Author: Chauni

RP Session: Azrael

Scene: A history lesson on Azrael, his affair with Nathanael, and his reason for Kazu.

Dedicated to PC.

The Cycle

Black was never a color but a state of silence, one he was subject to all too often, a thing that he was reluctant to change. He enjoyed the quiet, the hushed sense of grasping reality in its purest form, a sense of purity when no sound could filter through and shatter the state of a perfect world. He had yet to find a noise as appealing as nothingness, had yet to lay his hands on a piece of being so beautiful as a soundless day kneeling among the flowers, just like he was now.

The Angel of Death was not as imposing figure as most would tend to argue; no skulls, no tattered robe, no scythe did make him up. He preferred the silken robes entwined with colors made of the deepest indigo, deepest space, robes he could lose his hands in when his arms were at his sides, robes like the ones spread about him now as he sat in sacred gardens in locked Heaven. His hair pooled in his lap, as dark as his garments and just as soft, and his face never spoke of an age, but of the simple acceptance of immortality. No scars of shame lined his boyish wrists just yet, and naked, they were bare and smooth and comely, in a way that only wrists could be.

Today, he had mused, would be a fine day to be outside, even though where he resided it was always a pleasant day. There was no defining sun, but it was always bright, aside from the days it rained which was even more beautiful then, when the rain would trickle in hungry, bloated drops that separated upon flower petals all around. Perfection never wavered, but was a constant state of being in this blessed home.

It was peaceful in a serenity accompanied only by flawlessness, and kneeling in that cushioned grass, Azrael felt nothing but devotion and love for those around him, for this simple bit of peace. Never in his life did he find the same tranquility as he did in the company of an endless field, alone and left to his thoughts and devices. His eyes were closed lightly, rolling over the day, the endless day, and his obligations for the rest of the hours; he always found himself busier than he cared to. It was a bothersome thing, truly, but he did what he must.

And when he opened his eyes and cast gray irises upon the world of Heaven, he found himself not as full of solitude as he once thought.

He was not sure if the other had spied him, though he thought it would be impossible not to with the lack of hiding places in their simplicity of this field of flowers and the few trees that lined it, but the other’s back was to him some thirty feet off and not yet moving. Azrael’s vision was consumed by the vivid color of those vibrant wings, each feather scarring him, burned into his memory with appreciation, with admiration, and he knew which angel he had been staring at so fondly.

He wondered if the Angel of Vengeance knew he was even there, knew he was watching his back with the blatant obviousness that he had been..

His own black wings rustled, six pairs varying in size and laying just barely upon the grass of which he knelt, disturbing barely a blade. He watched as the other slowly turned to face him, no more than a boy by the simple look of him, but as immortal and ageless as himself, and just as perfect.

Across a field of Heaven, they stared in silence, neither speaking, neither breathing, neither living but trapped in suspended animation. Azrael found himself enamored with the simple visage, and of something underneath. This angel, this soul, he knew, would be important to him someday, perhaps more than anyone else ever had been, and such a feeling warmed him like no other.

Azrael rose to his bare feet, something he enjoyed simply for the feel of the grass between his toes, comforting as it was. Tentative steps carried him closer to the smaller angel, each movement riddled with the jingling of bells from the anklets he wore, hidden by the hem of the silken robes he had donned. The midnight wings flared, fanned and ruffled proudly, before laying flat against his back, brought in tight and comfortable, until he stopped before the angel, the angel who looked up at him with eyes he could not read.

And though there was a multitude of things he wished to say, a thousand predictions coating his tongue, all that emerged was a quiet, “Good day to you.”

The Angel of Death’s world was illuminated as the other, Nathanael, smiled at him and repeated the same.

Azrael bent down at the waist, and plucking a flower, whose petals were filled with blues of every hue, held it out to the other. He watched with stormcloud eyes as the other’s hand wrapped around it gently, grasping it with all the care and needfulness of someone desperately afraid but would admit nothing.

“You hold Heaven in your hand now,” spoke the Angel of Death, a soft, humble whisper. “And I killed it simply by taking it from its homeland. Strange, how little hands like ours can change the world, hm?”

