“Watch your step,” Lara chuckled, her voice echoing off the chamber walls as they cautiously made their way down the narrow staircase. The walls were slick with dampness, and the stairs, treacherously slippery, threatened to send them tumbling into the abyss below with one wrong move. Each step felt like a gamble, the air growing heavier and more stagnant with every descent, as if the ruin itself clung to ancient secrets.
The stairway spiraled downward endlessly, the passage of time warping in this underground realm. It felt as though they had been descending for an eternity, each step echoing a lifetime of forgotten memories. The atmosphere was thick with an otherworldly stillness, a magic that seemed to suspend them in a realm untouched by the passage of time. The further they ventured, the more Azrael felt the weight of history pressing in around them, the very air saturated with the whispers of ages long past.
Finally, they reached a flat, albeit still damp, floor. Before them stood an unassuming door, its presence both ominous and inviting. The door, weathered by time, bore rusted hinges and wood in desperate need of replacement. The once-golden knob had lost its luster, and the intricate markings that once adorned the wood had been eroded by the relentless march of centuries. It stood as a sentinel to the secrets it guarded, its silence a testament to the stories it had witnessed.
Lara, undeterred, approached the door with a mixture of reverence and determination. “This is it,” she said, her voice a whisper that seemed to blend with the ancient murmurs of the ruin. “The heart of the old temple.”
As the ancient doors creaked open, the air within was thick with the weight of countless souls and secrets. The cavernous expanse seemed poised to swallow Azrael whole. His gaze traveled upwards to the ceiling, where stalactites hung like stone spears, poised to strike. The floor beneath his feet was adorned with a once-beautiful mural, now marred and fragmented. The tiles, which had been meticulously maintained long ago, were now cloaked in dust and grime, their vibrant colors faded, leaving the story they once told obscured by time.
Azrael’s heart throbbed with a mix of awe and trepidation as he stepped further into the ruins. The structures that remained were little more than skeletal remnants, each one a testament to a forgotten past. He peered through a ruined window, unable to discern the purpose of the buildings. Were they homes, places of worship, or sites of ancient rituals? The answers eluded him.
Turning back towards the entrance, Azrael saw Lara standing in the doorway. Her gaze was cautious, watching his every move with a keen eye. She seemed both protector and guardian of these sacred ruins, wary of the stranger who now walked among them.
“This is…” Azrael began, his voice frail as he struggled to articulate the overwhelming emotions bubbling to the surface. “How long has this been down here?”
Lara hesitated for a moment before shrugging lightly. “There used to be an old historian I hired to help me date these ruins,” she replied, her voice echoing softly in the vast chamber. “Around two thousand years?”
Azrael felt a lump form in his throat. Two thousand years these ruins had lain hidden beneath the earth, waiting to be rediscovered. He stared at Lara in disbelief, then turned his attention back to the chamber, taking in the statues with their faceless, veiled figures. Many were missing heads, arms, or had toppled over, their pieces scattered forlornly on the ground.
“I know you are his worshiper,” Lara said, her tone tinged with unease. “If you want, I can leave you to pray. But if you tell anyone about this, I’ll send you to Azrael myself.”
Azrael felt the weight of her words settle upon him. He understood the gravity of the secrets these ruins held, and the fierce determination of the woman before him to protect them. With a nod, he conveyed his respect for her guardianship and the ancient mysteries that surrounded them.
As Lara made her way towards the exit, she glanced back at Azrael with every few steps. When the doors finally closed behind her, the reverberating thud echoed through the empty chamber. Left alone, Azrael felt a profound sense of solace, a peace that was difficult to describe. Yet, as he stood in the quiet, a chill breeze whispered from the depths of the chamber, calling to him.
He slowly made his way to the center of the room, a place where he sensed an energy he had not felt since his arrival in this mortal plane. Souls surrounded him, invisible to mortal eyes but palpable to his divine senses. They hid from him, their God, cowering in the shadows of every nook and cranny. Why? He wondered as he scanned the room again. His gaze fixed on a soul that began to manifest mere steps away from him. It was disfigured, its arm wobbling as if broken, its form blurred and incomplete, likely distorted over time and weakened by its efforts to appear before him.
“Why have you come here,” the soul’s voice echoed, a blend of male and female tones, “You have forsaken us, Prince of Death. Have you come to gloat?”
