"NO, JESUS CHRIST IS NOT AROUND ANYMORE." For nearly 2,000 years, even, but he never held any power, anyway, so Castiel doesn't know why Azrael brought him up now. Castiel keeps his distance, still looking wary, but he opts to sit down to take away the feeling of wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. (He still can — angels have wings for a reason, after all, though Azrael can simply follow him. He doubts her wings are as fucked-up as his.)

                             "A lot happened. Michael wanted to bring on the apocalypse in the mad hopes God would return to us. We managed to prevent that and locked him up with Lucifer in the cage. Then Raphael tried again and — was killed. Both Lucifer and Michael managed to escape the cage later but were killed, too. Gabriel is the only archangel who was deemed worthy to return. You'll find this dimension to be — quite different from your own, I think."

"Recklessness, delusion, incompetence, unchecked ambition, and derelict of duty? That sounds pretty par for the course." Azrael answers. "It's not limited to your dimension, unfortunately.

For once, she is having a civilized conversation with another angel, and it could not have come at a better time, after wiping out half the angels who had ambushed her earlier. There hasn't even been a chance to wash the blood off her hands. It occurs to the Archangel, at that moment, that she is probably an even more menacing sight than usual, given the activities of now-deceased Archangels in this dimension. This seraph likely expects an attack at any moment.

"I won't attack you, in case you are wondering," Azrael adds.

                          AH YES, CASTIEL HAS ALMOST FORGOTTEN HOW ARROGANT AND HAUGHTY ARCHANGELS CAN BE. If this Azrael knew that Castiel called the leader of the heavenly host an assbutt and then threw a holy fire Molotov cocktail at him… Never mind Castiel killing Raphael— Well. Maybe it's better to withhold that little tidbit. He doesn't know what her dimension is like, but he remembers killing another version of himself because he was so fucked-up in that reality, so it stands to reason that she is not the friendliest angel.

                             "There's Gabriel," he says. "He was brought back. He's enjoying a vacation in Malibu right now, though." And Castiel doubts he's planning on taking up any heavenly duties anytime soon.

"Jesus christ," Azrael mutters under her breath as she puts her head in her hands.

Make no mistake, Azrael would die for her older brother without hesitation, though she has not seen him in over two thousand years and perhaps never will again, but he is not the Archangel one would go to for leadership. Questionable decisions? Absolutely, but not leadership. It's enough to make Azrael shudder at the mere thought.

And Azrael thought her dimension was in shambles. She thinks that, maybe, this is how every version of the Host ends up sooner or later—the Princes of Heaven being killed or vanishing entirely, the upper ranks becoming disillusioned and leaving to start hobby farms somewhere in Nebraska, and the lower ranks tearing themselves apart.

"What happened to them?" She asks, staring out from between her fingers at the seraph.

WEIRDLY SPECIFIC BUT HELPFUL CHARACTER BUILDING QUESTIONS

To say Five isn’t grateful for the divine intervention in that fight with those agents would be an out-and-out lie, but for as much as he appreciates Azrael’s timely interference in his favor, he still reflexively rolls his eyes at the predictable (though nonetheless extremely disappointing) response. “Look, I don’t need a minder, lady. Believe it or not, I’m older than this—” he gestures toward the pathetic prepubescent body he’s trapped in with all the scorn and contempt and disdain it deserves, “—would have you believe. And I’m a hell of a lot stronger than I look. You just… caught me on a bad day.” Understatement of the century.

But Five doesn’t have the chance to argue the point any further before Azrael’s (unpleasantly warm) hand collides with his own, and her energy envelops him, a burst of raw, absolute power that makes his own precise teleportations look like cheap party tricks in comparison. He squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden blast of blazing white light, reflexively jerking his arm up in front of his face to block any incoming blows she might try to land while he’s blinded and vulnerable before common sense catches up with instinct — if she really wanted to hurt him, she would have done it during that fight with the Commission agents, taken advantage of his distraction and his weakness to land a decisive hit.

Besides, he knows better than to think that even he could defend himself against her. She’s simply too powerful for that.

As soon as the burning glow has receded enough for him to open his eyes, he immediately withdraws from her, taking a few steps away to ensure a more comfortable distance for the both of them — she doesn’t strike him as a woman who appreciates physical contact any more than he does — before her observation stops him cold, and he frowns at her, cocking his head to the side. She can sense his soul? She can sense that his soul is tethered here? His soul is tethered here? He has a soul? “You can feel all of that?”