And as Nathanael opened his mouth to speak, Azrael heard the dreadful call of his name, knowing that it was obligations coming to take him away. He turned to look, the silken tresses swinging softly as he did, the robes rustling with his movements, and saw the Lady Shekhina coming towards him. He waved one hand in a kind hello, and turning to look back at Nathanael, he found…nothing, nothing but his retreating back as he walked away. He was about to trail after him, to ask him if he had insulted him in anyway, but the other angel was upon him and speaking already.

Azrael did not have a chance to see Nathanael again before the death of Sandalphon came to light, and he was punished for such, though it bore no true validity.

Time had ceased to mean anything the second the shackles had tightened around Azrael’s thin wrists, condemning him in ways he did not understand. The first day (had it been a day? He wasn’t sure) had been the cruelest display of misery ever recorded; left alone in that circular room, chained between the thick pristine pillars of marble on that dais, he had screamed until he vomited blood, and the force of which he pulled on the chains forced the first of many scars, splattering crimson against the hateful white that he was strapped to.

After time, he quieted and then cooled to nothing, his voice growing quiet with neglect. Wrists that were never given a chance to heal, spilling every time he dared to move, every chance that his restraints brushed against his flesh. His wings weakened with misuse, and gathered dust as the tips rested against the marble of the dais. The only kind face he was subjected to was that of the Lady Shekhina, and she cared for him more kindly that his creator ever had.

Jaded, alone, the lips soon lacked the customary ease that they had once smiled with. Abandoned and loathed, he lacked faith in his Father, in the system, in the people that surrounded him. And he grew as cold as the pillars his chains were wrapped around, but never cruel. He lacked interaction, lacked the knowledge of people anymore, and that made him barren and broken.

But then, the time came when the hateful, ugly doors some fifty feet from him opened, and someone other than the Lady had entered, someone just as beautiful and stunning, someone he had thought of ever since that day in the field when he had left before he could speak any true words. Fire sparked where there lay nothing, forcing the stumbling beating of his heart to turn over as he watched this angel approach him where he stood chained. Nathanael had laid a flower down at his pillar and spoke of things Azrael had no knowledge of. He had come seeking opinions and strength from the Angel of Death with news of a rebellion, and Azrael had so little help to give.

And upon a kiss, the Angel of Death had sworn never to draw up a sword to the other, had vowed to protect him, regardless of what side he dared to fight him. It was a promise he imprinted on his soul, forced down against his heart just as he did with the fire of the other’s wings, with the illumination The words were his, his to hold on the endless seconds that passed, his to grasp, signs of hope in the darkness.

“Bravery will not win a war. Your devotion, your heart will mean more than anything I can ever offer. For that, and for that reason alone, I could never offer my life for your side. Nathanael, whereas I cannot offer up my heart to our Father, I can give it to you. The rebellion can have all of me that remains, but to you, I offer that. If... if something should happen, know that I will not strike you down, nor harm you. Your kindness moves me.”

And the Angel of Vengeance had looked so moved, as if no one had ever spoken such sentiments towards him before, as if no one had loved him that much. "I'm not worthy of you, Azrael... I am not worthy of your mercy, nor your appreciation. I cannot speak so freely as I wish... but I want you to know that your feelings are requited. I... will never hurt you."

Azrael was pinned by the other’s eyes, as surely as if he had been shackled again. Truth be told, in the times he had been left alone in this cursed room, he had imagined those eyes a million times over in his dreams, both waking and not. He had never seen anyone so kind, someone who never wished to judge him, to shun him, to use him as the weapon everyone else seemed to want him for. "Then we have a truce, angel. If I see you, I shall stay my weapon. And no one shall know of this meeting or of what has transpired here. Nathanael, if something happens to you outside of this cursed room, if in the battle you are injured, then call upon me. I shall abandon my comrades to aid you. In the end, I know yours is the one that will taste victory. We... we are a doomed side."

Nathanael had smiled at him in a way no other being ever had, one that promised love and devotion without ever voicing such. "Doomed though the rebellion may be... they are the true side to fight for. They are the brave and the just, and I envy them. Dare any of God's angels lay a hand on you, it is to the rebellion I will pledge my loyalty. I will warn His minions of this. Most of them know better than to go against the wishes of an Archangel. Fare you well until next time, Azrael. I look forward eagerly to our next meeting." And he had pulled his cloak tightly around and left, the door sounding his retreat.