Azrael stood calmly before the soul. “Are you still blaming me for your wrongdoings?”
“Following the one true God is not a wrongdoing,” the soul shimmered, struggling to maintain its form. “You have forsaken us to these ruins, and now…”
“I have not done anything. I provided you with a way to repent, and you declined.”
The soul’s anger erupted, its voice shaking the very stones of the chamber. “How dare you!” it screamed. “You have abandoned us, you have destroyed us!”
Azrael remained steadfast, his expression a blend of sadness and resolve. “I offered you redemption. It was your choice to remain here, bound to your regrets and pride.”
The soul’s form wavered, its anger palpable yet mixed with an undercurrent of sorrow. “We trusted you. We followed you,” it whispered, the fury giving way to a mournful tone. “And now we are lost.”
Azrael did not immediately respond to the soul, his gaze lingering on its disfigured form for a moment longer. The soul’s voice broke the silence, somber and laden with sorrow. “Why have you come to us?” it asked. “Did you come here to witness the fruits of your ascension?” The soul gestured with an outstretched arm, showcasing the ruins surrounding them.
“No, it was truly by accident that I arrived here—”
“Then, are you—”
“You will not interrupt me when I am speaking,” Azrael’s voice echoed with authority, reverberating through the chamber with undeniable power. “I arrived here to better understand mortals, to better direct them.”
“We see,” the soul replied, its tone a mix of resignation and curiosity. “You seek knowledge you will never fully grasp.”
“What do you mean?”
“You will never understand what it means to be mortal. You will never comprehend the true joys and sorrows of mortality.”
“How? What—”
“You will see, Our Lord Azrael,” the soul interrupted, its voice carrying a cryptic weight that hung in the air like an unfinished spell.
Azrael stood silent, the soul’s words echoing in his mind. He had come seeking understanding, but the depth of mortal existence remained elusive, shrouded in mysteries he could not yet unravel. The chamber seemed to grow darker, the shadows lengthening as the souls around him whispered their unspoken truths.
In that moment, Azrael realized that his journey was far from over. The path to understanding mortals and their world would be fraught with challenges and revelations, each step bringing him closer to the elusive knowledge he sought. The souls watched him with eyes that had seen countless lifetimes, their silent presence a reminder of the vast chasm between divinity and humanity.
Azrael’s resolve hardened. He would continue his quest, guided by the echoes of the past and the whispers of the souls that lingered in the shadows. And perhaps, in time, he would bridge the gap between the eternal and the ephemeral, finding a way to truly understand the essence of mortal life.
“How have you fared in these ruins?” Azrael questioned, his voice steady as he observed the soul’s figure, now shimmering under its own pressure.
“It has been hard. We prayed and prayed, but our prayers have not been heard,” the soul responded, its form flickering. “The Old God has not answered our prayers. Did you kill him?”
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Azrael felt a hollow opening in his chest, a deep void of emotion. He was silent for a moment, a silence that stretched into an eternity. The souls around him sensed the weight of that silence, and it spoke volumes.
“We see,” the soul murmured, its voice tinged with resignation. “Thank you, Lord.”
Azrael didn’t respond, his emotions a tangled web of duty and sorrow. The souls looked to him for guidance, their ethereal forms shimmering with a blend of hope and despair. He gazed back with the cold detachment of a lord surveying his least faithful servants, a reminder of the divine chasm between them.
As the silence deepened, the soul slowly knelt before Azrael, its voice echoing with a newfound devotion. “Lord Azrael, King of Necropolis, Guardian of the Veil, please have mercy on the souls that have lost their way.”
Azrael looked down at the kneeling soul, feeling the weight of their plea. He knelt beside the disfigured soul, his voice soft but firm. “I have not abandoned you. Even in my silence, I have watched over you. Your prayers have not been in vain.”
The soul looked up, its form stabilizing slightly in the presence of its god. “We only wish to be at peace, to find our place in the cycle once more.”
Azrael reached out, his hand passing through the shimmering form of the soul, a gesture of comfort. “Then go forth,” he commanded gently, gesturing towards the doorway now glowing with celestial light. “Seek Lumus in my absence; he will guide you.”
The souls nodded in unison, their ethereal forms drifting towards the radiant veil that promised passage to Necropolis, continuing the eternal cycle of rebirth and death. As Azrael watched the procession, a sense of release and peace washed over him. One by one, the souls moved through the veil, until only the soul that had spoken remained.
