It was by accident that Harry stumbled upon this demonic lair. He and his team snuck in to see what was inside, and found a prison. That made the decision for them. Through a series of bloody running battles, they cleared out the guards, and now his team was escorting the former prisoners out.
There was another chamber in front of him. The locked doors yielded easily, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he neither saw any demons, nor did he feel the usual revulsion these outsiders brought out in him.
The last members of his team nodded at him, and went to help carry out some of the prisoners who couldn’t walk under their own power.
He was tired, riddled with small wounds, burns, and caked with dried mud and demonic blood, and his left ankle was tender at best, but he went in.
The chamber was circular, with a dais in the middle, upon which stood a table with manacles and other numerous implements. A torture chamber.
He spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned as fast as his aching body allowed, brandishing his sword. The sight stopped him in his tracks.
“You?”
She stood there, a twisted, perverted version of the angel that had appeared in his dreams ever since he had picked up that sword. Her brilliant wings were now the colour of dried blood, and instead of the golden radiance she had exuded, crimson glow escaped her through the crisscrossing cracks and scars in her skin.
Her blood-red gaze fell upon him and he shuddered under its weight. Then she noticed the glowing sword in his hands.
“So that is how I felt you?” She closed her mangled fists, and flames sprung up from where they had torn out her nails. “No matter, the past is dead. This is insignificant.”
The flames lashed out and formed into a simulacrum of a sword, while the feathers on her wings narrowed, resembling arrowheads now.
“Please.” He brought his sword up in a guard. “Stop! We need not fight!”
She answered with a wild swing he dodged, though a trail of smoke followed the top of his head.
“On the contrary. My master commands me.”
He had to dodge a swipe of her wing, her feathers now razor-sharp, and parried her flaming blade.
“Defy him! We’re saving everyone here!” He dodged a stab. “Come with us.”
“Useless.” One of her feathers cut his cheek. “Fight! You need to slay me if you want to leave.” Her next strike nearly took his head off. “I will come after your friends!”
A by now familiar warmth suffused him, and he knew golden light filled his new wound, keeping it from bleeding. The same light that emanated from his sword. The same light that she used to glow with.
He deflected her next strike upward and sidestepped, but she defended herself with her wing. “Why fight for your captors?” He changed the direction of his next cut from vertical to horizontal, and opened a wound on her forehead. “Join us, please.”
“Too late.” She raised her flaming sword, preparing a powerful cut. “For you.” With a step forward, she launched a strike that would cleave him in two.” “And for me.”
By instinct he stepped back and slashed downwards into her cut, stopping it in mid air. Then, he stepped forward and twisted his sword. Its tip entered her heart.
Her legs grew week and wings fell slack. The flames went out. And with a long sigh that filled the room, she collapsed, the sword still in her chest.
He rushed to her, lifting her head. She was still breathing.
“I fell once—“ she whispered, “because of excess faith. I trusted the faithless.” She looked into his eyes, and where before her own glowed like burning coals, now they too were going out, dim. “And now I fall due to a lack of faith. Let me go.” With immense effort, she touched his hand feebly. “Leave, and live.”
Harry was shaking his head, and gripped the sword again. ‘Heaven or Light, or whoever was watching over me these months, now would be a good time for a bit of help. Please!’ He urged the energy he had left, all that remained, to come forward. ‘I know I felt that golden spark sometimes. Please! You’ve helped me so many times before.’ His knees grew wobbly as warmth gathered in his hands. ‘Is she not worthy of mercy? Please! Help me! Why would you have protected me if you won’t help her?’
The familiar warmth suffused him again, more than ever before, and he felt a comforting weight on his shoulders, as if unseen hands gripped him and covered him with a quilt. ‘Please! Please! Please!’ Then came a sense of certainty. Of absolute trust. And then a dam burst open and the room was bathed in golden light. Tears he did not know he shed fell on her.
“Tears? Why cry for a fallen angel?” Her voice was still hoarse and she gripped his hand with all the little strength she could muster.
He saw the light fill her, her skin regained its glow and the cracks and scars go from crimson to gold, then vanish. One by one, her feathers lightened. He returned her grip and held her hand, stained by his tears.
“Oh, that’s a long story.”