The Ichor fell to earth faster than she did. Unimpeded by the drag of any wings it plummeted down, droplets of brilliant gold with luster to rival that of the sun itself, only to be muddied by the dirt and grime of a Manhattan sidewalk. She did not grieve for herself as she, like Icarus before her was struck from the sky, even as her fingers went numb and she could no longer grasp the hilt of her sword. Nor did she as the feathers from her wings drifted past her, torn away by the violence of both fight and freefall. She grieved only for those she could no longer protect. For the city that would no longer know her brilliance, and for the friends she left behind. As the ground rose up ever faster to meet her, she gave them all one final prayer, and knew at least, she had bought them a little time.