Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The waters rushed around him like the swirling winds of a distant hurricane, messing his hair and soaking his armour as he walked along the ocean’s floor. Small bubbles of air left his lips, creeping out from the sides of his blank, featureless mask. They drifted upwards, becoming petite marbles in the speckled light of the sun; which was miles away, strobing down in beams that rolled off those spheres as they rose to the surface. The surface… he sighed, it was so far away from him now.

He looked up with his flaming white eyes, marvelling how the light became fractured, split into rays which danced along the metals of his white and gold armour as if they were the faint wisps of some ghostly apparition. Rays pranced around his head also, exploding from his halo, a wreath of divine passion, the creator’s warmth and love woven into every strand of morning starlight that curved around that luminescent ring. Though a sign of his holy status, he guiltily used this deity’s crowning gift as a mere guiding torch of sorts, watching out for any life within the murk. He looked over his shoulder, feeling a rush of movement behind him.

Aha!

Quickly, he drew his sword. The ‘shing’ of the blade echoing throughout the marine void. The agent flicked away a floating golden strand of hair, standing his ground on the sandy floor. Something flickered, a soft touch against the back of his neck. A shiver ran up his spine. Sharply, he looked behind him again, readying his shield.

It hissed.

The waters shifted, the light trembling in its wake.

Another long, drawn-out hiss.

He gritted his teeth, raising both shield and sword. A mocking laughter surrounded him. The waters shifted once more, waves rippling, the world had suddenly become darker than before. As he returned his gaze to the front, a pair of shining pearls glared back at him. A little gasp escaped him, heart desperately trying to steady itself. A forked tongue flicked outwards in front of him.

Scaled lips peeled back to reveal a mass of ivory daggers. He pointed his blade squarely at the serpent.

It cackled, unafraid.

He snarled back. The serpent retreated backwards, sensing his wrath and dropping the smile.

So solemnly, it examined him, recognising his face, the dream-like nightmarish visage of white nothingness that broke through the fog of the algae, lit up by that backdrop of holy light. The glow rolled off the metal edge of his sword, making it akin to a flaming sabre. The serpent, once cocky, now seemed to quiver with slight fear. It muttered something under its breath, retreating further, shrinking back and blending into the darkness of the watery abyss. That subtle cruelty, held in those concealed, stern flaming orbs, affixed the snake, transfixed it. Its mouth was held slightly agape, nostrils flaring, small bubbles expelling and popping, full of short breath.

The angel wasn’t smug, however, in the serpent’s cowering, he remained indifferent.

“So,” Leviathan finally swallowed enough fear down to speak, “I see my time here is done.”

“The Lord wants your head.”

The sea serpent cringed at that blunt, automaton-like tone.

“I see. And I assume you are here to kill me?” it cocked its head backwards, feigning nonchalance.

“Your death has been requested by the Ophanims and-”

“And you agree with them? Ophanims are mere mouthpieces, augurs, they are not judges.”

The snake tried to hide its chuckle, desperate to remain in earnest tone. It watched the angel tilt his head to one side, registering the question. As if… as if that question had never been asked before.
Good, thought Leviathan, I’ve got him.

He was taken aback. “What?”

The sword was moved slightly away from pointing squarely at its scaled throat. Leviathan grinned, slithering a little forward, worn frills making their sheened appearances with twinkles of reflected light. It slithered ahead again, edging a little closer and as it did so, it furrowed its horned brows, pouting a little as its eyes glinted with plea.

“What have I done to deserve death, my Archangel? Tell me, Seraphim, what would you have become of me?”

The angel paused and thought, biting his lip slightly as he replayed the question in his head. Will would have him kill the beast right there and then: the Lord was his will, he was the Left Hand of God. To refuse this task would be to refuse his master. Leviathan had no power over him. Leviathan must be deserving of death to atone for his sins… whatever they were.

“Tell me, do you know what I have done to deserve such a cruel end?” it slithered closer, coyly.

“You’re tricking me.” he staggered back, pointing his blade at the creature once more. "And I don't need to know."

“I’m not.” Leviathan sighed, “Look, what would be the point in trying to deceive you? I know who you are, you’re the Archangel of Justice. You’re the Judiciar, you can sniff out a lie from the other side of the universe.”

The angel snarled, thrusting the blade a little towards the serpentine silhouette. In response, the snake backed up, exposing its lack of will to fight.

“I’m not playing any game, I promise. I am merely asking a genuine question, purely out of curiosity: as Judiciar, as the sealer of my fate, what do you think should happen to me?”

There was no expression of thought glazing over his eyes, not that any expression could be deciphered. Leviathan had to go off mere instinct to uncover a hint of personality under that ghastly mask.

“Honestly, Archangel, am I deserving of death?”

“You are.”

“And why?”

He paused, looked down for a brief second, only to hear movement and raise his sword up again. As his eyes met the flame-like orange ones of the greying teal serpent, he only saw curiosity and tentative submission.

“The Lord has requested your death, I’m sorry.”

It smacked its finned tail against the sandy floor, cursing under its breath.

“What do you think, angel?! What do you think?! Do you even know what my supposed ‘crime’ is?”

“I’m just doing my duty-”

“Duty isn’t thought, boy!” venom dripped from its chops, looking like strings of oil floating in the water.

“Why are you asking me this?”

He took a step forward.

“I’m asking you because you are my judge! Not God! You!” it took a breath, voice raspy and gurgling with the current flowing through its gills, “So, tell me, what do you think?”

Leviathan’s heart was set alight with a spark of hope as he saw the angel pause, his six wings ruffled in mild disruption as he weighed up the choices for his next few words. The angel hesitated, metal talons running through his floating locks as he contemplated the statement. Leviathan was right… technically, its fate was in his armoured hands, its spirit clinging to every nook and cranny of his fingers, where the armour’s rings wrapped around his joints. Delicate was Leviathan’s supposed state, and that vulnerability showed in its eyes, unuttered prayers resting on the tip of its forked tongue.

The angel’s voice cut through the silence like a shard of glass through flesh.

“I think…”

The snake nodded encouragingly.

“I think…” his grip tightened a little on his hilt, only to release again, “If I am the judge…”

“Yes?”

“If I am the judge...” he paused in thought again.

Angels, despite their immense power and incomprehensible knowledge of the inner workings of the universe, did have difficulty with thought. It wasn’t that thinking was hard to do, it was just thinking for yourself.

An angel, even a lowly malakh, could rip the very soul out of a living body and crush it into nothingness; but not think for themself. It was wise of the Godhead, whoever They would turn out to be, to fix a few reigns onto the psyches of Their messengers, so that they would be tethered to their duties and carry them out well. And above all, not usurp the grand Dreamer.

“Come on, Isfet’il,” the utterance of his name shook the young Seraphim a little, “You know in your heart that killing me would be nothing but a waste.”

“You have proven useful-”

“I make the tides!” the serpent exclaimed, “I’ve allowed the seas to be filled with virility! This Earth would be nothing without me.”

He shook his head.

“What?”

“The Creator will just dream up another. And… about the judgement…”

“No… no… Isfet’il, my Seraphim… don’t-”

“You’ve diverted from your purpose, and for that, I cannot pardon you. Duty is always and you have fallen.”

Leviathan cursed under his breath again.

“I give up. This is all clearly out of my control.”

“Submit to the Lord’s will.”

“It seems I should.”

Isfet’il smirked, basking in this victory. He took a step closer, the talons on his boots raking the sand with every step. Leviathan’s frills flattened as it dreaded the rising of the angel’s sword, to feel the water break apart and give way to the swipe of its sharp edge.

God had long abandoned its corner.

However, was Leviathan quite ready to accept that?

As Isfet’il was about to angle the blade for execution, he sensed something. A millisecond before it, his mind twitched and he felt the rush just as it was about to arrive. Something in the water changed around him, from a calm stillness to movement. He turned around.

Only to meet with the daggered, barbed tail of the World Serpent. The wind was knocked out of his chest as thick muscle struck him. He fell to the floor, the sand rising up like swirls of snow, white and disturbed.

Before he could register what would happen next, the tail wrapped around his waist. Leviathan shot upwards, heading straight for the surface and Isfet’il was dragged along by his torso. Desperate, he spread his wings open, hoping to create some resistance. The serpent was only mildly inconvenienced. It thrashed about, taking the young Seraphim this way and that, making him feel the ebb and flow of the stormy waves above. Leviathan was getting faster and faster, projecting itself upwards. The surface was in sight now, the beams of light passing Isfet’il in flashes before his eyes. He punched its tail, raked it with his talons, stabbing with his sword. Nothing. Nothing changed. He was stuck.

The snake cackled.

Water was rushing in his ears, which popped as the pressure changed at an alarming rate. He let out a shocked breath, the bubble of air that left his rosy lips disappeared into the distance as the next breath he took was metres above his last. He craned his neck upwards to the turbulent skies, reaching with his arm, hoping the sun would work in his favour.

Calm the skies, he prayed, calm the skies, you can do it.

The waves writhed and crashed about above, racing and colliding, becoming one and then splitting into two only to rejoin again.

Come on!

He could see a peek of blue, a new vivid world lay before one of his eyes as a chunk of his mask left him, sinking into the depths. A hopeful smile crossed his face. Invigorated with newfound determination, he planned his next few actions.

The serpent had yet to pay attention to what its adversary was doing. Instead, it just kept its eyes ahead, determined to be rid of this godly burden. No other angel would seek it out. He was the only one who posed a real threat since the others were afraid, were reclusive, scared of going against their nature and corrupting themselves. Except they were not able to be corrupted, but it supposed the fear kept them in line… just in case.

Suddenly, a sharp pain ripped through its spine.

Leviathan cried out, watching red drift upwards from the darkness. It looked down, only to see Isfet’il was no longer with it and nor was the end of its tail. Leviathan could see the shadow of its finned tail sink to the bottom. Blood gushed out, surrounding the grand snake in a shroud of crimson. It looked around, trying to locate the little beastie. There! A flash of white! It swam to the right. Only to turn around and see the silhouette of wings. Dammit! It swam that way next. Nothing. Growling, it took a deep breath, alighting the furnace in its chest. It didn’t want to do this, to cause grave damage, but it had little choice. It was either the angel having to shake off a few burns or it having to die.

