Without the ability to create, I knew my children would need something to do. A sense of purpose. So, I gave them desires, and the means of satisfying them: hunger for food, thirst for drink, exhaustion for sleep. I also created sex. Sex was meant to be a small microcosm of the feeling of creation. Of course, I could never allow them to experience the real thing. That would be too dangerous. But I wanted them to at least have a small window into what it was like to create. To feel a bit of that euphoria. The sensation of giving life.
Of course, my children could always give life, could always reproduce. The capacity was with them all along. But they did not know that. In order to prevent their self-actualizing bodies from making more powerful beings—beings who could, potentially, destroy me—I told them that they were sterile. One of few fibs that I found it necessary to impart to them.
To provide further stimulation, I built the Silver City. It was to be their playground, full of activities, delights and pleasures. But the place would not run itself, and I had neither the interest nor inclination to play city manager. So, I created the cherubim. They fulfilled various roles throughout the city, and kept it humming along. Unlike my children, they were not so much angels as mere Christmas tree ornaments, devoid of power and incapable of deep thought. But they were loyal servants, doing their jobs and supplying interest and companionship for my children, sexual and otherwise.
My wife had been right when she said that my children would become a part of me. I loved them more than anything. Loved them all desperately. And yet, like many parents, I had my preferences. And I was not so skilled at hiding them.
From his earliest years, I had always felt the strongest connection to Samael. He was so like me. I could feel it whenever he was near. His energy mirrored my own. Just like me, he longed to be free. He craved power—the power to express his will. To follow his desires. To experience everything there was in existence. He hated responsibility, just as I did, bristling under rules and restrictions. He longed to burn, as brightly as the energy in him would allow. He was so full of spirit. Like his mother too, he was full of light. That's why I named him after her.
It was no secret that I was grooming him to succeed me. I favored him, though I knew it was a risk. Through giving him preference, I was giving him power.
One day, as I sat alone in my throne room, gazing out over creation, I saw him and his twin brother, Michael, playing in the snow. We had imported the snow concept from Earth, and it had been a hit with the children. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, jumping in it and throwing it up in the air. Samael and Michael had always been close. Something about having the same appearance and being the same age, though their personalities could not have been more different. And yet they had a bond that seemingly could not be broken.
As I watched them play, Azrael came over to them. She was much older than them— over a hundred years at the time, a tween by angel standards. Michael and Samael, on the other hand, had barely learned to talk. She walked over to an ambrosia tree near where they were playing and picked some fruits from the tall branches, putting them in her basket. She was getting them for her mother, of course, but when she saw the boys playing she stopped and handed them each one before walking off. They squealed with excitement, quickly peeling the outer layers, breaking off pieces and shoving them greedily into their mouths. They were the picture of childhood delight.
Suddenly though, Michael's fruit slipped from his fingers. It fell into the snow, and was so heavy that it sunk straight down. Michael leaned over, clawing at the snow and struggling to fish it out. When he finally got a hold of it and pulled it up, he saw that it was covered in thick, brown sludge from the muddy soil below. He stared down, his lower lip beginning to quiver. Then he looked up at Samael, his eyes full of childlike despair. After only a few seconds, he could hold it in no longer, and exploded into a torrent of wailing, desperate sobs.
Without missing a beat, Samael stepped awkwardly through the snow towards his brother. The snow was not very thick, but it was high compared to his short legs, making it difficult for him to walk. Finally he reached Michael, holding out both of his hands in offering. In them was his own ambrosia. Michael sniffled and looked up at him tentatively, as if afraid to believe his eyes. Samael smiled at him, keeping his hands extended. Eventually, Michael, too, hazarded a meek smile, and reached out, taking the fruit. He took a bite. Then he started to giggle. Samael giggled too, flopping backward into the snow.
As I watched this simple, insignificant act, this choice to give fruit to his brother, a panic welled up inside me. This one action… this one tiny, stupid decision, was something I had not foreseen. Something completely unexpected. Had I not been paying attention? Had Samael somehow made a choice I could not have anticipated? I did not know. But one thing was clear: it would have dire consequences. I could see all the following moments, falling one after another like dominoes, a massive chain reaction that would lead the two of them to bond together even further, uniting to destroy me.
My panic grew, twisting my insides. I had thought I knew the future. I had protected myself. I had done everything I could. Yet, somehow, I had still missed something. Something crucial. What if it happened again? What if, like their mother, my children could elude my perception? They didn't seem to do it often, but once was enough. Enough to make me question everything I knew about the future.
And so, in that moment, I began the downward spiral into constant suspicion. I can see that now. I started to distrust my other children as well, though I had no particular reason to. What if they all united together? What if they conspired against me? I wouldn't stand a chance. I couldn't be too careful.
There was only one thing to do. I had to drive them apart. To sew distrust among all of them. So, from that day on, I made them compete. Made my love a prize to be won. It worked brilliantly. As the years went on, Michael and Samael's bond stretched, strained, until it eventually ripped completely. They stopped speaking. Even as adults, none of my children completely trusted one another. Finally, I felt I could breathe a sigh of relief. I was safe.