Sigillum ex Fatum [UNDER EDITING]

Chapter 30

As soon as I opened my eyes, a few things occurred to me. First was the incessant itching. That wasn't totally unexpected; annoying, yes, but it had also kept me up half the night. Then was the time of day; twilight was just coming in to bring the dawn. It was still dark, the torches still lit, but the rim of the sky was slowly turning purple.

I hadn't worn my shirt to bed (it was much too uncomfortable), so with a wave of my hand my black uniform appeared on me. Even though it was early, I couldn't wait any longer. I felt ridiculous with the state my wings were in but I held my head high, made my sword appear at my waist, and strode out into the street. I didn't stop, barreling toward my destination, until I reached it. With my heart in my throat, I threw open the doors to Metatron.

Metatron is one of the places in Heaven that is in perpetual motion. There is always something happening there, always occupied with angels reading. However, in the late evenings and early mornings, Metatron was at his lowest lull.

Angels don't need sleep. Most do sleep, especially mortal angels. It simply is a means to pass the time, especially during times of peace when there literally is nothing but basic maintenance to uphold. The same goes with eating, although that we literally don't have to do. I enjoy eating, a hangover from my mortal days. Other angels eat for pleasure. Sleeping is required every so often, at least once a few hundred years—though most take nightly naps. Thus, Metatron was largely empty.

"Auriel!"

I literally ran over to the reception desk. Auriel jumped, startled, knocking over his inkwell. I heard him swear under his breath. As I watched him be discombobulated I slowed my pace. Once I got to him, I was immediately worried. As he attempted to get the ink off his parchment (using the front of his robes to do so, which he quickly realized was a stupid idea, which led to even more swearing), I took the time to scrutinize him.

His brow was damp, hair sticking to it. Dark circles of purple created pockets beneath his eyes. His eyes themselves were dull, listless. He was pale, and I noticed he trembled slightly. I was unable to hide my worry, mouth dropping open.

"Dear Lord! Auriel! Are you okay?"

With some final curse words tumbling out of his mouth, he finally looked at me. "I'm fine."

"You look terrible!"

He paused and then smirked. "You're not looking so well yourself." He jutted his chin out. "What's with the wings?"

I glanced over my shoulder. They really did look terrible. "Oh. Er, yes, I'm molting."

Auriel snorted and shook his head, now trying to plot the spilled ink with a blank sheet of parchment.

"No, really," I said, going up on my tip-toes so I could grasp the edge of the desk and peer up at Auriel. "You look feverish."

He sniffed. "I'm fine."

"But you're not."

He slammed his fist down and glared. "I. Am. Fine."

I sank back onto the heels of my feet and pulled my fingers off the desk. I still looked at him. After a moment he stopped trying to clean, tossed the ruined parchment aside, and rested his head in his one hand. He peeked out at me with one eye.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Er, no. I wanted to check with you. I heard you were sick and—"

"Who told you that?"

"Well, Mikha'el did—"

Auriel snorted. "Of course he did."