Lately, Samael has been wondering, with genuine curiosity, where his existence is leading him.
The pulpit of a church, the light of stained glasses bathing him in radiant colors. A bottle of mead, cleaned throughoughly, and two glasses: one half empty, one completely devoid of liquid. A quiet moment in the night where thoughts tend to wander.
But there’s a weight in his arms. This weight just so happens to have the shape of a certaint seraphim, curled and safely asleep tucked in Samael’s shoulder and chest. but that doesn’t bother him: after a particulary heavy session of both drinking, and heavy confessions about past events, heavy as rocks. Those weights, Samael decided after entering the seraphim’s home, shouldn’t burden anyone -- even less, a child that has no discernible guilt over what happened to him.
And, after plenty of mead glasses, many words and Samael beckoning the seraphim into his arms, it seems that the result was a calm night of sleep.
Slender, long fingers descend over the angelic, sleeping face only to twirl and tuck some brown strands away from his face, a soft hum following. The god of the underworld never had a trouble with staying up a night or two -- and, if it helps someone else, he is certaintly going to stay up a little longer than usual.
Many, many eons before, if put in front of the seraphim’s weakness and willingness to open up, he would have openly chuckled at the naivety and the desire of stewing oneself into dull, hurtful what-if’s -- if, in the right mood, he would have attempted to take advantage of the altered state of the poor seraphim with plentiful of verbal manipulation, bold enough to make even a statue pale. And he would have gotten away with it thanks to his charm, to his wits. He would have cared not for the sake of the little seraphim in his arms if not to use him as a pawn for temporary entertainment.
But he is a different person from these immature times. Sometimes, he can’t help but think of himself as a bottle of wine: slow of aging, and clad in darkness. Bitter-tasting, but only in the quietest times where his head is fre to swim.
A leg swings over pristine stone, the dark blue fabric sliding down and over his knee, as he gently shifts the weight into a more comfortable position. Then, he embraces the sight of the building at night, and the soothing silence it brings.