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Iblîs had held itself together through the thick of the battle. It had fought against the humans with every particle of energy it had, the rage it’d harbored for centuries finally spilling over into action. The damage had already been done to its species by the time action had spurred. The Drevnemi were gone. The ash had already been spilled by the humans, leaving the founders of the Jinn species nothing but part of the filthy planet. Just another part of the battlefield. Every Jinn had already been ripped away from its soul. Every Jinn, and every Jinn that would come, had been fundamentally ruined by humans.
And it was Iblîs’ fault — it had been curious of the humans, it hadn’t… Iblîs hadn’t listened to the Drevnemi’s warnings, and now they were a mixture of the sand that was roaring in the storm. Iblîs had helped its family get to its plane, had numbly accepted its family’s nomination for Head of the Council, had volunteered to go back to the human world to collect the ash remain of its fallen family that had been missed. Iblîs had not expected for the full force of its loss to hit so suddenly, and not as intensely.
But confronted with the scorching sun, the corpses of the humans covered in ash and sand and blood, the structures that were still burning that had once housed the Jinn, and the temple that had once housed the humans that tortured and experimented on them… Iblîs took a sudden, trembling step away from the site. The memories of having its soul separated from its body came back, the memories of watching its parents being murdered returned, the memories of listening to its younger siblings howl and scream in agony as they died flashed in its mind.
Iblîs’ energy shuddered and the Ifrit noticed, with an alarming lack of concern, the ashy flakes falling from its hands. Iblîs drifted into the cave where the Drevnemi had been extinguished. It would worry about collecting the ash of its fallen siblings later. For now, though, the Ifrit settled against the corner of the cave, wiping some of its ash on the walls, writing carefully the names of each Drevnemi it had betrayed. “I never intended this,” it told the empty walls, knowing very well that the Drevnemi was dead and gone and there was no hope for being forgiven. “I never meant to ruin everything. I thought— I didn’t think… I should have listened.”
He rarely required sleep. Iblis did not need sleep, at all. Unless something required the Timelord's attention, he spent most of his wakeful hours in the ifrit's company. But when he was not there, or when he finally was forced to succumb to the need to sleep, he knew Iblis would grow restless, and when it was restless, it became destructive. Over the years he had taught the ifrit how to meditate. It was something to help Iblis pass the time, enter a dreamlike state. It wasn't the same as actual sleep, but he hoped it would temporarily help slake the ifrit's boredom. [break][break] On rare occasion, the ifrit would delve too deeply into it's meditations, unwanted and painful memories would emerge like a nightmare. Armand knew better than to physically try to bring him out of them, but rather coax him with his voice. But this particular instance, there was panic. Armand threw his own safety aside and reached to grasp the ifrit's shoulder, both to comfort and to rouse from it's state. In that moment of contact, a rift formed. [break][break] Before Armand could fully grasp what was happening, Iblis was gone. The council chambers were gone. He stood in the scorching dry heat of a desert, in only the trousers he slept in. Within moments he could feel the stinging heat as his shoulders began to redden. He cried out into the vast expanse of sand, hoping Iblis would hear him. [break][break] "IBLIS!?" [break][break] His voice carried in a muffled echo, but there came no reply. His hand came to rest upon the ifrit's scorched hand print. After a few moments, Armand began to traverse the sands, looking for some form of shelter or a sign of life. He was placed here for a reason, tho he was yet unaware as to why... [break][break] The he felt it. That hot to cold sensation, a tug at the base of his spine that coiled into the pit of his stomach. Not only had he traveled places, he had traveled time. He knew this had something to do with Iblis. As he walked, he called out again. [break][break] "IBLIS!!"
Iblîs’ fervent whispering stopped as someone shouted its name. It slowly stood with gritted teeth, stumbling from the cave. Very few knew that name, and, as it was called again, Iblîs evaporated into its true form. It raced through the stretch of sand, forming once more in front of the half-naked man. Its fingers were extended into claws, its teeth just rows of sharp razors. Ash fell from the trembling fists, but Iblîs paid its ill health little mind. It was exhausted — the first time it could remember being weak. More than a physical ache, it was the mental anguish that stung.
