The Fires of Summer (first draft)

Smock wakes up without Axel in his arms, but Baguette remains on top of him. He feels terrible when he has to move the bird, especially at the sleepy protests he makes, but it has to be done.

"Come on Baguette, we have to get moving," he yawns, donning his coat and getting up, quickly taking down the tent with the bird on his shoulder. He shares warm 'good morning's with everyone except Axel, who seems distracted, and soon they get back on their path to the coast.

They stop at the seaside town for food. The air between Smock and Axel settles a little as they eat, but is right back to how it'd been before when they leave again. They head back onto the ship and Smock takes up the wheel, wanting to be away from the others. They've done nothing wrong, but he doesn't feel socially energetic today, worn out from all of the dramatics from the day before, especially with Axel.

He's growing more comfortable with sailing every day. Being out at sea had eased his nerves greatly, and though he still can't shake constantly feeling slightly on edge, he doesn't get the waves of fear anymore, or the trembling of his hands. Still, the water itself hasn't gotten any better, and he panics at the thought of being immersed in it all over again.

After turning the ship, they get back on their way out of the Athorean waters. It's a peaceful journey with no signs of monsters coming to grab a snack, not even the insectoid beast coming to seek them out for revenge. The crew end up with little to do, with nobody needing much help and the sailing being quite easy, so he doesn't mind when they stand around and talk a little.

He watches Julien walk downstairs, and shortly afterwards come back up to Axel, who goes down again with him. Suspicious, Smock keeps his eyes on the deck, and is surprised when Axel comes out dragging what looks to be a young adult from the doors. The person isn't fighting at all, legs dragging as she's brought in front of everyone, Axel's dagger at her throat. From the door then comes Julien dragging with him a deerfolk, who he sits next to the other, equally placing a dagger to their neck.

Smock orders for the sails to be furled and then he joins everyone on the main deck.

"We caught these two stowing away on the bottom of the ship," Julien says, sounding far too calm for someone with a blade to someone's throat.

"We're running away," the human blurts out. She's black and her hair is in twists. Her eyes are a striking orange and she has freckles on her face, with full lips and a pierced bridge, and cuffs on her ear lobes. She's wearing a blue shirt and waistcoat with a red ribbon around her neck, tied loosely, and she doesn't look as terrified as she should.

"The proper term would be stowing away," Smock stares at them both, noting that they both must be quite young, with the deerfolk having short antlers and the girl having a youthful face. "I want your story so I can decide your fate."

Smock knows he won't kill them, but it does get them talking. The deerfolk begins. They've got black fur with dark brown spots on their underside, and they wear a red bandana around their neck. They're clothed similarly, and Smock figures quickly it must be some sort of uniform. "We work at the seaside town you were docked at, but the management is unfair, and our families don't support us. We can't take it anymore so we planned to run away and your ship came and we decided it was time. Please let us join your crew."

"Your family don't support you?" Smock raises a brow, looking between them. "It must be bad if you've decided to run away."

"It is," the girl agrees solemnly, and from her tone he can tell this hasn't been an easy decision. "It was their idea, but I think it was the right one."

"Axel, Julien, let them go," he commands. Julien doesn't think twice, but Axel gives him a look that he can best describe as uncomfortable before moving.

"They're castaways, isn't the usual procedure to, I dunno, throw them overboard?" Axel gestures towards them with his dagger as they get to their feet, not moving yet, probably too intimidated.

"They're just getting out of a bad situation," Smock shrugs, "and we need more hands around the ship. Most pirate crews have far more members, Axel."

Axel is having none of it. "We don't know anything about them!"

"I know enough," he stands his ground, staring down Axel. "If they test my kindness, then we throw them overboard. Okay?"

The changeling seethes. He lowers his dagger and storms off to the crew's quarters.

Smock sighs, turning to the newbies. They stand with their hands clasped together, the deerfolk's fingers each like a toe on a cloven hoof, yet just as flexible as a humanoid's. "Sorry about him. He's difficult."

"It's alright," the human says, feeling her neck. "He had a scary hold on that dagger."

"He's like that with his daggers," Smock chuckles awkwardly, feeling terrible that he hadn't made them lower their weapons sooner. "Anyway, what're your names?"