Black feathers rustled, and though he could not tell how long it had been since the Angel of Vengeance had visited him so kindly, Azrael did know a new layer of dust had formed upon his wings. The promise of someone coming to seeking his aid had not left his mind, just as Enlil’s speech of “black sheep” and “keys” strengthened such ideas. Electricity sparked in the air, thick and rolling over his flesh, just as he let out a silent sigh. When he was alone in this room, everything was silent, no matter how loud he screamed. Everything was Black.

He had been dozing when the immense door at the opposite end of the room opened for him, which was not unusual; he did sleep a bit when he was alone. There was so little to do otherwise, and though his dreams were never pleasant, they kept him active in some sense, some ideal. But the simple sound of the door roused him, and the feel of strength slipping into the room drove the fingers of sleep from his mind completely.

And staring down the length of the room, down the stairs and across the marble floor, Azrael could only think of, This is the black sheep. He is my key.

Lucifer, in all of his Morning Star glory, was slowly ascending the steps, the quiet hush of his robes moving over the marble soothing away the nervousness Azrael felt. This was the greatest angel Heaven had ever seen; this was pure power in the guise of a handsome present. And when he spoke, his voice was the purest velvet, the smoothest silk.

“The proud Angel of Death, left to wither away for no other cause than protecting a comrade. How pathetic our Father has become, how twisted.” The angel stood before him, one hand gently caressing his cheek even as Azrael shifted, the rattle of chains only drowned out by the sound of Lucifer’s voice. “He is not well, our Father, and the torment of our fellow angels can no longer continue, wouldn’t you agree, Azrael?”

The steel of Azrael’s eyes found the marble of the floor; so this was it, the time for freedom, the head of the rebellion. Just as Nathanael had said, he had not been forgotten by their side, even if God had shunned him. Dimly, he was aware of the new torrent of blood rolling down his arms, scabs broken open and pattering against the floor in erratic succession. “No, He is not.” And he fought down the stories of the boxes he had overhead, of the wingless shoved into them for no other reason that being flawed by His own hand.

Lucifer’s lips curled in a way that spoke of sympathy, but not pity, of understanding, but not empathy. “Then you know what path must be taken…?”

Dark hair shifted, spilling over one shoulder to settle against his chest. The gray eyes rose, lingering on the face of his savior, and he nodded after a moment. He thought of Nathanael, of where this conversation was headed, of all the things he had promised to the other angel and how he knew he had to keep it for the sake of his own soul. “I do.”

“A grand weapon you will make.” Gray eyes slowly closed as he heard Lucifer stepping slowly around him, his voice battering him from all sides. “They fear you, the rumors of your strength, your power, and with reason. You have been broken, but I can mend you better than anyone else.”

“Tell me what to do,” Azrael murmured softly, words pushed over dried and cracked lips. “Anything, just set me free.”

“Swear your loyalty to me, angel, and it will all be yours,” Morning Star whispered, his eyes positively dancing beneath the fringe of lashes.

Azrael, not hesitating for even a breath, hissed his promise, spoke of offering his life for the benefit of this majestic creature and his ideals, spilled his beating heart down at the feet of this angel. And with a satisfied smile, the other retrieved stolen keys from the inside of his robe and set to freeing Azrael, shackles falling away.

Without them there to hold him, with sweet, bloodied freedom in his grasp, he fell forward to his knees, burning tears in his eyes, but refusing to spill forth. He would not cry in front of Lucifer, would not shame himself in such a manner. A soft hand found the crown of his hair, and looking up, Morning Star smiled down at him softly.

“Let us go, angel, before they realize their mistake.”

And with a solid nod, Azrael climbed to his feet and took his first steps while surrounded by freedom.

Azrael jingled as he walked, the sound of the bells on his anklets echoing in shimmering marble halls. He finally felt comfortable again, swathed in silken robes that rustled against the floor, the tips of nightmare feathers scraping softly against the ground. He was normal once more, alive and appreciative of life, of his savior, of everything around him, though time had hardened him enough that he spoke very little, and never smiled. And his hands never showed from the sleeves of his robe, his shameful wrists always hidden.

