He had lost.

The Final Battle had come and gone - and not with Michael, no. He had wanted to duel Michael; had never really wanted anything more. He had always been second to Michael in the eyes of God, shadowed black against his gold. Michael eclipsed him, and Baal could not bow to someone who should be his equal or less.

But no. Not Michael. It had been going to be Michael - should have been Michael - but Laurence (Pesky, foolish Laurence) had stepped in his path and bowed over his sword. "Let us duel."

And they had.

And Baal had *lost*.

He curled on the ground, in the muddy grass of the plain and glared. Despair welled, blacker than the shadow Michael had cast him into by being, and he stared darkly at Laurence. "Kill me."

Laurence considered, eyebrow arched. "Kill *you*?"

Baal's jaw tensed. "Kill me, damn you."

Laurence said, "No. You haven't earned it." At Baal's silence, he continued. "You are not worthy of something you desire so much. You've proven yourself weak, your ideals valueless. You have nothing."

He had nothing. It was true enough.

Laurence sheathed his sword. "And so I challenge you: Do you turn your back on your essence as the War and allow yourself to die *this* - a defeated beast - or do you allow yourself the valor of serving and rise to give your Word its due for the remainder of the battle - for *us*?"

Baal shuddered. He twisted, saw Michael fighting elsewhere, back turned, heedless of him. Heedless of this situation. Golden and shining, everything that Baal had never succeeded in touching. He looked in farewell and knew he would never overcome.

Michael was bright and brilliant, and Baal, as shadow, could not overcome. But Laurence - Laurence was shadow also, God's shadow.

Baal lowered his head to the earth and raised a wing to Laurence. His voice, when it came, surprised himself with its meekness:

"I accept."