Storms filtered through the sky as the fingers of lightning bent through the clouds and struck the ever precious ground of Earth. The Heavens must have been angry with as much force each strike was giving the ground. But it couldn't be certain as to why..
A figure, cloaked in black, turned away from the view of the window that showed the storm in action. Because the figure did not care whether Heaven was angry or not. They'd be furious to discover what was soon to happen.
A male's deep resonating chuckle erupted from within the chest of the cloaked figure. He, of course, kept his ethereal beauty hidden within the darkness of a hood. A shrivelling man shuddered behind him, a pastor or priest - yet the male within the folds of darkness did not care to find the difference between the two.
"You foolishly invited me in, to God's holy grounds, under the impression I was a young man needing salvation! Now who needs salvation?" The dark voice of the dark male was directed at the man who looked towards him with fear.
"I... I... Oh my dear Lord, forgive me for I have sinned ---" The priest began to mutter under his breath as his fear filled eyes watched the dark figure.
"Oh shut up with that!" He roared just as lightning struck the ground outside. Must be voicing God's displeasure at what was happening inside His holy ground, His sanctuary.
The man jumped as the figure roared at him and played with the cross with shaky fingers that hung around his neck. Nervously, licking his lips, perspiration beaded at his brow.
The dark figure let out a sigh before glancing at the stained glass window pane. He outstretched his hand and waited to feel the cold shaft of metal that announced his scythe was at hand; literally.
The man froze with further terror just as the figure slowly tugged down his hood to reveal a defined, and handsome, face. Deep black hair softly fell in front of his features, just barely hiding the storm grey eyes in their sockets.
"But since you've been so good before you started muttering those awful words.." the grey eyed man said and watched the scared figure. "I think... I think I'll let you know my name --"
The man shook his head quickly, his eyes slightly rolling back in his head as he tried to keep from blacking out.
"I ... I... I....a-already.... k-know who y-y-you are..... Azreal."
The man blinked at that. "I honestly preferred being referred to as Death." He said, before swiping the scythe, its silver blade glowing eerily in the dim light, in an arch until it connected with the soft flesh of the priest's neck.
The head with its shock of light, ugly brown hair fell to the tiled floor, blood running out as a river from the base as the head rolled, eyes glazed over and instantly cold before the body took a few moments to realize it needed to fall over.
Once it did, the Angel of Death, the Reaper himself, Death... Azreal looked at the body of the priest, pastor whatever, and then brought his scythe to rest at his side, wiping a hand to clean the silver blade.
"The next part won't be as messy, I promise..." He said to no one in particular. But it sure seemed like it.
Death pulled his hood back into place before taking a slow stroll to the side of the church.. He felt something coming, fast on its steed, in the pouring rain.
Suddenly there was a drenched figure bursting the doors yet froze to see the dead priest. "Oh..." A masculine voice. That was what Azreal picked from the wet figure.
The man turned to run back outside, but Death stepped from where he was. "What a spirited one." He commented dryly. "Late for your blessing, were you?"
He froze and his hood fell from his head, showing a nice youth with soulful golden brown and green eyes, his blond hair cut short, and half plastered to his skull from the rain. "Who are you?" His voice held command, yet Death smelt fear.
"Oh, isn't the costume giving it away?" He mocked without cheeriness, his scythe still in his hand.
"Don't play some Grim Reaper wannabe." The hazel eyed man hissed between his teeth.
"Incredibly brave of you to... approach me as such. My, I'm glad I chose you." Death chuckled.
"Chose me?" The man was baffled.
Death laughed harder. "Yes, Randall. Yes. But I hate the name."
Randall took a step back before finding he was stuck in place, a dark mist curling around his mud splattered riding boots. Death took a step closer.
"You will do wonderfully .... " Death said and the tip of his scythe touched the man's breastbone. "I'll keep the eyes.... the hair dreadfully needs to go." He added bitterly.
Just like that, where the silver blade of the scythe touched Randall, a light came from it and into the man. He bent his head back and tried letting out a scream to find out that he was mute.
"No screaming in God's House." Death muttered darkly, and with near disgust.
Randall fell to his knees and his body shook, the water that drenched him seeming to evaporate off of him... and just like that... his body jerked, his body seeming to gain muscle build, and height, ripping the clothes right from him with a wet rrrriiiipp.
Death smiled as the transformation only took a moment. Soon, a naked dark haired, somewhere between brown and black, sat crouched, his muscles bunched tightly with the position he was in. A glimpse of tribal markings in blackish midnight blue ink peeked from where the blade had touched, crawling down his chest a little, down his arms til mid forearm and over his shoulders. The pattern on his back changed, starting at the shoulder joints and fanned out, like wings.
Death stepped back before a set of black glossy wings suddenly unfolded from the once-Randall's back, with him only muttering a soft curse from pain. Then he looked up at Death, changing his position to more of a bow, keeping his manly jewels safe out of sight with a lean somewhat tan hand, his hazel eyes, just like Randall's, stared up to him before he averted his gaze.
"Azreal." His deep resonating voice spoke from the large nude man's chest.
"My creation.... you will find a name... " Death said dryly, shifting his scythe to his side.
"I will." He replied, before standing. Then he spread his wings, as a word soon etched itself at his feet.
Corenthus.
Azreal smiled before vanishing into nothing, leaving the place, as if nothing had ever happened, both he and his creation gone. The only sounds outside, were the crack of thunder, and a scared horse's whinny.
****
YOU ARE READING
Her Death Guardian
Teen Fiction"Wake up and smell the roses," She told herself one morning. As if nothing would ever go wrong. Padding barefoot down the stairs and slowly outside, did she ever realize how wrong she was to do this... especially when what lay by the roses.. a black...
