Angel Of Death Obligation

Obligation

"Azrael, He has called you," Evangeline said his room door. Azrael had been recovering for about a week in the Virtue household in the city of Jah. The Creator was coaxing him out of hiding for a couple days now. Azrael hid, refusing to show as it was not required he show.

"Azrael," Evangeline pressed. "Let me in, please."

A few minutes passed before Azrael's door cracked open. Evangeline stepped inside and Azrael retreated to his corner, crouched low and covering his face.

"You should see what He wants from you," Evangeline said finally.

"Why? I know what will happen." Azrael's voice was shaky and his hands shook above his face. Things had gotten worse since he first woke. Tyrus almost severely wounded Aniel in a battle of blue blood in the sky. The city of Kings was almost ruined near the end of the battle. Tyrus was too strong. All seven of the archangels were injured, many angels suffered heavy wounds forcing the Creator to send the Seraphim in order to retrieve Tyrus.

The Creator had been calling Azrael since the day he could sit up and eat. Four days ago. At first, Azrael thought one of the Apollyon demons had possessed him and was sending him threatening messages, until Persephone told him that the Creator had asked for him.

"Azrael, He may need you for something really important," Evangeline confessed. "You obviously feel it's too big a duty for you, but I feel you'll do just fine."

"How old am I in Gaia years?" Azrael asked meekly.

"A score and eight years," she answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Is that of age?"

"Yes, a bit above it actually." Evangeline's eyes shone through the darkness of the room. "Is there a reason you want it dark in here?"

"So I don't see myself." He looked up from between his fingers. The mirror was smashed. They would've replaced it but they realized every broken piece, large and small, was overturned to the non-reflective side.

"But the mirror's gone, Azrael," Evangeline smiled at the ridiculousness of his answer.

"In here they are. They're everywhere outside." His face was again covered by his hands.

"You are a true coward."

"No, I just don't want the responsi--"

"The responsibility of what?" Evangeline was firm now. "Would you like to tell me of the

responsibilities

you've suddenly earned after the war?"

"I haven't gotten them yet," he barely whispered.

"What? I can't hear you."

"I haven't gotten them yet!"

"Ah. Go. Now. You no longer need to rest." Evangeline was now above him pulling him up.

"Please, Evangeline!" He protested. "You haven't seen the nightmares I've had. They're horrible--"

"Shut up!" Evangeline was a more serious virtue, so there was no messing with her. Azrael stood straight and exited the room in front of Evangeline. He was forced to bathe and dress. The virtues were rough with him this time. They didn't baby him as they did nearly two weeks ago, at the school.

His body seemed to gain definition of all his muscles, and his tall lanky body looked much more masculine. He'd been shocked, but he felt more intimidating, despite the hiding. His skin was no longer alabaster white. It gained a strong golden tan since the accident. His light red hair was now a deep red. The fair sky blue eyes set in his head were now a deep sapphire blue. A few dozen freckles appeared on his face and shoulders.

"You look different today," Sophia commented.

"Uh yeah, I was almost burnt to death by an Apollyon soldier," he replied snarkily.

"You're alive, so quit complaining," Sophia demanded. "I don't want to hear another word from you." Azrael and Sophia graduated together, yet she was already a bossy virtue.

"Ugh," he exclaimed as she shoved a shirt over his head. "You were so nice before grad."

"When you act like a baby," Sophia countered, "this is what you get."

"Finally, I was beginning to think you left with Mihalo," the Creator exclaimed. Azrael stood in the throne room.

"You may speak," He said once Azrael didn't speak.

"You know I wouldn't leave," Azrael replied.

"I was looking for a different answer. In fact, that wasn't an answer." The Creator's light shone throughout the room and Azrael could barely see anything past it.

"I'm here, Father," Azrael finally spit out. He was never forced to speak to the Creator. He'd always been willing to have a talk with the Father.

"You know why you're here, don't you?" The Creator asked. His light began to irritate Azrael's eyes and he looked away.

"Yes," Azrael replied. His body hurt. It never felt so unbearable to be in the Creator's presence in all his nine Zion years of life. "Then do as you must."

The light from the Creator was now blocked by Tyrus. Tyrus shone a gloomy red with an evil animalistic grin on his face. The Apollyon stood to the side, their armour huge and ugly. They were giants compared to many angels and virtues. Azrael was shaking as the Creator

spoke.

"You've made yourself a monster, Tyrus," the Creator bellowed. "I will destroy you. Eventually. As of now, you and your minions are banished from Zion. The Angel of Death will be the end of you. Leave, now!"

Tyrus walked towards Azrael, his jewel coloured eyes looking through him. The ruby red eyes shone with black tears, his mad-looking grin still in place. Tyrus passed him, staring him down as he did and left through one of the twelve pearl gates. Azrael watched as he fell from the edge of the golden glassy streets which ended outside Zion.

Looking back towards the Creator, but not directly, Azrael noticed other angels staring at him.

"Azrael," The Creator spoke smoothly. "You are young, yet you have the heart of a warrior. But, in you I have created a power beyond what I would have liked to place in an angel. You will become the eighth archangel."

Azrael's eyes widened as the other angels and virtues whispered.

"Azrael, you are--"

"No, no, no, no, no," Azrael began to weep. He knew the words that would come out next. How could he be such a thing? He dropped to his knees, quietly begging the Creator to change his mind.

"--The Angel of Death."

Azrael screamed out. This time, it was not out of frustration. It was out of sheer pain and shock. Ancient tribal markings began to trace his skin, burning every inch it touched. His wings of orange-red shook in pain as the red feathers began to violently drop, inky, raven black plumes replacing them quickly. His fingers were attempting to dig into the golden glassy ground, almost bleeding. No one ran to comfort him. No one said anything was

going to be okay. No one did anything.

"Azrael," the Creator bellowed from the throne. "You know what you are."