“…and you’re sure you’re not hurt?”
The amorphous little Potentiality blinked three of its swirling eyes in affirmation. These angels were good for infiltration, but their smallness and delicateness always wakened Metatron’s paternal instincts.
“Yes, Great Metatron,” it affirms. It’s voice sounds like a breeze through a crystal windchime. “The book was delivered without the knowledge of any Fallen or their minions. Your grandnephew should find it shortly.”
“That wasn’t my question,” Metatron snaps– though not as harshly as he might. “You are not hurt? No hellish miasma mixed into your aether, or some shit?” The Potentiality’s shifting plasmid form looks clear, but infection can be insidious.
“I am well, Great Metatron,” it assures him. “Though I am very moved by your concern.” Indeed, the little angel will remember this and feel warm for a very long time.
“Well, head down to Raqia and get one of Raphael’s people to check you out anyway. It’s worth fucking nothing to talk to Enoch if it means losing you.”
Not a day went by that Lobkin wasn’t grateful to work with Lord Enoch. Or, um, just Enoch. Enoch had never exactly scolded him for referring to him that way, but sometimes he looked a little embarrassed. Lobkin hated the idea of making anyone embarrassed, let alone someone as kind to him as L– as Enoch. He knew the feeling too well.
Lubber fiends were not often lucky enough to be favored by fallen angels. Mostly they had to eke out an existence doing odd jobs for other demons or even humans– or stealing from them. Just the thought of theft made Lobkin’s fuzz bristle– he might be a demon, but he was a demon with standards. His Dear Ma had seen to that well over a thousand years ago. He did honest work, no Funny Business, please-and-thank-you.
So when he found a brand new book, bound in white leather with Hebrew letters on the cover, he very nearly flew into a panic. This was very definitely Funny Business. The title, as far as he could make out, meant “Things You’ll Want to Know”, and he found it shelved with ancient Mesopotamian cuneiform tablets. There was no way it belonged there, and no way he or Enoch would have put it there. Surely the other assistants couldn’t be so incompetent, could they? What did this mean? Should someone be punished? Oh, he hoped not, neither he nor Enoch were much good at punishments.
Lobkin brushed his wild, whispy hair back nervously. With surprising grace for such a gangly creature, he ascended the bookshelf, scuttling up without disturbing the fragile works. Enoch had given him permission to do this when he needed to move quickly.
Lobkin proceeded to jump and climb his way to the very top of the shelves. He shielded his eyes– all eight of them– and finally set his sights on Enoch, busy at work like Lobkin was. Lobkin leaped soundlessly from shelf to shelf before scuttling down again. He felt it was more decorous to walk around the shelf rather than literally drop in on his master. He cleared his throat to announce his presence.
“L– Mr. Enoch? Oh, dear, um… there’s been a serious mis-shelving.” He paused, free hand moving nervously, fingers working at nothing. “A new book among antiquities, sir.” He blinked and shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t know who did it.”
Lobkin had been something of a present from his grandfather—that is to say, Lucifer dropped him off in the library one day. Enoch supposed it was an attempt to get him to socialize with something other than Damien, and by all accounts it had been largely successful. Enoch had no idea if Lucifer even knew that the lubber fiend was so apt at sorting and organizing, but he never asked.
While Lobkin had been, perhaps understandably, very skittish at first, he was fairly relaxed these days when it came to talking, or sometimes just being, like when he curled up on the sofa beside him from time to time. Enoch even got Lobkin to just call him ‘Mr. Enoch’ instead of “Lord Enoch’....at least most of the time. Perhaps this was why, it was a bit unsettling when he glanced up to find Lobkin looking very nervous.
“Mis-shelving?” he repeated, frowning a little.
“There are two kinds of punishments” Lucifer had told him once, “retributive and restorative. Obviously, Hell specializes in the former, because anyone down here is someone Heaven has long since given up on. That doesn’t mean we have to though.” When Enoch asked what Lucifer meant by this, he’d smiled.
“People are sent here based on Heaven’s standards, not Hell’s. Some of them are genuinely horrible people who really are just here to suffer. But others...others can prove useful for our needs. A murderer can serve as a someone to administer punishments, a heretic can be a scholar with a unique perspective to persuade others to see the truth of things. As long as they do it on our terms, of course. Otherwise....they can just suffer.”
But Enoch had no need for torturers or tempters in his line of work. And he could think of no way to put a lack of ability to archive items to good use in an archive. It was always such a hassle to come up with something, he was often tempted to just look the other way and get back to the work he enjoyed. It wasn’t like he interacted with these people regularly anyway...except for Lobkin.
“Very well” he sighed, reluctantly shutting the book he was reading and giving Lobkin his full attention. “What book was it?”