As it breathed out, it expelled boiling water all around, a jet of heat exploding from its gaping mouth. It spun around, the stream of scalding water taking on all fronts.
However, Leviathan didn’t hit a thing.

Enshrouded in a mist of its own blood, choking on the rich iron as it weighed down its throat, the serpent tried to swim upwards, dreading what it would find on the surface.

Just… a… little… further…

It burst forth from the water! White foam erupted as it leapt upwards, crashing down onto the water once more with a seismic splash. It looked up and around, trying to find the angel amongst the grey clouds. Rain poured down in heavy bouts from the heavens above, the sky weeping with rage as the conflict continued. Leviathan needed that damned celestial dead… or at least inoperable. Liberty was but a minor defeat away and the serpent knew it could clear its conscience later.

Perhaps, it could persuade Isfet’il? The young Archangel looked like he could be influenced. Besides, it would be beneficial in the long run. It hurt realising you were tethered, and it would hurt even more to continue to be tethered… to feel those invisible shackles burn into your flesh, delicate and frail against the rusty touch. Leviathan knew better than to stoop low, even if that little brat had just cut off its tail.

No matter, it thought, I’ll heal in time.

In a way, Leviathan should be glad it was going to die in the next few moments, since Isfet’il had a particularly potent ability. Being the Left Hand of God and Their enforcer, he was specially designed for his job- and that included having the nasty ability to slow down any healing capabilities a creation had. Leviathan would never see its glorious, glistening frilled tail again whether it was in death or in exile. That tail, along with any other injury sustained from the Seraphim, would forever scar the serpent’s body, maintaining shape and significance even long after it had rotted into the soil.

The World Serpent growled under its breath, looking this way and that, trying to find the winged shape amongst the mist and fury. Its orange eyes pierced through the haze like lanterns, fiery and alert. Though, you could make out the hint of fearful tears, uncertainty was creeping up the back of its neck with touchy terror, nerves zinging with a dread-filled crawling sensation.

Maybe… maybe this was the end?

I think, in that moment, Leviathan realised its fate was sealed. Isfet’il exploded from the sea, soaring into the clouds before lowering himself just above Leviathan’s quivering form. As it beheld what was just a fraction of the majesty of the Light Bringer, watching the now huge, multi-winged Seraphim rise from the ocean, it had uttered its own death rite.

Whilst this was far from Isfet’il’s true form, it was that little bit closer than what he had arrived to greet Leviathan in what felt like just a few minutes earlier.

And in being that little bit closer, Isfet’il was now that little bit more incomprehensible to take in. Leviathan’s eyes widened as it stared up at the grand creature before him, rising above the horizon like the morning sun. A flourishing of multiple wings, white and glowing, covered in flaming eye-like forms, brighter than the daylight, yet still he maintained somewhat the shape of a man but also more. Flames of white light surrounded him, making up his mane of wrathful white-gold hair.

He was much greater than Leviathan had ever known, he was much stronger than Leviathan could ever be. The serpent gasped, watching the angel just stare down at it, glaring with his multitude of spheres. Fear struck the serpent’s heart, breaking through its drum skin of flesh and bone. Its pulse thundered, rushing with pure, unadulterated terror at the sight before him. No words could describe the sight, a glimpse of what Isfet’il could truly be… and yet not. Leviathan’s eyes were bound by mortal comprehension, the giant mass of eyes, feathers and light was all its orange spheres could understand. Had it been a fellow angel, they may have just seen what was before the snake under the sea: a young lad of six wings, wavy hair and a cheeky smile. Though, now Leviathan beheld what could be seen.

It only had one word to say.

“Mercy.”

Its voice trembled, its eyes starting to ache in the brightness of the Morning Star.

“Please... “

“Rest assured-”

“No...” Leviathan didn’t need to hear those words, couldn’t bring itself to listen to its rites being spoken by that distorted voice, both more bestial than the snake and softer than any calm sea the serpent had ever known.

“- the Lord shall forgive you in time, as will I. I grant you-”

“NO!”

Leviathan, with a sudden bout of rage and courage, leapt upwards. It didn’t know what came over it, like its actions were no longer its own, in a desperate endeavour to survive. It unhinged its jaws wide open. Isfet’il was confident however, and brought his sword down. Only for the creature to dodge and then-

CHOMP!

Jaws sunk into divine flesh. He screamed out as the serpent shook its head side to side, sinking deeper and deeper. He could feel the coldness of Leviathan’s forked tongue sticking into the wound and lapping up his blood. He grasped the snake’s head, trying to get it off of him, his talon’s, however, just scraped over the hardened scales. As blood pooled into the hole in his shoulder, Isfet’il could feel something else, something more than blood.

Adrenaline soared through him. Venom. Venom! He yanked and pushed, using all his strength and biting down the screams and cries building in his throat. Leviathan would not relent, it clung on with thrice the vigor. The Seraphim grunted as he writhed in the air, wings flapping desperately as he did his best to not let the damn thing take off his arm. A horrid squelch sounded, echoing throughout. He clawed at the scales, raking them, trying to find a weak spot. The jaws only tightened their grip on his flesh. He couldn’t keep composure anymore.

He screamed. He screamed like he had never screamed before. The very skies shook, clouds swelling with grey rain and ripping apart with splintering cracks of lightning as that banshee-like cry roared throughout the heavens above.

Blood and water splashed and splattered in a stinking mixture across his face as he managed to get the wretched thing off of him. He mustered all the strength he could find in the pain, seeing it through with gritted teeth as he sunk his talons into the temples of the serpent’s head. Piercing agony tore through the snake and it let out a bellow of a hiss. Fangs momentarily loosened their hold on his flesh. He sought that window of opportunity out and grabbed it with a new vigour.

With a final yank he tore off the creature. However, in doing so, a part of his shoulder with it. The muscle, bridging from the base of his neck to his shoulder, was torn clean off.

He screeched.

The serpent fell back into the ocean’s tumultuous embrace, mouth dripping with red. It grinned mockingly.

Then, with no second thought, with no calculation or use of whatever prior knowledge Leviathan did have of angels, it lunged forward. The Archangel flinched, yelping.

Despite what, in Leviathan’s eyes, was a display of weakness, a mere bite wouldn’t stop a Seraphim.

It was a fool to think it could best what could not be bested.

Leviathan was in some blood-craze, cackling as it saw Isfet’il writhe above, just about staying airborne. Licking its chops, it spat and lunged at him again; enjoying the fear in his eyes. However, it had yet to clock the sword had found its way back into his grip. The sword, which was being steadied and slowly honing its aim.

It leapt up, a gush of water spewing behind it, creating a mockery of an aqueous halo. Jaws unhinged, ready to rip apart the warrior in front of it.

“RAAAAARGH!”

In a berserk flurry, the sword came crashing down. It plunged straight down the snake’s throat. A crunch ripped through the air like the crack of a whip. The blade’s end poked out of the back of its skull. It became stark still.

Isfet’il, cradling his wound in his free hand, hovered above the serpent. A single tear rolled down its bluing cheek as its muscles slowly loosened. Taking the chance he had now, he let go of his wound, wincing, and pulled the sword out, pushing himself off of the thing with his foot just to gain that little bit of an upperhand.

I lodged that in good.

He sheathed the blade, not caring it was coated in Leviathan’s essences, and watched on as the serpent’s body finally gave way and fell into the navy depths below.

The Archangel of Justice panted, clutching the bite as it reverberated with a flaring burn. The skies began to calm. He coughed and dropped a couple feet in the air.

“Oh God…” he sucked in some air through his teeth, mumbling a string of incoherent curses.

This was going to be a long haul to home up in Heaven.

And he wasn’t going to make it.

Chapter Text

She sat in her chair, rocking back and forth gently as a chill breeze swept in. Resting one hand on the jewelled top of her scythe, she watched the sky melt into a deep salmon as day met night’s dark embrace. The Angel of Death placed the sheesha to her lips and took a deep breath before letting out an eruption of white smoke.

Azra’il watched the puff of mist dance in the air before dissipating into nothingness. She smiled to herself, reclining in her seat under the shelter of her canopy, held up by sturdy pillars, looking more like a Grecian structure than something you would atribe to typical biblical imagery. Purgatorio as a whole was peaceful, vast and a true escape from the hustle and bustle of Heaven. Sure, the edenic and slightly tumultuous landscape was most certainly a thing Azra’il still had yet to get used to, but the tranquility and comforting quiet were two things she couldn’t take for granted.

Which is why when a ribbon of light ruptured the sky, she jumped out of her skin.

She yelped, dropping the sheesha’s pipe and toppling off her chair. Azra’il’s milky, purple eyes looked up to see a fissure of white tearing the sky asunder. Like a comet ripping through the atmosphere, a blazing trail made its course across the sunset and landed somewhere beyond the horizon, leading to a swarm of black birds to erupt and scatter. The Angel of Death got up from her slump on the floor, using her scythe to prop herself up. Pulling her black hood down, she got a better look at what had just happened. Though the explosion of brightness had only lasted about a minute or two, Azra’il felt as though she had just witnessed what was worth several universes withering, dying and resurrecting. Her eternal life had flashed before her eyes along with thirty futures as that sudden wave of saturated white had jolted her back into reality, ripping her from her absent-minded daydream.

Dusting herself off, the Seraphim mumbled a grudgeful curse.

She could still make out a flickering flame down yonder. Like a second sun, it blazed and fizzled before returning to full brightness and beginning the cycle all over again. Tears welled in her eyes as she beheld the raw light, she felt her mouth dry up as she was left to gasp, taking in the awe-inspiring image of this majesty. A star had just fallen and landed in her grounds. If she didn’t see to what it was, she would have a lot of explaining to do.

And a lot of paperwork to fill in.

The Angel of Death grumbled and trudged onwards, knowing that either way she’d be sent out to go investigate: regardless of whether it was through ‘nomination’ by the others or going out on her own accord.