"I'm Maya," the girl smiles.

"And I'm Adayre," the deerfolk scratches the back of their head with their free hand. "My parents are from Gore, so they gave me a name from there."

"Both great names," he smiles, then he realises he should introduce himself. He hesitates for a moment, but figures it'll be strange for them to be hearing him called Haley if he chooses Smock. "I'm Haley and I'm one of the captains. The man that stormed off is called Axel. I should get back to sailing, but the others can teach you how to man the ship."

On cue, the crew begin to close in to make their introductions, and Smock takes his leave. He returns to the wheel but keeps his eye on the others as they quickly get to teaching Maya and Adayre the ropes. They help to open the sails again, working like naturals, and quickly Smock realises he's made a good decision in letting them come aboard. Even with hooves Adayre seems perfectly capable of climbing the rigging, and the two seem to do even better when they're with each other, spurring the other on enthusiastically.

Smock can't help but be reminded of Beck, Cass, and Max. They radiate the energy of those only recently turned adults, with their entire lives ahead of them. It makes him feel horribly responsible, but the air about them can't help but lighten the mood in spite of that. It feels good to see them out there having fun. He supposes that the work here must be much better than their lives at home.

As the day draws on, the two seem to get more and more tired, and eventually Maya comes to join him by the wheel, leaving Adayre to talk to Keaberos, who had since come out from tending to Rabia. She leans against the rail and watches the other down below, looking exhausted but happy.

"You enjoying working on a ship?" Smock asks her, watching the edge of Miria moving by. He never seems to tire of watching the forest go by.

"A lot," she nods, "the time goes a lot faster here, and I get to work with Adayre."

"Yeah. You seem to work better with them. Are you guys together?" Smock offers a friendly smile in assurance that he means no judgement. She eases when she sees it.

"We are. Our parents didn't like it and they blamed us for the other one's issues," she shrugs, her orange eyes glumly half-lidded. "On top of that, we were both born boys but found that was never really how it was mean to be for either of us. Aldelis isn't the best place for that."

"I understand. My gender is fluid, and people have never offered much acceptance," Smock bumps her shoulder sympathetically. "This bunch is good, though. Everyone here has been through a lot so there's no judgement."

Maya looks to him with a trusting glint in her eyes. "I'm sorry you've had a hard time."

"It's alright. I'm sorry that you have too - you deserve better than to spend your youth dealing with that," Smock sympathises. His youth had been nice, with people being so kind on Pirate Island, but just one act of cruelty had wizened him to the world around him. Repeated acts of cruelty must be absolutely crushing. "I take it that's not the only reason you two left, though."

Maya laughs quietly. "God, no. We had this god-awful boss. If I so much as said hello to Adayre he'd accuse us of slacking just because we're together. He also kept making us work overtime for no extra pay and overall overworking us. It was terrible. Then going back to a home that was ruining my mentally? No thanks."

"Sounds like you needed to get that off your chest," Smock chuckles.

"I think I did, yeah," she grins. "It's nice to complain to someone. I feel like I complain Adayre's ear off sometimes."

"Nothing better than complaining with someone you care about," he thinks back to all the times he'd groan to Ellamia about things that happened in the day, or things from the past that bugged him, and one of her favourite things to do was to affirm his complaints.

"That's true," Maya agrees fondly. "It is a pretty good feeling."

"I can't imagine having a boss, but then again I guess I kind of am the boss on the ship, so maybe I should feel bad for everyone else," Smock muses with a smile, looking down at everyone below. There's not much activity right now, everyone quite settled for the time being. There'll be one last burst of life when they furl the sails and throw down the anchor for the night, and then that'll be it.

"I guess being a captain is a little different to being a boss," she too seems intrigued by this thought. "I mean, you're still kind of an equal to everyone else. And they can mutiny if you're doing a bad job, and they get to keep theirs. At a restaurant or something you just sort of end up jobless."

"That's a pretty good point," Smock laughs, unable to argue with that logic. He's relieved that he's never had to deal with a mutiny before, typically doing well for his crew while offering them a decent and exciting life at sea. Besides, fighting against someone called 'Captain Undying' who had proved he is, in fact, undying is pretty much a deathwish. "Since I co-captain with two others, I guess I'm even more of an equal, too."

