Chapter Text
The madness of one makes many mad.
-Latin Proverb
For rarely are sons similar to their fathers:
most are worse, and a few are better than their fathers.
-Homer
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Zerachiel wondered for the millionth time how he got the short straw regarding Father.
Looking over his mad father was hard work. Yahweh was extremely difficult to deal with, what with him hiding under tables and behind chairs. It was exhausting. Zerachiel’s brothers and sisters insisted that he tell Father of all the usual dealings in Heaven, Earth and Hell, as if the god was still sane... but he wasn’t. Half the time when the angel was reporting, Yahweh would start blubbering and yanking his hair. Yanking his hair was a bad sign. It meant that uncontrollable screaming would start... and go on for hours. Hours.
No one could get close to the poor god. Zerachiel would have never imagined that his father -- that strong, mighty father who ruled with an iron fist -- could be brought down so low. He missed Yahweh as he used to be. He didn’t want to be a nursemaid to someone he had looked up to his entire life. He didn’t want to be a caretaker. He wanted to go about his regular duties, report to his father, and let him make all the decisions.
No one really knew how Yahweh had lost his mind. His guards reported fighting Amenadiel, Maze, Lucifer and the Old God months ago when the demon army had attacked, but at that time their father was still sane. After they had all been rendered unconscious was when... whatever had happened, happened.
A part of Zerachiel burned in anger at Lucifer. The fallen angel had taken the blame for it all, saying merely that Yahweh got what he deserved, and that he’d become a better father for it. Well, that was all fine and good for him to say -- he didn’t have to look after their poor father and wait on him hand and foot. He didn’t have to deal with the tantrums, the screaming spells, and the brief bouts of sanity where Yahweh actually sounded coherent, before returning to his frightened, mad ways.
Those brief spells of lucidness were the hardest on Zerachiel. That’s when he would think that maybe this time -- this time -- he’d have back the father he always knew. Yahweh would look around, ask about the state of Heaven and Earth, and nod sagely, as if he understood all that was going on. Then he’d ask about Hell, and that’s when all the madness would return.
Climbing the stairs to the solar, the angel hoped for the same thing everyday: that perhaps, today, Father would regain his sanity.
When he reached the top, he was surprised to see the door unlocked and ajar. That shouldn’t be --
Panic filled Zerachiel as he whipped open the door. Nothing. The solar was devoid of life. Yahweh was gone.