Absolution

He calls himself Azazel, because he no longer has any need for subtlety, and he waits for a god to come and smite him, as he was promised long ago.

He has made himself a monster in a castle, and he lives in it like an actor in a theatre, waiting for curtain to be called. He sulks and sends armies to murder and pillage, and deals with the rebellions as they come. And he waits, with dwindling hope.

He was promised an end. He thought it would come soon, once he blackened the skies and blotted the sun, once he sent plague and war and ruin into what had been peaceful lands. He had looked down at the fires and mourning left by his handiwork, and sent a hopeful glance to the sky, and waited for the trumpets of war and a chariot of lightning to descend. When none came, he was confused, but he had his instructions, and perhaps he had not fulfilled them clearly enough.

Make yourself a monster, worthy of smiting.

He had made himself a warlord. He could make himself worse.

That was when he made himself new forms. A wolf who walked on two legs and had three heads, a man with pale skin and sharp teeth, a mist that smelled of rot and death. In these forms he would slink into settlements that hoped to rebuild, and he would kill with his own teeth, tasting the blood that had been once wasted on unhungry swords.

The iron taste of it choked him, and the memory of the tears and cries of his victims plagued his dreams, but he was content that it would soon end. His god was kind, and his god was dutiful, and his god rewarded work done well.

But he sat in his castle as folk-tales spread, and when the first rebellion came to kill him, it was not lead by his god. He searched for signs of his coming among the army, among the men leading them up the mountain, and finds none.

And so he crushed the rebels, and threw ther broken bodies down to their weeping families. The end, for him, had not yet come.

He tried new horrors then, found new ways to inflict pain. He waited for those who suffered them to cry out for salvation, and when he did, he felt hope in his chest that it would come to them, and that everything would end.

Break them, make them need a Lord and a god.

No end came, and he began to wonder if his god had forgotten him. But that was blasphemy, and so he kept on.

He chose men from among the sniveling cowards who served him and sent them out with rumors on their tongues, of prophecy and magic and holy things waiting. The men he sent were confused--why betray his weakness to the masses who wanted nothing more than his death? But then, these men were confused by many things, like why the lord they served detested them, and why he took no joy in the bloodshed he caused. They did not need to understand--they needed to obey.

For what is a god without followers who need him?

He had provided a need, perhaps he needed to provide the followers as well.

It took time for the rumors to stick, for religion to be born, for the people to speak of the god who would come and crush him. He suffered the time with patience, because he felt sure that, in due time, an end would come.

But centuries after he has crushed the churches they built and blighted the holy places they have designated, no end comes.

So he takes the name Azazel, and ponders in his castle. He thinks of the last words his god said to him, running them over and over in his mind. He thinks of the things he has done and the things he could do still, and yet no fresh torture comes to mind. He has exhausted his cruelty and his creativity both, it would seem. He has killed the servants he did not send away, for he does not need them.

He waits for an end, and entertains the uprisings in the meantime.

When he is not waiting, he is angry. Angry is safer than guilty, and both are safer than mourning. Where is the god for whom he made himself a villain? Where are the armies sent to destroy him? Where is the religion he has sinned to bring about? Where is his god?

Where is his absolution?

He cannot do anything but wait for an end, for if he stops waiting, he must confront what he has done, and selfish creature that he is, he cannot do that. He has made himself a monster, he has named himself Azazel, and he waits for an end, for a promise fulfilled.