The thing is, the Occult Research Club room smelled like old books the way we would see the moonlight fade at dawn to reveal the beauty of a new day on each shelf, incense that burns soul, and the faint ozone tang of barely-leashed power that we crave in every moment of our life.
That is to say that when Basil pushed the door open after school, making his way to a spot in the room, the devils were already there Rias at the head of the table like a queen on her throne that was similar to the one possessed by Sauron, Akeno pouring tea with that electric smile that would enchant everyone in the way a lovely boy gets into details with a lovers, Issei fidgeting like his sacred gear was trying to escape his arm despite him knowing that he could handle it a bit, Asia folding napkins into tiny angels that would make her look cuter than any beauty in the world, Kiba polishing a sword that wasn't supposed to be there in the need for love, Koneko eating sweets in silence to take over the world that no one can take seriously in spite of the acquisition of new warranties.
But the real surprise waited in the corners.
Three new faces. Not students. Not even devils. Not even fantasies that I would have at midday. Professors officially transferred in mid-semester, supposedly teaching theology, ancient languages, and "comparative mythology." The school bulletin had called them Azrael, Gabriel, and Metatron. That is to say that no one seemed to be bothered by this fact that the they were different. Harmless names. Academic transplants from some obscure European university. Maybe, they did not take it that way.
Except Basil's Yin-Yang eyes spun the moment he stepped inside as tiger with its prey.
Azrael leaned against the window frame tall, lean, skin the color of desert sand at dusk to shake the radical change of what it means to be alive in death, black hair cropped military-short, eyes gray like storm clouds that had already cried themselves empty the way a man gives his life for the most honest love that he could ever possess to prove that he is worth fighting for. That is to say that e wore a charcoal suit that looked too expensive for a high-school teacher, tie loose like he'd given up on formality centuries ago that I would consider to be pretty exuberant. In that way, wings weren't visible, but the air around him carried the faint scent of lilies left too long on a grave that would look like swords.
Gabriel sat on the edge of the table as a queen of heaven golden hair cascading in waves that caught every stray sunbeam that would enchant any mortal man at the glance of any inch of her celestial body, blue eyes like the eternal ocean soft and endless like summer sky over Eden before the fall that could take souls from beyond good and evil. The trip of life and death. White blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, heels modest but sharp enough to stab if needed. That is to say that she smiled like she was forgiving you for sins you hadn't even committed yet. What's more, the room felt warmer near her, like sunlight had decided to stay within that.
Metatron stood by the bookshelf broad-shouldered to shake the unique tension between order and chaos, silver hair pulled back in a low tail that could cut through almost everything, face carved from marble and judgment that no one dares to shake the unique love for termination. Eyes the color of molten gold behind thin wire glasses that no one could ever hold back in the most lethal way. Black vest over white shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with muscle that spoke of scrolls carried across heavens and hells. He held a leather-bound tome that hadn't been on the shelf a second ago. Even so, this did not make it any better.
They weren't hiding. Not really. Just… dimming themselves. Like stars pretending to be streetlamps.
Rias cleared her throat as if nothing happened in the obscure reality they were witnessing.
Rias Asazell Asmodeus: Basil. These are our new faculty advisors for the club. Professor Azrael mythology and death rites. Professor Gabrielcomparative theology. Professor Metatron ancient texts and linguistics. They've expressed… interest in our more unusual member. Beside that, I HAVE GOT AN ANNOUNCEMENT. HAPPY INTERNATIONAL womens day. You have so much inside you, and the noblest happiness of all. Don't just wait for a man to come along. That's the mistake so many women make. Find your happiness in yourself. That is to say that we are throwing a party today.
Azrael pushed off the window the way death would look at you to recognize the little experience of life and death to hit the ultimate straw. Stepped closer. Gray eyes locked on Basil's mismatched ones. No hostility. No resignation. No love. Just recognition. Like two cemeteries meeting for the first time.
Azrael: You carry the scent of Niflheim. That is to say that no one can shake. And something older. That is to say that I have collected souls since the first breath faltered. Yours… refuses collection. Fascinating. And troublesome. And unilateral. And present.
Basil tilted his head. Smiled slow.
Basil: That is to say that I've already danced with your little sister Hel. Married her in foxfire and silk. You u make the mistake of thinking you have to choose, that you have to do what you want, that there are conditions for happiness. What matters all that matters, really is the will to happiness, a kind of enormous, ever-present consciousness. The rest women, art, success is nothing but excuses. A canvas waiting for our embroiderie Grandma wasn't amused. Sent me here to play human. You smell like lilies and finality, Azrael. Like you've weighed my heart already and found it too heavy to lift. Maybe, you are not what you say to be.
Azrael's lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost certain that they would fight to death.