Half a second later, he realizes just what a moronic question that was — it only figures that it comes with the territory of being an archangel (or maybe a demon? he hasn’t completely ruled out that particular possibility yet, though he knows better than to say it aloud) — and shakes his head, brushing off the revelation. “Of course you can feel all of that. Never mind.” He has plenty more queries he’d love to make, but he’s got the feeling he’s probably testing her patience by now (if he was an all-powerful deity, he definitely wouldn’t want to be bothered with silly questions from small-minded mortals all day long) and anyway, that would just invite a conversation, which would invite her to linger, and he’s already told her that he doesn’t need her to stick around. Christ forbid she get it in her head that his inquiries are the very poorly-concealed efforts of a young child to cling to an adult who helped them.

“I guess that makes sense,” he adds, thoughtfully, and mostly to himself at this point, because he can’t imagine Azrael has any interest whatsoever in his life. “I did live here for a while. Most of my life, actually.” He shrugs it off, stuffs one hand in his pocket, and hitches his backpack up a little higher on his shoulder with the other. “Anyway, thanks for helping me back there. And for the lift. I can take it from here, though. You’ve probably got… mortals to smite, or something.”

"Well, Number Five, I have been exiled from Heaven for eternity, so no, I don't have anything to do," Azrael says.

She sees such familiarity in the boy called Number Five, even though it is so very unnatural to see it in a child. He is clearly resistant to help and prefers to be alone, perhaps because he thinks it's safer that way. What happened to him to make him that way? There are no clues to be found in his soul. They only serve to deepen the mystery.

Number Five's soul is a messy conglomeration of moments that don't make sense, that even Azrael cannot decipher. Through his eyes, she witnesses a horrible sight: an unending landscape of desolation, like Hiroshima two weeks after the bomb fell, the sky raining ash, an entire city inhabited only by ghosts. The sight is accompanied by an overwhelming feeling of loneliness, sadness, and regret, emotions she knows well. There is violence and death, inflicted by his hand, but it's not because Number Five enjoys the act of killing. He's done this to survive, for...ah, she understands now.

The Archangel takes a deep breath and tilts her head from side to side with two distinct cracks.

"And if that misadventure back there was indicative of your everyday life, then you need a guardian angel," Azrael points out.

Lilith’s eyes widened in a deliberately mocking expression of shock. “Well, I wasn’t aware you were always so…quick to offend,” she observed, amusement playing across her lips as she walked around a little, keeping Azrael in her sights at all time.

“But you did break the rules. Or rather the…expectations that were placed on you. Enough so that you were bound, punished,” Lilith pointed out. “Any kind of resistance against expectation, any kind of challenge, is a rebellion. And one to be celebrated,” she added pointedly. Rebellion was woven into Lilith’s story from the very beginning and she had no desire to erase that factor from her history, or from her character.

“I don’t care about duty, it’s not my interest,” Lilith told her dismissively, unoffended by what she presumed was an intended insult. “I do care, however, about balance. Equality. As well as…evening scores.” She let the implication hang in the air, turning to look at Azrael where she had swept past her in celestial over-dramatics.

"Justice," Azrael whispers with a wild, unsettling smile.

There can be no doubt about what is going through Azrael's mind at that moment. Thoughts of a cataclysmic battle between Archangels, the Almighty's favourite child versus the Almighty's most despised, ending in bloody victory. Azrael can finish what Lucifer started three hundred thousand years ago and take him off the board completely. It doesn't matter what happens to her, only that the matter is closed forever, and Lilith can help her end it.

A low laugh rumbles deep in Azrael's chest.

"Very well. I'll help you onto the throne, and you will help me kill the Morningstar. That is the deal," she says as she turns back to Lilith. "But, first, I need a cup of tea, so, and I cannot believe I'm about to say this, would you like to come back to my dwelling? That's what people do, isn't it? Invite people for tea?"

"Justice," Azrael whispers with a wild, unsettling smile.

There can be no doubt about what is going through Azrael's mind at that moment. Thoughts of a cataclysmic battle between Archangels, the Almighty's favourite child versus the Almighty's most despised, ending in bloody victory. Azrael can finish what Lucifer started three hundred thousand years ago and take him off the board completely. It doesn't matter what happens to her, only that the matter is closed forever, and Lilith can help her end it.