"Everyone seems to see you as one," Maya adds.

"Good," Smock feels a warmth in his chest welling at the knowledge people hold him just the same as them. He's never wanted to come off as some commander. "It's good to have you and Adayre, Maya. I hope you can find a home with us."

"I'm sure we will," there's a deep warmth in her voice, and Smock knows right away that he will do everything he can to ensure their safety.

I won't fail again, he promises himself, ever.

That night he lays down to rest with optimism. It's as though the world is giving him a second chance to make things right, to live freely again and let others join him. He rolls over and rests his eyes upon Axel for some time, watching the changeling toss a dagger in the air. He catches it every time, though the risk of him dropping it and impaling himself is undeniable. Smock knows what it's like to constantly live on the edge of danger, but he doesn't understand how Axel can live in on twenty-four-seven. His every waking moment is spent either on the lookout for danger or actively in it, even down to a simple throwing of a knife.

Smock rolls back over to the other side, having seen enough for now, and finally he drifts off to sleep.

His dreams are simple tonight, but not any better. He sees a creature like an amalgamation of deer and raven, with scarred stumps where wings once stood proud, red and black, simply staring at him. It has this complex look, something unsettling, and soon Smock is jolted awake with its gaze burned into his mind. At first he doesn't know what awoke him - it wasn't that bad. But then the creeping feeling that something is terribly wrong begins to take a hold of him, and he can't seem to get back to sleep.

Rubbing his eyes, he pulls himself out of bed, putting on his coat and stumbling up the stairs. The feeling keeps getting worse, but when he steps out to the top he can't seem to find anything wrong at all. The ship looks the same and everything is silent, even the waves don't seem to be making a noise. There's nobody up top at all and the night sky sits kind above him, stars shining bright. But then he realises a second time that the waves aren't making a noise, and he understands right away that his feeling was telling him something after all.

Smock goes to head back downstairs, to wake people up, but there's a sudden sound of something rising from the water. He expects to see some animal rising up to attack in the middle of the night, perhaps protecting its territory, but instead comes a beast that makes Smock's stomach churn violently.

Water drips from the broken body of a black and red raven deer as its hooves and twisted legs hook over the side of the ship, pulling its large form up onto the deck. Its antlers are covered in gory shed, and its black eyes are glassy as though dead. An inky substance drips from its mouth. Its feathered body begins to contort and its bones crack and bend as it shrinks down into a new form, one far too familiar for comfort.

Before Smock stands Apollyon. It's them without a doubt, with that perfect alabaster skin and the beauty mark under the corner of their mouth. Their black eyes seem lifeless now, glassy and tired, but there is no lack of energy in the way they surge forwards to grab Smock by the collar, swinging him to slam him against the rail of the ship. It hits his back hard and he cries out in pain, and as Smock meets their eyes he sees now a wild look. Apollyon boxes him in, hands on either side of the rail, their face close to his.

"This is a much better view without the veil," they smile, their honeyed voice laced with venom. Smock tries to push Apollyon away, but the angel is stronger now, unmoving.

Instead of using brute force, he slides beneath Apollyon's arm, darting for the door, but suddenly his veins begin to ache, and then the ache turns into a burn, spreading throughout his entire body. He cries out in agony over and over until the pain becomes too much to stomach and he can't seem to create any noise at all, his throat searing and his vision blacking out periodically. His injured shoulder pulses and he feels the drip of liquid flowing from it. He drops to his knees, everything burning.

Apollyon approaches slowly this time, their step also hindered with pain and red-black blood trickling along their fingers. They kneel in front of Smock and press their face forward until it rests in the crook of Smock's neck. They don't breathe like he does, unconcerned with appearing mortal, and their body is cold like his.

"What happened to Dawn?" Apollyon sighs. "Was your dramatic little jump all for nothing?"

Smock manages to speak through his agony. "She's alive and well."

"Hm," they mumble, "how curious."

He tries again to move, but his limbs won't do anything, aching even at the thought. He realises just how powerless he is to Apollyon, how pathetic it is to be on his knees before them, unable to even try to fight. Their bloody hand comes to sit upon Smock's, sticky and wet.

