Grim Reaper's Bride

This is what I remember:

He stands by the howling void. Chalk white cliffs plummet downwards to the raging sea. The blue-blackness froths beneath him. Wind screams. It is absolute zero.

Shadows fall like dolls into the abyss. There are no cries of pain. Merely silence.

The Legion stands before him. Michael brandishes his flaming sword. His face is raw with suffering.

“Don’t do this, brother,” he pleas.

His cry falls on deaf ears. It is a corpse that stands before him. Razor thin. Pale as winter snow. He towers over the archangel, still as the grip of death.

He opens his hollow eyes. All Heaven holds its breath. The void yawns, grating its jowls. Its master smiles wretchedly. His flesh cracks like ice as he speaks:

“Either way, I win.” His voice is like bitter wind.

The pull of the Pit wraps around the Host like a vise. The weakest crumple like smashed mica. Their shards plummet into the abyss.

Michael’s bones shake. His sorrow turns to wrath. He roars, and delivers the killing blow. The serpent is crushed beneath him.

The corpse laughs as the sword pierces him. “Come with me, my brother,” he whispers. He takes him by the heel. Lightning strikes fire as they embrace. Michael surrenders himself to his adversary. Finally, the Host is freed.

The brightest stars blaze into the darkness. The void is sealed shut. They leave a graveyard of angels behind them.

Time begins.

Death is born.

“You should run, human girl.”