Bartleby does his angsty thang.
Disclaimer: this doesn't belong to me. None of it. No duh.
***
We're opposites. We were created to compliment each other, to balance. To play off each other's weaknesses and strengths. But in my heart, deep down in my soul, I knew, I always *knew*, that Loki was His favorite.
Loki, by physical appearance, was the definition of angelic. A face that remained boyish no matter what the age, a countenance that when graced with a smile or a laugh, lit up and always, always, *always* made you feel like everything was going to be okay. Beautiful, lustrous golden hair. Eyes as blue as the sky, as the ocean, as blue as anything I'd ever seen. His gaze was hardened by his past, and in those eyes continuously lurked an infinite sadness that came from his seperation from the Almighty.
When they, the other angels, spoke of Loki, it was always with mild distaste. Few of them were friends with the two of us. In spite of this, more likely because of it, he and I had forged a bond that would last us for eternity. Because when I first met him, when I first saw him, I saw something glistening and golden lurking behind that tough-as-nails, take-no-mercy, Angel of Death facade.
While Loki was by no means diminutive, compared to me...let's just say that people more often than not assumed I was the Angel of Death. I was a good head taller than him, and while he was blond-haired and blue-eyed, I possessed a mottled brown color in both aspects, which, combined with my height and build, made me out to be the Devil in disguise. Then they learned that Loki was the cruel, hardened one, and I was merely his companion. Quiet, a reader, overly sympathetic to humanity.
I still remember the night everything changed. Loki had finished an impressive slaughter, one that was destined to go down in history books, make him an idol among mass murderers. Loki cared nothing for fame. Another false impression that angels got from him was that he adored his work. That he ate, drank, slept, breathed death. He was the Grim Reaper before the Grim Reaper came to be. I was the only one other than God who had ever bothered to get to know Loki, to really get to know him. And not just because I was his partner or his soul mate. Because of that light I told you about. That inner light that just resonated something that you'd never expect. And I saw that in him, every day, making itself known as that saddened, glassy expression he often wore after a long day at work.
I saw this in him that night we went for celebratory drinks. They were under the guise of celebrating his success, but he and I both knew, though we never voiced it and I doubt he was aware that I knew it, these drinks were in celebration of the job merely being *done*. If we were lucky, we'd get wasted enough to forget altogether.
As the night wore on, the band got worse, the crowd got more boisterous, and he and I got increasingly more drunk. Finally, I imposed upon him a thought that had been plaguing me for quite some time. I suggested he leave his job, and after a moment of drunken thought, he agreed. What happened after that was history-making, as it screwed over all parties involved. The angels, for starters, were pissed that we'd lost them drinking privileges.
I ignored this all. Their opinions meant nothing to me. They meant nothing to me. I was as much of a loner as he was, based solely on my association with him. Before my partnership with Loki, I was as popular as the next seraphim. But like I said, no one ever really bothered to get to know Loki. In their celestial eyes, he was His favorite, and past that, nothing mattered.
Nothing mattered to me when we got cast out. I was numb with shock; my only solace was Loki's eternal presence. We had our fights, but at the same time we had our brotherly moments. We were black and white. Yin and yang. We were soul mates. Created for each other, destined to be together forever. In the end, we even died together.
I hadn't wanted to kill Loki. More than anything else about that whole escapade, that is the one thing I truly regret. Killing Loki was the same as killing myself. It was extinguishing what was left of my immortality, even though my wings were still in tact. Loki was my soul. And in bringing his death, I sealed my fate as someone of unspeakable horrors. I was the angelic equivalent of Cain, was what I was.
These days, I get nightmares. It's hard to believe. But in death, you even get sleep. The goal of God was to create Afterlife to be almost if not equal to Life. So you had food, you had drink, you had sleep, just without the sickness and suffering you might have known in Life. When I slept, again and again his tortured face loomed in front of me, wearing an expression of pain and confusion and loss that I had carved into him. In my dream, he moaned out my name, whispered it well into his death, his voice more tortured than his face, and not from physical pain.
I wake in a cold sweat, sometimes crying, sometimes screaming, all times begging for mercy. I don't mind being out here; I got more than my fair share of mercy from God. I want mercy from Loki. I ache for the forgiveness I don't deserve. I'd do anything just to see him again. I'm so sorry, Loki. I'd give myself life again, and take it away again, and again and again and again, if only to prove the depths of my sorrow.
But I'm the angel that knows forgiveness. He's the Angel of Death, I'm only a Watcher. He speaks in vengeance, and I speak in regret.
