Telonia

A breather, for once.

Death doesn’t get a great deal of these. Probably one a day as related to the flow of time on Earth — or the “Low Surface” as Heaven calls it. But then with his affairs with the valkyrie program, once a day has become once a week or once every two weeks. On occasion he’s only had one breather per month. Perhaps in the long-ago, Samael would have used this time to rest like the almighty Father did. He’d wander into his monochrome room, sit with his back against the white tree, and watch his crows play beside him until someone interrupted. But diligence is a virtue, and Samael’s numerous valkyries still have a free will that he has to keep in check. So the archangel sits behind his office desk, lowers his head, and looks through time and space to see what his valkyries are up to.

Drusa is off managing Isaac’s recruitment.

Dana has just gone back to his apartment, content to sleep through his day off.

Kevin is kneeling before a cross, his hands clasped together.

Alex is rolling a blunt before her next purge.

Malik is debating whether or not he wants to smoke this one.

Et cetera.

Right when Samael is caught up with the goings-on of all the hundreds of valkyries under his care, his breather ends. A knock comes through his office door, and in turn the archangel stands up behind his desk.

The door glides open, and in comes Archangel Gabriel, Messenger of God, as expected. His wings, layered in colors from gold to maroon to teal, are folded high above the halo on his head. Their feathers are ruffled, and yet the eyes embedded in his wings remain uncovered to see all that lies around him. His white chiton hangs from one shoulder to expose the other, and despite his youthful appearance, the tone on his face is one of aged severity. In his arms, a bundle of scrolls varying in size are neatly held together.

“Peace be with you, Archangel Gabriel,” says Samael, greeting him with a bow. As always, the archangels speak to each other in Aramaic.

“And with you, Archangel Samael,” responds Gabriel. His head nods slightly, failing to match Samael’s gesture. Samael might think Gabriel’s just too busy for a proper greeting, were it not for that waver in his eyes.

“Here are the scheduled deaths for the next 24 hours, courtesy of the Principalities of West Europe and West Africa,” Gabriel continues. He moves to Samael’s desk and places the scrolls across its surface. It’s a perfectly even spread as always, every handle marking an exact distance between each one on either side.

“Mali is thick today,” Samael comments.

“Civil unrest,” Gabriel responds as though the words are barely worth speaking.

“Naturally,” Samael nods.

“I have other matters to attend to,” Gabriel announces. His voice cuts the air as though he were interrupting someone else’s conversation.

“Peace be with you, then,” Samael nods.

Gabriel doesn’t return the gesture, instead dashing out of Samael’s office and slipping through the open door.

“Damn you too, I suppose,” Samael mumbles to himself.

He makes an easy stride to the office door, but instead of closing it he chooses to peer through to his ossuary. It’s empty as usual, save for Gabriel’s folded wings drifting past the pews. The messenger stops for nothing; not to admire the surrounding bones of God’s creation or even to second-guess such a harsh goodbye. Within seconds, Gabriel disappears through the church’s entrance and into Heaven beyond.

“No, no,” Samael whispers to himself again, “Peace be with you, and with your spirit. Forgive me for my words.”

It’s now that he realizes his speech has slipped into Hebrew, turning a self-directed apology into a prayer for the Father’s forgiveness.

Second nature, he supposes.

Samael turns back to his office, finally closing the door behind him. He makes his way to his desk, picks a scroll at random, and unfurls it. He begins his routine, first scanning the documents for dates and times, making sure they’re all in proper chronology. They are, of course, but diligence is a virtue Samael hates to waste.

Once he notes the proper sortment of every name in every nation, he lines them all up by the hour. Algeria, Burkina Faso, Côte d'Ivoire… The scroll for each nation is lined up in accordance to 00:00 in local time, then torn across at the 01:00 mark. By the end of this process, Samael has a stack of parchments for each death scheduled from 00:00 to 01:00.

He repeats the process again for the hour from 01:00 to 02:00, then again from 02:00 to 03:00, and so on. It’s easy toil, and thankfully so. Were it not, the administration between his God-given mandate of reaping souls and his self-given mandate of purging evil would be much more difficult to manage. As per usual, he keeps an eye out for potential valkyries. But then, with two brand-new recruits from the United States, it might be best to put recruitment on pause and lay low for now. Eventually, once the sorting is through, his desk is full of parchment stacks spanning a full day in multiple regions.

Bam! Bam!

Samael holds back a groan. He knows exactly who it is and brings himself to stand upright accordingly.

The door’s hinges rattle as the entrance swings open. Another bam! hits the room as the doorknob collides with the wall. Right at that moment, Archangel Michael, Taxiarch of God, appears before Samael. The first thing Samael recognizes him by is the golden set of armor adorning his figure, and then by the sword hanging from his hip. Michael’s wings, chestnut-colored on the outside and crimson on the inside, twitch slightly as his eyes stab at Samael. His brows furrow. His mouth scowls.

“Sam,” Michael hisses.

Samael’s fingers almost curl into a fist. But he knows better than to return the insult.

“Hello, Archangel Michael,” Samael responds. He considers a bow, but decides it best to stay upright.

“‘To purge all wicked from Earth.’” Michael’s voice cuts the air, “ Who gave you this mandate?”

Samael knows the futility of trying to hide the truth. He steadies his breathing, eases his nerves, and speaks through feigned apathy.

“I did,” he answers.

