𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖞.

( ... ) Rushing to the other, Akita dropped to his knees beside the familiar being, pulling them closer. "Michael, my friend, what have they done to you?" He asked gently, pushing their hair back. "...Rest, my friend, I won't let them hurt you." He whispered as he grabbed the sword, heavy and searing in his hands, but he gripped it tightly, not letting the pain distract him from the danger before them.

𝔐𝔦𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔢𝔩 took comfort in the soft voice, recognizing the holy human by the collar all priests wore, he knew that while he wasn't neccessarily safe, he was no longer among enemies. The angel isn't feverish, infection was no threat to his celestial blood, but the lack of blood left was making him nauseous, unable to see straight, delirious. Had a human really weilded his holy sword? but why had it stayed alight?

He must be seeing things.

"Father..." it takes awhile for him to remember the man's name, "Rhee." He's trying to acknowledge the kindness in his voice if nothing else. The demons would flee... or were they dead now. Either way, he would be safe inside the cathedral as long as Lucifer himself did not come to call.

He looks up to absorb the Father's eyes, one looked a little different, it caused a flurry of eyes to open along his own skin where the priest gripped him, almost flirtatious lashes brushing against his hands, observing who - and what - held him. "Shit," who had allowed the antichrist to become a preist? No wonder he had had such a difficult time finding him. Still he was injured, badly, burned hands... and something else. He needed this strange idea of a priest to be able to help him, he needed to trust him, could he?

"you better not kill me," Michael mutters, before pushing holy healing into the preist - a gift that did not extend to himself, a blessing he could give others only. The burns cooled, healed like a hand reversing time, as were any other ailments plaguing the kind Father Rhee. After that, Michael had no more strength to keep his eyes open, and let them close.. but not before finding and making eye-contact with the antichrist in disguise. Did he know what he was? That had to be a no.

( @akiisms ) He barely escaped with his life. Even now he fought desperately, the kings had stopped their quarreling long enough to attack him as a unit - it was not something he was used to. He could take one or two at a time, but somehow more than half the deadly sins had managed to get along long enough to lay a trap for their long time nuisance - Michael. With Mammon seeming to be the driving force behind his embarrassing defeat.

At least he wasn't dead; if you weren't dead, you didn't really lose. That was Michael's motto. He's missing half of wings, down to three, impossible to return to heaven. He knows his enemies know that too.

The archangel settles for the next best thing: Sanctuary at the nearest Catholic cathedral. Human priests typically loved him, once they were made to see that he was really the archangel he said he was. Faith was easier to obtain when one had six massive white feathered wings, a crown of feathers, eyes that could open anywhere, and a halo. Not to mention his flaming sword.

He stumbles in past the doors, a few lower level demons hissing at the steps and abandoning their pursuit to report his location to their masters. He hates that he has no strength to dispatch them, but he knows that at least for this moment, he'll be safe.

He is no god, though he is divine - his blood bleeds golden on the polished marble floor as he collapses, the sword with it's holy eye and holy flames tapering out as the archangel's consciousness fades in and out. He thinks he yells, but he is uncertain if he managed it, blinking long lashes and struggling to maintain what's left of blurry vision.