The man did not seem Arabic, or affected by the corpses of the humans on the ground. In fact, it did not seem human at all. Iblîs did not recognize the smell, and while normally the Ifrit would have been pleased for new knowledge, it hadn’t had the best of days. Or months, or years, or decades. Iblîs came closer alarmingly fast for its weak state, not bothering to hide its anger or the fire burning fiercely inside the creature. “What are you?” it hissed in Arabic, the closest human language that Iblîs could figure.
Upon closer inspection, though, the unfamiliar species was not the most alarming thing about this stranger. Iblîs stared at the chest, which was more-or-less eye level with the Ifrit, and then looked down at its own hands. “Mine,” it growled, slashing at the hand print. “That is mine! That is mine!” Iblîs howled, taking a step back and coughing up ash. “Why are you doing this?” it demanded, voice cracking, and for just a moment Iblîs appreciated its new name — Iblîs: the one who despairs.
He barely had a moment to react as the energy hurled towards him at breakneck speeds, causing him to ungracefully tumble backwards. His back hit the scorching sands, and the sting caused him to suck in his breath through his teeth, his pale blue eyes locked with the searing flames that was Iblis. [break][break] But this was not the Iblis he had come to know. This was not his Iblis. Instinct to survive kicked in. His legs kicked up and outward, giving him the momentum to get back onto his feet, and he crouched low, one knee bent in front of him, the other straight out to the side. One hand let his fingers lightly touch the sand, keeping his balance, as the other arm was stretched behind him. Normally he had a blade in that hand.. [break][break] "Not.. Your enemy.." [break][break] The Jinn language was heavy on his tongue, old and wild, yet elegant. Much like the flames in which they were born. His understanding and ability to speak the language was like that of a child, but he knew enough to express what he needed to. [break][break] "I am..." [break][break] He struggled to remember the word for 'friend'. It was like 'brother' but far more humbling. As he struggled to find the word, Iblis swiped at him, rending and searing his flesh across his chest. His hand flew up, not to protect himself, but to protect the lamp. He was unsure how any damage to it might affect a past version of the ifrit, but he was not about to risk it. [break][break] "I am your servant." [break][break] The words flowed from him and he realized after he had uttered the words that they were not the ones he intended. It was true enough, he considered himself bound to Iblis equally the way the ifrit was bound to him. 'Servant' would suffice until he could pacify the ifrit and figure out exactly where... and when.. he was.
The language was enough to make Iblîs withdraw quickly, looking wounded. The Ifrit looked down, rubbing its hands together and peeling ash off its hands. This man did not speak their language very well, but Iblîs did not focus on that; it was that the man was speaking the language of the Drevnemi at all that was unsettling. None of the humans had learned, and even if they had, Iblîs doubted they’d use such obsequious language. Iblîs stared down at him, head tilted in confusion.
The man certainly had its Lamp, and that was revolting on its own, but he was not human, he was not fighting back, and he spoke the Ifrit’s language. After several minutes of stunned silence, the Ifrit backed further away. It kicked its ash underneath the sand, turning away and walking towards where its family’s ashy remains were still on the ground. It peeled away the skin and flesh from one of the human corpses, forming a bucket from the bones and a sieve from the skin. It put the bucket to the side, and lifted the corpse’s bloody robes and held it out to the stranger.
“Did the Drevnemi send you?” Iblîs asked finally, and though it tried to keep its voice even, the hopeful desperation pushed through. “Did they know they would die? How do you speak their language?” it spoke slower than it normally would, taking pains to keep the language simple. Iblîs turned away from him, crouching down onto the sand and began to separate the ash and sand. “How did you know the name Iblîs?” it asked, not looking up at that question because the Ifrit didn’t want to make its weakness any more obvious than it already was. It was tired, in mourning, and the hopeless self-loathing was stronger than its cynicism and anger. “It’s not been my name long.”
