WHO: Tyrael. WHAT: The Fall. WHEN: Early Sunday Morning, Dreamspace. WHERE: The High Heavens & Tyrael's Home. WARNINGS: PG? In theory?
Tyrael stood before Imperius, emotions held barely in check as he was berated for subversion.
"Tyrael, the ancient law of the High Heavens strictly forbids us from interfering in the mortal world! Yet you have done so, brazenly!" Tyrael took a step forward, his wings shaking with barely contained fury.
"All I am guilty of, Imperius, is bringing justice while you hide! Cowering behind your throne!" He had gone too far, and he knew it.
"SILENCE!" The other angel charged from his higher throne in a blaze of light, standing now in front of Tyrael. "You will now answer for your transgressions."
Grabbing Tyrael around the throat, Imperius summoned his great-spear, but Tyrael was stronger. The men fought, falling to the floor below, and Tyrael reclaimed the spear, pointing it at the prone Imperius.
"You CANNOT judge me. I am Justice itself! We were meant for more than this, to protect the innocent! But if our precious laws bind you all to inaction, than I will no longer stand as your brother."
He was speaking to the entire assembly of angels, and Tyrael did not dream of turning back. Piercing the floor with the spear, he ripped off the armor of his shoulders, his wings falling to the floor. Imperius yelled at him for his sacrilege, but as his armor fell and his body was pulled towards Sanctuary, Tyrael felt only peace. Almost joy.
Humanity was the only hope for this world. He would fall willingly, and protect them all.
Justice would be served.
John started awake in his bed, sheets tangled around his legs as he did his damnedest to catch his breath. He'd gone a long time without these dreams that everyone else seemed to have, but he had the gist of it.
Nothing had prepared him for that.
A fallen archangel? Seriously? And Justice. John Tyrael, borderline alcoholic and crotchety old cop was the Archangel of Justice. He rubbed his face with one hand, trying to clear the muddiness he felt.