Chapter Text
West of Eden
PART I— Songbird
"Please, herald of twilight! All I seek is guidance!"
Half-hidden in the foliage of a tree, Alastor lets out a quiet exhalation, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the creature currently vying for his attention. At first, he has found their little game of cat and mouse amusing— he has taken to shapeshifting to escape the woman's beseeching hands, watching with amusement as she had crouched, climbed, pushed past thorny brushes and crossed streams while trying to catch him up— but it has been hours now since they have reached a stalemate and he's growing tired of it.
The human has been following him to his current vantage point, dangerously close to the fringes of the Garden, and Alastor is beginning to ponder if she would dare to follow him past the borders if he were to cross them. Which, while not explicitly forbidden by the Laws, still could land him in trouble. He has no interests in the little project his siblings are currently building in the east of Eden but even he, as uninvolved as he claims to be, cannot be blind and deaf to the plans the Almighty has laid out for humanity. So far, he has been quite content to stay out of that tedious business and he intends for it to continue; leading the woman out of the Garden out of spite will certainly draw the Choir's attention to him. And with the Choir will probably come the seraphim's righteous fury.
He'll pass, thank you.
He'd give it to the First Woman though. She is not easily cowed by his nonchalant indifference nor by his attempts to evade her, hopping around weeds and jumping between trees with a brazen, carefree attitude. For someone who keeps demanding attention from a celestial being who could easily reverse her back to the dirt she came from, she has yet to show any hint of respect— or even fear.
Not that Alastor would blast her to dust— Father might throw a fit if he dares to harm his current favorite toys and no one wants to risk triggering Father's volatile moods— but still. The sentiment is there.
He sighs. What now? He loathes to let her win but his options are becoming tragically limited: it's either stay silent until she finally gives up her fool's errand, which looks more and more unlikely as time goes by; fly past the borders of the Garden, which might end up being a bad idea for the aforementioned reasons, or revert back to his angelic form and abscond to a place where she can't follow him. He likes the last solution the least. Heaven, while offering a blessed temporary retreat, will inevitably end up with his siblings seeking out his presence and he isn't in the mood to handle social calls for the next decade. It was supposed to the whole point of staying out of the way.
"I promise I'll leave once you've heed my call!" The woman yells once more, startling him out of his thoughts as her hands keep reaching the air in desperate attempts to grab his ebony feathers.
He bristles— the nerve of this woman! — before changing his current avian form to revert to his preferred humanoid traits, taking the shape of a tall, dark-skinned man framed with dull burgundy wings. It's not his most appealing form but it won't make the tiny human's brain fry upon looking at him and frankly, that's more courtesy he has granted anyone in the past few centuries. Not that he particularly cares to accommodate the pest's little whims…
"You're a tiresome being, First Woman." He chides her, unwilling to conceal his displeasure at being dragged out of his sanctuary.
His siblings may be more lenient with these 'fresh off the dirt' creatures but he has been the one chased down and pestered for hours, he's past trying to coddle her impressionable mind. She wanted his undivided attention? Fine! Let her have it!
"So I've been told!" She quips back, unbothered.
If his edge has dampened her mood, she doesn't show any sign of; au contraire, she's brighter and more annoying than ever, her voice not unlike the chirps of the songbirds at dawn. Alastor scoffs, unimpressed by her atrocious lack of manners, as he glides back from the branch he has sought refuge to. The Garden soil shifts under his bare feet, turning from lush grass to a dried ground, rich with rot and dead roots.
"And clearly you haven't learnt a thing. Why have you come all the way from the east of Eden, woman?"
For the first time since she oh-so-rudely accosted him, he witnesses her hesitate.
"You're the Angel of Decay, right?" She asks, almost unsure. "Azrael's brother?"
Alastor's eyebrows arch with newfound curiosity. To invoke his twin's name so casually, the woman must have met him while wandering the Garden— which is no small feat. The Angel of Death is even more of a recluse than Alastor himself, which is probably one of the reasons why they compliment each other so well. Decay begets Death, after all. And Alastor's best creations have often bore his brother's delicate touch.
"You've met him, I presume? How curious. My brother isn't known for his social calls."
The woman adverts her eyes, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. Finally, a smidge of humility comes to grace her face and Alastor hates it on principle. This false demureness doesn't suit the fearless creature who has raced behind him for hours without tiring out; why does she choose to act coy now?
"I may have taken him by surprise," she confesses. "I was tending to the ducks by the pond and one of the young landed wrong and stopped moving."
Ah, previsible but unfortunate.
"I wanted to know what would happen when, well, you know… So I waited for your brother to show up."
"I hope that he gave you a good impression," Alastor taunts her, tugging at one of his loose feathers. He would have loved to see it happen. Azrael may be a gentle soul at his core but he has terrible manners.
"He sent me to you. Told me to seek his brother, the Evening Star, the one who lives at the west of Eden."