The others working in the rebellion avoided him, which suited his whims all too perfectly. None of them had come to save him when he was left to gather dust; none of them gave him precious time to talk, to speak; none of them offered respect. And he was feared, and that was just as good, he had decided; let them fear him, and he could find solace in that simple knowledge.

Except Lucifer. He never was afraid of the Angel of Death, and that also suited his needs. Perhaps Morning Star did understand that Azrael would never go against him, that he was bound as surely as if red threads had wound themselves around his soul. Perhaps he knew that Azrael revered him, looked up to him, found himself in awe under the other’s strength and cunning. Perhaps he was just overconfident. Either one did not matter at all to Azrael; he found himself simply pleased at being trusted.

Wandering through the halls had become a small pastime for him as of late; there was an ecstatic enjoyment over being allowed to go where he wished, whenever he wished it, and so he took advantage of this simple thing to the best of his ability. He loved the feel of each of his muscles moving, the way the wind ruffled his hair as he walked, then sound of his bare feet against the smooth floor. He found the simple pleasures much more rewarding than the larger ones.

And, it also gave him a chance to listen on the conversations of others, to find out what he had been missing in his time of punishment. Love lives, scandals, political unrest were the common places, not to mention rumors and battle plans for the upcoming battles. He found himself turning his ears towards these, and though Lucifer had brought him into a few meetings concerning courses of action, he knew little in the entirety of the war plans.

But, as he walked on this day with his cloak drawn loose over his shoulders and clasped at his throat, he heard the one thing that grabbed his attention more solidly than all the love-life scandals, all the political backstabbing, all the lies and the hate had before.

“Lucifer went to find Nathanael.”

“Heard he’s going to ask him to join up with us.”

“You know what will happen if he says no.”

“Either way, it’ll make the battle that much easier.”

The gray eyes widened, long lashes peeling back from the crystal irises, and in a heartbeat, he was storming down the hallways. Wings twitched beneath the thickness of his cloak, a simple nervous habit just like his rubbing of the wrists were, and fingers clutched his hood and pulled it up, covering his features; he was a wanted man, and if found…

He would not go back to the dais, no matter what the cost.

Hands found the doorway leading outside and shoved them open. He was walked like a predatory beast, though he wasn’t even sure what he was going to do. He had made a vow to Nathanael not to let anything happen to him, but he was bound to Lucifer in blood.

But…Nathanael…

Maybe there could be some sort of reasoning, some sort of even ground, and Nathanael could be let alone, allowing him to go about his way. Or maybe he could convince Lucifer of leaving the angel alone, or maybe he could intercept them before it even happened…

It was raining today, one of those rare days when the light still shimmered through the bloated raindrops and created translucent colors on everything. Had it been any other day, any other time, he might have lingered, letting the drops roll down over the soft contours of his face, might have rested and opened his mouth, tasting the water upon his tongue. But he had no time to relax, no time to stop, even for a heartbeat, and growling softly underneath his hood, he was jarred back to the mission at hand.

I'm not worthy of you, Azrael... I am not worthy of your mercy, nor your appreciation.

Protect Nathanael at all costs. No matter whom he had to defy, no matter whose path he crossed.

Azrael was unsure of how long it took to get to the structure of purest white marble, whose spires were blinding like stars in the sky, but it had felt like an eon had faded and died on every step. The building was immaculate in its beauty, smooth as untouched snow and just as white, and the ground surrounding it was lush with the kiss of grass and flowers, which drew the eye from the immense black iron gate that surrounded it.

He had taken too much time, he knew it; taken too long, and the feeling in the pit of his stomach, that thick weight, would not dissipate with all the positive outlooks in the world. His hands snuck out from the end of his robe, and grasping one gate door, he pushed it in without a sound. He slid inside, the soft sound of his anklet meeting his ears, just as he shut the gate behind him. Taking a step forward, he looked up the marble stairs, up and up the dozen steps until they evened out to a doorway.

And there it was, the sacrilege burned down against his heart worse than any brand, more violent than any scar.

