After that particular incident that particular day, Azrael finds himself lonelier than he could have ever imagined possible. It is difficult you see, suddenly thrust up top the metaphorical mountain of power—especially without a soul to share in the fruition of ability, and no higher plane to aspire towards. He was here. There was no up. And, because he had gotten this far, this ridiculously high, They had become afraid (afraid of the height, afraid of the boy himself).
Sometimes, Azrael allows the magic that lay dormant beneath his flesh to focus at the very tips of his fingers, and, solidified and hot, fuse together in little black flares. And then, he just stares into the flickering black, allows the warmth to lick the sides of his face and wash whatever room he is in in a blanket of darkness.
He hopes he can find some solace in the artificial night, this paradoxical sun. But what is magic, he knows, to people, to friends to fa—
(He stops at the first syllable of the last part, chastises himself and allows his magic to engulf him completely.)