Hm. Curious. Unless his twin has turned into a prankster over the past few years, he doesn't usually send people in Alastor’s way. Something in the First Woman's request must have piqued his interest but what?
"A lot of effort for something as simple as 'guidance'. What is it that you truly seek, Lilith?"
Her mouth twitches unhappily at the mention of her name.
"That's what I wanted to talk about," she mumbles in a much more subdued tone. "See, the other angels, I think— no, I know they made a mistake when they created me. I'm not supposed to be... like this." Her hands begin to gesture down her sides, encompassing all of her body in the erratic movement.
The angel arches a delicate eyebrow. He's not privy to many details concerning Father's plans but as far as he knows, the humanity line has suffered no major defect. If anything, he has heard that the First Man is as mouthy and brash as his female counterpart. A match truly made in Heaven, in their case. And yet…
"Be more specific." He demands.
"Oh for the love of— I don't know, alright!? I don't have the words to explain, there is just… I think something is rotting. In my body. Inside of me. I can feel it."
He looks at her, puzzled by her ironclad affirmation. She has been made barely a few months ago; surely, she's not already dying? His siblings are not dense enough to create a species who will soon shed its mortal coil only a few months after reaching its prime? They wouldn't make such a mistake, especially one that would involve Father's precious project, right?
… That would be tragically hilarious.
"Even if that were true, what do you expect me to do about it? I'm no Angel of Creation. I can't fix what ails you, little songbird."
"But you know decay, right? Your brother has told me about you, about how a single touch of your fingers could make the plants dry out and the bones crumble." The human urges, pale lips wobbling under the emotion.
"Maybe you could… take a look? See if there is anything in me that feels… wrong?"
Alastor stops and takes a moment to look at her. Really look at her.
If he pushes his previous grievances aside, he can admit that the First Woman is certainly a striking creature. Short yet toned, her frame thin but lithe; her white skin shining like alabaster while golden locks frame her angular face like the first rays of dawn and cascades down her neck to frame her neck and shoulders. A twin set of amber eyes blink back at him, akin to dying sparks floating in the haze of the twilight; the boldness of her stare makes up for its dullness.
For a being originally made of dirt and clay, she has risen above the mud that was once her cradle. A masterpiece crafted by the most meticulous hands of the Choir, Alastor doesn't doubt it, but he has never cared much for the marble of the Silver City, nor for the gold adorning the Pearly Gates.
None of the riches and sharp lines of Heaven appeals to him. Alastor is the Evening Star, Harbinger of Twilight, and as such, he finds it most agreeable to relish in the liminal spaces of Creation, into the quietest moments of time. The minutes between day and night, the last tremor of a leaf before its inevitable fall, the withering of a flower before its ultimate crumble and communion with the dirt… That's where he finds his true calling, his gruesome yet gentle purpose. Due to his volatile nature, he's not always welcome in the lush and plentiful embrace of what his siblings call Paradise; however, Alastor is nothing but resourceful. He has bore their scorn with grace, dragged a path of his own and created his own little haven in the west of Eden.
Still, the Woman's strange request piques his curiosity, as it must have done for Azrael's. He has never known his siblings to fail a task given by the Almighty and while he wouldn't be the last one to rub that particular joke in their holier-than-thou faces, he finds that he bears no ill-will towards the mortal creature.
She has only been recently given life, her limbs still muddy and wobbling, unsure of her place into the grand tapestry of Creation and yet she's stubborn enough to not take Heaven's pretty words for granted, to seek answers at the edge of her world if needed. If Alastor cared much for her fate— or for humanity in general— he would probably pity her.
But he doesn't; he only cares to go back to his solitude. Slowly, he rises up, unfolding his burgundy wings as he opens all of his Eyes.
What he sees when he looks back is a wonder beyond words. The woman's shape hasn't changed but everything in her has lightened up like a frozen firework show. The parcels of dead skin at the roots of her hair, the calluses slowly forming on her knuckles and her heels, the crust around the scrapes she made on her knees, the slow push of her bowels, the decaying blood waiting in her fertile womb, the silent demise of cells making rooms for others— what Alastor can see beyond the artificial beauty of her face and the symmetry of her curves is a neverending cycle of life and death, pushing and pulling under the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.
For the first time since he's set foot into the Garden, Alastor feels strangely humbled. Father forgives him for his slandering thoughts for he has been a fool to criticize his siblings' craft. When he looks at the First Woman, he doesn't see any rot, anything that could resemble a flaw.
He only sees… Perfection.
"Well?" Her brash, impatient voice breaks the charm of the moment.
The slow marvel of her living body fades from Alastor's vision as he forces his Eyes to close, only to give way to her rosy cheeks and her porcelain skin. Strangely enough, it feels like Heaven did her a disservice when carving her face like one would carve a statue; if anything, it lessens the true, hidden beauty of her living body.