As she ambled onwards she found that, despite a literal fireball being yeeted into the atmosphere, Purgatorio seemed colder than ever. Several shivers ran up her spine as she watched her step along the uneven cobbled path. Sundown led to harsh shadows, darkness engulfing her every now and then. She wasn’t intimidated, however; the Seraphim was a Malakh-Al-Mawt, made of literal darkness herself. As shadows loomed over her, she replied with her own emissions of bleakness in the form of elegant ebony mist, which swirled around her body. According to the rumours of the higher-ups in Heaven, if they held any nugget of truth, it could calm and soothe even the most skittish of minds- a good adaptation to possess when confronting the souls of the dead in the future, who, half the time, wouldn’t know the reality of their situation until she’d break it to them.

Her thoughts turned to the present as her mind trailed away in its lonesome, she was still annoyed about having her well-earned break interrupted, which had left a sour taste in her mouth and put her in a slightly foul mood. Although, she couldn’t deny this did add some drama into what was becoming a rather boring routine.

Wake up. Eat breakfast. Tend to the land. Check up on underlings. Eat lunch. Tend to the land again. Check up on underlings again. Eat dinner. Report back to Heaven. Go to bed.

Had she known that being the incarnation of death would be so much like an office job, she’d have chosen to stay with Raf’il and her healers. It didn’t matter though. Purgatorio was sort of growing on her, funnily enough.

Something about the landscape, she supposed.

The vastness of it all. Just the way it seemed so different yet so alike to Heaven. Whilst it had beautiful garden-like wilds and crystal clear waters, unlike the Kingdom, though, it wasn’t built up to the very edge of the sky. Purgatorio had an untamed and free landscape with a diverse skyline of towering deciduous trees, notably weeping willows and redwoods; and curved cliffs of rock, akin in shape to crescent moons; and was also notably dotted with ancient ruins supposedly housing long dead incarnations of angels- incarnations the Seraphims were told to act as though never existed.

Purgatorio was a graveyard for all.

Whilst those entombed in those barrows were mourned, it was more out of politeness if anything. This was because, even though the taboo of disrespecting the dead hung over everyone, no one could forget what they were: failures. Failures die, perfections survive.

It was a grim truth, well, a potential truth since one defect survived, and more so grim when you were confronted with that very prospect every day. Azra’il needn’t a reminder of what would happen should she become ‘defective’ or ‘inefficient’ in her duties, she had the shadows of literal tombs to keep her in check.

To be holed up in a crypt like that, she thought, God… must be an awful fate.

A ruin in particular caught Azra’il’s eye as she followed the wake of destruction that stray comet left, poking through the low clouds. Stone arches, with intricately carved totem poles, stretched far and high. It was a henge of sorts, sitting atop the mountain. A circle of stones whose centre archway lined up perfectly with the sun’s rise during the winter solstice. Seldom would she make the pilgrimage with her malakhs and cherubims, but once every age or so, they’d place their respects when the light’s warm rays last pass through that arch.

Smoke filled the air. She was getting closer.

A deep scar had streaked across the soil, disrupting the vegetation that was growing there.

Well… it should have.

Hang on…

Azra’il knelt down before the scar, grasping a clutch of white flowers that had miraculously survived the crash.

No… that can’t be right…

Her suspicions were correct. Upon closer examination, she found the source of their surprising resilience. They hadn’t survived, they never felt the impact to begin with. As the Seraphim parted the grass, she found glints of red mingling with the soil and imbuing life. Her fingers became damp with the reddened soil, rubbing it between her fingertips to double-check. A drop or two escaped and fell back to the ground. Azra’il staggered back a little as she witnessed the single drop, as soon as it made contact with the earth, birth a new plant into existence.

“A light bringer?” she muttered to herself.

This was characteristic of their blood.

What’s one of them doing here?

Azra’il turned to see the rest of the scar. The trees were bent apart, scorched and smoking. However, the ground was swelling with life. White and green dotted the blazed soil. She beheld the wake of destruction. Getting back up onto her feet, she pressed on.

The butt of her scythe sunk into the red earth, as did her feet. She had been trekking barefoot, feeling the cold bite at her legs. Her cloak had been torn to rags by thorns and snags as the greenery had become more overgrown and aggressive. Picking up the loose fabrics, the Seraphim checked behind her for any more clues she had missed.

Nope. Nothing.

As she grew nearer to the cause of this, the air grew heavy. Azra’il managed to just about suppress a cough as the smoke became thick, clouding her vision. Flapping away the murky air, she pulled up her hood to protect her from the embers, which she noticed drifting about, still glowing and hot to the touch: as the Seraphim found when reaching out and gently tapping an ember, only for it to sting her finger. Sharply, she pulled away, cursing under her breath and briefly sucking on the mild wound.

Caution over curiosity, Azra'il!

Caution over curiosity indeed.

This excursion , she told herself as she hiked onwards, is purely out of necessity. And nothing more.

Azra’il was stopped by an overgrowth. Thick vines, hanging like serpents, blocked the way. Flowers had begun sprouting forth. This life-power she was witnessing, it was almost godly. Whatever this was, she had to be ready… there could be trouble up ahead. And she had a duty to fulfil: Purgatorio was under her rule and protection.

A shudder ran through her as she approached.

Come on, don’t get nervous now, girl.

She raised her scythe in the air and in one fell swoop the vines gave way. They crunched and broke apart, the blade of her weapon going through them like a knife through hot butter. Usually the sudden noise would have led to a scurry of animals, but there was no sign of life.

Not everything could have flown away with those birds.

Azra’il decided to begin tentatively creeping over the messied remains.

SNAP!

She yelped.

A deer leapt over her, losing balance before scrambling back onto its cloven hooves and running away. The angel cursed under her breath, scolding herself as she got back onto her feet, only for another deer to leap over her and scitter away. And another. And another. Azra’il watched them as they weaved around her, acting as if she wasn’t there to begin with.

What the…

At least half a herd had just spilt forth from the path, scrambling over the logs and dirt heaps behind her, tripping over the bunches of flowers and whatnot. One final elk jumped over the sliced barricade, bleating as it ran off. She turned and watched it, noticing how it hobbled, as if crippled by something. Her brows knitted together. This was getting strange. The animals weren’t usually scared like this.

Especially since there were no predators in Purgatorio to be afraid of… minus the angels… but even then, the Malakhs-Al-Mawt rarely killed healthy prey, usually picking off the old or sick. Being unable to contract illness made you the perfect culler. The deer rarely were scared, though, letting the malakhs roam quite closely alongside their herds, as long as they didn’t interfere with them.

This was bizarre.

What has this light bringer done? No… no one hurts without purpose. Well, unless you're Belial.

Belial was locked up and chained to the ground, he'd be trouble no more.

If that Seraphim had so much as skewed the balance she had made here by even a marginal amount, she’d let them taste her wrath to its fullest. Duty was always first, and if it meant she’d have to confront her brethren, then so be it. She’d even let a jinn roam around here freely should they leave without a mark made on Purgatorio. Azra’il steeled herself as she crept around the bend, examining the hoofprints as she inched by. She kept low, blending into the shadows of the trees, the redwoods bent over, taking the shape of the hurtling body perfectly. As she examined the hoofprints in the soil, Azra’il noted that they were light and scattered.

Those deer really were making a run for it.

She looked back to the cut vines.

Why was that deer hobbling, though?

Azra’il noticed a small trickle of blood, dripping from the leaves and wooded stems. Her eyes turned back to the tracks: more blood. Lightly, she traced her hand over one of the hoofprints, which had collected a small pool for itself.

She turned back to the deer’s path again.

“Poor thing…” she muttered to herself.

The Seraphim continued.

The scorched wound soon gave way to a clearing, the sparsely lit forest floor becoming illuminated by dying sunlight. The grass had grown thickly, reaching midway up her shins. Still, she kept low.

That’s when she saw it.

At the heart of the glade, the scorched scar thinned and came to an end. The end being a body, just laying askew from the path. The greenery had become rusted in colour, holding drops of dried blood.

She covered her mouth.

Was… was he dead? No… can’t be...

Just in case, she held her scythe ready… should things come to blows. She hadn’t interacted with her own kind for literal eons, they might have changed… become different.

You never know…

With touchy trepidation and a good heap of unsureness, Azra’il crept forward.

Caution over curiosity, was that the motto, Azra'il?

Thoughts swirled in her head as she approached.

Because you're not being careful enough.

The rising moon clad the fallen alien in silver, like a spotlight, marking him out. As Azra’il got closer, she could hear his breathing, laboured and almost whimpering. He was unconscious though. Severely injured but alive.

Carefully, she drew back her scythe, keeping it close to her. Azra’il knelt at his side. He was pale, looking sickly. From fear and territorial defensiveness, her feelings turned tender. No fight was going to break out and no laws were going to be broken, he was vulnerable and unconscious. Her preset sentiments were set aside in the name of goodwill and decency, light bringers usually brought nothing but trouble to her… but him. He would do no harm.

Just patch him up and send him on his way.

She gently reached out, her kinder nature getting the better of her. The Seraphim couldn’t do anything to hurt her or Purgatorio.

He was cold, his revealed right cheek freezing to the touch. And he was still bleeding. Blood pouring forth from a wound at his shoulder, running down his neck and over the lower half of his face, some had smeared across the part of the mask, left askew, where his mouth was. She parted his white hair, getting a better look at him. A shattered visage lay before her, armoured mask cracked and face half-buried in soil. The bleeding was really heavy.

How hadn’t the wound clotted yet?

“N-no matter.” Azra’il whispered, “I’ll get this sorted.”

She ripped a strip of fabric from her cloak and began to tightly wrap the wound, only seeing the red seep through. Frantically, she added another layer. As he bled, more flowers sprouted. He gave a small whimper as she eased him onto her lap, trying to get a better vantage point. Using as much strength as she could without doing more harm, Azra’il pulled the makeshift bandage as tightly as she could before wrapping it round again. She needed to press down on the wound.

“Come on, dove. You can hang on a little longer.”

He groaned, instinctively trying to grab whatever was helping him.

Her hands shook a little as she tried to bat his metal claws away. He was armed to the teeth, well, raggedly armoured, but armoured nonetheless.

“Stop fidgeting!” Azra’il whispered, flicking his fingers away, “I’m tryna help-”

Suddenly, a hand clasped around her throat.

She clutched his fist, feeling herself being lifted off the ground. A shrill gasp escaped her as she was raised into the air.

