divinemanic:
God, she was mortified – the urge to draw had increased since her introduction to Azrael, the urge to document, as if she weren’t sure if her eyes were tricking her or not anymore. She drew, almost as if to prove to herself that her hands were still steady, still capable of creation and not destruction: that they wrought anything but death.
She blinked; her hands went red for a brief second and she startled enough to drop the napkin she’d been clutching. She blinked again and her hands were as clean as ever, and she smiled to cover up. “Have at it,” she said casually, nudging the wrinkled napkin over, though she originally had no intention of showing the stranger.
His approach set off a rioting in herself – it felt like a dulled spark in her veins, a miniature kick of recognition and she bit down on her bottom lip, worrying at it. She had no true idea of what was on the napkin she’d pushed over: it had to be some blend of faces in the bustle of the coffee shop, bells, and thorns, if her usual fare was anything to go by.Â
“Nothing expressly from scripture,” she returned, nervously, unsure where the man was going, and just how close he hit to home. “Maybe some vague interpretation of it,” she amended, in case her drawings betrayed her words.
Zahariel smiled again, closed mouthed and warm, and took the seat across from this… curious person. Dark eyes slid over the mash of faces and wayward lines scrawled onto the napkin — nothing expressly from scripture which was a shame, but the scrap of paper combined with her erratic behaviour made Zahariel sure that she was at least a prophet of some sort.
And what else did the angels need but Azrael out of the Godly plane and onto the mortals’ own?
It would do well to have an angel of death around for the apocalypse, and Samael had already been disgraced. They had fallen in love with a human of all things. Zahariel didn’t understand it — loving humans. Then again, Zahariel didn’t understand loving anything more than God. Perhaps he was simply devout enough that the temptation wasn’t there ( but was it truly not there? There had been times of doubt, and surely there would be more ).
“It seems to me,” Zahariel said, “that this is something inspired by the divine.”
He wasn’t lying. The warm smile didn’t falter as he spoke, but the intensity of his stare betrayed that he was angling for something different, something deeper than simply speaking about art.
“Have you any interest in God?”