Michael springs forward, leaping over the desk to clamp his hands around Samael’s neck. A bash! rings through Samael’s head as it hits the wall behind him, his neck swelling in response to the vice grip around it. His head jolts to the side as Michael swings him around and throws Death at his own desk. The table falls over, its parchments scattering to dirty the sight of Michael launching himself at Samael again. Michael pins his adversary to the floor, his hand again on Death’s throat, and sends a fist across Samael’s face. Death’s world spins around him, brought to a sudden halt once Michael lets go of his throat.

“What in God’s name makes you think you have the authority‽” Michael screams, “You know the holy orders! The only mandates we follow are those given to us by our Father!”

Samael tries to put his thoughts in order, then to form spoken words from that order, but Michael denies him the chance.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the watchers,” Michael hisses, “The first of the fallen angels. I know you were among them.”

And that alone is enough to bring Samael to words.

“Bullshit!” Samael sits up, only to be pinned back down at the shoulders. Nevertheless, he continues, “I never turned my back on our Father! It’s true that I let myself mingle with them, but-”

A swipe across Samael’s face stops his words in their tracks.

“Nevermind that!” Michael shouts back, “I don’t care what your intentions became after the fact! The truth remains that you laid with women of the Low Surface and let them give birth to nephilim. The truth remains that you’re responsible for the first generation of demons!”

“Damn it!” Samael groans, mustering the strength to throw Michael off of him, “I get it! I get it, OK? I don’t exactly have the best track record, so forgive me for trying to make up for it with this!”

“Make up for– How, in the name of all that is holy, could this possibly make up for anything?”

“You’ve read the mandate, you tell me!” Samael sits up.

“Oh, I’ll tell you,” Michael scoffs, “I’ll rebuke and tell you about what happens in Hell when the violent and wrathful sinners arrive in a long line at those hopeless gates. I’ll tell you about the billion-man army in satan’s lair, all breaking away at the ice as fast as they can to bring glory to their master! I’ll tell you about the doubling of their numbers, getting the job done twice as fast thanks to your efforts in sending them there! I’ll tell you about the unmatched wrath of satan and the countless others you’ve let him be in control of thanks to your hubristic mandate!”

Samael freezes. He looks on at Michael for a moment before slowly shaking his head.

“Wait,” says Samael, “H-hold on-”

“Don’t give me that!” Michael shouts again, “You can’t expect me to believe that the thought didn’t enter your skull for a moment when you were building this mockery of a holy order!”

Michael jabs a finger at Samael, but Samael doesn’t flinch. He only stays frozen until, slowly, his head begins to fall. His face lowers steadily until it faces the floor, and only then does his body shudder once.

“Oh fuck,” says Samael.

A world of dread seeps into those two words, staining their profanity even further than what they were. And as the solemnity settles in, Michael’s face morphs away from anger. His brows flatten to show confusion as he looks on at the Archangel of Death. Then they rise as the realization hits him.

“Samael,” Michael says. Softly at first, then louder, “Samael. Did you really not realize that this would happen?”

“I’ve sent so many violent sinners to Hell,” Death whispers, “And now…”

“…now they’re at the core,” Michael finishes, “Forming the very army we’ll face in Armageddon.”

“Oh my God,” Samael buries his face in his hands.

“Samael, you’ve…” Michael turns away, waving his arms in attempt to summon the right words, “You’ve… You’ve fucked us. Irrevocably!”

“No, no, no, no, hold on,” Samael begins to rise, “I can salvage this. I can make things right. I-I can find a way-”

“No,” Michael says, closing the distance between himself and Death, “You can’t be trusted to do that.”

“It’s my mistake, I should-”

“No!” Michael yells, drilling a finger into Samael’s chest, “You can’t be trusted to do that! You set up a mandate of your own without our Father’s command. You kept it secret from angels above, below, and among your rank. You judged the fates of human souls, which was never part of your mandate!”

“Michael-”

“You actively went against the structure commanded by our Almighty Father! You decided to subvert His job entirely as if it was yours to do alone!” Michael keeps screaming, his face only an inch from Samael’s, “The only thing you’ve done right throughout this entire ordeal was the bare minimum of your God-given mandate! And even then, you’ve manipulated it to undermine His plan!”

“Michael!”

“One more word, Samael, one more word and I’ll see to it that you’re shattered to bits when the other archangels hear of this!”

Samael fails to hold in a squeak. Not that it seems to matter much to Michael, as his tirade continues.

“A council will be held, Sam,” Michael warns through grit teeth, “And you will learn the limits to divine forgiveness. What you’ve done is no different from twisting a knife in each and every angel’s back. Be grateful that this isn’t anyone among the higher angelic orders.”

Samael barely notices when Michael’s rant ends. Everything had come at him at once, and all so put-together. Even if he hadn’t been yelling, the words themselves would be impossible to argue with. Eventually, at some point during the silence, Samael realizes that he’d been staring down Michael this whole time. It wasn’t intentional, but Michael seems to think it was. Without running the risk of Michael’s threat to shatter him, Samael turns his head to observe the fallen desk beside him. The beat of Michael’s enraged breath brushes against Samael’s cheek. Neither archangel lets a sound escape their throats for the better part of a minute. Eventually, Michael turns away without a word. He walks off to exit the office, leaving Samael alone with the parchments scattered across the room.

Unlike when it opened, the door quietly snaps shut.

Samael falls to his knees.

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