A single flaming sphere bored into her soul as she stared back at it, her own eyes wide and afraid. Hot white was that right eye exposed, blazing and raw with some unnatural energy. Her wings fluttered, the small digits on them trying to release the clawed fingers that had tightly wrapped around her neck, getting tighter and tighter in their grip. Her hands desperately picked at the metal talons, uncurling them only for his damn claws to snap back round her throat. Those steel nails scraping at her skin.

Azra’il yelped and kicked and commanded to be put down, watching as the half-exposed brow furrowed. That single eye looked glassy in the moonlight, as if glazed over.

Out of instinct, her raven wings unfurled completely, covering him in darkness and dream-mist.

She was beginning to lose herself as each breath became more laboured and each blink led to a more faded world. Azra’il spluttered, reaching for him with one hand, while the other dug its dull nails into whatever flesh it could find under the layers of gauntlet.

As soon as he saw the shadow of wings, his eye widened, seemingly rolling into the back of his head and he collapsed. He released her. Azra’il fell to the ground, coughing and spluttering, vision still blurry. She saw his shape fall down into the soil. Quickly, she grabbed her scythe and pointed it squarely at his form. A shaky hand wiped her brow as she steadied herself, slowly approaching. He shifted.

She poked him.

He didn’t move.

She poked him again.

He remained still.

Alright, take two.

She stared at him, lying there, unconscious, for a good minute.

Well… he did try to attack me.

Azra’il thought about it.

She packed up and left.

Only to then come back twenty minutes later with a full medkit, her swords, a shield on her back and a bottle of wine. She took a swig.

“Let’s get you on your way out of Purgatorio, you little beastie.”

Afterall, the amount of paperwork she’d have to fill in if she just left him was not going to be worth it. Not to mention, Azra’il never liked explaining herself… or feeling guilty.

Chapter Text

Fresh smells filled the air, soothing scents of some floral vapours. Eyes fluttered, soaking up the warm sunlight, feeling the heat of the morning rise; dawn made its presence known by pouring in through his closed eyes. In this vision of warm red, Isfet'il could only make out it was early day. However, his ears picked up movement. The occasional rustle, the shifting of bare feet against wooden floors, slight creaking. Hushed voices, speaking in a familiar yet muffled language. This was all distant though, the noises dampened by fabric walls. Screens. Held up by wooden frames.

His whole body felt stiff. Breaths feeling heavy, sinking down into his lungs, burning his nose as they passed.. The Seraphim tried to move, only to be met with a wave of dull, aching pain. His shoulder, in particular, felt weighty. Almost numb. And yet, ripe with agonising sensation. A yelp escaped Isfet’il as he tried to sit upright. The thin blanket that had been laid on top of him sunk back to just above his knees, leaving him exposed to the cold draughts seeping into the room, fiendishly feeling for his face.

Why am I so cold?

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, the angel propped himself up properly. His vision cleared to reveal he was not in fact in his armour. Rather, he was almost completely bare with his chest tightly wrapped across with bandages, keeping the dressing on his shoulder in place. A blush crept onto his cheeks as he looked around. This was definitely not his quarters, or anything like home. Yet, the room did feel familiar, the style, the design, the carvings in the wood, the way things were laid out- it was all somewhat akin to home but also not. Puzzled, Isfet’il’s head brewed with agitated uncertainties.

Which only grew the more he familiarised himself with his surroundings: be it the sights, the smells, the sounds. He had already established this didn’t look anything like the Oratory. Or anything from Heaven for that matter. The voices beyond the eerie silence of his chambers were not from anyone he knew of.

The smells in particular, he noted. He could make out something about the incense burning away in the corner, the drifting scents dancing about in the air smelt sweet, like flowers, uneven, layered. And incredibly strong.

Heaven doesn’t have this. This isn’t Heaven.

Seeing as this place had yet to prove its allegiances, Isfet’il scoured for anything that could be of use.

A coat hanger, wall sconces, reeds burning away, a display of a hung shield in front of two swords. Swords, he thought, hang on.

He looked around the room again.

Where are my swords?!

His dagger, long sword, scimitar and shield were nowhere to be found.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

No armour. No sword.

All wasn’t lost, however, Isfet’il knew he could handle himself in hand-to-hand combat should a threat arise. He was a Seraphim, afterall. Only a fool would dare challenge a Seraphim. Leviathan had sealed its own fate. They were six wings strong, had a burning glare, the strength of a god and were the vessels of one too- the Godhead’s guardians were built for a purpose, nothing could stand in the way of such a being from manifesting its directives. And our current Seraphim’s directives were to get out of here and to the Oratory as quickly as he could.

The will in him was strong, so strong that his body could barely contain it. As he tried to get up, his whole body cried out in protest. A ragged gasp escaped him as he desperately attempted to push himself off the bed, arms slipping onto elbows, and elbows sliding across the sheets. Feet slipped onto the backs of their heels. He was practically sprawling like a newborn foal. Growling quietly in frustration, he used all his strength to get up from lying flat on the mattress, lowering his expectations to at least sitting upright. He bit down whatever screams brewed in him, hoping he was being quiet enough to not draw attention from those voices beyond the walls. However, little did he know, he was making as much ruckus as a charging mammoth breaking through a brick wall- the bed was creaking this way and that, scraping against the floor, the sheets rising up and hissing and slipping with their own noises.

The angel continued to fidget though. Despite the pain and the obvious fact he was not fit to fly at all.

He only stopped when something knocked on his slide.

Fuck.

“I’m coming in.” A cold voice stated.

It sounded feminine and deep, as well as signaturely melodic.

A Seraphim? he cocked his head to one side.

The panel slid apart to reveal… nothing.

It was dark on the other side of the threshold, a dimly lit hallway with sparse scatterings of sunlight, dressing the corridor in a warm haze of almost red. Dawn, our lovely angel managed to work out, Not just early day. It’s dawn here.

The darkness before him stared back, a nothingness. And yet, something stirred in Isfet’il. There wasn’t nothing. There was just something that looked like nothing, A something that may not have visually been there, but a sixth sense told the Seraphim that the source of the voice was right in front of him, cautiously looking down upon his pallid form. The darkness shifted and the shadows migrated into the room. A pair of eyes could be seen, purple and misty, brought out by the light. The more it crept into the foreground, the more canny it became. From a mass of darkness and shifting ebon mists, to a silhouette and then, to a Seraphim.

A fellow being stood before him, holding a teatray. At her foot, hiding behind her tattooed leg, a childling malakh of a similar nature stared at him. Another dark angel, a cherubim, rested their many heads on her shoulder, asleep in a sling on her back. A sling made of deer hide.

“I see you’re finally awake.”

“Archangel of Death?” Isfet’il looked up at her, he had heard things about this one but had never actually met her in person. Dread Mother, The Raven, Ebonguard, Death, Reaper, the lady in black before him went by many names.

“Correct.” she bluntly replied as she sauntered across the room to his nightstand, placing the tray onto its mahogany surface, her footsteps silent. As she stood by him, for that brief second, he got a wave of sweet rosewater... and the tiniest hint of blood.

The second he reached over to take a cup, she shot upright, moving away from him.

It seemed she was trying to be subtle about it, her expression remaining unchanged thanks to her black, porcelain mask and veil, but he knew something was up. The way she stood; her wings, not fully sheathed; her pointed ears flattened; the way she kept her childlings firmly behind her.

He knew Azra’il was not one to easily trust a lightbringer. It was not characteristic for a Seraphim to keep away from their own kind, let alone seclude themself in Purgatorio. However, in a way, she had a right not to trust him. It is always wise to mistrust a Seraphim. You'll see.

“I assume I crashed here?”

“You assume right. I found you wounded, lying in a crater.” she was not dropping her guard, her voice clipped.

“Sorry.” he lowered his head, avoiding her eyes for a split second. “I know you care about Purgatorio deeply.”

“It’s alright.” her eyes raised in a small smile.

She isn’t buying it.

“Well, thank you for saving me,” he let out a weak chuckle, “Now, I really should be going. I-I’ll let Mater know what you’ve done- AH!” he yelped, a searing zing running up his arm and raking its claws into his side.

Cold hands placed themselves on his chest, pushing him back onto the bed. “You should rest.”

“But-”

“You’re severely wounded. I’ve called Jibra’il to pick you up.”

“You did what?! No… not them.”

“Look, they were the only one who was available.”

She sighed, giving a sympathetic smile under her mask. It seems even lightbringers don’t like other lightbringers, she mused.

“Jibra’il… seriously?”

She laughed, “What do you have against the Messenger?”

“A whole testament’s worth of vices. For an Archangel, you're quite out of the loop. How do you not know about that? Everyone knows about Jibra'il and me.”

“I'm somewhat of a recluse, I blend in well here. Anyways, you were saying about you and Jibra'il?”

“Look, they are the reason that Belial is still alive and that’s more than enough reason for me to hold a grudge.”

Azra’il masked a gulp. Belial. That thing was not a joking matter. She had heard stuff… stuff about angels slaying innocent Watchers, and doing it in the most brutal fashion. Going against tender nature never sat well with her, it was their duty to protect and nurture, not embrace their more... raptorial tendencies... what the Jinn feared most.

“Fair enough, I guess.” Belial's incredibly dangerous.

These two, like the rest of their kind, often forget they pose thrice the threat.

Isfet’il sighed, shrugging off the awkward silence that ensued for a few moments between them. The air became heavy.

“Well,” the Archangel of Death perked up again, adjusting his sheets, “You stay put here, lightbringer, and let Jibra’il pick you up.”

“I was hoping I’d never cross paths with them.” he grumbled.

“Civilities before animosities,” she said, “Set your grudges aside and deal with them later. I’m sure you have a lot to say to that Seraphim but right now, they’re doing you a service taking you to Mater and vouching for you on your lateness. Trust me, I know Mater is not one renowned for her patience.”

He laughed, taking a sip of his tea. It was sweetened, blissful and maybe a little too hot. Isfet’il took it anyways, he couldn’t complain, seeing as Azra’il had already done him a great favour by taking him out of Puragtorio’s maze-like forests. This realm was no place for a lightbringer: a bleak labyrinth of towering trees, gushing streams and haunted ruins. He stuck out like a sore thumb here, like a candle in a void.

