The thing is, the Occult Research Club room felt smaller the moment the archangels spoke that one could turn to shape to the way we see hell in which the real life cannot take away the pleasure of needing someone by your side. That is to say that air thickened like honey poured slow sweet, sticky, dangerous, lovely and indispensable for existence. Rias sat straighter, Power of Destruction flickering at her fingertips like nervous embers that could not shake the anxious feeling of destiny.
In that way, Akeno's smile sharpened, lightning dancing behind her eyes that the essence of reality can become what it means to be one in the singularity. Issei's gauntlet pulsed once red glow stuttering like a heartbeat skipping beats in the most savage way to take on the need for life and love. Asia clutched her skirt to take it away from the need of being alive. Kiba's hand rested on nothing, fingers flexing for a blade that wasn't there yet. Koneko's pupils narrowed to slits to go beyond salvation.
And the three professors Azrael, Gabriel, Metatrondidn't move. They simply… were. Like gravity deciding to pay attention to hold the most attention possible…
Azrael broke the silence first. Voice low. Gravel wrapped in silk. He stepped closer to Basil close enough the scent of grave-lilies brushed Basil's skin.
Azrael: You speak of marriage to Hel like it was a conquest. That is to say that I have stood at the edge of every ending since the first soul refused to cross. I have seen lovers cling, kings bargain, children scream for one more breath. As the most perfect subject for painting I have already specified inwardly satisfied [reconciled and peaceful] love, the object of which is not a purely spiritual 'beyond' but is present, so that we can see love itself before us in what is loved. The supreme and unique form of this love is Mary's love for the Christ-child, the love of the one mother who has borne the Saviour of the world and carries him in her arms.
This is the most beautiful subject to which Christian art in general, and especially painting in its religious sphere, has risen. The love of God, and in particular the love of Christ who sits at' the right hand of God, is of a purely spiritual kind. I mean, it is not like this can be repeated at the attempt of living a fulfilling life. The thing is, this cannot be repeated by the one who wants to love or perhaps it would be for the one who wants to be loved. That is to say that the needs to get that fabulous love.
The object of this love is visible only to the eye of the soul, so that here there is strictly no question of that duality which love implies, nor is any natural bond established between the lovers or any linking them together from the start. On the other hand, any other love is accidental in the inclination of one lover for another, or,' alternatively, the lovers, e.g. brothers and sisters or a father. None of them ever called Death wife. None of them lived to brag about it. So tell me, logos-child… did she moan your name when you claimed her? Or did she whisper it like a curse she couldn't quite regret?
Basil met those storm-gray eyes without blinking. Yin-Yang irises spun slow, predatory circles the way a terminal lover gets in the way of the truth or at least with the intention to clear out things for the better.
Basil: She moaned. That is to say that rot and frost can scream just as sweet as flesh when the right spots are touched. Her living side begged. The crowd of influences streaming on the young soul is so great, the clods of barbarism and violence flung at him so strange and overwhelming, that an assumed stupidity is his only refuge. Her dead side clawed. And when we finished, the ice in Niflheim cracked like it was jealous. You collect souls, Azrael. I collect endings. Hers tasted like snow and sin. Want a sample? Maybe, you gotta find new lenses to wear or perhaps you are just stupid.
Azrael's lips parted just enough to show teeth that looked too sharp for a theology professor.
Azrael: Careful. That is to say that tasting endings is my job. And I have never been one to share. Death begins before birth. I have always found this an odd notion, but were it not for the death of certain cells during our initial development, humans would be born with webbed toes. Death moulds our physical being from the very start of our existence.
Gabriel moved then that no one could take the best changes that we cannot take over the most famous trip to victory. Glided. Her presence washed over Basil like warm oil comforting until you realized it was burning. She stopped inches away. Golden hair spilling over one shoulder, blue eyes locked on his like she could see every tear he'd ever swallowed.
Gabriel: You speak of sorrow like it's armor. That is to say that I have sung over cradles and graves, over battlefields and bedrooms. I know the sound of a heart breaking before it even knows it's cracked. Death begins before birth. I have always found this an odd notion, but were it not for the death of certain cells during our initial development, humans would be born with webbed toes.
Death moulds our physical being from the very start of our existence. Yours… it sings a dirge every time you breathe. Let me listen closer. Let me touch the wound. I promiseI can make it sing something softer. Something that doesn't hurt so much you want to fuck the pain away. Perhaps, it was not me who needed someone like you
Her fingers hovered near his chestright over the black star-sun symbol. Heat radiated from her palm. Not fire. Light. Pure, merciless light that wanted to peel away shadows and see what bled underneath.
Basil caught her wrist again. This time he didn't let go. Pulled her fractionally closer. Her breasts brushed his chest through thin blouse and damp blazer. She didn't pull back.
Basil: Softer? That is to say that softer would kill me faster than any blade. My sorrow keeps me sharp. Keeps me hungry. Touch it and you'll feel how deep it runs deep enough to drown archangels who think they can heal what was born broken. The genius of the heart, that makes everything loud and complacent fall silent and learn to listen, that smoothes out rough souls and gives them the taste of a new desire to lie still, like a mirror that the deep sky can mirror itself upon…they are made richer in themselves, newer than before, broken open, sounded out by a thawing wind, perhaps less certain, more gentle, fragile, and broken, but full of hopes that do not have names yet, full of new wills and currents, of indignations and countercurrents. You want to listen? Put your ear to my chest. Hear how it beats for endings that refuse to end. But don't cry when it bites back. That is to say that no one could ever get to see the way one gets to commit that deal.