A low laugh rumbles deep in Azrael's chest.

"Very well. I'll help you onto the throne, and you will help me kill the Morningstar. That is the deal," she says as she turns back to Lilith. "But, first, I need a cup of tea, so, and I cannot believe I'm about to say this, would you like to come back to my dwelling? That's what people do, isn't it? Invite people for tea?"

“What?” he asks, utterly confused now, by the randomness of her words. A name. A date. And something about death. But then the tombstone crumbles. And grass, no dirt is grabbed. Dug into. And as she does so, the hairs at the back of his neck stand right back up.

She doesn’t even need to say it and he’s getting the message already. Leave. Danger. Power.

But she speaks it out anyway. Back away from me.

And he’s more than happy to do so. Even with Aza/thoth around. Even after having made it, surviving so much. His first instinct. Run. Save yourself. Probably why he’s still alive in the first place. And Lance gets a good couple of inches in. Away from her. Walking backwards, slowly, slowly. slowly. Even lets her know without much protest. Knowing better than to aggravate her further.

“Guess this is where we part ways then” he even says but of course. Soon enough. He stops. Is made to stop. Because this isn’t about him at all. This is about territory. About something bigger.

It’s a bit surprising anyway. Aza/thoth. Keeping him standing. Glued to the spot despite its ‘protectiveness’. Staring at her and scaring the ever loving crap out of him with what she could do. Not even really realizing what it could do, is doing to him in the first place. Instead, it’s just there now. Staring at her back through his eyes. Waiting. Not saying a single word as it does so for way too long. Until at last, it finally asks a single question.

“So who exactly is it that you want to kill here, Azrael? Because me backing off depends entirely on your next answer.”

Azrael is vaguely aware of Lance speaking, somewhere in her periphery. He's not running. Why isn't he running? She tries to move, to summon up her power so she can get somewhere else quickly, but it's too late for that. She is already paralyzed

All at once, her perception of the world around her is overtaken by memories, all fragmented and damaged, like tape pulled from a million cassettes and cut together in random order. The Queen of Egypt screaming over her son's corpse, a great army of once brave men fleeing their camps and abandoning their plans in the dead of night because the Wrath of God has appeared amongst them, defenceless orphans huddled in a corner as her winged silhouette looms over them, blood belonging to the children’s parents dripping from her pale fingers, the rising cacophony of screams and clamours, crowds of innocents falling to her blade. They are memories of despair, chaos, barbarity, and terror, pulsing and shrieking, ripping through her mind.

A voice speaks over the cacophonous roar. This is what you are, this is what you will always be, it says. What use does a beast have for remorse? What use does a weapon have for love? Stop running.

The bloodcurdling din of her memories subsides into an image that makes her nauseous. At first, Azrael can only see a vision of herself as she used to be, wearing the steel collar signifying her servitude. She is sitting on her throne atop a high mountain of corpses, bound to the throne by chains, a heavenly prince in all her horrible glory, and she is covered from head to toe in innocent blood. Then, she is that same Azrael sitting on the throne, and she is the one speaking, but there is no more terror or guilt, only a directive to search and destroy.

Azrael is eclipsed by her former self—the Great Wrath, slayer of Egypt’s firstborn, the Dark Star in the flesh. By all outward appearances, the transition from one state of being to the other is seamless, though there is a distinct change in the air, an aura of frigid menace spreading its tendrils across the cemetery.

Slowly, the Archangel retracts her fingers from the dirt. Her hands no longer tremble as they did before. Her movements now are certain, lethal confident, as she straightens her back, rises to her feet, and turns towards Lance in a single movement. Beneath the parting curtain of silvery hair, Azrael's expression is hard and unfeeling as ice, though her eyes burn with energy and fury that had not been there ten minutes before. No longer is she the repentant Archangel, whose edges might have been eroded away by time; that much is obvious as Vanquish appears in her left hand.

She begins walking slowly towards Lance, dragging the blade of her sword through the dirt, her eyes following him as she moves.

”you're so weird!!”

counter argument, I’m turning you into a pillar of salt

animalistic angels. angels with talons. angels with long, sharp horns. angels with gleaming eyes who's heads swivel like an owl in curiosity. angels with thrashing tails. carnivorous angels. angels who hunt. angels who talk in growls and purrs. animalistic angels <3

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