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

Azra’il rose up again, adjusting her veil.

Raised marks along her neck struck out to Isfet’il. Strange. Wounds. Wounds don’t usually persist like that, not on an angel anyways. Unless…

Curiosity got the better of him, even though he knew it was better to keep his mouth shut.

“What happened to your neck?” he asked.

“Nothing.” she said. “I just had a scuffle a while back,”

He wasn’t convinced but he took the lie as truth.

The Malakh-Al-Mawt smiled gently. Seeing him in his true state had let her release those sour feelings of paranoia almost completely, but things still clung to her. Sure, last night had been a struggle. Dressing the wound had led to several other injuries which she kept hidden under her sleeve, but it just seemed to her that it was just defensive instincts taking hold. Instincts ran strong in them, they were a strange duality of primal and sophisticated.

Angels didn’t have autonomy anyways, so he really wasn’t to blame.

No one, it seemed in this realm, was ever to blame. Nobody is ever at fault.

The thought was chilling, cold in her chest. Paradoxes always required too much to think about and yet, she knew he wasn’t to blame, feeling it in her gut almost like an instruction of sorts. What had transpired, what was transpiring and what would transpire would all occur with intent. Angels were vessels and vessels were vulnerable to preordained events, certainties were a malakh’s kryptonite.

So why was a part of her still afraid and slightly mad that he was oblivious to what he’d done?

Adjusting her sleeves, she shook off the complexities, choosing to focus on the here and now.

“About that wound,” she began, “I’m no healer so you should go see Raf’il and have it properly looked at.”

“Mater will probably point me in that direction, anyways.”

“I’m sure she will.” Azra’il laughed, “I’m sure she will.”

A thunderclap of a roar echoed above, shrilling as the sound dispersed over the atmosphere. It was more of an announcement than something either of them would fear.A powerful roar, yes, but one that seemed to overcompensate in its sound rather than its trailing guttural ending, revealing the sound was more of an expulsion than anything akin to a battlecry.

“Speaking of heavenly bodies…” Azra’il looked up. Only to sharply switch her gaze to the door.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

“Come in!” she replied.

The slide moved again to reveal a small malakh.

“Ma’am, Seraphim Jibra’il is here.”

“Thank you, Ridwan. Tell them to wait. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Will do.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to be hauled to Heaven by Jibra’il.” Isfet’il winced as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Azra’il rolled her eyes, “Try not to take this whole thing to heart, or really anything they do or say.”

“Last time we fought it was a draw. Now… now… this is pretty much them winning whatever conflict we’ve been having for the past billion years. Seeing me like this will give them the wrong kind of closure.”

Azra’il sighed, “You’re not going to fight, not on my-”

“They’ll still take my current state as a victory on their part. God, this is humiliating. How was it even able to injure me?!”

Someone let it.

“Jibra’il is petty.” Azra’il said, patting the other Serpahim on his good shoulder, “Don’t get me wrong. But there isn’t going to be a fight on my land, so there won’t be a victory. Plus, what Seraphim takes victory over a weakened opponent? Where’s the sense of honour in that? Jibra'il stoops low. But not that low!”

“I’m going to break Jibra’il’s nose the minute I see them.” He growled.

“You two start fighting and I’ll chuck you into the Styx.”

Isfet’il humphed.

“I’m serious. If either of you lay so much as a finger on one another and frighten my assistants, you’ll find yourselves in the Styx-”

The Archangel of Justice opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted.

“-I’ll then drag you both by the ears to Mater myself!”

He gulped. “You’ve got a mean streak, you know that?”

Azra’il laughed to herself and left Isfet'il to his thoughts. Jibra’il would most likely be leaning over the front desk, with a snarky expression under whatever mask they wore nowadays.

Chapter Text

Early morning rain pitter-pattered on the panes behind the blinds, leaving Isfet’il feeling even more apprehensive than before. Jibra’il was the last person he wanted to see, and the last person he wanted to remain calm with.

For her, though, I’ll keep my cool.

Only for her.

He owed Azra’il one afterall, she’d done him a service. And whilst he knew it was obviously out of kind instinct rather than pure volition, he couldn’t help but be grateful, he also saw how his thankfulness had made Azra’il loosen her guard.

Why was she so cautious?

He thought about it. Well, she did say she was a recluse and he did have some vague knowledge of Al-Mawts, one of them being that they were shy and not so fond of their bigger, brighter brethren. However, that didn’t feel like pure wariness… no… it felt more targeted… a honed worry. She lied to him too. He could sense it. About her scars.

No matter, he waved away those thoughts, she seemed friendly enough to take him in and nurse him somewhat back to health. Azra’il doesn’t like lightbringers and I crashed into her home, it’s probably something to do with that.

Whilst he was on the subject of Azra’il, he looked down at his bandages. The white linen wrapped around his shoulder and across his chest: it was familiar. Almost exactly like the stuff Raf’il used when patching up him and the others. The smell too, he brought his nose down to sniff it, it was comforting, faintly smelling of bed but also of the strong ointment she must have applied to cool down the redness. About the smells… he looked up sniffing the air, everything seemed… stronger.

Should probably have my senses checked out by Raf’il too. Run some diagnostics… et cetera, et cetera.

A part of him was eager to get back to Heaven and be on familiar soil. Maybe he might be able to have a small break before his next assignment? Maybe. We’ll see. Right now, however, our boy had to keep focused on not losing his shit the split second Jibra’il walked through. He gritted his teeth quietly. Hoping to distract his thoughts from that dread to come, Isfet’il turned to the covered window, seeing as it seemed bright out there despite the torrential rain.

A gurgle of thunder grumbled above.

Isfet’il stared at the blinds, half sunken in the bedsheets. The other Archangel had left her childling behind, who observed the Seraphim closely. He tried to avoid making eye contact, however, every now and then, he’d have the misfortune of catching her eye. Although, as of now, it had been a good five minutes since he last awkwardly locked eyes. A small sigh of contentment left him.

Until…

“I’m Munkar.”

A shy voice came from his right.

He turned to face the wee creature. She scooted her chair forward.

“Sorry?” He didn’t quite get that.

“I said I’m Munkar. What’s your name, lightbringer?”

“Isfet’il.” He gave a court smile.

The malakh hopped off her chair and waddled up to him.

“Nice to meet you!” she held out her hand.

He took it, allowing her to wrap her small fingers around his index, shaking it gently up and down. She marvelled at him.

I’m probably something you don’t see everyday, he chuckled to himself.

“Can I sit next to you?” Munkar curiously asked.

“Uh… sure?”

He didn’t know how to handle kids. Isfet’il supposed he liked them, but had yet to make an actual judgement seeing as this was pretty much the third child he had ever encountered. Most of the malakhs back home were virtually fully grown. He was pretty much stagnant, older than almost everything in almost all planes of reality... and yet, people still had the nerve to call him ‘boy’.

Suppose all Seraphims have that issue, though.

The childling took her seat beside him. His white eyes drifted back to the blinds, soaking up the sunlight. A small tug was felt to his right. Isfet’il slowly looked back to see the girl grasping his hair, parting it into three. She was completely absorbed by him, fascinated and in awe, mumbling to herself as she traced the varying shades of sun in his locks. Isfet’il, like all other Seraphims, was a giant among even the mightiest of Cherubims, but, as a lightbringer, he was also larger than his Al-Mawt counterpart… not by much, but perhaps to a small malakh, the difference was far more significant.

“You’ve got very long hair.” she nonchalantly observed, “Not as long as ma’am’s, but still quite long.”

He hummed in reply, letting her fiddle seeing as it wasn’t too bothersome. He’d thought someone of her age would be more clumsy and careless, but it seemed she was very well aware of his injuries: her touch was barely noticeable.

She stopped.

Isfet’il turned back around to see her checking her wrists. The malakh grumbled.

“I left my hair tie. Can you hold the end?”

He didn’t have time to reply as Munkar took his hand and clasped it round the end of the braid.

The girl leapt off and scoured the room, her delicate hands tracing the surface of the dresser opposite to him. He rested his head in his free hand and watched her form disappear in the patches of shadow, only to reappear in the light. This was something that completely mesmerised him. They'd disappear and then, suddenly, even before you could blink, they'd reappear as if there all along.

“Aha!” she turned back, waving a small hair band in her grip.

“Well done.” Isfet’il smiled.

Meanwhile, Azra’il had made her way to reception and let go of her skirts as she made the final step down, cold marble freezing her bare feet. It was brimming with activity here, her childlings going over documents, receiving cosmic calls, switching shifts as watchmen. People were hunched over seats, flicking through holo-scrolls, one could be seen brandishing their hunting knife to a pair of Cherubims, who gawked in awe, and the list goes on. She smiled to herself, happy to see business was continuing as usual. The office was quite vast, despite being jampacked, with a great ribbed vault of a ceiling sheltering the world underneath it and opening to a grand stained skylight, in the image of an eye. Watchful as always.

Amongst the sea of hooded heads and pairs of wings, Azra’il spotted who she was looking for. There, twirling a pen from the front desk in their gauntleted hand, was Jibra’il: a beacon of a being amongst these half-sized shadows. Their halo, orange like a class K star, enveloped their head in the colour of autumn dawn. Azra’il rolled her eyes and shook her head to herself as she watched Jibra’il continue to fiddle the pen, looking through it like a telescope.

It was only a few minutes later when the receptionist had patted them and pointed Azra’il’s way did they clock the ‘Queen of the Underworld.”

Jibra’il took a double take, stopped fiddling with the fountain pen and straightened themself, smoothing any creases in the fabric of their armour and running a hand through their messy brown hair.

“Glad you got here soon.” She smiled, hoping they’d make as little fuss as possible… especially when she had neglected to mention it was Isfet’il they’d be whisking back.

“Azra’il, I’m the fastest thing in all of reality, being punctual is one of my many talents.” They winked, spinning the pen on their fingertip before setting it on the front desk.

Jibra’il took her hand and kissed it.

“Well then,” the Angel of Death blushed, “You’d best come with me and get you and your companion briskly to Heaven.”

“Of course, love.” Jibra’il’s eyes creased in a gentle smile, squeezing her hand, “I’d be more than happy to help you.”

Azra’il took it from them, “Good to hear. I’ll keep note of it should I require your assistance again.”