But what does Alastor know about creation? About art, about symmetry, about the living? He's only the shadow that precedes Death, after all.
"There is nothing." The angel shrugs nonchalantly.
"Nothing?!"
"Nothing that strikes me as rotting or wrong. You're perfect as you are, Lilith."
She flinches again as if burned by his words. Furious tears well in her eyes; she curls inwards and falls into the grass, arms gathered around her petite frame as if to seek some kind of comfort from the body she inhabits. Alastor looks at her, oddly put off by that sudden display. He has expected more demands or loud accusations or maybe more begging but this slump— her quiet defeat? It doesn't suit the loudmouthed, annoying pest that has been following him to the fringes of her known world.
He should leave. He has fulfilled his purpose; he's no longer needed. He should transform again and fly high, so high she can never hope to find him again, and forget everything about this strange encounter. Maybe he can still find Azrael before his twin takes his leave again and berate him for sending the annoying human his way.
"What do you think is wrong with your body?" he asks her instead.
"Everything," She hiccups, not bothering to wipe out the snot and the wetness running down her chin. "I wake up and my skin feels too tight, my hair too long, my chest too heavy. Whenever I bleed from between my legs, it makes my throat clench. When… When my husband tries to touch me, I feel nothing but the taste of bile flooding my mouth."
(From what Alastor knows of the First Man, he doesn't find her at fault.)
"Does he do it often?" He inquires, almost morbidly.
The female shrugs before wiping another wave of angry tears with the back of her hand.
"It's what we are made for, no? I may not know much but I remember the angel singing to us, when we first opened our eyes. 'Be fruitful and multiply. Replenish the Earth and govern it.' Whatever that means."
Alastor doesn't bother to conceal his distaste. So much for plans and grand purposes, it seems.
"Surely, you're aware of what 'multiply' means? Or have my siblings taught you nothing of importance? The Almighty created you to become a mother… And a Queen."
The First Woman lets out a deep sigh. Huddled up in the grass, naked as a worm as her body is wracked with silent sobs, she looks like the opposite of the Queen Heaven has asked her to become. No crown to adorn her blonde locks, no silk and finery to cover her modesty, no court to keep her company while she tries to flee her husband's touch; and yet, she feels more raw and authentic than whatever title Heaven wants her to wear. Eden is lush and bountiful, an earthy, dimmed version of the best Heaven has to offer but it's not that far from a cage.
A cage to hold a songbird. Fitting but almost lifeless— dull. Alastor wishes that kind of picture wasn't oh-so-bitterly familiar.
"Great. Thanks but I don't want it." She whispers; her self-pity is becoming intolerable once again. The Evening Star snaps back, his patience growing thin—
"Well, what do you want then?"
"What do— what do you mean, what do I want?"
For the love of the Speaker, were all humans made to be so dim? If it's truly the case, Alastor fears for their collective fate.
"You do not wish to rule the Earth. You abhor the mere touch of your husband. What do you want, if being Adam's wife or his queen doesn't suit you?"
The human looks back, eyes wide as if another head has sprung at the base of Alastor's neck. Which he pretty sure hasn't, thank you; a celestial being he may be but he has perfect control on his current form.
"I don't… I don't know what I want. Nobody ever asked me."
Ah, typical. Father wouldn't want his loyal children to ask uncomfortable questions, would He? Alastor resists the urge to bite his own lips and draw his divine blood in frustration. He really should leave before his thoughts become too bitter and treacherous for his own good; there is a reason why he has become an hermit, after all. None of the thoughts that cross his mind are merciful or kind— but she wouldn't have come to find him if she sought empty comfort and kindness, would she?
He sighs and extends one of his emaciated hands, reaching for her angular chin to tilt it gently upwards. Lilith's eyes bore into his own, warm embers against his golden gaze; she looks like she is holding her own breath and waiting for him to speak. Almost still as death and yet, her heart beats furiously under her alabaster skin, silently raging to maintain her alive. A paradox; gorgeous, but a paradox still.
"Here is the only guidance I have for you, First Woman," the Angel of Decay hears himself speak, his previous restraint softened by the intensity of her gaze. "Nobody is ever going to ask you those kinds of questions. Nobody will wait for you to discover what you want to become. You either will have to seek the answers on your own or live with the consequences of never chasing them."
She inhales sharply, her lungs expanding her ribcage as she gathers herself to rise from the dirt. Her face is pink and stained with tears; her legs dirty, marred by mud and stray strands of grass. Some dead twigs have ended up tangled into her golden hair; it fits her more than any crown or fine jewelry. For the first time since he has laid his eyes upon her, Alastor can imagine her as a queen— and that thought alone makes his core ache.
"And what if nothing will satisfy my knowledge? What if what I want is to be neither a wife nor a queen— what if there is no other path left for me to walk, O Evening Star?" She asks, soft-spoken yet strong as steel.
The angel grins. "Pave yourself another one."