Disclaimer: this doesn't belong to me. None of it. No duh.
***
We're opposites. We were created to compliment each other, to balance. To play off each other's weaknesses and strengths. But in my heart, deep down in my soul, I knew, I always *knew*, that Loki was His favorite.
Loki, by physical appearance, was the definition of angelic. A face that remained boyish no matter what the age, a countenance that when graced with a smile or a laugh, lit up and always, always, *always* made you feel like everything was going to be okay. Beautiful, lustrous golden hair. Eyes as blue as the sky, as the ocean, as blue as anything I'd ever seen. His gaze was hardened by his past, and in those eyes continuously lurked an infinite sadness that came from his seperation from the Almighty.
When they, the other angels, spoke of Loki, it was always with mild distaste. Few of them were friends with the two of us. In spite of this, more likely because of it, he and I had forged a bond that would last us for eternity. Because when I first met him, when I first saw him, I saw something glistening and golden lurking behind that tough-as-nails, take-no-mercy, Angel of Death facade.
While Loki was by no means diminutive, compared to me...let's just say that people more often than not assumed I was the Angel of Death. I was a good head taller than him, and while he was blond-haired and blue-eyed, I possessed a mottled brown color in both aspects, which, combined with my height and build, made me out to be the Devil in disguise. Then they learned that Loki was the cruel, hardened one, and I was merely his companion. Quiet, a reader, overly sympathetic to humanity.
I still remember the night everything changed. Loki had finished an impressive slaughter, one that was destined to go down in history books, make him an idol among mass murderers. Loki cared nothing for fame. Another false impression that angels got from him was that he adored his work. That he ate, drank, slept, breathed death. He was the Grim Reaper before the Grim Reaper came to be. I was the only one other than God who had ever bothered to get to know Loki, to really get to know him. And not just because I was his partner or his soul mate. Because of that light I told you about. That inner light that just resonated something that you'd never expect. And I saw that in him, every day, making itself known as that saddened, glassy expression he often wore after a long day at work.
I saw this in him that night we went for celebratory drinks. They were under the guise of celebrating his success, but he and I both knew, though we never voiced it and I doubt he was aware that I knew it, these drinks were in celebration of the job merely being *done*. If we were lucky, we'd get wasted enough to forget altogether.
As the night wore on, the band got worse, the crowd got more boisterous, and he and I got increasingly more drunk. Finally, I imposed upon him a thought that had been plaguing me for quite some time. I suggested he leave his job, and after a moment of drunken thought, he agreed. What happened after that was history-making, as it screwed over all parties involved. The angels, for starters, were pissed that we'd lost them drinking privileges.
I ignored this all. Their opinions meant nothing to me. They meant nothing to me. I was as much of a loner as he was, based solely on my association with him. Before my partnership with Loki, I was as popular as the next seraphim. But like I said, no one ever really bothered to get to know Loki. In their celestial eyes, he was His favorite, and past that, nothing mattered.
Nothing mattered to me when we got cast out. I was numb with shock; my only solace was Loki's eternal presence. We had our fights, but at the same time we had our brotherly moments. We were black and white. Yin and yang. We were soul mates. Created for each other, destined to be together forever. In the end, we even died together.
I hadn't wanted to kill Loki. More than anything else about that whole escapade, that is the one thing I truly regret. Killing Loki was the same as killing myself. It was extinguishing what was left of my immortality, even though my wings were still in tact. Loki was my soul. And in bringing his death, I sealed my fate as someone of unspeakable horrors. I was the angelic equivalent of Cain, was what I was.
These days, I get nightmares. It's hard to believe. But in death, you even get sleep. The goal of God was to create Afterlife to be almost if not equal to Life. So you had food, you had drink, you had sleep, just without the sickness and suffering you might have known in Life. When I slept, again and again his tortured face loomed in front of me, wearing an expression of pain and confusion and loss that I had carved into him. In my dream, he moaned out my name, whispered it well into his death, his voice more tortured than his face, and not from physical pain.
I wake in a cold sweat, sometimes crying, sometimes screaming, all times begging for mercy. I don't mind being out here; I got more than my fair share of mercy from God. I want mercy from Loki. I ache for the forgiveness I don't deserve. I'd do anything just to see him again. I'm so sorry, Loki. I'd give myself life again, and take it away again, and again and again and again, if only to prove the depths of my sorrow.
But I'm the angel that knows forgiveness. He's the Angel of Death, I'm only a Watcher. He speaks in vengeance, and I speak in regret.