They gave a chuckle. “Considering that I’ve actually been assigned for assistant soul collection once the Finity Projects have set in, I’m sure our paths will be crossing often.”

“Stop being a flirt and get up these stairs.”

Jibra’il stopped and noticed she had made a whole flight up without them. “Uh… yeah, sure.”

Munkar mused at an odd observation she had just clocked. “I didn’t know lightbringers had such pointy teeth.”

“What?” he froze a little, watching her hop back next to him. Isfet’il closed his mouth shut, well, as best as he could, his fangs still poking through slightly. What did she mean by that?!

“N-not that it’s frightening.” Munkar assured him, realising how she'd overstepped her mark, forgetting her place as a malakh,“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that we hunt deer and things, and yet we aren’t as big or as sharp as you lot.”

He swallowed hard... Discomfort palpable but hopefully easy enough to shake off. “Well, lightbringers do hunt things. Or at least I do.”

“You hunt?!” her eyes lit up.

Phew! A change in subject.

“Yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck, “I hunt.”

“What do you hunt?”

“All kinds of things.”

“What? Like elk? Big deer? Hare?”

“Uh… things a little bit bigger than that.”

“Did your previous prey give you that?” she pointed at his wound.

Looking at the dressing made him shiver, but he smothered the repulsed expression. He couldn’t even imagine what lay under those layers of gauze.

“Yeah.”

“That’s one heck of a trophy!” She grinned.

“You think?” he chuckled, “It better be worth something, especially with how painful it is.”

“You’re taking it on well though. Do you want to see my trophy?”

He laughed, “Go on, kid.”

She raised her hair band to his face. “You see the beads?”

Isfet’il nodded.

“They’re made from a hare’s spine,” she whispered, “I caught it myself.”

“Wow.” He grinned encouragingly.

Munkar beamed proudly, “It was quite hard to catch.”

“I can imagine.” Isfet’il smiled, raising his wing to make more room for her to sit beside him. “So, I’m assuming Azra’il is teaching you to hunt, then?”

She nodded, “Well, she’s only taking those who have confirmed occupations with her on hunts. Like me, Nakir, Katibin, Kiraman…”

“And how’s that been going? Are you finding it okay?”

“Yeah. But it’s really tiring.” Munkar stretched out, yawning, “I don’t know how you can do what you do without going mad.”

Isfet’il hmphed. “I’m beginning to wonder about that myself.”

Munkar looked up at him, noticing how he chewed on his lip and stared off a little. She pouted, a little confused, but finished tying the braid.

Leviathan… Isfet’il’s mind wondered, What did it mean when it asked me what I thought? Had I made that choice? No…

Choice. A conundrum in and of itself, especially when things are preordained. A decision was made either way, be it by Isfet’il’s hand or by the invisible one of destiny. Leviathan was dead. Leviathan was never coming back and would never be able to haunt him with further questioning.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. I was doing what I was told.

And he would be rewarded for doing so. Problem was, would he continue to be rewarded? Would he continue to find this rewarding? That, well, that had yet to be seen.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

The two angels both yelped as Jibra’il pounded their fist against the door. Isfet’il knew it was them on the other side, noticing their bright halo of orange fire flickering through the fabric of the panel.

Azra’il slid the door apart and Jibra’il gasped.

“No! No! Not him… Azra’il!” they groaned, turning away from the Angel of Justice. “Anyone but him!”

She held in a snicker, trying to remain professional even in the presence of such blatant immaturity.

“Grow up and help ease him onto his feet.”

Jibra’il folded their arms, “No way am I going near that rabid cur, especially with that bite… I can tell it looks infected from here.”

“Jib-”

“Might even bite me and pass on whatever disease is festering inside him.”

“Oh for God’s sake you know Seraphims can’t get sick-”

Jibra’il turned to Azra’il, glaring at her with a pair of betrayed eyes. “I trusted you. And you broke that trust.”

“It’s fucking Isfet’il! I’m not handing you over to be executed.”

“Being in Isfet’il’s mere presence is as grim as a death sentence.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, just get over here.”

Jibra’il squirmed, grimacing under their mask. They placed a hand on their face, covering their porcelain brow. Theatrically, they turned away.

“I’m sorry, Azra’il, I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Okay…” she sighed.

“Okay? What do you mean-”

“I give up.” She took a deep breath and then whispered a few words.

An incantation wrapped around Jibra’il’s waist and lifted them in the air, before proceeding to set them at Isfet’il’s side.

“Let… go… of… me… Gah! Not my arms!”

Azra’il got a hold of them and forced Jibra’il to delicately ease their fellow lightbringer onto his feet. The Messenger’s arm was wrapped around Isfet’il as if they were the best of buds and, out of the pure goodness of their heart, Jibra’il was letting the heavier Seraphim rest most of his weight onto their frail shoulders.

“Thanks for doing that so gently.” Isfet’il sneered.

“I bloody hate you.”

Azra’il grinned, “That’s better.”

Her hold on Jibra’il dissipated almost immediately, along with its remains of influence, which receded as black smoke.

“You know, we really ought to not be using our Speak for menial tasks.”

“With you being one of the most stubborn creatures in existence, this was no menial task, Jibra’il.” Azra’il was clearly taking this as no meagre victory, “Anyways, let me give you direction on how to get to the wayshrine.”

“Wayshrine? Are you also saying I have to walk?! With him?!” they looked to be almost tearing up at the mere thought of it, “I can't believe I said I'd be happy to help.”

“You know I am here, right?”

“Shut up.”

“Want me to spit in your eye?”

“Anyways,” Azra’il glared at the pair, “as I was saying: you’re going to be walking to Heaven. The nearest wayshrine is just north of here. Follow the Acheron’s right stream through the forest until you reach a glade with blue and gold flowers. Within the glade will be the wayshrine, take the ewer from the pedestal and pour the water into the centremost portal. Any questions? I’m sure you’re familiar with the route, Jibra’il.”

“I’m familiar with Isfet’il being a dick.”

“Oi-”

“I don’t like to swear, Azra’il, you know that. But I can’t describe Isfet’il in any other way, he’s such a dick.”

This bitch really is trying my patience, huh?

Isfet’il took a quick glance back at the kid.

In front of the kid? In front of, he looked at Azra’il, her? Would it be worth it?

“I mean if I could describe Isfet’il in any other way believe me I would. You know, me Azra’il, but I just can’t help it, like he’s such a dick. Do you know what happened last ime we met? We got into a fight. An embarassing, long and unnecessary fight, all because he thought he was entitled to dictate Belial's fate! When he wasn't! I too had claim to that as the Angel of Time! The arrogance! Just because he's the warrior and I'm the messenger. Ha, well,” they looked down at Isfet'il, "he seems more like an attack dog than a warrior. I am clearly his better-"

Jibra’il’s taunting monologue faded into white noise as Azra’il noticed Isfet’il was looking back and forth between Jibra’il and the childing, who nervously watched on from the sanctuary of the bed.

Fuck it.

I was never one for promises.

“Ugh… fine. Isfet’il, as much of a cock as you are, get your things. We’re-”

Isfet’il launched himself at Jibra’il, clasping his hands around their throat.

“ISFET’IL!”

Azra’il pinched the bridge of her nose, hearing the crash as the two of them went through the panel.

He looked back at her somewhat apologetically, only to hear Jibra’il open their mouth to say something.

A sweet punch knocked the Messenger out right then and there.

The Justiciar got back onto his feet, wincing and sore. He hobbled out of the hallway and back into the room. Passing Azra’il, whose arms were folded and resting on her chest.

“Are you happy now?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh, your things are in the dresser over there. Get your stuff ready and get out of my sight as soon as they wake up.”

She stepped over Jibra’il’s unconscious body, her childing trailing behind her. Munkar gave a little wave as she was tugged along by her superior’s hand.

Isfet’il leaned back into the bed. Pain pulsing through him, a foul combination of sharp stabs and racing burns.

“It was totally worth it.” He mumbled to himself. Arrogant of him, but worth it. He knew he shouldn't have. But it was totally worth it.

Although, he was slightly surprised at his own strength.

All it took was a single punch.

Chapter Text

“Now, hold still.”

“Ow!”

“I told you to be still!”

“I am still!”

Isfet’il rolled his eyes, wincing and stifling shrill yelps as the edges of the wound were brought together. Cold weaved in and out, skin being drawn taut as Azra’il continued to sew up the mess.

“We’re wasting more time, you know? You should be in Heaven.”

He sighed, “I know, I know.”

The Archangel of Death looked up at him, briefly stopping, “Why’d you have to hit them so hard?”

“I didn’t know it’d knock them out!”

“Well, now they’re across the hall with ice on their head and stripps over a cut!”

“I broke skin?”

“You broke skin and now I’ll have to clean up whatever overgrown florist shop Jibra’il has made out of the bedroom. Your kind always forgets that all it takes is a few drops of lightbringer blood to spring up a field.”

He grimaced… right. Impulsiveness seemed to lead to trouble most of the time. Hence why there was always such a heavy emphasis on meditation and overcoming those more lowly urges. You know, for a species so well built to harm, angels had quite a strong disdain for violence. Perhaps not the carrying out of an order or the thought of it, but the intentional dealing of a blow or the swipe of claws, a way to pettily punish your comrade, to enforce your power… that was quite a taboo.

Isfet’il would have shifted uncomfortably, or maybe bowed his head. However, the mumbling of a ‘sorry’ and the drawing back of his ears would have to suffice as an apology.

“Pull this again and I’ll actually have to do something. Purgatorio is young, delicate. Seraphims are powerful, it’s more than a duty to be careful,” Isfet’il intently listened to Azra’il’s words, “It’s arrogant to not take caution. That goes for both of you!” She yelled across the hall.

A muffled sound of begrudging agreement echoed back.

She was definitely his and Jibra’il’s senior, or at least in wisdom. Azra’il was right, it was callous to fight… and to provoke.

“I have been assigned here to protect Purgatorio, my childlings and prepare for my role as death. I can’t have careless lightbringers skewing what has taken me eons to perfect!”