Face flushed pink, hair dripping over his shoulders, Lucifer was straddling the narrow hips of the kicking and struggling Angel of Vengeance. Morning Star’s hands were white-knuckled and wrapped around the other’s neck, sunk deep into tender flesh, marking, bruising, strangling, and his eyes were so dark, so dark and lost in this moment as he watched his hands choking the life from his friend.

“NO!” Azrael screamed, or thought he did; he wasn’t sure what he was doing, lost in this horrible moment, suddenly unable to stop Lucifer, stop the one person who had helped him when no one else could. Rooted helplessly to the spot, feet nailed down like on a crucifix, all he could do is shake his head, even as with the last of his strength, Nathanael’s eyes turned to him.

“Lucifer, please, let him go! I beg of you!”

Hands clutched harder, and Azrael could hear the other’s choking. “You want to help him? Where was this angel when you were chained? Where was he when you were suffering?” Lucifer hissed. “He was helping keep you there, locked in a room, by serving a God who hated you! He is no different than--”

“That’s not true!” The Angel of Death took another step forward, stormy eyes resting on Lucifer, eyes that were overflowing in their shame. He could see the light fading from the angel; he needed to get Lucifer off him, but…

He couldn’t defy his savior. And it would be his entire fault that Nathanael died.

“Nathanael has done nothing wrong! He is a kind person who--”

“He will fight to kill us, Azrael!” the other screamed. “It is his duty to see us dead; you and I! We must kill him before he can do so to us!”

His savior and his friend, and here he was, lost as to what needed to be done. Frozen, he felt useless, pointless, all the while each second crying out his betrayal even louder. But who was he to betray, Nathanael or Lucifer?

“Let him go!”

“I am the one that rescued you!” The hard chipped eyes of the other rested on him while Azrael watched Nathanael’s lips turn blue, cheeks a violent shade of purple. “I protect you now, Azrael! You swore your life to me!”

Azrael stared on helplessly through blurry vision as cruel digits tightened to inhuman levels and Nathanael’s eyes rolled back, solid whites showing, all struggles ceasing to exist. Lips, puffy and blue, were parted, as if asking to draw breath once more, such a simple task that could no longer be carried forth. And as Lucifer pulled his hands away, this finger marks were dark and already blue, rapidly falling to an even darker purple, brands of death.

Strength flooded through Azrael like an electrical surge, and he ran up the stairs so quickly that he stumbled on the forth step and crawled the rest. When he finally reached the top, reached the scene of the cold-blooded act, his hands found Nathanael’s face, fingers touching his violet cheeks, turning them, rubbing them gently.

“No… no…please, come back, come back, I’m sorry, so sorry…I should have…should have…” He could taste the tears rolling down his cheeks, resting on his lips, falling down onto the other’s discolored face. They were bitter and accusing, pregnant with hate and sorrow, tainting his senses with their taste.

He heard Lucifer moving rather than watched him, and once he was away, Azrael dragged the still body as much into his lap as he could. He didn’t care about shame anymore; let Morning Star watch him weep, let him know how dead he felt at this moment. Let the world know, and it still would not be enough.

The rain had stopped; he was crying enough for all of Heaven.

“He is the enemy, Azrael.” He felt the fingers of his savior in his hair, soothing it back gently. “It is simply one less angel to kill during the battle.”

“Silence,” he growled, clutching the body tighter. “You know nothing, nothing at all.”

“This is a war, angel,” Lucifer replied as if speaking to an invalid. “You will kill many angels just as I did here, and they will have loved ones as well.”

Ashy eyes turned up to where the other stood beside him. “I swore that nothing would happen to him! I promised him that I would protect him!”

Fingers curled gently around his chin, the same fingers that had struck the life from Nathanael not a moment earlier, and pulled it upwards so they could stare eye to eye. “And you swore your life to me, Azrael. I don’t care about any other vows you might have made. You have done your job well; let that satisfy you tonight.” The palm of his hand found the smooth wash of ebony strands, and petting it softly, he smiled. “This is all our Father’s fault; if He had treated us, and all living creatures, fairly, then we would not be forced to such actions, and there would be no war tearing us apart.”