"When you're dead, I'll finally be free of you," Apollyon's nose nudges the area beneath his chin. Smock very suddenly understands what he means.

The crew start to filter onto the deck fast, led by Axel. Smock is relieved at the lack of the presence of Maya and Adayre, not wanting them to be awoken or to see him like this. He looks pleadingly to the others as Apollyon lifts their head.

"You will not stop me," they say simply to the others. "You will not take this from me. I'll kill every last one of you."

Smock feels the hold on his blood release just enough for him to move, and in Apollyon's moment of distraction he pushes against him, throwing him away and scrambling uneasily to his feet. He draws his cutlass and points it at Apollyon, his legs feeling horribly unsteady. "Don't you dare threaten my crew."

"Your crew?" Apollyon spits, glaring across them all. "What about your angel? When have you ever cared for us, Azrael? When have you ever cared for me?"

"Azrael?" he hears Axel breathe.

Smock winces at the name. I can't hide from them any longer. "I always did. How is it my fault that the gods cast you out? You've stolen the lives of so many innocent people, Apollyon."

"None of them matter!" they scream. "You don't understand! I'm mated to you and you never returned it, it's all your fault that I'm defective, you drove me mad Azrael! Why would you do that to me?"

Apollyon lunges for Smock again, his veins flaring up in agony, but before they can grab him a blur of white surges onto them, throwing them to the ground. The pain leaves Smock entirely and he finally stands, backing up from the scene before him.

Axel's fists connect with Apollyon's face, and then the two begin clawing at each other, Apollyon grabbing the changeling's hair and rolling them over, slamming the man's head into the planks.

"Stop!" Smock cries, fearful to intervene, knowing that nothing he can do will end well. "Axel, Apollyon!"

It's Axel's turn to smash Apollyon's head into the floor now, atop of him again, and he grabs his dagger. Smock knows what's about to happen, but he can't take his eyes away. Like he's in a haze, Axel starts to plunge the blade into Apollyon's face over and over again, and then when the angel stops moving he stands up and starts crushing their head under his boot until their features are no longer recognisable as anything humanoid. Axel's expression doesn't change once, he doesn't seem disturbed or bothered by the blood all over his boot or the flesh being smashed in harder and harder into a pulp.

When angels fall, they become more and more humanoid as the time goes by, and those changes are internal too, gaining organs and their blood becoming redder. Smock sees that intimately in what Axel crushes, certain that there is brain matter visible from what is certainly by now a corpse.

Finally, the changeling stops. He's panting from the exertion, and without even a grimace he leans down to grab the body, dragging it to the side where Smock stands, having backed up again to the rail in absolute horror, and pushing it over the edge of the boat.

But when the body comes close to him, just about to tip over the edge, one hand grasps Smock's shoulder and the other his waist. It's Apollyon, still alive despite their head being nothing but gore, pulling him over the edge too.

As he falls, it feels like time slows down. The air brushes past him and he's completely at its mercy, feeling the way it claws at him. It's like the day he fell, viciously holding him, forcing him down to the ground.

He remembers it all. It begins with the garden the Archangels shared. Smock, now Azrael, is tending to a group of ravens that accompany him, petting one and scattering feed for the others. He hums lightly to himself, a song that the Raven Queen's court plays often, perhaps her favourite. It's a peaceful and slow day with little to do, his tasks spread evenly across a group of high-ranking angels today instead of him.

It's not long before he has company, and not the kind he enjoys. He loves all of his siblings dearly, but one terrifies him above all else: the warrior Archangel, Michael, his eldest remaining sibling considering Lucifer has been out of the picture for a while. Michael examines him with a scrutinising gaze, frostbite eyes ever-examining just about everything he lays them on, spreading their ice throughout the veins of opponents and allies alike.

"Azrael," Michael says simply, drawing his attention.

"Yes, Michael?" Azrael finally turns to him, a certain anxiety bubbling up in his chest that makes him feel defective.

"Is this what you do when no one is looking?" Michael looks towards the birds, who bristle under his observation.

"I suppose so," he agrees, looking at his feet. "I don't have much to do today, so I thought I would come here."

