Heaven

The fighting stopped before anyone realized it had.

One moment, blades were swinging. The next, men were carrying men—enemies carrying enemies—because the bleeding didn’t care about sides.

The battlefield became a hospital. Not by choice. By necessity.

Gods lay next to angels. Monsters leaned against broken pillars next to saints. Valkyries carried wounded Seraphim across cracked white stone. Greek healers knelt over angels with shattered wings, muturing old prayers that had never been meant for heavenly flesh. Egyptian priests pressed glowing hands against wounds that leaked golden light, whispering words older than Egypt itself.

No one argued.

No one had the energy.

Pain had made them all the same.

Ares stood near the edge of it all, sword on his shoulder, face twisted like he’d bitten into something rotten.

He hated this.

Didn’t understand it.

An hour ago, these same angels had been trying to split his skull. Now they were lying still while his people stitched them back together.

A Norse valkyrie crouched over a fallen cherub, one hand pinning his shoulder down.

"Stop moving," she snapped.

The cherub’s eyes were wild. "Don’t touch me."

"You want the wing or not?"

"I said don’t—"

She pressed harder.

He screamed.

The broken wing snapped back into place with a sound like wet wood cracking.

The valkyrie leaned closer. "There. Now complain quieter."

Ares stared at them. "This is insane."

Nearby, a priest in linen stained with gold ichor looked up from binding a wound in a Titan’s side.

"No," the priest said. "This is what comes after insane."

Ares grunted. Walked on.

Everywhere he looked, someone was bleeding. Athena sat with her cracked helm beside her, letting two young healers work on a gash across her ribs. She looked annoyed—not because she was hurt, but because she had to stay still.

Hermes lay on his back with one arm over his face. "I’m fine," he said. A healer poked his leg. He jerked. "Ow."

"You have three fractures."

"I said fine, not perfect."

Apollo moved from body to body, golden light in his hands. Artemis worked beside him—quieter, sharper, pulling shards of broken law out of flesh like arrowheads.

Thor laughed too loudly while a goddess reset his shoulder. Then stopped laughing when she actually did it.

"By all dead giants—"

"Hold still."

"I am holding still."

"You’re shaking the table."

"There is no table."

Thor blinked. Looked down. He was on the ground. "...Fair."

Ares walked past without a word.

Then he saw Raphael.

The archangel moved through the wounded like he belonged nowhere and everywhere. No guards. No escort. No grand glow. Just hands. Light. Silence.

He knelt beside an angel first, touched fingers to a cracked chest. The wound closed slowly, the glow inside stabilizing. Then he turned to a sea spirit whose lower body flickered between water and mist. He pressed his palm to her forehead, whispered something Ares couldn’t hear, and her shape held.

Then he moved again.

A god. An angel. A monster. A warrior.

No questions. No judgment. No hesitation.

Ares watched for a long moment. Then walked over.

Raphael was kneeling beside a broken lesser angel, one wing gone at the root. The angel was shaking—not just from pain. Fear. Shame. Confusion. Raphael’s hand hovered over the empty space where the wing should have been.

Ares stopped behind him. "Why are you helping them?"

Raphael didn’t look up. "Because they’re hurt."

Ares frowned. "That’s it?"

"Yes."

"They were trying to kill us."

"So were you."

Ares opened his mouth. Closed it. Scowled harder. "That’s different."

Raphael’s light brightened slightly as thin strands of wing-bone began to grow. "Is it?"

Ares shifted his sword on his shoulder. "You’re an archangel. They’re yours."

"And that Titan over there?" Raphael asked, nodding toward a burned giant being held down by two healers. "Is he yours?"

Ares glanced over. A Titan with half his face burned off, a Greek healer and a Valkyrie arguing over his wounds. "No."

"But your people are healing him."

Ares didn’t answer.

Raphael finally looked up at him. His face was tired. Not defeated. Not ashamed. Just worn thin by seeing too much pain and not having enough hands.

"Wounds don’t ask what banner you carried," Raphael said. "They just open. And if someone can close them, they should."

Ares stared at him. "That sounds stupid."

"It often is."

"Then why do it?"

Raphael looked back at the wounded angel. "Because the alternative is worse."

For some reason, that annoyed Ares less than he expected. He crouched nearby, still watching.

The lesser angel’s wing grew back slowly. Not full. Not strong. But enough to exist.

When Raphael finished, he moved his hand away. "You can stand," he said softly.

The angel didn’t. His eyes flicked toward Ares. Then beyond him. Toward the gods. The monsters. The old pantheons. His face changed. Fear hardened into disgust.

He scrambled back. The wing dragged behind him, still weak, scraping against the ground. He crawled more than walked, pulling himself away from the triage line until his back hit a broken pillar.

There he stayed. Pressed against it. Breathing hard. Staring at everyone like they might tear him apart.

Ares watched, confused again. "You fixed him."

Raphael nodded. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

"And he still crawled away."

"Yes."

"Aren’t you offended?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Raphael’s gaze stayed on the angel by the pillar. "Because I healed his wing. Not his fear."

Ares went quiet. That one landed somewhere he didn’t like.

Around them, the work continued. A healer screamed for more cloth. A Valkyrie shouted for space. A young angel refused medicine from a Greek hand until Gabriel himself knelt beside him and said gently, "Take it." He took it.

Hera stood over a row of wounded Olympians, arms crossed, face unreadable. She gave quiet, practical orders. No softness. No cruelty either.

Raphael stood slowly.

Ares looked at him. "You should sit."

"Later."

"That’s what idiots say before they collapse."

Raphael almost smiled. "Then I’m in good company."

Ares stared at him. Then, against his own will, laughed once. Short. Rough. Annoyed. "You’re strange."

"So I’ve been told."

Another cry rose from the far side. Raphael turned immediately. Ares grabbed his arm before he moved—not hard, just enough.

Raphael looked down at the hand. Ares let go like he’d touched fire.

"Don’t die healing people who were trying to kill you," Ares said.

Raphael studied him for a moment. Then nodded. "I’ll try."

"That wasn’t a joke."

"I know."

Raphael walked away.

Ares stayed where he was.

The healed angel was still by the broken pillar, curled in on himself, wing half-open, eyes full of hatred and terror.

Ares could understand hatred. Terror too. He understood them better than most.

For once, he didn’t mock either. He just looked away.

Across the field, healers continued their work. Light touched shadow. Old hands closed new wounds. Enemies breathed beside enemies.

No one forgave anyone. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But for now, they lived.

And after a war like that, living was already more than most had expected.