I, Devil (a love story)

Chapter Twenty Five: Azazel

With no one left to turn to, I turned inward. I didn't want to go to the Garden. I didn't know what to do. I wondered if I should feel bad for what I went back in time and did. I wondered if he found out, or already had. I was starting to wonder if all these Void rips were a result in my experimenting with time. Maybe one angel wasn't meant to have this much power.

It was when I consumed Azrael that I gained the majority of my time powers. He was named by the Lord as the angel of death, so of course I targeted him among all fallen brothers to consume. I don't even remember when it was we came together. It was as if we were always one. Admittedly, he didn't go down very well. Time has been very "fucked" since we merged into a single consciousness.

I could feel him pretty much all the time. Everywhere I go, every interaction and thought. Azrael was everywhere and tainted everything I touched. I wondered if he had something to do with the extra entropy inside of everything, including the Veil itself. Ever since I consumed him I seemed to break anything I interacted with. Maybe he was the source of the tears I was causing.

When I reached inside myself to interact with my brother, Azrael's consciousness, I always felt the sense of doom and importance. He was like the more mature side of myself. He was me if I "grew up." I don't like him. I don't like that side of myself. I always felt scolded and judged. Azrael never knew how to have fun. That was why it was hard to consume him. We barely merged successfully since we were so diametrically opposite in personality. Still, we came together to composite into one entity.

But we are also separate beings still. I guess what I am saying is he is a little more separate than the other personalities I've merged with. It is difficult to explain since this is an aspect we angels have that mortals do not. Sure, some humans have attachments, their ancestors, or maybe even other entities hanging around them. This is different. Fleshless immortal beings can coalesce into a singular being and have those separate personalities go dormant. Dormant, until they are called upon specifically.

So, I called upon Azrael, the other angel of death, to talk to. Since he was inside of me, his answer was swift and loud. He usually didn't have a lot to say. I couldn't consume his consciousness unless he was in full and complete agreement to do so. Thus, we didn't have a contentious relationship. But, he was just so dry that I rarely interacted with him on purpose. It was like visiting an ancient relative for him only to bore you with old war stories while serving stale crackers and watered down lemonade.

Deep in the depths of my vast personality I dove. I opened a portal to locate him and knock on his door. Azrael set up a small cottage somewhere in the corner of my consciousness. The building style he conjured to greet me in was a sort of mish-mash of rural Filipino and British architecture. It was a cottage but raised off the ground on stilts. Several silver rivers lazily oozed beside the tiny home, creating the atmosphere of a cold marsh. The cottage was standing in an open field with dozens of boulders and rocks speckling the ground. Azrael's sky was flat and gray with an thin mist in the air. It wasn't exactly a welcoming setting.

However, there was smoke rising from the chimney. I didn't get the feeling that I was unwelcome, either. Even though the cottage was quaint and cozy, Azrael himself had the impression of being impossibly tall. He bowed lightly in greeting as he opened the door, but didn't say anything verbally. He had the face of a nondescript librarian and wore nothing but a black robe.

Inside the cabin wasn't much better. The room only had a table and chair, a fireplace, and a rocking chair. As I let myself in, he sat down in the rocking chair and peered at me. His eyes were a pale gray, nearly white in color. I sat down at the small wooden table uncomfortably. The flames in the fireplace danced and flickered, but emitted no heat. I always felt that all of my brothers either expressed themselves too much or too sparsely and never somewhere in the middle. Where brothers like Adramelech had solid gold castles decorated in jeweled encrusted, flaming, ejaculating genitals, others like Meresin and Azrael had burlap cloth robes and dirt floor cabins. No one could do anything in moderation.