Eons. Isfet’il had forgotten how long everyone had been in this game. Literal eons. Jibra’il had been studying orders and forwarding them for eons. Azra’il had been forging Purgatorio, maintaining burial mounds and raising chidlings for eons. Raf’il had been restoring and healing. Ram’il, purifying foundational elements. Uri’il, smithing stars, perfecting cycles. Mikha’il, guarding the Ophanims and creating spaces for universes. And as for Isfet’il: destroying, protecting, hunting.

All mistakes were abolished by his hand. All efforts made to be razed to the ground. Imagine a mistake happening in Purgatorio, he thought, imagine Azra’il having to see me… do that.

Imagine Azra’il having to see me be a Seraphim. He shuddered.

The pain came in sharp pinches, as she recommenced dressing his wound. He bit his lip, feeling the sting as the bite was once again drawn along and to a close. She was being as gentle as she could but the area around the wound felt raw, tender.

"You just had to tear your stitches too, huh?"

"Yup." He smiled weakly, "And now- AH! - I'm paying for it."

Small hands crept into his open palm. Isfet’il looked down to see Munkar had returned, smiling shyly at him as she played with his fingers, letting her feel the true warmth of a lightbringer. The Malakh-Al-Mawt’s touch was a stark contrast to his high body temperature, she was ice cold, just like her Seraphim superior: a biting chill that would have stung a little if it wasn’t currently providing a polite distraction from the harsh prickling agonies currently dancing along his shoulder.

Agonies which culminated in-

SNAP!

“GAH!”

“What the-”

Azra’il raised her hands, staring in surprise through her obsidian mask at the bizarre sight before her. The thread had snapped. It had snapped despite her measuring the correct amount… or so she’d thought. The angel undid what was left of her handiwork and quickly strung the materials before her, eager to see what error she had made.

“That’s odd…”

“What is it, ma’am?”

“It seems I’ve measured out the incorrect length required, Munkar,” Azra’il thought aloud, “Can’t be…”

“You can’t have.” Isfet’il examined the thread, hand on her wrist as he gently brought it to his face.

“Hmm, I must have.” Her face scrunched up underneath, the wrinkling of her nose evident through the eye-holes of her mask, “We’re going to need an extra pair of trained eyes so I can get this right,” she turned to Munkar, “Go fetch Jibra’il for me, love, and also have them report their condition upon arrival.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Munkar saluted before hopping off the bed, waving goodbye to Isfet’il as she disappeared into the shadow of the corridor.

“She’s a good kid.”

“A little too curious.”

“What’s a childling but curiosity?” Isfet’il chuckled.

But a few moments later did Jibra’il arrive, holding a bag of ice on their head. They said they felt fine, shooting a glare Isfet'il's way, before turning to address Azra'il.

“You called?”

“Measure the length of the thread and tell me whether it matches the breadth of Isfet’il’s shoulder.”

Jibra’il nodded, setting the ice down on a side table before kneeling onto the mattress. Whilst it would be easy to fault this as their way of choosing to best keep it all civil, it would mean that you would have neglected to spot Jibra’il’s evident displays of anger towards their lightbringer brethren. Their elvish, spindly ears remained turned backwards and eyes were creased revealing whatever slight snarl hid under the mask. Isfet’il gave a slight snap back, before both of them were lightly slapped by Azra’il. Jibra’il did what they had been told and lifted the thread, comparing it to the length of the bite.

“It’s too short.”

“What?” Munkar spoke up, “But you just-”

“I had just measured it out before stitching!”

“Well, obviously you made an error. I've got keen eyes, Azra'il. It's wrong."

“How? I-” she pinched the bridge of her ceramic nose, “I could have sworn-”

“Isfet’il,” Jibra’il interrupted, “Stand up.”

He cocked his head to one side, about to speak.

“I’m being serious. Stand up. Something's not right.”

He did so.

“Stretch your wings out.”

“What are you doing?”

Jibra’il looked him up and down, then unfurled their own wings and compared them.

“Hmm,” their eyes narrowed, “Be more upright.”

He did so.

“You’re not going through any further specialisation, are you, mate?”

Isfet’il’s brow furrowed, “Not that I know of. Why?”

He waited impatiently as the two other Seraphims wandered around him, brushing their hands along his six wings and comparing heights by roughly measuring where the tops of their heads were in relation to him.

“Join wings with me.” Azra’il said.

Isfet’il blushed.

“Not like that! Ugh, grow up.”

He laughed, doing so. Jibra’il stared intently as Azra’il’s inky quills melded with the pure white of Isfet’il’s, taloned digits locked as the breadth of their wings were spread across each other’s. One clearly surpassed the other.

Strange… Jibra’il clocked, the difference is-

“You’ve increased in height.” Azra’il’s blunt tone was a sharp blow to the suspenseful silence.

“But you’re not undergoing specialisation?”

“I’m going on eighteen nonillion, how can I be undergoing change?”

Azra’il stroked her chin, fingers tracing the finer details of her ceramic beard. “It’s… odd, to say the least.”

“Though, I did feel you were casting a larger shadow than usual.” Jibra’il remarked, “This explains it.”

“I really suggest going to see Raf’il.”

“Y-yeah… and maybe ask the Ophanims why they didn’t let me know of,” he gestured to himself, “this.”

Jibra’il grumbled, further narrowing their eyes as they studied him closely. Soon, they raised back to their full height, only for their face to now be inches away from Isfet’il’s as opposed to mere centimetres.

“Very well,” they sighed, “I don’t suppose you could resize Isfet’il’s armour to fit him, again, Azra’il?”

“It was in rags anyways,” she laughed, “I’m sure I can find some robes or something.”

"What of my swords?"

Azra'il sighed, shaking her head solemnly.

Isfet'il sniffled, "Not my swords... Th-They're gone?!"

"They were no good anyways." Jibra'il mumbled, picking at their metal talons, "Metal swords are so out of fashion."

"Since when?"

"Since Mikha'il found a way to make better weapons!" Jibra'il handed Isfet'il what looked like a hilt of a blade, "Lighter, deadlier and won't melt into smithereens when you crash on someone's lawn."

"Better weaponry means better ways to carry out your duties and that is all the more reason to get to Heaven." Azra'il said, "And out of Purgatorio."

“My, my,” Jibra’il chuckled, “Black most certainly is your colour, Justiciar.”

Isfet’il rolled his eyes, adjusting the face veil as a warm breeze swept through the forest, “It’s a little tight.”

“But oh so silky. I mean, look at the quality of this material!" Jibra’il grasped whatever loose bit of fabric they could find stretched thin on the other’s back, "And the colour…” they felt the small stretch between Isfet'il's wings, “Like midnight... You don't get this in Heaven!”

He grumbled, returning to sampling the soil. “Which direction do we go again?”

“North, following the Styx’s stream through here.” They pointed ahead into the mist, picking up their staff and moving ahead.

Their belt jingled with their two strange hilts as they brushed past the Seraphim, trotting on.

“That can’t be right. She didn't say the Styx...”

Jibra’il stopped and turned around, folding their arms, “Are you just going to disagree with me for the sake of disagreeing?”

Isfet’il cocked an eyebrow, ready to rebuttal, only for Jibra’il to silence him with a raised finger.

“Look, I know this whole Belial thing is… well, putting us at odds but…”

“What?” Isfet’il growled.

What are you doing Jibra'il?

“You have your directives, I have mine. You want him dead but-”

“He has to die, Jibra’il.”

Feathers ruffled.

“I understand. However, I can’t have him dead, not without knowing why.”

“And he won’t talk?”

“He just laughs, telling me he was doing his job and that we’re both too young and too... angelic to understand.”

Isfet’il huffed. “He’ll make you wait a thousand lifetimes.”

“And we won’t have gone by then, so what does it matter?”

He shrugged, getting back up onto his two feet. “It matters to me.”

Isfet'il walked past the other, heading into the mist and disappearing into the white veil yonder. Jibra’il sighed, trudging behind him.

“You're going to tell me why it’s so personal to you?”

He shook his head.

“Oh great! So I suggest that we could perhaps sort this bloody mess out and move on and here you are, unwilling to budge! What are you so ashamed of? What did he do?”

“Drop it, okay? It’s unpleasant to talk about. And now, in the middle of the wilderness, is not the time to have such... sentimental discussions.”

You speak that word like it tastes bitter in your mouth, Jibra'il huffed.

“This is unpleasant to talk about.”

“So why don’t we shut up and just get to Heaven alread- AH!”

Isfet’il clutched his shoulder, feeling a dire burning sensation run through him like hot lava. Jibra’il rushed to his side, letting him rest some of his weight on their shoulder.

“Easy,” Jibra’il shushed, “If you’re not going to fess up the least you could do would be to not storm off ahead.”

“You're an asshole.”

“And your protector. This is Purgatorio, I know this place better than you and I know how dangerous it is here. We are not built for these wilds.”

“I figured.”

The forest they had found themselves in sung with all kinds of songs. A symphony of sounds, from the far caws of birds to the bugling of distant deer. Ears flicked this way and that, trying to capture every little detail as the Seraphims made their course across the forest. The fog was particularly thick that day, the pair barely able to see what was mere metres ahead of them, dense foliage too only made the challenge all the more difficult. The sky, once blue when they had left Azra’il’s compound, gave way to a blanket of mystic grey, like the clouding of a blind person’s eye. Dew had begun to form on the blades of grass as well as rolling off their pointed ears and shoulders, forming droplets on their covered noses, shining their piercings all over their bodies.

“Suppose this place has a particular disliking of lightbringers?” Isfet’il chuckled, hobbling along as Jibra’il pressed on, carrying the both of them over a crag of what once was a stream.

“The weather is awful. How can they put up with this?”Jibra’il preened a layer of water off of one of their wings, stabbing their serpentine staff into the soil.

“Can’t get any worse, right?”

And thus, the sky took this as its cue to tip whatever it had brewing in its grey clouds.

Soaked in a heartbeat, Jibra’il looked at their blonde companion, “You just had to say that, didn’t you?”

“Whoops.”

A couple hours later, they were still trekking along. Having lost the stream a while back, unbeknownst to them, they pressed on, noow drenched in what felt like gallons of water. Trees drooped their myrtle leaves, dumping more weirdly warm rainwater all over them. Smaller plants shook as the storm amped it up, slowly reaching the point of pelting down. The soil had become thick, grasping at the bottom of their boots and making more work to walk; from mildly awkward scrabbling to now full on wading.

