Chapter 2: Found

The desert was empty and vast with red sand being kicked up into the air as the wind blew by. A small oasis of green was the only respite from the stark harshness. Small hardy goats were grazing the few patches of grass among a collection of tents and huts that were cobbled together. It was not that long after the Flood, but enough time had passed that the survivors had been able to put together some semblance of a life.

A young boy squatted by a fire, stoking it with a short stick. A water-filled metal cup sat almost in the fire. He waited patiently.

A loud groan came from the small tent behind him. He didn't move, now used to the sound. The boy knew when he had seen the bloodied heap of a man moaning in the desert that it had been the violent murdering Enforcer. Michael's beaten form had been lying by a small collection of rocks and broken wreckage, aching and feverish with infection. The boy knew that he was the Archangel who had killed almost everyone he knew and destroyed the life he had once had. But for some reason, pity was all that came to him upon seeing the angel with broken wings and battered body. Once intimidating and frightening, the angel was reduced to a heap of blood, bruises and bile.

The boy had stopped and given him some of his water. The look that Michael had given him was all that it had taken for the boy to approach him. Michael had questioned him, wondering if the boy knew who he was and if so, why would he help him despite all that had occurred? The boy had responded with, "Because it's the right thing to do." The surprise on Michael's face had been clear, but it only reinforced what the boy knew to be true. That sometimes doing what was right was not always the easiest thing to do, but still the true path. And compassion was not something he had lost, despite all that Michael had done.

He remembered the stricken look on Michael's swollen broken face. He had helped the archangel as best as he could, bringing him to a small shelter he had put together for himself. He tried to help him with his wounds, but the pain that the angel was in was unbearable. And then the fever seemed to make Michael forget where he was, often confused by the boy's presence. He would cry out in pain and call out for his siblings or someone named 'Azrael' while he slept. And often there was some gibberish about his Father.

Days had passed since Michael had been brought to the tent and all the boy could do was try to feed him and be there for him. He had tried to clean the angel's wounds when Michael would allow it, but often the angel would lash out in a haze. His broken wings had stopped bleeding finally, but they were crumpled and useless. Michael had seen better days. The boy had a feeling that the angel was going to die soon. If angels could die. He wasn't really sure.

The water was steaming in the metal cup and the boy carefully pulled it out of the fire with his stick. He was about to pick it up when a dark shadow fell over him from above. A distinctive winged shadow. His heart felt like it stopped all together as he stumbled away from the fire and tried to find the source of the shadow.

The sound of wings beating filled his ears as blind panic made him run back to the tent, quickly tucking inside and falling to his knees near Michael's prone form. The angel lay on his side on a blanket in the dirt. His broken wings were crumpled behind him. The boy scrambled closer to him and then froze. Why should he go to the one angel who had killed everyone he had loved? His conflict distracted him momentarily and then the darkened tent was suddenly illuminated as the tent flap opened and a tall figure stood in the opening. The bright light outside obscured the figure's features completely, making the figure one large imposing shadow. A shadow that fell over the boy.

The bright light fell over Michael and it roused him from his feverish stupor, causing him to squint into the light with one of his eyes. His other one was still swollen shut. He lifted his arm and tried to see who was standing in the opening, having almost no energy to move much of anything else.

The figure moved closer, letting the flap close. In the dim light, the boy shook, still frozen to the spot as he stared up at the tall female angel standing in the middle of the tent. She looked formidable and was dressed in battle armor with two short swords strapped in a crisscrossed fashion at the base of her lower back. With long dark hair and green eyes, she was beautiful and exotic looking with a fierceness that rivaled Michael's pre-Flood days. Her expression was stoic, cold and alien as she looked down at the boy.

"Leave. Now." Her voice was commanding and had a strange lilt to it.

The boy scurried out of the tent after a moment's hesitation, glancing back at Michael only for a second before disappearing outside.

Groaning, Michael had tried to sit up but gave up and instead stared up at her. She was not who he had expected and his heart jumped at the sight of Azrael standing there, staring down at him. Her face looked fierce and angry, as she looked him over.

With voice harsh with disuse, he gravelly asked, "Did Father send you?"

She stared at him blankly with her hand resting on one of the sword handles.

Resigned, he said, "You've come to finish what Gabriel and Uriel have started."

Azrael kept her tone even as she looked at Michael's broken body. It was hard for her to see him this way. "What have you done, Michael?"

He closed his eye and tried not to moan as he shifted once more. The pain in his wings radiated through him. Michael knew he deserved this and couldn't bear to ask for her help, even though he really wanted it.

Azrael's voice was a harsh whisper as she spoke once more. "I left to do as I was told, handle the lower angels and their rebellious acts, only to find when I returned that you were… gone." She paused, her anger fading a little with her concern. "To find Gabriel and Uriel not speaking of you… to the unrest among the higher angels. As if you were gone for good." Her voice lowered as if he had been lost forever. Emotion threatened to get the better of her.

She shifted, her hand leaving the sword finally.

Azrael had still not stepped closer to him and it pained him. All he wanted was for her to hold him now, to hug him and to heal him. He sighed, surprised at his own reaction to her. He had not realized how much he needed her. "I failed Father, Azrael." His voice cracked with disuse and pain.

She stared at him with that unnerving look of hers. Michael wondered if maybe this was what humans felt sometimes when he looked at them. She was thinking and probably weighing his words.

Her head tilted slightly in acknowledgment of him. "It was a test." She paused, still mulling it over. "Unsurprising, I suppose." Azrael stayed still, keeping herself from moving closer to him. From doing what she actually wanted to do which was to hold him. To heal him. To make things right again.

She wasn't sure if Father had really wanted the others to hurt him like this, but it was a small penance for the blood he had shed. Not that her swords were clean of human blood. Or angel blood for that matter. Azrael was known for being brutal and often the other angels wondered why Michael spent any time with her at all.

Supposedly, Father loved them all, as he loved the humans. But the hierarchy was sometimes cumbersome among the angels. Azrael and the other archangels were His soldiers and often had to do things that didn't always make sense to them.

But the Flood had been Michael's rampage. That anger and carnal satisfaction was something Azrael understood. It was an outlet for all the frustration that came with their Order in things. It was a weakness that she kept in check, but Michael had never been tested in that regard. Until now.

And here he was, bloodied and broken. At the hands of his own siblings. And it caused an ache in her chest. The momentary relief she had in finding him was brief when she saw his feverish form.

It had taken her a while to find him, to get answers as to what had happened. She knew something was wrong because she couldn't sense him anymore, which happened often when angels descended upon the World. As if something disconnected them. It must be what humans felt. It was blinding and lonely.

"I failed him. I didn't see what he was asking for…" he whispered, turning his face away from her. He had never cried in front of her before and he didn't want to now.

Maybe he'd been in this World for too long or perhaps the fever had taken its toll. He felt every emotion and it was disconcerting. These strange things that rumbled through his chest, something he had no control over, making him want to cry for days or lash out and beat the life out of someone. He covered his swollen face with his hand and tried to rein himself in.

And then he felt her presence as she kneeled down next to him. Azrael gently took his hand and pulled it way from his face, revealing to her the swelling and bruising that covered it. As she gently smoothed the hair back from his tired face, he hissed at the momentary pain but he didn't move away from her.

"I killed them all. I…lost myself…," he whispered, his one eye looking at her with raw anguish.

"Oh, Michael." She whispered, feeling for him. Carefully, she cradled his face with her hand. He closed his eye again, basking in her attention and relaxing into it. For a moment, her true concerned self showed on her usually stoic face.

"What have you done, Michael?"