Chapter Thirty-Seven

In the dark room of a black palace in a lays Night’s own prince; sleeping

in a bed that had been engendered at the pinnacle of noble embroidery was the

somnolent Serael. It was half past the hour of noonday but to the assassin it was

not at all a concern. No being, not in Heaven above of Hell below, knew the

reason behind his exceptionally diligent discipline. No one knew, not even he. He

did not enjoy the results of his vocation nor did he enjoy the vocation itself, yet no

one’s skill in such an elite occupation could be any more elevated than his own.

He could his mission without even the slightest hesitation whatsoever. He never

felt guilty of any of his acts. It was evil, and he knew it was such. However, he

knew it was a necessary evil. For without it, good would never stand a chance, at

least that was his doctrine in his own vocabulary.

The blessing of sleep being bestowed upon him was as much of a rarity as

rain in a desert, however, occasionally, it does rain in such a place, and sleep has

been granted to him this day. Today, another rarity was occurring as well. Serael

was dreaming, but this was no ordinary dream. For a creature whose heart had

been hardened by war, dreaming of love wasn’t something that ever happens.

Keira was the subject that had graced itself upon his sanity this day.

When he kissed her lips, he knew not what had possessed him. “She was

so stunned,” he mumbled to himself. Had he frightened her? Serael picked up a

mirror and deeply ruminated on the question. Had his monstrosity caught her in

disgust? The eyes of his reflection pierced his own. He had been aged to a full
state of melancholy. “How could she not,” the Angel of Judgment muttered to

himself. Depression shifted to frustration, and the raged assassin hurled the small

portion of glass. It then shattered to a millennia of miniscule portions. Serael

gazed into the remnants of the demolished mirror. Now, he felt even worse!

What was going wrong with him? He hated it most thoroughly. What is

this feeling? Is this love? He didn’t see what was so great about it. It made him

distracted, stressed, and above all, it made him miserable. Why did he have these

strong feelings for her? Was is her beauty? She is very gorgeous, but he had seen

woman fairer than she, and he did not feel this why about any of them. Was it her

intellect? She did seem very witty and very clever, however, she didn’t seem to

know a thing about being an angel. Then again, neither did he. Was it her

personality? Her behavior? She didn’t act like most girls at all. She seemed to be a

tomboy from his stand point. Not his usual type. So what was it? What about her

makes him feel this way?

“You love her because she treats you like a regular angel instead of a freak

of nature. She doesn’t see you as this prestigious supernal or Heaven’s ultimate

weapon or a murderer or something like that. She treats like an ordinary person,”

said a voice.

“Who’s there,” demanded the Angel of Judgment, jumping out of his bed.

“Peace, my child, be at peace,” said the voice. Serael’s eyes grew wide. He

realized who it was. On his knees, with his against the ground in prostrate fashion,
he kneeled. “My Lord and my God,” he exclaimed. The room was immediately

filled with luminous, burning light.

“Child, you, just as Adam, the first human, has desired to have companion

who understands you and treat you just like a regular angel,” stated the voice,

“Now that I have delivered one right before your very eyes, you are unsure? Must

I place her in a box and wrap her with paper for you as well?”

For the first time in his life, Serael actually revealed his true feelings.

“Lord,” he choked with tears in his eyes, “I’m not an angel, but a monster. I am a

cold-blooded killer. I feel no remorse when I have ended a life. I just feel numb. I

am not like you other creations. My hands have been stained with blood too many

times. I’m not angel. I don’t even have wings. She will never love me.”

“Child, you judge yourself to harshly,” replied the voice, “You make

yourself sound as if you kill the innocent or as if your victims have souls that

could’ve been saved. Those of Hell are doomed. They no longer have souls. They

are, to be frank, the living dead. Nothing more. Also, you are not the only angel to

has killed. Michael is notorious for it, and though he will never admit, Metatron

does as well, and the viziers are not an exception either. You know, Mankind, my

creation, believed that angels had no freewill. They believed that I restricted you

by my law. Yet many beings do not realize that I have given them freewill as will,

and they restrict themselves under this false belief. People don’t realize that I have

given them some control over their own lives and that their own actions create

half their own problems. So trust me. Go to her.”

 “She won’t like me, Lord,” complained the nervous Serael. “She will,”

replied the voice, “I thought it was I who decided what would be and what

wouldn’t be.” The voice chuckled as he continued, “She will love you…sooner

than you think.” Serael gave him a doubt-filled look. “How do you know,” he

asked the voice. “Trust me,” reassured the voice, “I tend to have a hand in such

matters. Now, wake up. Virgil’s at your door.”

Within seconds, the eyes of the supernal popped open. Was it all a dream,

Serael had asked himself.

“Hey ape, open up,” shouted a bad-mannered voice from outside his door.

Virgil. Serael smirked, staring at the ceiling for a minute or two, then he

proceeded for the door.