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comment_fic. Today's theme is 'mythology', if that helps explain anything. *grins faintly*
Title: In Dudael
Rating: R
Fandoms: Bible/Book of Enoch
Characters/Pairings: Raphael, Azazel, Raphael/Azazel
Summary: Of all the Fallen, of all the lost, it is to this one Raphael returns
Wordcount: 540
Warnings/Notes: Angel slash, to start. Then ... prisoner/jailer, grief, guilt, dubcon, and (canonical) genocide in the backstory. Um. Angels ... weren't really nice people, way back when?
Disclaimer: Not mine
comment_fic. Today's theme is 'mythology', if that helps explain anything. *grins faintly*Title: In Dudael
Rating: R
Fandoms: Bible/Book of Enoch
Characters/Pairings: Raphael, Azazel, Raphael/Azazel
Summary: Of all the Fallen, of all the lost, it is to this one Raphael returns
Wordcount: 540
Warnings/Notes: Angel slash, to start. Then ... prisoner/jailer, grief, guilt, dubcon, and (canonical) genocide in the backstory. Um. Angels ... weren't really nice people, way back when?
Disclaimer: Not mine
In Dudael
Of all the Fallen, of all the lost, it is to this one Raphael returns. This one, in secret, if not from the Father, if never from the Father, then from the Host. To this place, this jagged, darkened hole in the desert, and the angel he bound there.
“Healer,” the prisoner laughs. “Here, not here? I cannot tell anymore. Is it day, outside?” The laugh cracks. “Sometimes I wonder if I remember what that’s like. Light. Do I remember that?”
Raphael says nothing. Sometimes he never does. Sometimes he simply stands, in the silence and the darkness, with eyes that see where the other’s cannot, and listens.
“I see my children, sometimes,” the Fallen whispers. “I hear them, too, always, always that, they scream forever, my children. Sometimes, though, I see them. These shadows. Always changing. Sometimes, your face. Sometimes … theirs.”
Raphael … moves, at last. Twitches, an agitated flutter. He will deny it, should any save the Father ask. He does not have to, with this one.
“I did not kill them,” he says, quietly. A whisper in endless, unbroken shadows. “Not that.”
The prisoner smiles. A crack, upon his face, a maw into some other darkness, some other shadows entirely. “Do you say you would not, had He asked you that instead?” the Fallen whispers, venomous in his chains. “Do you promise me that, Raphael?”
The archangel flinches, faintly. “No,” he admits, softly. “I would serve, as I have always served. Your children were monsters. Had I been asked …”
“Monsters!” the father spits, surging upwards in sudden, savage fury. “You speak of monsters! You? Archangel?”
Raphael does not answer, not this. He cannot. There is truth, even in this, even from this mouth.
“Kill me,” the Fallen whispers. Always the quietest of words. Always his request. “Let me go to them, let me have them. Wipe me clean, as they were wiped. Kill me. Mercy, Healer. Have that much.”
“... No,” Raphael whispers back, and it trembles, it has always trembled, from that second meeting, those aeons ago, here in Dudael. “No,” he denies, so softly, and presses his lips, for one moment, to the other’s. Seals shut that poisonous, desperate mouth, binds it as so long ago he bound the angel, and whispers softly into that maw, into those alien, ever-changing shadows. “Azazel. I cannot.”
And Azazel weeps, softly and with a black and endless humour, and kisses back. Soft, and gentle, and desperate in the darkness. “Then show me light,” he pleads. Show me light, the Fallen says, and raises bound hands to an archangel’s raiment. “Let me have that,” Azazel begs.
Raphael stares down, reaching up to catch those desperate hands, into eyes that, by the Lord’s command, will see no light ever again. Raphael looks down, into eyes that see only shadows, ever changing, wearing long lost faces. Raphael, with his prisoner’s hands in his, in this place to which he was never meant to return, closes his eyes in turn, presses his lips to the weeping brow, and to this angel, as no other … lies.
“As you wish,” he says, and it bears no trace of the lie, rings with nothing but truth despite it all. “Azazel. As you wish.”
Of all the Fallen, of all the lost, it is to this one Raphael returns. This one, in secret, if not from the Father, if never from the Father, then from the Host. To this place, this jagged, darkened hole in the desert, and the angel he bound there.
“Healer,” the prisoner laughs. “Here, not here? I cannot tell anymore. Is it day, outside?” The laugh cracks. “Sometimes I wonder if I remember what that’s like. Light. Do I remember that?”
Raphael says nothing. Sometimes he never does. Sometimes he simply stands, in the silence and the darkness, with eyes that see where the other’s cannot, and listens.
“I see my children, sometimes,” the Fallen whispers. “I hear them, too, always, always that, they scream forever, my children. Sometimes, though, I see them. These shadows. Always changing. Sometimes, your face. Sometimes … theirs.”
Raphael … moves, at last. Twitches, an agitated flutter. He will deny it, should any save the Father ask. He does not have to, with this one.
“I did not kill them,” he says, quietly. A whisper in endless, unbroken shadows. “Not that.”
The prisoner smiles. A crack, upon his face, a maw into some other darkness, some other shadows entirely. “Do you say you would not, had He asked you that instead?” the Fallen whispers, venomous in his chains. “Do you promise me that, Raphael?”
The archangel flinches, faintly. “No,” he admits, softly. “I would serve, as I have always served. Your children were monsters. Had I been asked …”
“Monsters!” the father spits, surging upwards in sudden, savage fury. “You speak of monsters! You? Archangel?”
Raphael does not answer, not this. He cannot. There is truth, even in this, even from this mouth.
“Kill me,” the Fallen whispers. Always the quietest of words. Always his request. “Let me go to them, let me have them. Wipe me clean, as they were wiped. Kill me. Mercy, Healer. Have that much.”
“... No,” Raphael whispers back, and it trembles, it has always trembled, from that second meeting, those aeons ago, here in Dudael. “No,” he denies, so softly, and presses his lips, for one moment, to the other’s. Seals shut that poisonous, desperate mouth, binds it as so long ago he bound the angel, and whispers softly into that maw, into those alien, ever-changing shadows. “Azazel. I cannot.”
And Azazel weeps, softly and with a black and endless humour, and kisses back. Soft, and gentle, and desperate in the darkness. “Then show me light,” he pleads. Show me light, the Fallen says, and raises bound hands to an archangel’s raiment. “Let me have that,” Azazel begs.
Raphael stares down, reaching up to catch those desperate hands, into eyes that, by the Lord’s command, will see no light ever again. Raphael looks down, into eyes that see only shadows, ever changing, wearing long lost faces. Raphael, with his prisoner’s hands in his, in this place to which he was never meant to return, closes his eyes in turn, presses his lips to the weeping brow, and to this angel, as no other … lies.
“As you wish,” he says, and it bears no trace of the lie, rings with nothing but truth despite it all. “Azazel. As you wish.”