While his face remained stoic, his eyes betrayed his pain. Not from the harsh exposure of the heat and sun, not from the foul stench of human carcasses rotting and baking in the arid heat. Watching Iblîs in it's earliest stages of desperation and self loathing. This was not the cool and calm ifrit he knew. [break][break] He couldn't tell it. Iblîs was too important to him. He did not dare explain how he'd gotten here, why he was here. It could be the undoing of the ifrit. But he dare not lie, either. Iblîs had always had this uncanny ability to know when he was being deceived. Solomon's betrayal and enslavement had surely instilled that in both Iblîs and the other djinn. [break][break] There was another emotion that lingered in his eyes. One he would never utter aloud. Not even to Iblîs. His Iblîs knew. No words were ever needed to convey what the TimeLord felt for the ifrit. But that emotion was tearing him apart as he watched Iblîs sift through the remains trying to collect it's fallen brethren's ashes. [break][break] "You sent me.. I do not know how.. but You.. sent me." [break][break] He accepted the cloak with little hesitation, the gore clinging to the fabric causing little to no reaction from him other that relief to shield his bare skin from the sun. He followed Iblîs. He wanted to offer to help. but he knew the ifrit would refuse. This was something Iblîs needed to do on it's own. But, if it asked, he would not hesitate.
Iblîs didn’t look the stranger in the face after handing him the robe. The expression had seemed neutral at first glance, until Iblîs had made the mistake of looking closer. The Ifrit had been prepared, and willing, to believe this man was a fragment of its imagination - maybe an extension of its desperation and longing for its parental units. But Iblîs wasn’t ready to identify the expression - pain and whatever else was there - and so the Ifrit was reasonably certain this wasn’t an extension of its emotions.
The explanation had raised more questions than it’d answered. Why would Iblîs have sent someone to witness this? Iblîs felt uncomfortably exposed, unable to keep up with its normally unruffable exterior. Exposed, vulnerable, weak. Powerless. Helpless, hopeless, and an unsettling amount of other ‘less’es. But this stranger had its Lamp. And Iblîs knew that if it did not tolerate its master, their life expectancy would take a sudden downward turn. It dropped more ash into the bucket, trying to sort out its thoughts to form a coherent response.
Iblîs could not manipulate time. The Drevnemi had been capable of doing such, had created their alternate dimension to run infinitely slower than the human world. The Vetales could - in a way - manipulate time if they saw fit. There was no point in asking this stranger for a further explanation - he had already said he didn’t know how. “If I can send you here, then why haven’t I fixed this?” Iblîs asked bitterly. “Why haven’t I killed Solomon sooner? Why haven’t I warned my people about the dangers of humans? Why haven’t I killed the humans? Why haven’t I stopped myself from… from betraying everyone? This is my fault, I did this, I did all of this, and— and I only sent you?”
It wasn’t fair to this person — the Ifrit realized it didn’t even have a name, wasn’t sure it really wanted the name — for Iblîs to dismiss him so easily, but Iblîs was too tired to filter its frustration. It poured more ash in the bucket, and glanced quickly behind to the man. “And how do I send you back? Anyone who could help me is dead now.”
He could only shake his head. He absolutely despised being at a loss for words. It showed a certain level of vulnerability he was not accustomed to. But nothing came to mind. No witty response, no eloquent explanation to dumbfound the masses. Azrael simply did not know. [break][break] And that made him realize something that made the TimeLord feel something he couldn't recall feeling for a very long time.. Fear. Was he trapped here? The Iblis he knew clearly hadn't meant to send him here. This whole encounter was clearly a fluke. He drew in a slow sigh, closing his eyes and lowering his head. He took a moment to lean against the cave walls, and suddenly found that most of his strength had left him in that moment. [break][break] As he slid down, his hand flew up, not to protect himself, but to protect the lamp seared into his flesh. He would heal if the injury was severe enough, but he was in charge of safeguarding Iblis' soul, and he took that responsibility seriously. The cave wall sliced into his back, leaving a gash, but The Reaper did little more than grunt in discomfort. The Lamp was safe. That's what mattered. [break][break] "I don't think You meant to send me here." [break][break] He was trying to choose his words carefully. To imply weakness or a mistake could prove to be a fatal wording. [break][break] "It is of my own failings, that I'm here. I knew better to try and intervene... " [break][break] His voice trailed off, not meaning to grow so faint. He was not one to openly show or express affection. the next phrase escaped his lips, this time, in English, hoping Iblis would not understand him. [break][break] "I cannot bear to see you in pain.."
Iblîs, when finally shifting its attention from its own personal crisis to focus on the man’s actions and words, could reasonably admit that it wasn’t the only creature in this cave having an awful day. The theory of this man’s relocation being an accident struck the Ifrit with another surge of something akin to anger, although it wasn’t directed at this man. “I seem to make a lot of errors,” it said ruefully, its fists clenching and unclenching as it looked at the ash inside of the bucket.
