It was finally over. The spell had been completed.
After what had felt like an eternity, Camael eventually let go and allowed him to slump onto the table. As Atticus' body finally started to recover from the agony of it all, he felt a helpless, limp feeling wash over him. The soothing cool surface of the marble helped ease the pain a little, but the memory of it would remain forever. He was exhausted. He was drained. And above all else, he felt like a failure.
Everything up until this point... it had all been for nothing. All the research, all the time they had spent trying to find a way to avoid this exact situation, had all been useless in the end. He ran away. He defected from Heaven. He told himself everything would be alright if he just left it all behind— if he just took Bentley and ran away with her. He thought that somehow there was a victory in this for him, that for once in his miserable life, there would be a chance for him to be happy.