Michael is a brilliant Archangel. He has a sculpted face with a strong jawline, and piercing white eyes that look perpetually judging, no emotion within them. His hair, also white, is perfect and falls to the bottom of his shoulders, lightly wavy. He has a figure that is wide at the shoulders, with muscles toning his lithe body, befitting of a warrior Archangel, his shape made as a perfect balance for speed and strength. He wears silver armour with a red cape, simple but elegant, and he stands tall at seven feet, towering over Smock. His voice is low and smooth and devoid of any feeling. "My god wishes to speak with you."

"Mars?" Azrael frowns. Mars is a god of war, and not someone he usually finds himself in the company of. Still, war and death go hand in hand, so it's not outside of reason. "Why would Mars want to see me?"

"That is not any of my business," Michael's gaze does not waver. "What I do know is that he wishes for you to come alone, and to speak nothing of it to the Raven Queen."

"...Okay then," Azrael worries at his sleeve, the silky texture of it soothing his nerves just a little. "When?"

"As soon as possible," Michael answers. "Do not keep him waiting."

"I won't," he lowers his head, his eyes avoiding Michael's gaze, though that can't be seen behind his veil.

The warrior Archangel speaks no more, simply offering another one of those sharp looks before he turns away and takes his leave, his pace leisurely, as though he too has little to do. Smock watches him go, a feeling of wrongness welling up in his chest that he tries to force down. Though Mars has never been described as a cruel deity, he has never gotten along with the Raven Queen, and has never made it his business to involve himself with Azrael. He wonders if maybe Mars wants to deliver a message but isn't willing to do so directly, grasping for an innocent explanation for the request.

He returns to the ravens, speaking quietly to them, asking them what they think of it all. All he gets are soft caws and concerned looks.

Azrael comes to Mars' realm to see a scene of horror. There is blood everywhere, and in the snow and ice that makes up the god's domain in the aether lies the great body of a dragon. Azrael knows without a doubt that it's Mars. His great red and black figure is lifeless, his neck turned to the side to reveal a deep slash caked with blood, having spilled his life all over the ground. The silver markings on his form no longer shimmer brilliantly, and his almost metallic dark blue-green wing webs seem matte. As his gaze travels along the deity he sees that there is not just one injury, and he sees the culprit standing before the dragon's face.

Michael's spear and body is covered in blood. He is expressionless where he stands, staring down at the corpse, until he notices Azrael, and he begins to approach. Azrael is frozen, unable to move a muscle, eyes flicking between the body and the murderer. Michael is cold as the snow all around them, a man made up of the most severe winter breeze, but he has never seemed ready to kill a god.

"Azrael," Michael greets him, voice unusually gentle. The spear disappears into nothingness and he rests a hand upon Azrael's back, turning to look at his work, frowning.

Azrael doesn't respond. His eyes are glued to the gaping throat of the great dragon, wounded in a way too vicious and large for Michael's regular spear. Whatever he had done, it must have been brutal, making use of magic to deal such a fatal injury.

"Look at me, Azrael," Michael coos, and despite his horror, Azrael does, meeting the cold eyes that show none of the sympathy in his tone. "You must understand what I have done."

He has never been any good at empathy, and even then the thought of doing this to the Raven Queen makes him sick. He stutters when he speaks, "Michael-"

"Hush," the warrior Archangel says softly. "It was inevitable. You do not know the abuse I have endured at his hands."

"Abuse?" Azrael stammers.

"Yes, that's right. He has not treated me well, Azrael," he continues. "He deserves this. You wouldn't want your brother to continue to be harmed, would you?"

Azrael shakes his head quickly, feeling tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. All of this is too much.

"And you would not want your brother to be cast out of the aether for protecting himself."

Wide-eyed, Azrael shakes his head again, feeling his emotions spill over his cheeks. He wouldn't wish being cast out on anyone, especially not Michael. He is brilliant and brave and talented, and he holds the Archangels together with unrivalled strength and intelligence. The aether would be missing a great figure without him, someone that could not be replaced. Suddenly he feels something lukewarm being pressed into his hands, and as he looks down, a great heart is placed within them.

