted.

"You were a companion, though," Michael said, and felt the mud soaking into his knees, felt the prickle of barbed wire against his shoulder. "Who else understood?"

Torn, strong fingers tangled in Michael's wet hair and Baal used that as his handhold to pull himself to something resembling an upright position. Michael felt the tremble in him of Forces unwinding.

Baal mouthed, Nobody.

Michael had time to lean forward and press his lips tight to Baal's, a dry, hard kiss, the last they'd have between them.

He pulled back and his knee slipped in the mud. He reached out for a handhold, grabbed at barbed wire and dropped Baal - embarrassment, damn it. How awful it was, he thought, watching Baal unwind, that the last thing between them would be that.

It was over. Slowly, his fingers unclenched, bloody, from the barbed wire. After a moment, he managed to rise. He stood there for a long moment, looking down at where he'd dropped Baal, then turned his back on what was left of the war and tilted his head up, face to the sky, as if asking for guidance.

Rain fell, thick and red.