Shoulders shuddered gently as he nodded. “His fault. His will. He will pay.”

Lucifer let the corner of his lips pull upwards in a small smile. “Do not linger here long; you are still a wanted man.”

Azrael waited until Lucifer had disappeared before he began to sob, leaning over so he could bury his face in the other’s shirt, where a still heart lurked beneath. He waited to flare his wings beneath the cloak, then tore it off so he could wrap the feathered appendages around them both, shielding them from whomever might see. He waited to let the walls of his powers down, to slam it into the marble steps and walls of the building, turning the perfect pristine stones to a burnt, tainted black; just as he waited to let his power slip down into the surrounding ground, the flowers withering, dying, falling away to dust.

And no one came, no one approached, no one saw.

Once he gained composure enough to walk, he laid Nathanael down comfortably against the blackened stones, fingertips running over his hair softly. “I am sorry.” He pressed soft lips to other’s, even as he gently closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to each of those as well. Tugging his cloak over, he laid it over the Angel of Vengeance’s body, letting his hand run over it one last time before he found shaky feet and staggered down the steps.

War ensued shortly after, giving Azrael little time to mourn. In some ways, he felt that Lucifer had wanted it this way, knowing he would fight better as a grieving man, but then also, he had heard talk of the Angel of Destruction gathering his own armies in preparation, and it was clear they could hold their position no longer if they desired some chance at victory.

And so the greatest battle consumed Heaven, all over the classic vices of Power and God and Freedom. Flowers once vibrant with yellows and blues were painted over in thick crimson, moments before being crushed beneath the bodies of the fallen. Feathers and wings littered the ground, the wounded screaming, the dying bleeding. On the skirmishes where victories lay, little rejoicing was heard from either side; brothers were fighting brothers, cutting down equals in the heat of passion.

Heaven had become a mockery.

Azrael fought with the careless desire to destroy all that he could, a wanton need to get to the Almighty with little regard to his own well-being. In this respect, he had been molded into the perfect weapon: efficient, self-sacrificing, and powerful. And perhaps, if Kemuel’s army had not overwhelmed them, and if he had not been beaten by the Angel of Destruction due to several grievous errors on his own behalf, he might have gotten his desire to face the Father.

But, though his growing hatred for his creator was apparent in his every action and every spoken word, so was his respect to Kemuel. And when the angel held his flaming sword to Azrael’s throat, the Angel of Death had smiled for the first time in so long, and had whispered, “You have earned your victory more than anyone else ever has. You fight unlike any other creature, and it really is something you should take pride in.”

And now, chained to his knees on the floor before the grand throne of God, shackles wound around those bleeding wrists once more, along with the metal collar at his throat, he was forced to listen with a slow heart as his punishment found his ears.

“What happened to you, Azrael?” God whispered, the teenage body shifting in a seat far too large for Him. “You were one of my precious chosen, and you have found the need to destroy all that you touch. First, Sandalphon, and then Nathanael, an--”

The hazy fog of Azrael’s eyes blinked, then widened. “You… you think… I killed Nathanael?”

The Almighty shifted pitying eyes down onto the chained angel, before the adolescent head shook. “People have seen you leaving. Your cloak was found there. Your innocence has been thrown away, replaced with the guilt of the countless crimes you have committed.”

The room faded to something of white noise, having found the secret to fading away on thoughts from the days of the pillars. So, they believed he murdered Nathanael. And would they have been so far off? He had done nothing to help him, nothing but stand there as Lucifer had wrapped his hands around his throat and choked the life from him.

And hadn’t that paralysis been worse than anything he could have done, than if it had been his hands wrapped around the slender throat himself? He had broken his promise, his vow to keep him safe no matter what the cost, had sat and done nothing, after swearing to protect him against even Lucifer.

He had killed Nathanael, had doomed him.

“—and your wings shall be torn from your body.”

Azrael came slamming back to the reality of the room, of the trial without a jury, an execution without a verdict. Whatever had been decreed, he had missed, other than that final line, that dreadful punishment that was as unthinkable as anything else. But he dared not argue it, finding the sweet vengeance that it was thick with more satisfying than anything else.