"Then after all you've done for me," Michael says, clasping Azrael's hands around the heart with his own, "you can do this for me. I've suffered enough at the hands of my god and you, Azrael, are the one that killed him. I must stay here for our siblings; they need me more than they need you."

"What?" the cold and sticky blood cakes his hands.

"This is for the best. Surely you would agree, I know you're smart enough to understand," the pale Archangel soothes him, one of his strong hands coming now to cup Azrael's face.

"They'll cast me out," Azrael's voice trembles.

"Would you rather it be me?"

Azrael can barely see through his tears. He trembles violently, casting one gaze out to the dragon and then back to his brother, the hand on his face cold as ice.

"Okay," Azrael agrees with a sob. "I killed Mars."

"There you are, little brother," Michael takes away his hand. He realises it's smeared with blood. "Summon the ravens. Be good, now."

Azrael doesn't move when Michael leaves. The cold breeze digs into his skin.

When Azrael is brought before the seven, once eight, gods, each an owner of an Archangel, he's still crying uncontrollably. He looks pathetic, his hands bloody and his ravens gathered by his feet.

"Why?" the Raven Queen's face is covered by a veil much like his own, but he can see she's been crying. Her long black hair is a mess and her dark skin is shiny with tears trickling down her cheeks.

"I love my brother," Azrael sobs, "I couldn't stand to see what he had to endure."

Each of the Archangels accompanies their god, seated in front of them, except Michael, who now takes Mars' place for himself. The warrior Archangel shows no expression even now as he stares down at Azrael with his frostbite eyes.

"The verdict, then?" says the oldest of the gods, Asmodeus, whose mature face is perpetually frowning, his black and pink eyes staring down with a look of disappointment.

One by one each of the gods declare his guilt. The last is the Raven Queen, who doesn't even look at him as she makes her choice, her voice breaking as she speaks. He looks to the empty spot before her, and wishes more than anything that he was there, that this wasn't happening.

"Overwhelmingly guilty," Asmodeus sighs, casting his eyes to his side, where Mars used to be. "Michael, cast Azrael out for his crime against your god, and do so quickly."

Michael stands and steps down from his god's throne. He is clean now, devoid of all of the blood, and he has no sympathy in his eyes as he summons his spear. Azrael kneels, head down and his six wings spread, anticipating the searing pain.

It's worse than he imagined. First come the smallest wings, then the middle ones, and then finally the biggest, but Michael doesn't sever them completely. He leaves them hanging on, yet so damaged that even if they survive the wound they will never be used again. And then the ground swallows him, and he falls through the sky, through clouds and out above the ocean, ravens swarming around him, powerless to come to his aid. He wants to scream, but it hurts too much, forcing him into a silence as the air batters his injuries.

Then he hits the water. Suddenly Smock comes to as the water envelops him, and when he opens his eyes he sees blue all around, and the body of Apollyon, fresh blood flowing out into the water, his flesh waving about, the impact having further split it open. He wants to throw up but knows that he can't swallow any water, so he turns his head away, only seeing streaks of blood as it floats past him and dissipates into the great blue. He sinks, and as he looks up he swears he sees fire for a moment licking at a broken ship.

Ellamia, he thinks as he submits to his fate all over again.

But then strong arms are carrying him, and he's being pulled back onto a dry surface, and he feels himself spluttering out water, coughing and hacking it up until it's all out of him. He's crying again, eyes unfocused, unable to make out anything that anyone is saying for a while. When he comes to again, he's out of his jacket and under a blanket, though the summer breeze is doing just as well for keeping him warm and dry.

The crew hasn't moved, patiently waiting for him to respond, and he does with a loud sob. Kallisto is the one to kneel down to his level, a frown on his face and concern in his eyes. "Breathe, Haley."

Kallisto counts him in and out, and slowly but surely he manages to even out his breathing and ease his tears. He realises he's shaking, not from the cold but in his distress, and he tries to force himself to still. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Kallisto's voice is gentle and friendly. "This isn't your fault."

Smock finds his eyes, and sees that they're kind. They're nothing like the frostbite that could pierce his skin, that could crawl into him and freeze him to the core. "Really?"

The werewolf seems to understand that something bigger must have gone on. Despite the fact Smock is still wet, he opens his arms in invitation. Smock happily leans into the hug, and knows right away that he needed it.