“Thank you, Lord Azrael,” the soul murmured, its voice like a whisper on the wind. As it shimmered and blurred, it finally took on a more defined appearance—the man from the painting, with black hair and eyes that seemed eternally weary. “My wife, she would have loved to meet you.”
“I believe she already has,” Azrael replied, a soft smile touching his lips.
“I like to think so as well. I promised her that I would see her in another lifetime, no matter what it takes.”
“You have a lot of catching up to do, Sir,” Azrael said, his tone gentle and understanding.
The soul of the man didn’t respond with words; instead, he nodded, a bright smile illuminating his features. Then, with a final glance, he stepped into the Veil. As he vanished into the light, Azrael felt a profound sense of closure. The souls had found their way, and there was nothing more he could do for them in this moment.
The chamber fell silent once more, the weight of the past lifting slightly from Azrael’s shoulders. He stood alone amidst the ruins, the echoes of ancient prayers and forgotten histories swirling around him like a gentle breeze. His mission was far from over, but for now, he had provided solace to those who had been lost for so long.
As he stared ahead, unease gnawed at Azrael, his gut twisting as though it would wrench free from his body, his throat constricting painfully. Kneeling in the heart of the chamber, he was overwhelmed by the torrent of emotions released by the souls, emotions that had anchored them to the mortal realm. They felt abandoned, their pent-up feelings now a raw, tangible force that lingered in the air, a message that would have been lost to time had he not arrived. Azrael fell to the ground, his hands trembling as waves of betrayal and gratitude washed over him, clutching at his heart as though it might burst from the intensity.
The sheer power of the emotions threatened to overwhelm him. Struggling to maintain his balance, he braced himself with one hand against the cold, damp floor. His vision blurred, not from exhaustion, but from the tears welling in his eyes. The salt from his tears traced a path down his cheeks, mingling with the taste of his own grief as they dripped onto the muddied ground below. Each tear was a silent testament to the overwhelming sorrow and profound connection he felt with the lost souls who had looked to him for salvation.
Kneeling there, Azrael allowed himself to fully feel the depth of their pain and his own, the weight of millennia pressing upon his shoulders. He had come here seeking understanding, and in this moment, he found it in the most poignant way. The tears that fell were not just his own; they were the collective sorrow of all the souls he had encountered, a poignant reminder of the thin veil between the divine and the mortal.
As the last of his tears fell, Azrael slowly stood, the weight of the chamber and its memories settling into a place of quiet resolve within him. He had work to do, bridges to build, and an understanding to deepen. But for now, he allowed himself this moment of vulnerability, a rare glimpse into the heart of a god who sought to truly understand the beings he watched over. And as he left the chamber, the sense of peace that followed was tinged with a renewed determination to never let such abandonment happen again.
----------------------------------------
“Took you long enough,” Lara remarked, her fingers gliding over the pages of her book as she glanced toward Azrael. “Are you alright?”
Azrael paused at the doorway, struggling to regain his composure before offering a soft smile. His eyes, red from tears, hinted at the depth of his recent emotional upheaval, but Lara either chose not to comment or genuinely didn’t notice. Worship of Azrael had faded into obscurity or been outright banned, and the traditions surrounding him were long forgotten. Azrael slowly made his way to the seating area and collapsed into a chair, groaning as his body finally relaxed.
“Are prayers to Azrael always so demanding?” Lara asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern.
“No. I apologize, Miss Lara,” Azrael replied, his voice hoarse and weary, as though his very essence had been drained in the chamber below.
Lara continued to read her book, barely looking up. “I hope you didn’t move anything down there. Only Azrael knows how delicate things are in those ruins.”
“No, I didn’t move anything,” he assured her. “Please forgive my rudeness, but may I rest here for a while?”
“Of course,” Lara said, her voice softening. “I don’t get many visitors, and having an knife ear here is quite a tale.”
“A knife ear?” Azrael inquired, a hint of amusement in his voice despite his fatigue.
“An elf, I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend,” Lara responded, closing her book and meeting his gaze with a mixture of curiosity and kindness.
Azrael nodded, accepting her apology. He felt the weight of the souls’ accusations and his own burgeoning understanding of mortal life pressing upon him. As he settled into the chair, he allowed himself to embrace the rare moment of vulnerability and rest, knowing that his journey was far from over and that understanding the mortals he watched over would be a long, intricate path.