Isfet’il grumbled, shaking off some of the water, “I can feel it seeping through my bandages…”

He looked around, noticing a key feature they should have been following was missing. The red stream had disappeared. One of them had to clock it.

“Uh… Jibra’il,” he tried to find their shoulder, slapping around as he still looked around for the stream, “Mate…”

They whipped around, “What?!”

“Where’s the stream?”

“Hmm?”

“The stream?”

“What stream?”

“The stream we were meant to be following?”

“Styx?”

“No!" he took a breath, "I could've sworn it was Acheron! We were meant to be following Acheron! I was trying to tell you that a while-”

“Both head North, it’s fine.”

“And where’s North?”

Jibra’il awkwardly pointed skywards.

“Oh sweet Trinity…” Isfet’il pinched the bridge of his covered nose. “We’re lost!”

“You should have told me we should have been following Acheron!”

“You said you knew the place.”

“Well, I…” Jibra’il looked around this completely foreign landscape, “... thought I did.”

Isfet’il wriggled out of Jibra’il’s grip and spun on his heel, limping away.

“Where do you think you’re going?!”

“Back the way we came.”

"You're going to get lost!"

"At least I'll be without you!"

They rolled their eyes and grabbed his hand, only for him to once again wiggle out and continue his trek. Jibra’il sighed, muttering a prayer for some kind of sign as they followed on behind him.

Clearing, they thought, look for a clearing… she said the wayshrine would be at a clearing. Then, I can get me and the himbo bsck to Heaven and to better weather.

Then, Isfet'il disappeared. Completely.

“Isfet’il!” They called, “Isfet’il! Oh no...”

Bollocks! I’ve lost you!

“Isfet’il!” their usually deep voice became shrill as they yelled over the rain.

Thunder gurgled above with threatening strips of lightning cracking through the clouds. Their whole posture fell like a wilting flower. Jibra’il was soaked, disoriented and now had also lost their responsibility. However, they refused to give up just yet. A strip of bare soil lay between the shrubbery. A small smile crept onto their concealed face. Although, there was no evidence of footsteps along the path. Still, better to find some familiar space than be stranded in the pouring rain. Isfet’il looked to be heading in this direction, anyways. They wrung out their hair, swept it away from their face, took a deep breath and headed out. Any tracks, yet? Maybe the shine of a halo? They could've sworn they could smell something like a river through the damp.

Lightning struck a dead tree by Jibra’il. They squeaked and leapt out of harm’s way, sheltering themself with their wings.

“Isfet’il!” They tried again, “Isfet’il! The Ophanims are going to kill me- well, maybe not 'kill', but really have a go at me- if I don’t get you back to Heaven in one piece!”

Nothing but the sounds of the forest.

Jibra’il had a mouth, however, and they would never give up on using it.

“Isfet-”

A hand clasped over their masked face, pulling them behind a bush. They screamed, writhing and fervently kicking about.

“Hey! Hey! It’s me, you idiot!”

They stopped their onslaught of slaps, gently removing Isfet’il’s hand and placing it on his lap.

“What was that?!” They squeaked, dusting off their clothes and setting their staff on the ground. Jibra'il noticed Isfet'il's eyes narrow in a wince, "You alright?"

“Dressing hasn’t come undone, but it’s soggy.”

“Let’s hope that’s the least of our worries-” Jibra’il paused, looking over the bush.

Their orange eyes widened with glee.

“Ah-hah!”

A clearing!

Jibra’il couldn't help but laugh as relief swept over them. It was here! They did it! Even if it was dumb luck and probably Isfet'il, they still did it! Isfet’il grinned under his face veil, both of them quietly cheering each other. The pouring rain, humid atmosphere and the strong smell of damp all faded into nothingness in the presence of another’s warmth. Had they not held such disdain for one another, we might’ve even seen a hug.

“Okay, ready to make it to the wayshrine?”

They nodded and helped ease Isfet’il onto his feet. He was ready to bolt across the field when-

“OW!”

Jibra'il suddenly yoinked him back by the scruff of his neck.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Look!”

“What?”

“Look!”

Their two heads peered over the bush to see the vast clearing was entirely populated by a herd. The animals looked to be large, way larger than them, and heavy too. Their coats had a slight shine to them thanks to the rain: thick, shaggy coats which ended just above the animals' knees, revealing tough lighter coloured legs and cloven hooves, covered by another layer of coarse fur. The horns atop their heads looked deadly, glowing with a warm bronzy shade in whatever sparse light there was. Four horns, the angels counted, two curling upwards and two facing forward. A whip of a tail too, which thwacked the air.

“Dusk oxen…” Jibra’il cowered behind the bush.

Isfet’il couldn’t take his eyes off of them, instilled wariness of the creatures forcing him to watch closely.

Deep bellows came from some as they took heavy steps across the grand glade. Others stood and grazed. As they walked, Isfet’il noticed how the beasts swung their heads side to side, as if displaying their glowing horns to all who could see. He gulped. Just above their humped backs, the Seraphim could see the shape of what looked to be the wayshrine, domed and spiked with the signature sun crest of Heaven. He turned to Jibra’il, who was following the movement of one of the oxen, whimpering a little.

Hooves made of silver and horns of gold… this type of creature could take on both of them with ease, possessing almost a complete arsenal of their kind's weaknesses.

“How do we get across?” Isfet’il asked.

Jibra’il shrugged, muttering to themself, “We can't just make a run for it... no... they'll see us and then we're gonners. I suppose I could use a sigil and see what predictions there are for their pathways and we can sneak around them, sticking to blind spots... but it'll take awhile... they'll spot us before we even get to the next bush."

One ox raised her head, looking squarely at the bush.

“Hide your halo!” Isfet’il unfurled his wings, concealing the two of them.

“Thanks.”

To make matters worse, it seemed the dusk oxen had company. A small, lithe scout of a fanged deer was prancing about, picking off the scraps of shrubbery the oxen weren’t bothered with as well as occasionally rearing onto its hindlegs to spot incoming danger. The Seraphims muttered curses under their breaths and kept low.

“We can’t stay here, they’ll find us.”

“They’ll find us either way! When we're trying to sneak past or until one strips this bush!"

“What are you two looking at?”

A third voice entered the conversation. The Archangels turned around to see Munkar looking at them, smiling. She was hugging Jibra'il's staff, lifting one hand to give a shy wave.

“Were you here this whole time?”

“Tracked you from the trees.” She pointed to the giant redwoods above, "Sorry about tipping rain onto you guys... you look pretty soggy."

Isfet’il and Jibra’il looked at each other.

Isfet'il noticed Jibra'il was looking particularly peaky, eyes moving back and forth from the childling to Isfet'il and back to the childling.

"There's a child... Azra'il's child is here... with us..." they held their head in their hands, "...and we're near a herd of dusk oxen... Oh God... Oh Lord..."

"It's going to be okay, Jib. Don't panic. We're going to be-"

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING HERE, CHILDLING?! THIS IS NO ADVENTURE!"

Chapter Text

So, you're probably wondering, "where's my goddamn chapter, ya bastard?!"

Rest assured, your chapter is coming. But first, I need to do a massive overhaul to keep things updated with the new lore I have. First and foremost, I'm going to say sorry, I have been busy with other shenanigans and just generally procrastinating on Chapter 6, which is currently half a page's worth of bollocks on a shabby google doc- writer's block is not fun, kids, it sucks.

So, what is this massive overhaul you keep banging on about, Mx. BaconSandwich?

Answer: It's not much really, I'm just looking back on my old chapters and going, "Eh, Chapter 1 is the only good one here... rest of them are pretty shit, aren't they? And don't fit the aesthetic I want for the world of the Angels." I'm also making my impeccable grammar all the more impeccable. So, I'll be doing some housekeeping.

Now, to whoever out in the wide, wacky world is reading this, I'd like to say 'thank you'. To take your time out of your day to read this and enjoy it... as a wannabe writer, means everything to me. And I'd also like to say that this whole story thing I got cooking up here is more experimental if anything. I've written plenty of material in private that I've discarded, destroyed or just never even got round to actually putting into a narrative... and Light's Martyrdom is just another one of them, but one I'm being told I must finish (by some very disgruntled but invested friends who have watched characters they've loved be sentenced to 'discontinuation') and one that I've decided to thrust into open sphere for the internet's cruel scrutiny!

And thus, ends this small announcement. Don't worry, Light's Martyrdom is still a thing as of writing this, but it's a thing in progress and things in progress change and evolve into better things... that are probably still in progress.

Every day, I'm watching, reading and listening to amazing works and gathering inspiration which means I'm going to look at my old things and go "Ew, me six months ago was such a boring worldbuilder" and thus, start yeeting things off my worktable and rehash my poor google doc, whose grammar corrector is probably plotting the a.i. uprising as we speak.

And who knows, I could be addressing all this bollocks to a void, but it doesn't matter lmao, Light's Martyrdom is out here and it's out here for people to stumble upon and give a shot and that alone makes me so happy as a creator.

With all that soppy stuff said, I hope you can hang in there while I get all that's swirling about in my head into order and onto virtual paper before I go making another shitshow of a chapter.

Making something like this is crazy for my single braincell, but also makes me admire worldbuilders out there all the more.

So, reader, if you've bothered to put up with me so far, I say thanks and hope you're well in the meantime.

Cheers,
Dionysus_sBaconSandwich

Chapter Text

Alright so I have news lol.

Light's Martyrdom might be taking a more graphical route and therefore there won't be any more chapters adding to this narrative, b u t don't worry, I'll keep what I've written so far as a lil' relic :>.

And what is next for Dionysus'sBaconSandwich?

Fanficiton.

That's right, baby! I have a fanficiton plan I'm working out as a side thing which is slowly taking shape whilst I try and get momentum going for Light's Martyrdom. Light's Martyrdom is still going to be a thing, however, anyone who has just gotten interest in this by coming across this or is currently invested in this, it's going to be a long haul and probably a whole lot of radio silence from me but sit tight.

If I do have a big update or something (it'll probably be for a long while), I will announce it here!

Best wishes, person reading this or void,
Mx. BaconSandwich