It takes him a very long time to calm down. Kallisto stays next to him throughout it all, and the others each check in with him, trying to figure out what to do before Smock tells them to go back to sleep. One by one they go, and when Smock seems okay so does Kallisto, leaving only one man up top: Axel.

Smock already knows what's coming.

"So," Axel starts, "first of all, are you okay?"

"I'm... alive," he answers, hugging the blanket closer to his body. He still hasn't stood up, and to be quite honest doesn't want to at all.

"Better than nothing, I guess," Axel sits down in front of him, tail curling over his lap. "Uh... is it Haley, or Azrael?"

Smock doesn't hesitate. "Haley."

"Alright," the changeling nods. "I... can't believe you're really Azrael."

He sighs, looking down to the floorboards, his lips falling into a frown. "Well there you go. I just... Why do you even want to be around me? I'm the Archangel of death, no matter how much I try everyone just keeps dying."

"Are you seriously blaming yourself for my actions? I kill people. That's what I'm good at, and it'd happen whether you're around or not."

"No Ax, I mean everyone," Smock sighs. "The crew, my wife, Dawn's mom, Klaus, and now Apollyon. I woke up after seven years and destroyed so many people's lives. I'm like a curse and people around me die because of it."

"Look, I don't know who Dawn's mom or Klaus are, but maybe other people keep destroying people's lives and you happen to be there. When have any of these things been your fault, Haley?" Axel grasps one of Smock's hands, holding it tight.

Smock pulls his knees in closer, resting his head on them. "I don't know, it just feels like when I'm there people don't have long to live."

Axel shuffles closer, his tail within arm's reach. Without really realising what he's doing, Smock reaches out to run his fingers over the scales. They're strangely silky and the spikes are hard, and he really likes the texture. Axel smiles. "We're all alive and nothing's going to happen to us, I promise Haley. After everything my guys have been through, it'd take the underworld's armies to kill them."

"You're probably right, you look like you've already faced them," Smock returns the smile sadly.

"If the scar's anything to show for it," Axel smirks, squeezing the hand. Then he grows solemn again. "I'm sorry to bring it up, but... Apollyon, they said they were mated to you and you didn't return it? What was that all about?"

"Ah," he clears his throat, looking away. "Angels can have soulmates when they get attached to someone. It can be triggered by something, or it can come on slowly, but it's a really significant type of relationship between one or more angels. It can be familial or platonic or romantic or anything at all, but it's the deepest form of bond. An angel can have multiple of them in their lifetime and who they mate to can change, especially if it's not reciprocated, and some can go their whole lives never mating to anyone. Apollyon... I think they must have mated to me, and it never went away, even though I didn't return their feelings."

Axel has a complex look on his face. "Is that why they were nuzzling up to you?"

Smock nods, a little uncomfortable at the thought. "Yeah. When an angel has a soulmate, they want to be close to them all the time, physically and emotionally. It's like the other is their whole world. Most of the time it made angels work better, especially with their soulmate, and makes them happier."

"I think I get it," Axel says quietly. "I get like that sometimes, with people that I'm close to."

"What, are you also an angel and you haven't told me?" Smock tries to make light of the situation.

"Pff, maybe I am, Haley," Axel moves closer, though not too close, mindful not to bring back any memories of Apollyon's touch. "Say, could an Archangel have soulmates?"

"Oh, no," Smock hums. "There's never been an Archangel that had a soulmate, so I don't think so."

"Right," Axel seems to deflate a little, but his smirk returns to him quickly. "Well anyway angel, I think you need to get some rest. We'll be back home later on tomorrow, I think."

Smock's breath hitches in his throat at the new nickname. At first he thinks to tell Axel not to say that, but the warmth in his chest thinks otherwise, so he doesn't, allowing Axel to take his hand and pull him up. He follows the changeling downstairs and gets back in his hammock, bringing the blanket with him.

Axel smiles at him from where he lays, and he manages finally to smile back before he rolls back over. He can't get to sleep for a very long time, terrified that Apollyon is going to rise back up from the sea. Eventually, he's lulled into his rest simply by exhaustion, and finally his mind offers mercy, and he doesn't dream again.