Gabriel's breath hitched. Just once. Blue eyes darkenedpupils dilating like she was tasting something forbidden like those nights of love in the dark that the soul cannot forget about.
Gabriel: I have never feared a bite. Only the ones that leave marks I cannot erase. Maybe, you can teach me how I can repair it. To forget about the others? How utterly absurd! I feel you there, in every pore.Your silence clamours in my ears. You want it. You need it. You love it. The thing is, you avoid yourself like a boy who cannot escape himself. You can nail up your mouth, cut your tongue out - but you can't prevent your being there. Can you stop your thoughts? I hear them ticking away like a clock, tick-tock, tick-tock, and I'm certain you hear mine. It's all very well skulking on your sofa, but you're everywhere, Perhaps, it is just me imagining things.
Metatron's voice cut throughdeep, resonant, like the first word of scripture spoken aloud.
Metatron: Enough foreplay. That is to say that every word you speak rewrites the scroll I carry. Your name appears in ink that wasn't there yesterday. Your marriage, your nights in fox dens, your mother's blood drying on a portal floorthey bleed into the margins. Ha! to forget. How childish! I feel you in my bones. Your silence screams in my ears. You may nail your mouth shut, you may cut out your tongue, can you keep yourself from existing? Will you stop your thoughts. It is not like you can escape from yourself. Just tell me what you are trying to do now. It is not something normal. Creation trembles. Heaven notices. Hell watches. And you stand here in a school uniform pretending you're still a boy. Tell me, Basil Pi—when you fucked the princess of death, did you feel the cosmos shift? Or did you just feel her clench around you and think that was victory?maybe, you have gone mad
Basil turned to him. Slow. Smiled teeth flashing like broken glass under moonlight like a wild beast that does not seem to like anything for the sake of life.
Basil: Both. That is to say that when she clenched, the cosmos did shift—sideways, screaming, begging for more. Victory isn't the orgasm. It's the moment after, when she looks at you like you rewrote her own ending. it was great danger that made something of them that merits respect. Danger alone acquaints us with our own resources, our virtues, our armor and weapons, our spirit, and forces us to be strong. First principle: one must need to be strong -- otherwise one will never become strong. And she did. She looked at me like I was the loophole she never knew she needed. Like maybe—just maybe death could be fucked into something alive again. You wrote the first words, Metatron. Tell m—did you ever write one that said "and then Death came so hard she forgot her own name"? it is not like you can go back to forgive yourself. This just shows how stupid you can get.
Metatron's gold eyes flared behind the glasses. The book in his hand trembled pages rustling like wings unfurling.
Metatron: I wrote the warning that came before it. That is to say that some pleasures rewrite the scribe. And some scribes… rewrite back.
Rias slammed her palm on the table. Red-black power crackled—loud enough to make the windows rattle.
Rias Asazell Asmodeus: All of you enough. This is my club. My territory. You cannot take as if it were your playground. Whatever we may do, excess will always keep its place in the heart of man, in the place where solitude is found. We all carry within us our places of exile, our crimes and our ravages. But our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to fight them in ourselves and in others You want to play cosmic word-games and measure dicks with eternity? Do it somewhere else. Basil stays. He's mine to protect. And if any of you archangel, death-collector, heaven's scribe try to take him apart to see how he ticks, you'll answer to me first. I mean, it cannot take over the need to be alive.
Azrael chuckled dry, hollow.
Azrael: Protection. Adorable.
Gabriel's smile returned serene, but her fingers still tingled where Basil had held her wrist that could traumatize any woman.
Gabriel: We are not here to take. Only to witness.
Metatron closed his eyes for one heartbeat. When they opened, the gold was calmer. But no less sharp.
Metatron: Witnessing is the cruelest thing we do.
Silence stretched. Thick. Heavy with unspoken threats and unspoken hungers.
Basil broke it. Voice low. Almost gentle.
Basil: Then witness this. That is to say that I didn't come to Kuoh to hide. I came because the Supreme Singularity thought a high-school could contain me. She was wrong. And you three, you're not teachers. Life and Jah are one in the same. Jah is the gift of existence. I am in some way eternal, I will never be duplicated. The singularity of every man and woman is Jah's gift. What we struggle to make of it is our sole gift to Jah. The process of what that struggle becomes, in time, the Truth You're jailers with halos. So watch close. Because when I decide the ending isn't final enough… even heaven might have to rewrite the rules.
He turned. Walked to the door.
Paused.
Looked back over his shoulder.
Basil: And Gabriel? Next time you want to touch the wound… ask first. I bite back harder than you sing.
The door clicked shut behind him.
In the room, three archangels exchanged glances.
Azrael: He's going to break everything.
Gabriel: Or remake it.
Metatron: Either way… the scroll just got longer.
Outside, Basil walked the empty hallway.
Petals falling.
Foxfire scent still on his skin.
And the sorrow in his chest bigger now. Maybe, it is because life has got tired of me.
Hungrier.
O my sorrow so big it finally made heaven nervous.
The real class was in session.
And nobody was safe the way we could be.