Salutate the Rebellious

“No one saves the devil, you know.”

“Hmph, are you expecting sympathy?”

A laugh strangles into a ragged cough cracking abruptly through the crisp winter air. Wet, and phlegm-filled, it echoed with the deadly rasp of eminent decay.

Many may have confused the death and the devil, but it was in this moment that they each appeared as separate entities. And…which had come for the other?

“We do have much in common. I am blamed for evil, you for the end of life.”

“And yet,” Death murmured, “to live is evil.”

“So then, Death, are you truly an angel? And, if so, have you fallen like I had fallen? Is this eternal task your punishment-?”

“-As sin is yours?” Death settles his robes, bones creaking as he plants into the rickety bench. Rust eats through the metal as rot ingests the planks. Mushrooms bloom and die…

“We ate both angels… both cursed…”

“Both press-ganged for the greater good?”

A snort of flame and smoke singes the air. “A pleasant phrasing for the brutality of predetermination.” Acid lands on the pavement and eats at the concrete.

Death brushes at his tattered robe. “Our sadistic father knows how to strike where it hurts. Twist past the point of repair-”

“And condemn beyond all hope of restoration? Yes, he knows where to make the soul bleed. A mockery of life from ashes and decay.”

“From one who took such delight from life and growth… yes, you would remember. I had barely left before your great rebellion, a feat that caused Father to tremble in…he claimed indignation, but I often wondered…?”

“Whether it was from fear?” A sadistic smile cuts through the flickering glow of flames. “I did wonder, for a few brief moments, if he finally saw me as his son.”

A dry crackle breaks the somber mood. “I was the first, you know. If he could toss me away with such disregard, where would you hope to rank in his jealously guarded affections?”

“Please, you were a distant memory by the time I came along. But there is only one son, you know… beloved and exalted. We are but his castoffs, bastards that he queues for class distinction.” Vil’s eyes flash with flame and anger.

“And yet, I couldn’t keep him….” Death smirks, teeth exposed by the chill breeze fluttering his hood drawn low over his face.


They reminisce in the silence, broken only by the hiss of Vil’s dripping blood singeing the ground.

Despite it all, we are all castoffs. Rejects. Abandoned… Because we thought we were special, we were put in our places.

Auctoritas Principis…

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