But this intense self-hatred was not productive, and so Iblîs pushed it down firmly. It could not go back in time and fix its problems — yet, but this man was surely all the proof the Ifrit needed that it was possible and that knowledge served to lift the weight of this genocide almost entirely off its shoulders. The collection of its brethren could wait. It was a foolish task for it to set out to achieve by itself; this was Iblîs’ fault, and Iblîs ought to be punished, but the collection of its family’s graves was not a punishment. “Intervene?” Iblîs questioned, still in the process of trying to shake itself out of its mourning. “Intervene with what?”
There were more important things to focus on and, even if this man was not important, he was something to distract Iblîs away from its overwhelming despair. It cocked its head at the next words. Not Arabic or the language of the Drevnemi. Iblîs crouched in front of him, putting its hand tentatively over the man’s that was guarding its Lamp. Whatever it meant, it seemed to have meaning to him. “I cannot bear to see you in pain,” Iblîs repeated slowly, tapping its fingers against the man’s hand. “I am sorry for my role in your misplacement. But… you have helped me. For that, I thank you.”
Iblîs stood up, its lips pressed into a determined line. “I’ve sent you here. I can send you back.”
He sat there against the cave wall, staring up at the ifrit for a moment. It was in that moment, he realized this was truly Iblis at It's youngest, weakest, and most vulnerable time in which The Reaper had ever known It. If he had EVER felt a need to be protective of Iblis before, all those moments suddenly felt trivial to this exact moment. [break][break] As Iblis' fingers came to tap at his hand, his own fingers curled around the ifrits hand, the thumb caressing the top of It's hand before letting go. He didn't want to alarm Iblis with his contact, as he remembered being told what had happened to It during It's enslavement. He was not about to traumatize It further. But he was determined to show Iblis some form of affection during their time together. [break][break] Even if it was nothing more than showing Iblis the kindness, sincerity, and adoration It truly was owed. If Azrael could do nothing else for the ifrit, he would instill in It, some form of hope and self worth. [break][break] "I believe you can. As you said.. You sent me here. And I will assist you in any way I can" [break][break] He stood, straightening his spine and shoulders, standing at his fullest height. He then came down to one knee, an arm folded across his chest, his hand delicately guarding the Lamp.. and bowed his head. [break][break] "I am A'zrael'duromon'di" [break][break] The introduction was given in Gallifreyan. Iblis, even in this young state, was the only one in the whole of existence that he trusted with the knowledge of his name. In time, he knew Iblis would learn the significance of this trust, hoping it would serve to instill It's trust in return. The next reply, though poorly spoken, came in Iblis' native tongue. [Break][break] "I am The Reaper."
Iblîs watched the man’s hands as they closed around its own, his eyebrows twitching together in confusion even as a smile wormed its way to its lips. As the man let go, Iblîs pulled its hands close to its chest, looking curiously down at them. They still looked the same even though they burned when in the man’s grasp. It was probably best not to ask; it very well could be part of the Lamp ordeal. The man had its soul carved onto its chest, it was logical that Iblîs felt out of sorts around him.
“I don’t know how you could help me,” Iblîs said blankly, taking a small step back as the man rose to his full height. It would be silly of Iblîs to be scared by a height advantage — it was Iblîs who chose this body — and while Iblîs didn’t quite feel threatened, it was relieved nonetheless as the man kneeled in front of it. Iblîs put its hands on the man’s cheeks and raised his head to look questioningly into his eyes. The language barrier was frustrating, but given the man’s decent knowledge of Iblîs’ language, it decided that it was most likely intentional.
The next words Iblîs could understand, and the Ifrit brightened considerably. “The Reaper,” it repeated softly, trailing its thumbs along the man’s cheekbones thoughtfully. “I was Azazel,” Iblîs introduced itself, voice catching on its name as it looked around. It knew, of course, that the Drevnemi would not come back to life to smite it for using its creation name after it’d been torn away. But the wrath of the Drevnemi was not easily forgotten. Iblîs dropped its hands away from the Reaper’s face.
“What circumstances brought you to me? Perhaps — if we could reenact what was happening, we could find a way to take you back.”
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