Author: Chauni
Email: asukalangey2nd@yahoo.com
RP session: TMW, Azrael
Notes: To PC, my love and muse. Also, to Krysti (who owns
Hina) and to Megan (who has Gabe).
The memories were sketchy at best,
vivid at worst. He thought he was lucid, thought he could concept the pieces
and fit them together until they made a smooth, infallible story, complete with
words and pictures and that blessed honesty of truth. Every time he attempted,
though, every time he was even remotely close, another leaf would fall
to his feet and he would be forced to begin anew.
Oh, how those blue eyes had stared
at him, large and afraid, flecked with the gold of inward light that remained
in even the direst of times. He remembered how she had curled up, how she had
been screaming, her torn robes clasped to her like a shield against all that
could ever do her harm. How she clung to him with hope in her gaze,
astonishment, shock, as she looked downwards, over his robes, his arms, resting
on his trembling hands…
And then there was that blood, a
damned cursed memory that refused to leave like brand. How it had weighted his
hands, cursed and dragged them down until they hung, limp and dripping that
vibrant crimson against holy ground, tainting it with malice and hate.
All memories, not unlike dreams
upon morning light, grounded him to this loathing moment trapped in a Heaven
that smelled of Hell.
“Leave,” she had hissed, whimpering
softly as she laid her cheek against his robed thigh, covered with that same
scarlet liquid letter. The body was lying beside them, out of sight, but never
gone from the mind, never in all the eons to come. “Leave until I can explain
it to our Father. Go, please, Azrael!”
“I have nowhere to go,” he whispered
through numb lips, numb vocal chords. His body was cold, without feeling,
without emotion anywhere but his buzzing, burning, bloody fingers and the
errant stream of crimson running down his left cheek. “He will find me. He will
come for me.” His head tipped backwards as his body dropped down to smooth
knees, hair pooling on the ground around him. “What have I done, Lady? What
have I done?”
Her thin arms sought him out,
winding loosely around his neck, and all he could smell, sense, was the strong vanilla
that followed her everywhere. “You protected me,” she murmured as she held him.
“You did no crime. Our Father will see this, must see this.”
Azrael
had opened his mouth to respond, to agree, to go and hide somewhere, anywhere,
where His hand could not bring about swift judgment, but he was cut off by the
sound of approaching figures, both in the guise of wings and feet. Those twin
arms tightened around his throat, and he moved to stand in front of her torn
shame, the tattered gown tight against her heavenly flesh. He eyed the lynch
mob, the ten or more angels come about to do their Father’s will and drag him
towards His eye. Azrael’s hope failed; they would not hear his pleas, his
truth. Their minds were decided by the pool of blood sliding farther out a mere
five feet away, the lump of wasted angelic flesh done so by his red hands.
“Come,”
one growled, reaching out to entangle long fingers into his silken strands and
yank him towards his nightmare.
The
Angel of Death cried out as he was dragged behind them, as they began to tear
him towards where “justice” would be served. “You must listen to me! You
must--“
The
brutal hand ripping at his hair threw him to the ground like so much trash,
while a foot struck his midsection, tearing the breath from him as if eager
fingers had grabbed it from fluttering lungs themselves. Somewhere, he could
hear a female screaming, sobbing, and upon opening steel-toned eyes a sliver,
he saw the disheveled golden-brown hair swaying as she fought with one of the
men, wings brandished and wide.
“St-stop,”
Azrael coughed as he crawled to his knees. Teeth grinding together, he glared
over his shoulder at the Lady, before softening his gaze with a small sigh.
“I…I will be fine. Go home, care for your wounds, for yourself.” Her protests
began before the sentence had been finished but he silenced her with another
glare. “Go!” His eyes flickered to the guard she had battled with,
screamed at, and he lowered his voice to a small whisper. “Make certain she
arrives at home safely.”
He
waited until they were leaving when he found his feet, lacking the hand that
hurt him so. His head was high, her faith having flooded him with a hope that
he had been lacking before. Their Father was a just being, beautiful and
understanding and loving. He would understand, understand that it had to be
done, had to, and there was no other choice. “Let us go, then.”
