Azazel never felt very well when he entered a church.
For obvious reasons (he was a demon, demons were not welcomed in God's temples) but also, for personal reasons.
Each time he looked at a church, an unpleasant feeling bloomed in his chest, only to be followed by flashes of memories he could not grasp.
In those memories, it was always the same. Confusing images of a time he never had lived, of that, he thought. At least, he was not supposed to. And still, they seemed so real. Confused, but realistic.
He had been having them for a few years now. And each time, it was the same. The red mane, the golden eyes, and that smile were always in each of them. A smile that made him wonder who could be his or her owner.
Wasn't it because he already was damned, Azazel would have sworn he could fall again all at once.
He gulped in front of the church, trying to erase those thoughts. They were dangerous. Lucifer should not have a hint of them.
No, better to concentrate on the task at hand.
He looked at the church and gulped again. For Satan's sake, had it to be that church?
Because the church was a very low word for the cathedral he was standing in front of.
Notre-Dame. Impressive. Majestic. Huge.
Was it acceptable to do something like that?
Such a display of human intelligence, art, and craft? Such a majestic thing, all dedicated to God...or human's ingenuity and glory. He could not tell.
But humans, had he noted, were obnoxious creatures. They hand innit the worst and the best. In the end, what demons and angels could do was just a final push into their resolution. Humanity could perfectly have devoted temples to their capacity and then tell the others it was for God.
Or maybe the almighty had, in her ineffability, inspired them both that intelligence and egoism. In any case, no one could even think to deny how impressive and magnificent Notre-Dame was.
Even from his impious point of view, Azazel had to accept it was the perfect definition of the word "gorgeous".
The twin towers judging him from above, the majestic rosas that crowned the entry, the colors of the crystal vidrières that sent dancing shadows inside. It was not the first time the blond entered Notre-Dame, but it was always breath-catching. And as each time before, he shuddered.
He sighed, as he entered the jewel of french gothic architecture, his red eyes glowing in the building gloom. He looked for the person he was searching for.
Oh, there he was.
Judge Claude Frollo was not someone you could miss. The middle-aged man's slender silhouette was unmistakable, his wearing, elegant and somehow repulsive too, his grey hair and his always judgmental glare. He was disgusting.
Even he, as a demon, knew that.
Sincerely, Azazel doubted the man needed his influence for making evil things. He was evil. He stank with evilness.
And the worst thing about all that was he was sure of his holiness, of being a good Christian.
Profoundly disgusting, indeed, but who was he to tell?
In the end, he fell too.
He thought about the order Lucifer had given him. ·
Go there and be sure to influence him enough to make him things unforgivable. I want to see Paris burn, and I want his soul. His, and all the souls of the hundreds of victims he is going to ravage.
