"I know you didn't ignore my message," she calls to the mist. The lamp flickers again, and dims further. The mist swirls about her head, whispering. She dismounts and ties the reigns to the pole of the street lamp.

"I said stop it. It's cold, don't make a lady wait."

The mist hisses, swirls, fades to let another figure through.

"You can't make me come back," he says.

"I can't?" she asks, locking his red eyes in her own brown ones.

"No," he says.

She pauses and her gaze sweeps the street for a moment before she turns back to him, narrowing her eyes.

"Where are the people?" she demands.

"Gone," he replies. "Running from the plague, probably."

"Aren't you worried about it, too?"

"I'm already dead," he says through gritted teeth, "your master took care of that, remember? I was only ten, and he took care of that."

"It was an honorable thing that happened to you. He's your master, too," she reminds him.

"I said I'm not coming back," he repeats

"You have to," she says, "as long as your spirit is bound to him by your wings-"

"It isn't."

The mist stifles any reply for a moment.

"What?" she says at last.

"I cut off my wings, Gloria." He stares at her. She frowns.

"You're supposed to be watching over the country," she says, voice steady, "if you were doing your job they wouldn't be fleeing from this plague."

"I'm not his puppet anymore," he says. He spreads his arms wide and closes his eyes, a contented smile gracing his pale face. "I'm free. Don't you understand? At last, I'm totally free." She bites her lip, watching him.

"You can't defy him," she says, barely above a whisper.

"He can't do anything to me," he says, opening his eyes. He reaches out towards her, hand grazing her cheek. "You could join me," he offers.

She flinches away.

"You're crazy," she says.

"I'm free," he replies, eyes glassy.

"You didn't do what you were sent to do, and so a whole country is suffering."

"He loves them more than us," he continues. "He could save them himself, he'd just rather send us running on petty errands. We're his errand-boys. Insignificant."

"I don't want to do this to you," she says, shaking her head and taking a step backwards.

"I'm not coming back because I'm happy here," he says, "I'm happier than I ever was in heaven or as a mortal. Wasn't that what the afterlife was supposed to be about? Happiness?"

"I'm sorry," she says. She closes the distance between them, wrapping him in a tight embrace. His eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat. Her hands tighten, her fingers digging into his back, and a cry splits the night. She pulls her hands out, and feathers follow them, black as the empty streets, sprouting in great wings. Then she steps away, and he topples to the cobblestone, curled in a ball, trembling.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, "This was not my choice, it was yours. You made it, and He says you have to suffer for it." Kneeling beside him, she brushes his bangs out of his eyes. One last cry and he vanishes. A black feather floats to the ground. She rises and makes her way through the mist to the streetlamp, then unties the reigns and mounts. The lamp flickers one last time, then goes out with a hiss. A sound, deafening on the still of the night.

Clop. Clop.

The mist swirls, closing in behind the figure as it fades down the street. The sound again, softer.

Clop. Clop.

A flap of wings, a white feather falling.

Silence.