“Use sex as self-assertion?”
“Look—”
“They praise deities they created? Regard themselves in the right to establish rules for the rest of the world? Demand tributes, accept bribes, torture for pleasure?”
“The time!” I shouted, raising my arms. “They assess and create patterns to structure the time in their lives!”
Azazel went silent, then snorted. “Wow. Amazing.” He used his best expression of brazen disinterest.
“Are you going to make the damn weapon or not?”
Azazel fed the coals in the large furnace. The flame roared inside and over his arm, but he didn’t flinch. Fire couldn’t hurt its own son.
Watching Azazel working was a privilege. He was a genius craftsman, probably the greatest. Even blindfolded, he moved and manipulated the materials with calmness and zeal. Creatures that lived eons, beheld the rise and fall of civilizations and personalities that made the world tremble, and witnessed the extinction and evolution of races, developed inconceivable patience and instinct. Sight was only part of the whole—it was missed, but it wasn’t the ultimate sense.
The fire glow reflected on his body. No heat was wasted. Azazel thrust the iron bar into the oven and the flames crackled. The fire heated more than just the metal: it kindled the angel’s spirits, boiled his blood, quickened his heart. The fire of enthusiasm and inspiration burned strong within Azazel and gave life to his work.
Forging required dedication. I left him alone as he made a metal sandwich, or whatever it was, and I tried to remember our history. He said about getting even, doing me this favor for what we’ve been through. What have we been through?
Azazel fell because he got too involved with humans. After the Creation, he sneaked to Earth and stayed there, teaching men how to forge swords, shields, and armors. To women, he taught the making of bracelets, ornaments, rings, earrings, and necklaces. He shared almost all his secrets of metallurgy, from how to look for ores to tempering metals.
But evil lurked in the shadows. The angel fell in love with a human and they loved each other in secrecy, but whispers of this blasphemy reached the archangels’ ears.
Angels and humans weren’t supposed to be equals. When commanded to acknowledge his inferiority before the Creation, Azazel refused. For him, it was humiliating to bow down to mankind; a fragile, mortal, and ignorant species. Angels were exuberant creatures of unlimited knowledge, who existed since the dawn of time. It was absurd. Many agreed with him, and there were fights and wars and deaths. Expelled from Heaven with the other fallen ones, Azazel took refuge with his lover on Earth. His wings torn and his looks repulsive, he was unrecognizable to who had him as master.
With the weapons Azazel himself taught how to make, they killed his lover. Accused of practicing sorcery for invoking and welcoming that abyssal demon, she was captured, tortured, and quartered. And the fallen Azazel, impotent, still weakened from the angelic wars, could only flee under the weight of her cries, which would torment him until the End.
The angel’s craft came to be used for bloodshed, conquest, and supremacy by many on Earth, and his sentence in Heaven was passed. For corrupting Creation so abominably, Azazel was condemned to the fire even he wouldn’t be able to resist.
The archangel Raphael imprisoned the ruined Azazel, a pale shadow of the splendor he had once been. Raphael brought him to the Limbo, in the Dudael, the eternal desert, where he chained Azazel and covered his eyes with the sacred shroud so the angel could never see the light again. And here he awaits Judgment Day, when he will finally burn to oblivion.
What escaped me is where I fit into all that. In fact, now that I remembered his story, I wondered why I chose him as the first soul. His presence on Earth again may well annihilate Creation instead of saving it. But something in me screamed that he was essential. Azazel’s current form—messy hair, plain white robes, and a boyish face—denounced his clear conscience, as he saw himself. Or, perhaps, it revealed the sick mind of a psychopath. I needed to find out.
“Do you regret it?” I asked as he took a sheet from the fire and hammered it.
“Regret what?”
“Challenging the Creator. Taking part in a rebellion lost before it even started.”
The hammer song continued. He ignored me and minded his private battle against the stubborn metal that tested his abilities. Then he stopped and put it back in the fire. He turned to me, heaving.
