I'm The Devil

As the darkness settled over Egypt, Azrael lifted his gaze, the weight of his duty pressing down like an iron mantle. His scythe still hummed with latent energy, and with a slow breath, he closed his eyes, attuning himself to the cries of every soul soon to be called. The flickering shadows that clung to him like sentient mist tightened, as though sensing the solemnity of his task.

Lucifer, meanwhile, had perched himself on a distant rooftop, watching with predatory interest. He lounged back against the stone, one leg drawn up, elbow resting on his knee, his form blending seamlessly with the shadows around him. From this vantage, his eyes sparkled with a morbid curiosity, lingering on his brother as Azrael prepared to descend upon the city. His grin had faded to a quiet smirk, his expression sharpened by an intensity that revealed he was not merely watching, but studying.

Azrael raised his hand, and as he did, the air around him grew heavier. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as he summoned forth the ethereal energy that would carry out his grim work. His face remained expressionless, but in the smallest crease of his brow, a sharp observer might catch the trace of sorrow, like a fleeting shadow on a calm lake.

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Without looking back, Azrael’s voice, a ghostly whisper, carried across the rooftops. "Still watching, Lucifer?"

Lucifer’s laugh was soft, a dark ripple through the quiet. "How could I resist? Such a rare performance, after all."

Azrael said nothing, his focus returning to the task at hand. He moved forward, his steps as silent as a breeze, each stride drawing him deeper into the heart of the city, closer to the homes where Egypt’s firstborn sons lay sleeping. His scythe glowed brighter now, its spectral light casting ghostly reflections against the rough walls of the city, and with every step, the shadows seemed to pulse, mirroring his purpose.

As he reached the first home, Azrael paused, his gaze softened, a subtle, almost tender flicker in his eyes as he looked through the wall into the rooms where families lay. He inhaled, and his shoulders stiffened—his resolve tightening, bracing himself for what must be done. With a whisper, almost like a lullaby, he murmured a word only he could understand, one that held the weight of empathy but the inevitability of fate.

The boy’s soul was lifted gently from his body, his face serene, untouched by the terror of the night. Azrael lowered his head, a fleeting melancholy in his eyes as he watched the child’s spirit drift away, ascending on a path only Azrael’s eyes could see.

Lucifer, watching from his vantage point, leaned forward, his own expression unreadable, though a faint frown creased his brow. He shifted uncomfortably, almost as if he were trying to understand something foreign in Azrael’s face. There was a gentleness there, a warmth so incongruent with the cold, ethereal darkness that clung to the Angel of Death. Lucifer’s lips twisted, a scowl shadowing his face as he muttered, "Soft-hearted as ever, brother…"

Azrael’s hand gripped his scythe tightly, his eyes glimmering with a pain that he couldn’t express. He moved on, one home after another, as his silent task continued. Each death was delivered with a calm finality, yet with a reverence that even Lucifer could not fully dismiss. For every soul he claimed, Azrael paused, a single moment of recognition, as if to say: I see you, and your life was not in vain.

For Lucifer, this silent, solemn empathy only deepened the mystery that had always intrigued—and confounded—him about Azrael. Lucifer’s jaw clenched, the mocking laughter he had once thrown Azrael’s way long since faded, replaced by something colder, sharper. He was watching not with humor, but with a bitterness that flickered in his eyes like fire.

When Azrael reached the last house, he stopped, a weariness in his frame that belied the ethereal power he wielded. He glanced upwards, into the night sky, where no stars dared shine on this night. His lips parted as if in prayer, but no words left his mouth; he simply took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the heavens with an expression that was both questioning and resolute.

Lucifer’s gaze hardened as he watched this final act. Praying, he realized. Still seeking solace from above. He scoffed, bitterness sharpening his tone. "You’ll never get it, brother. They’ll take all you give, all your loyalty, and never give back so much as a whisper."

Azrael’s head turned slightly, though he kept his eyes fixed forward. His tone was quiet, resolute, though laced with an acceptance Lucifer could never understand. "It isn’t about what’s given, Lucifer. It’s about what’s right. You know that, even if you deny it."

Lucifer laughed, a hollow sound that echoed through the silence of the sleeping city. "Right? What’s right? Don’t fool yourself, Azrael. You’re just a tool—a tool to do His bidding. There is no ’right’ in that."

Azrael’s gaze remained steady, unyielding. "It’s not about being a tool, Lucifer. It’s about purpose. Even if you reject yours, I won’t reject mine."

With that, Azrael stepped back, his scythe dimming, its dreadful purpose complete. Lucifer sneered, folding his arms as he watched his brother retreat, a mocking glint returning to his eyes. But as he saw Azrael’s quiet, unyielding dignity, Lucifer felt something tighten in his chest—a mixture of frustration, of envy, of something he could never quite name.

Azrael glanced back once more, meeting Lucifer’s gaze across the rooftops. For a single heartbeat, there was an understanding between them—a shared, silent recognition of their eternal conflict, of the paths they had chosen, the burdens they each bore. And in that brief, flickering moment, there was something almost like kinship between them.

But then it was gone, and Lucifer’s smirk reappeared, sharp and sardonic. "Until next time, brother," he called mockingly, vanishing into the night, his laughter trailing like a shadow across the city.

Azrael remained where he stood, his gaze softening as he stared at the empty space where Lucifer had been. There was a sadness there, a quiet sorrow that he allowed himself only in these solitary moments. And then, with a final, deep breath, he vanished into the darkness, his figure dissolving like mist, leaving the city of Egypt in a silence thick with grief, touched by the faint echoes of divine purpose and brotherly conflict.