Sandalphon had deserved to die. God had earned His attack and the uprising, for His hands were stained.

But Nathanael had been an innocent, a sweet and pure soul that he had betrayed. He would endure this for him, and for him alone.

And as holy hands found the first of six ebony wings, he made no sound as they pulled, twisting. He held his head high as the bones snapped, as the tendons creaked, then were torn away. His gray eyes on God, he said nothing as the flesh gave way with a wretched wet sound, and a torrent of blood ran like fire down his back. Discarded like waste, the feathered appendage was thrown in front of him, tossed onto the floor to remind him, to etch into his mind just what was being done.

And the pain was sweet and justified.

By the third wing, he was panting, and God looked annoyed on his throne. By the fourth, Azrael could feel the sweat mixing with the crimson running down his back, and knew how pale he must appear. And still, the Almighty appeared vexed, thirsty for someone screaming, pleading, and finding only apathy and silence.

The sixth was tossed onto the pile, a mangled pile of midnight plumage, clotted and shiny with blood. The ends were ratted, matted, long threads of flesh and the pinkness of muscles trailing off like tails. They spoke of a gruesome tale, of a dishonor that knew no bounds, and still, the Almighty found rage in the silence.

“And your soul shall be thrust down to the humans, reborn for countless centuries, doomed to be reborn and killed in horrific fashions for all of eternity,” He growled, the juvenile eyes narrowed. “Your punishment has been decided!”

The Angel of Death smiled gratefully. Fitting, he found this: the perfect punishment to suit his crime. “Thank you, Father.”

Tilting his head back, Azrael made no sound as the sword pierced his chest from behind, no whimper as the serrated, pointed tip broke through the flesh of his breast, thick and dripping with blood. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, tangled in long lashes before spilling over pale cheeks, dripping from his soft chin, and dropping down onto the point of the blade.

And as the blood began to fill his throat, his mouth, he whispered one name, one apology, both thick with his own life, his own soul. And on the wings before him, on the blood pouring onto the pristine floor beneath him, he vowed to –

Kazu shot up in bed, panting and trembling as the ends of his dream fell away. Ebony tendrils of hair were thick with his own sweat, his naked chest glittering with it as if all the droplets were diamonds lounging beneath the moonlight, and his heart was hammering without abandon while encased in the tight prison of his thin breast.

Another nightmare. He peered over at the bright LCD display of his clock, noting he had been sleeping for little over an hour, but feeling more like a century, maybe two. This was perhaps the worst, the most vivid, the most real, to the point that he had really felt like Azrael, this Angel of Death who he understood no more than he did nuclear science.

Damn. This needed to stop, these dreams, these sleepless nights.

A hand slipped out from the covers, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t one of his own fine and delicate ones by the lack colored polish painted across the fingernails. Rusted ends of hair were strewn across the pillow beside his own, and the glitter of a half-open eye was barely seen.

“You ‘kay?”

Kazu nodded slowly, the ends of his dark hair rubbing against the top of his back as he gained control of his tremors enough to lie down beside Kyosuke. He found the other’s arm snaking around his slim waist, tugging him closer to the beckoning warmth that the other just naturally gave him. He buried his face down beneath his chin, and finding this to be a comfortable position, felt his lips curl upwards.

He might not have understood Azrael, but he could easily comprehend this, this blissful feeling of completion as he lied down beside Kyosuke, the only person who always seemed to soothe the nagging feeling that lingered in the back of his mind. He wondered if he should describe the dream to Kyo, wondered if he should tell him all the intricate details of it while it was new, clean, fresh in mind.

But Kazu could tell the other was already back asleep, and he wouldn’t dare to wake him for something that was simply a dream. Palmers still drawn up in a smile, he pressed a soft kiss to the other’s throat, a light little thing, and before he knew what he was doing, he had whispered, “I’m sorry,” though he wasn’t sure exactly why he was. For waking him up maybe? But that didn’t seem right, didn’t seem big enough.

Kazu shook it off, discarding the dream, the words, the questions, and simply fell back asleep, wrapped in the other’s arms. He could worry about it tomorrow.

And tomorrow, Kazu decided, he would get Kyosuke a flower.

The End