“What time is it?” Azrael asked, leaning back as the sunlight filtered through the branches, casting dappled shadows around them.
“Just past midday,” Lara responded, her eyes not leaving the page she was engrossed in. However, she looked up when Azrael gasped sharply, his reaction drawing her immediate attention. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been there for three hours?!” Azrael exclaimed, his eyes widening with surprise. He covered his mouth with his hand, a gesture of dismay. “I am so sorry,” he apologized, standing up and bowing slightly toward Lara.
Lara chuckled heartily, the sound echoing softly in the quiet of the library. “Don’t worry about it,” she reassured him with a smile. “I don’t get many visitors, Mr. Azrael,” she teased, closing her book and setting it aside. “And there’s no need for formalities with me—I’m just a simple human, not royalty.”
“You seemed interested in the God of Death. Why is that?” Azrael asked, curiosity piqued as he resumed his seat.
Lara paused, a reflective look crossing her features. “I was, once,” she admitted softly. “When my mother passed away, I stumbled upon an old prayer book dedicated to him. I found a prayer meant to aid souls on their journey beyond.” She sighed, settling into the chair across from Azrael. “So I prayed, fervently, every day and night.”
“Such devotion is admirable,” Azrael remarked, his voice gentle.
Lara shook her head slightly, a wry smile forming. “I wouldn’t call it worship,” she clarified. “It was more about hoping for my mother’s peace than any true devotion to a deity. If that counts as devotion, then I doubt he’s a god who demands much.”
Azrael laughed softly, the sound blending with the rustling leaves outside. Even in his mortal guise, hearing such candid thoughts about divinity intrigued him. It was a reminder of how complex and varied mortal perspectives could be about the gods—each story, each belief adding layers to the intricate tapestry of mortal faith and folklore.
“May I—” Azrael began, but his words were swallowed by a sudden commotion outside. Lara looked up, shadows shifting through the stained glass, and shouts echoed from the town center.
“What’s going on?” Azrael asked, concern lacing his voice.
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good,” Lara replied, her gaze following the last of the figures hurrying past the library. She moved away from the window, her eyes fixed on the door, as if expecting someone to burst through with an explanation. But no one came.
From outside, a bell tolled. Once.
Then twice.
“What does this mean?” Azrael questioned, feeling an uneasy anticipation.
“We shouldn’t worry until we hear the third—” Lara’s words were cut off by a third toll, the sound resonating with a dire urgency. “We need to get to the town center,” she finished, her voice tense.
Azrael followed Lara out of the library, stepping into the swirling currents of tension that filled the village square. Villagers clustered near the ancient fountain, casting anxious glances as two imposing figures on black steeds addressed the crowd. The afternoon sun cast stark shadows, transforming the familiar streets into a tableau of impending strife.
“People of Sava,” the leading figure declared, his voice booming over the murmurs of the crowd. “A dire threat looms in the forests. Lord Ezekiel’s forces gather, hungry for conquest!”
A villager’s voice rose from the crowd, thick with concern. “What threat? We have nothing they want!”
The black-clad rider ignored the plea, his tone unyielding. “Mobilize every able-bodied individual! By tomorrow’s noon, they will be upon us!”
Whispers of dread wove through the gathering as Lara gripped Azrael’s arm tightly. “These men aren’t from Lord Friedrich,” she whispered, a note of fear in her voice.
Azrael felt the gravity of their plight settle upon him. He had come to understand humanity, yet here he stood on the precipice of conflict that threatened these simple lives.
Suddenly, a woman’s shout pierced the tense air. “Murderers!” It was Jana, her face flushed with anger as young Milo clung to her. “Your lord neglected us before! Why should we heed his call now?”
Before more words could follow, one of the riders advanced, silencing her with a brutal swing of his sword’s hilt. The crowd gasped as Jana crumpled to the ground.
“Any more objections?” the rider sneered, scanning the shocked onlookers. “Good. Prepare yourselves by tomorrow noon.” With a final, threatening glance, the figures turned their horses and galloped away, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.
The villagers rushed to Jana’s aid, murmuring in fearful tones as they helped her to her feet. The echo of hooves faded into the distance, but the threat lingered like a dark cloud over Sava.