“Your
punishment, Azrael, my child and my greatest disappointment, has been decided.”
The
fated Angel of Death stared in disbelief up at his Father. This could not be,
could never be! He did no wrong! He had saved Shekhina, saved her purity
and virtue and innocence, and he was being punished for it? How could it
be?!
“Father,
Father, please liste--“
“I have
spoken my mind,” God dismissed, waving a hand as his eyes held the shame of a
parent over an unruly child. “You have spilled blood on holy ground, blood of
your kin. You are tainted and stained. You must pay for
you crimes.”
“But
the Lady Sh--“
“I care
not for your petty excuses!” He screamed, driving Azrael to his knees in sheer
shock. Never had he witnessed such anger, such rage, and most certainly never
from his beloved Father who had always seemed so kind. “You have disrespected
everyone here with your vendetta and now you must learn the pain of your
crimes!”
The
angel could feel the weight of every eye, every thought, strewn across his
back, against his soul like bullwhips. The burning tears were held in his eyes,
but he grit his teeth to keep them hidden and to himself. No emotion would
grace his cheeks; no pain would limit his thought. He refused it, refused to be
dropped from such a height. Let them brandish him with such an agonizing
torment; he would endure it for the sake of his true innocence, the belief in
his heart that he was correct, he was right.
“Yours
is the hand of Death, Azrael,” The Creator murmured, calming. “And it is my
failure that has not made this decision sooner. It is my failure that your
violence was not contained the moment you were created. No more will I risk the
blood of innocent; no longer shall your cruel hand crush what I have created.”
Cruel?
Azrael thought, an audible grasp in his head. I…I am not this violent
monster! I am not! His head turned, metal irises resting on the pure
innocent face of Gabriel, beautiful under the glittering unnatural light, and
then to the jade eyes of Nathanael, who’s company he shared but for a moment,
but was more valuable a moment than any he could have ever dreamed. Violent?
Harm them? Harm anyone? NEVER!
“Take
him to the dais seven levels below this and chain him to a set of pillars
there, by both his wrists and his ankles. There he shall dwell when his
services are rendered unimportant to us.” God closed His holy eyes, a small
breath slipping unnoticed between blessed lips. “I shun him, him and his dark
matter.”
Azrael
felt the dispassionate hands grip him, drag him to his numb feet with
unnecessary cruelty. This wasn’t real, could not be real! His eyes swept
the room, across every angelic face he witnessed there, and the few he
recognized among the masses. All the pity, all the hate and the fear, all
slapped him across the face, forcing a hushed cry from his lips. His feet
scraped against marble, bare toes clawing at the floor.
“NO!” he screamed as he forced his
captors to stop. His chin rose, a radiance in those steel irises where a
conflagration burned bright (but would flicker out with ages and time).
“I will
go, Father,” he growled, hands forming fists at his sides. “But know
this: I regret not what I have done. Mine was a justice that had to be erected,
for the sake of the purity within Lady Shekhina. And if placed in the situation
again, I would follow the same path exactly. I hold no remorse for I have
committed no crime!
“Your
precious angel deserved to die. He delivered his own death to himself!”
With a
torrent of ebony hair, Azrael turned and stalked out of the room, commanding a
presence that went beyond words, that outshone even their Father’s majesty. He
could feel the stunned silence, the open mouths and wide eyes against his
flesh, but he ignored it; his point was made, his side proven. Bare feet
whispered against the floor as his guards half-heartedly trailed after him, to
tear him towards the dais if he attempted to refuse.
But his
pride was evident, and he would walk his path to the dismal fate that had been
shoved down onto him. And years later, eons and centuries later, when dust
masked the true beauty of slick midnight feathers, when he was broken and jaded
and cynical, then and only then would he hold this single moment high, his
beacon in the darkness.
At
least until a new passion would envelope him, hope delivered on flickering,
familiar feathers that would warm him forever.