As he tossed another log into the massive iron stove, Cain wondered if perhaps he had been a bit too harsh with Azrael. He couldn't say that their time together had been easy, but had it been fruitless? Was Azrael truly failing the task set before him? Cain poked the embers and stirred them up, the red glow fierce and easily catching the fresh wood alight. How was he to know?

It wasn't like there was some sort of report Cain needed to fill out. All he knew was that, at some point, one of the archangels would come to them with a final decision. He hoped it would be Uriel. Or Raphael. He had dealt with both of them before, and, even though he knew they would carry the will of God, he found them to be a little more understanding.

If it was Michael or Gabriel, on the other hand...

He took out the carving he had been working on the day before and pulled up a chair closer to the stove. Though he had been cursed to live until his penitence was satisfying to God, he felt every year in his bones, and the damp didn't make it any easier. He sliced another thin ribbon of soft pine off what was starting to look like a very passable deer, his mouth a thin line of concentration.

Had Azrael improved? Not...profoundly. But when they had first arrived on Earth it had been clear to Cain at least why this task had been necessary.

The two of them, Angel and the old, old sinner, had been making their way through Helena on their way back up to Heaven's Peak. It was to be Azrael's first full day in human form in and amongst the crowds of holiday shoppers close to Christmas time. Whole crowds of people were pressing up everywhere you looked, and the traffic was loud to both their ears from being among the lakes and trees and mountains for so many months. There had been an old man, curled up in the alcove of one of the shops, wrapped in thin blankets, a cardboard sign at his folded feet asking for "Spare change, any bit helps. Bless." The Angel of Death had stood over the homeless old man for a long while and couldn't be budged. The old man had his head bowed, and Azrael had cocked his head to one side, assessing, examining. Cain had stepped in front of the Angel, if only to break that uncomfortably long stare, and dropped a bill into the can by the homeless man's knee, before half pulling, half dragging the Angel away.

"Why did you do that?" Azrael had said, as they trudged through the snow, his breath a curious curl in front of him.

"He needs to get himself inside, Azrael. He'll die if he doesn't."

"He'll die either way." 

He had sounded so...distant it had nearly driven Cain up the wall. It had taken everything in him to keep from slapping the Angel in the face. He’d had to keep himself from shouting.

"He doesn't need to die like this," Cain had said. "He doesn't deserve to."

Azrael had only stared at him. Those pale blue eyes seemed like they were miles above everything.

"What death does he deserve then?"

Cain thought about that now as he gently drew an antler out of the wood with his knife. What death did Cain deserve? What death did any of them deserve? It was a fair enough question, but he didn't think Azrael had meant it that way. But they had come a long way since Christmas time. He was sure of it. But they doubtless had an even longer way to go, especially if the Angel couldn't keep–

There was a kick at the door, and then a second, and Azrael burst into the room, soaked to the skin and shivering. In his arms he held a woman, unconscious, her hands dangling limp at her sides.

"Please," the Angel of Death said. "I don't know what to do."