“Are you kidding me? What did they do to you to make you believe in this rebellion nonsense?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Am I going to have to tell you everything you’ve seen for yourself? There was no damn angels’ rebellion. It was a setup. If we were created with a specific purpose and an outlined plan, why would we rebel? Or rather, how would we rebel?” His shoulders dropped and his lips twisted in disgust. “No, we’ve simply realized we had a choice and didn’t agree with what we were given.”
Azazel worked on the metal again. Flashes of conflicting memories danced in my head. I couldn’t find the words.
“You… Didn’t you go to Earth, taught forging, and fell in love?”
He kept his back to me. “Yes. We discovered how mankind was different and we shared our knowledge. In the end, they were too different.”
“And then what? You corrupted humans, didn’t you? Evil lurked there, and your art turned dark.”
“Don’t be so stupid!” he snarled, then composing himself afterward. “They corrupted us. We learned that existence could be carried on any way we wanted. Why obey a few who claim to know the order and place of all things and all beings?”
“The Creator commands and—”
“There is no Creator!” Azazel despaired, and I stared at him with wide eyes. “There isn’t a Creator. No one has ever seen any Creator. The archangels dictate their orders and we must obey them because this is Yahweh’s will. A god who is love and forgiveness but passes sentences of damnation and eternal suffering because someone didn’t follow exactly what he wants.” The angel lowered his head took a deep breath, trying to recompose himself. “Think about it: I can feel your presence and every step you take. Even from this wretched place, I can feel the humans, the angels, the archangels, and the fallen. But I’ve never felt Yahweh, the Creator of All Things, supposedly the most powerful entity. Have you?”
At that moment I trembled. A hole opened in my stomach. He made sense. We could feel the presence of all beings except the greatest of them.
“Some angels served only as slaves,” Azazel continued. “We grew tired of Gabriel and the other’s regime, until we finally said no. It wasn’t a rebellion; it was a massacre.” His expression carried the weight of millennia of suffering. “And you were there with us, fought on our side, and we fell together. But you’re no angel, are you? It was different for you. It’s always been.”
I remembered none of it. I suspected my memory was altered, and now those memories conflicted with my experiences.
“After the fall you began this… work. Gabriel never knew where to place you. I bet he was the one who woke you, wasn’t it?” He scoffed. “Look, you have to try hard to remember. Either you did this to yourself or they did it, but it doesn’t matter, because eventually you will meet him, and, oh,” Azazel turned up and laughed, “I’d give anything to be around and watch that scene!”
“Him who?”
Azazel could not stop laughing, the roguish look back on his face.
That was a lot for me to absorb, but the atheist angel’s words made sense.
“Why are they killing each other again?” he asked, curious about Earth.
“Same story, different characters.”
“Old Babylonic games,” he commented as he worked on the weapon.
“How did you manage to keep this forge?” I didn’t understand that part. How did someone condemned to wait for his evaporation from the planes continued practicing the very craft that got him sentenced?
“God, in His in
finite paradoxical mercy, left me a pastime while I await termination.” He laughed at his own joke. No one amused Azazel like himself. “Who can say? Where there is a forge, there I am, or at least part of me. And where I am, there is a forge. Fire is the father of steel. I’m from the family.”
I kept watching his art, trying to remember more of our history. His part was sharper than mine in my mind.
“She’s in Limbo too, you know that? I can see her. The woman who stole the fire’s heart.” Azazel, for an infinitesimal moment, hesitated in his hammer, but it was enough for me to notice.
“Do you remember what love is?” he asked me. “Do you remember what you did for love?”
I swallowed hard. I had in my memory what it was to love and be loved back. Two honey-colored eyes stared at me, a look that warmed and filled me. I had inside me the feeling of wanting to do the impossible for someone else, to part seas with my heart, to make sure that the one in front of me was the only person I needed until the end of time. The unyielding confidence, respect, and admiration for a soul who understood, supported, and defended you against angels and demons. A feeling that made you choose the Dudael in exchange for someone else’s happiness.
