Cho/Alba and if you do have time for an after-the-biblical-end, I will very eagerly read it
Cho is not certain what she expected from the end of the world, but it isn’t this - no lakes of fire and brimstone, no glorious rapture for the pious, no boiling seas or crumbling mountains, no great floods, no world serpent rising from the depths, and if four horsemen have ridden, they didn’t do it anywhere she could see - no, the end of the world is a war zone, a tearing apart of the thin veneers of peace that hold humanity in a fragile balance.
This war is just on a much larger scale, angels and demons (indistinguishable from one another in the smoke and ash) and Old Gods tearing each other apart with fury, heedless of the collateral damage, and she’s never seen a flaming sword before, but she’d like to never see one again, she’d like to never see any of this again, because it is awesome and terrifying and it’s breaking her heart, absolutely shattering it, until the pieces rattle around behind her ribs, jab and slice and make her bleed with the agony of the knowledge that she can’t do anything to help - not herself, and certainly not anyone else.
She doesn’t feel the tears falling until Alba’s slender fingers wipe them away, cradle the back of her head and press her face into a thick braid of hair that even now gleams like molten gold in morning light, until she feels the blissful weight of wings against her bare arms and legs, insulating her from the carnage that surrounds them as a voice like rushing water and tinkling bells urges her, "don’t look, child," as though simply closing her eyes could ever take away the pain of knowing what they’ve lost, the guilt of being the only one wrapped in the arms of a literal angel as the world splinters around them.