The newly Fallen angel absorbed all his vision, a form so familiar and yet so vastly separated from himself, and Gabriel found that it took some effort to turn his attention to Uriel. His gaze was raw, caught somewhere undefined between disbelief and accusation.

"He'd apologized," he managed, his voice sounding weak and stricken to his own ears. He wondered how Uriel could remain so calm, so quiet, when his own mortal form ached, stunned, as though he'd been tossed into raging waters with stinging force and was now drug down by cruel currents. "He'd apologized, he'd sought forgiveness, and Michael would have forgiven him, but you - they were supposed to be all right," he gasped, a sob catching in his throat, broken.

And then, quiet, cold. Confused. "How could you?"

But Gabriel waited for no answer, wanted no answer. Instead, he spread his wings, stained white and gold by the filtered morning light, and fled the scene, thinking only to make sure Raphael had returned to the manor. He'd never truly felt safe there, but now...

Now it hardly felt safe anywhere else.