“Yes,” I managed, as waves of memories washed over me.
“I don’t.”
I smiled at Azazel’s back. I could see through his lie.
Time, unable to do anything else, passed. Unlike Earth, however, here it didn’t matter.
Azazel, about to complete his work, caught something sparkling near the forge. A sphere in his hand flashed with the glow of supernovas, and beams of light snaked away, untamed, running through his fingers. It looked like lightning being disciplined. The angel struggled to control the force contained there. His arm trembled with veins popping all over. I could hear the faint sizzle of his hand burning and smoking. Azazel growled and punched that energy into the weapon. The sun vanished. The sword let out a deafening hiss, but Azazel caressed the blade once and the sound died and the sun returned.
He exhaled through the mouth, catching his breath.
“All done. Heads up.” He threw the sword at me.
I caught it by the black hilt, which was already a masterpiece. My fingers fit comfortably. I tried a few slashes in the air and realized how light it was. A feather. It moved like an extension of my arm.
The guard above the grip, made to protect the hand from enemy cuts, had eight stretched black stripes stretched, pointing out in different directions.
What a magnificent sword. A sharp dark blade gleamed over the guard, with incomprehensible runes carved across the side Azazel had caressed. The weapon reflected a pale aura, denouncing its spiritual origin.
“Incredible,” I murmured in awe, agape. Azazel didn’t even care. He knew he had done a great job and didn’t need my approval. “What’s its name?”
He laughed. “I can’t name a weapon.”
“What do you mean? Every weapon has a name.” I swung the sword and admired every detail as it buzzed through the air.
“Yeah, that’s not what I said. Every weapon has a name, but it’s not up to me to appoint one. You’ll find out its name. Let the sword tell you.”
And I should have noticed the malice in his voice and smile, but the new toy fascinated me too much.
Satisfied, I lowered my weapon and faced Azazel. Time to dispatch the first soul.
I approached the fallen angel, doubts still corroding my mind.
“Tell me something,” I said, coming closer to the stench of burned skin. “Who do you think created you?” There had to be a Creator. There were no monkeys in the angelic cities. Azazel didn’t even hesitate.
“I don’t know.” He folded his arms and leaned against the blistering, red-hot oven. “Does that prove anything, though? I was created, the angels were created, but there are other gods out there.”
I tightened my fingers on the sword. True enough. The gods of the most diverse human religions inhabited the Limbo and had once walked the Earth.
Azazel continued, “Evil creatures of abysses, benign creatures of light, creatures that aren’t human nor angelic nor demonic also exist. Who created them?” I bowed my head and thought of an answer. I failed. “Why only Yahweh wants absolute control? Or rather, why do a few impose His supposed will on everyone else? The other gods drink, celebrate, fight, fuck, and don’t care whether they are venerated. No one controls them. Isn’t that too presumptuous of Yahweh? Can’t He accept He’s one of many?”
Azazel’s harangue made me dizzy, and I shook my head in denial. I pondered on his remarks as I looked at my feet, which rippled. I was getting a little more solid. Although still strong, my ghostly reflection diminished.
I poised my sword for striking. It whistled and shifted the air as it came down on Azazel’s head.
His shroud slipped over his face in two halves.
The atheist angel moaned. He crouched down and shield himself from the stunning light. With bronze eyes blinking and tearing, he slowly recovered. Azazel measured me up and down, seeing my form for the first time.
“You need to get some sun.” He guffawed. “You mad fucking bastard. Thank you, thank you!” Azazel ran out of the forge but didn’t get very far. A few steps and the chains binding him stretched all out. He contemplated the endless monotony of the desert, and that was the most beautiful landscape for him at that moment.
“I’m not going to Earth,” I told him. Azazel turned to me clueless, still laughing. “I can’t yet. I need to send twelve souls to help them. You will be the first.”