Azrael: Heavy hearts are my specialty. But yours is… folded. Infinite in a finite shell. I would like to see how it unfolds.
Gabriel slid off the table. Glided closer. Her presence washed over him like warm rain comforting, cleansing, terrifying in its purity.
Gabriel: You poor child. That is to say that sorrow clings to you like dew on morning grass. I have sung lullabies to the newborn and requiems to the dying. uddenly they existed, then suddenly they existed no longer: existence is without memory; of the vanished it retains nothing not even a memory. Existence everywhere, infinitely, in excess, for ever and everywhere; existence which is limited only by existence. Your mother's absence echoes in every note you don't sing. Let me ease it. Just a little. Just a bit. Just an aiota of what you are capable of. Perhaps, this would stop you.
She reached out. Fingers brushed his cheeksoft as dawn light the way touches the soul from within. For a heartbeat the black star-sun on his chest dimmed. The sorrow quieted. Not gone. Just… hushed. Just…. Softened.
Basil caught her wrist. Gentle. Firm. She displayed her Y breast cup along with her perfectly shaped figure with beautifully designed curve like the architect with the philosophal stone.
Basil: Hahaha… careful, archangel. That is to say that easing sorrow is dangerous when the sorrow is fuel. Take too much and I might forget why I burn. If, in all that you wish to do, you begin by asking yourself: am I certain that I would wish to do this an infinite number of times? This should be for you the most solid centre of gravity . . . My doctrine says, the task is to live your life in such a way that you must wish to live it again to live to the fullest of my capacity in this eternal reality that I have overcome - for you will anyway! If striving gives you the highest feeling, then strive! If rest gives you the highest feeling, then rest! If fitting in, following and obeying give you the highest feeling, then obey! Only make sure you come to know what gives you the highest feeling, and then spare no means. Eternity is at stake! This doctrine is mild in its treatment of those who do not believe in it. It has neither hell nor threats. But anyone who does not believe merely lives a fugitive life in the consciousness of it And then who would fuck the endings when they get lonely? Of course, it would be me.
Gabriel's eyes widenedjust a fraction then softened the way the brightest sun would come down by the end of the day. She didn't pull away.
Gabriel: Bold. And broken. I like broken things. They sing the truest songs when mended. the individual on his lonely path needs a secret which for various reasons he may not or cannot reveal. Such a secret reinforces him in the isolation of his individual aims. I mean, it is not like you can do anything.
Metatron closed his book with a soft snap that could obfuscate the need for connection. Stepped forward. Gold eyes behind glasses dissecting Basil like ancient script.
Metatron: You are the loophole that we cannot desire to fabricare. That is to say that the Supreme Singularity bent Hermes' code to exile you here to actually teach you. But the code remembers that cannot be here. Perhaps, this is not even real: he was already dead for too long. I wrote the first words of creation. I see the equations in your blood flux and harmony tangled like lovers who refuse to let go. Your marriage to HeL… they are rewriting lines that were never meant to change.
Basil met his gaze. Yin-Yang eyes spinning faster now.
Basil: Then rewrite them with me, scribe. That is to say that I didn't come to Kuoh to play student. I came because grandma thought a university could contain infinity. She was wrong. And you three… you're not here to teach. You're here to watch. To measure. To see if the logos-child breaks the world again or fixes it. By cultivating an unconditional and accepting presence, we are no longer battling against ourselves, keeping our wild and imperfect self in a cage of judgment and mistrust. Instead, we are discovering the freedom of becoming authentic and fully alive.
Metatron's mouth curved. Small. Knowing.
Metatron: We are here because the scrolls are updating themselves. Your name appears in margins that used to be blank that no one would ever dear to touch for the threads of desinty. That is to say that creation is nervous. And when creation gets nervous… even archangels pay attention.
Rias watched the exchange. Power of Destruction flickering at her fingertips red-black embers.
Rias: Enough theology foreplay. Basil is part of this club now. That means he's under my protection. Archangels or not—touch him wrong and you'll answer to me.
Azrael chuckled. Low. Dry.
Azrael: Protection from Death's bride? Amusing. But noted.
Gabriel smiledserene, radiant.
Gabriel: We mean no harm. Only… curiosity.
Metatron returned the book to the shelf. It vanished like it had never existed.
Metatron: Curiosity is the first sin. And the last. Welcome to Kuoh, Basil Pi. The real lessons start now.
The room fell quiet.
Foxfire scent still clung to Basil's skin.
Archangels watched.
Devils waited.
And somewhere beyond the cracked mirror, Yasaka's tails twitchedsensing the shift.
O my sorrow so big it finally found heaven's scribes taking notes or perhaps it is me getting away with my multiplicity.