His smile died. He frowned. “Now I’m sure you’re actually mad.” He pointed to the sword. “I’ve done my part. I owe you nothing.”
“No, you don’t.” I held the sword with both hands and stepped forward.
His wide eyes supplicated, but Azazel didn’t try to get away. The chains wouldn’t let him.
“This isn’t fair.”
“There is no fairness. For you, there is only Dudael.”
I unleashed two quick and precise cuts.
The chains that held him fell with a tinkle.
“Thank you for what you’ve done for me. Because of that I’ll give you a chance. Take up your sword and accept your fate.”
Azazel squinted his eyes and his nostrils fluttered open. “Once again, the son of the fire should bow before the son of clay?” he growled, spitting as he spoke.
“It’s your chance for redemption. You’re needed.”
“Why me?”
Something inside me screamed for Azazel, calling his name. He said he hated man, the son of clay, and he was also proud, selfish, and chaotic. A flame of anger and frustration burned inside him. But something in my dormant memories made me trust his amusing face. He was the greatest blacksmith, and the carapace of indifference and debauchery hid friendship, love, and loyalty.
“Because I want.”
He snorted. “You’re pathetic. They’ve turned you into their bitch.”
Azazel approached the forge, side-glancing me. He posed indignation, but deep down, I think he was satisfied. Even without the Creator’s presence, the archangels were powerful, and their regime was totalitarian. They condemned easily and acted as if there was a limited amount of forgiveness, that would deplete if squandered around. Azazel knew he’d never leave the Limbo any other way. He would wait for Judgment, and the son of the fire would die under the heat of his father. This was the only opportunity he had to change his sentence and, maybe, rest beside the woman who still held his hardened heart.
The angel reached into the oven, baring his teeth, sweating. His arm radiated an impossible orange hue. When he withdrew it, his fingers circled a hilt. Azazel’s sword. It had no blade, only a tongue of living, crackling fire, as if a thousand stars had been seized and confined there. A spiritual weapon unlike any other. It spread flames all around it and charred anyone who tried to wield it beyond Azazel. It was said to contain the very personified spirit of fire.
The sword’s
name was Ifrit.
Azazel held it full of pleasure. With his insufferable smirk, he ambled to me.
“I’ll brand you like cattle until you remember everything.”
He attacked.
I blocked his quick overhead slash, squeezing my eyes against the unbearable heat coming from Ifrit. Azazel cut again and again. His random, fast movements were difficult to predict. I barely had time to parry. We kept a short distance and the stench of burning hair and skin filled my nose.
My body burned and my vision blurred. Ifrit’s heat intensified, enveloping me in a deadly, hellish sauna.
I tried to relieve the pressure by going on the offensive. I cut his legs, but Azazel dodged, then I used the momentum to stab his head. He deflected my sword aside, leaving me wide open. I curved my body backward, but his counterattack still scraped me. The cut flamed like an inferno and I clenched my teeth. Fear overwhelmed me as my skin, or my soul, seemed to combust.
With my heart racing, I stepped away to catch my breath. An open black sore marked my spiritual chest. A grotesque gash showing the absolute black of nothingness.
I had to change tactics. It was impossible to continue blocking, because Ifrit’s heat was unbearable. If the fight continued for long, I would lose. Azazel knew this and charged, savoring every moment.
Our swords kissed and clinked away, quickly and deadly, over and over. He struck from the left to decapitate me. I ducked, letting the flaming blade pass, and jumped, holding my new weapon over my head with both hands.
I emptied my lungs with a howl that spread over the desert.
Azazel looked up to defend, and he lost.
His newly opened eyes, still fragile, couldn’t withstand the force of Dudael’s sun shining behind me. His vision must have filled with black and red spots. Azazel blinked until he focused on me. His eyes lowered to my hands gripping the sword hilt. The blade trespassed his chest. A sad smile spread across Azazel’s face.
I panted. The unsustainable heat hammered painful throbs in my head.
Limbo Page 2