﷽ Once upon a time, before Mango Madrassa and before Atticus Lynch realized he was an interrogator:

Abaddon was once both the name of a person and a place at once.

“You are seeing this clearly?” said the voice in the earpiece. It was his brother. “Why am I looking at years old content instead of live feed?”

“Clearly enough,” said Atticus. “It is a memory so strong I can see it- just a flashback.”

“Where are you, Atticus-jaan, in the memory…? My e-glasses say you are in Phoenix”

“Beige Gehenna. But alone at the moment, stuck in the concourse. “

“I see what you see.  Do not discount it as immaterial or simply a flashback.”

The Place was deep in Hell, beige, white, and sterile, with the prisoners divided by gender. Forced into repeated penance for sins unknown, with their heads raw against the beige implication of chainlinks upon fine, thick carpet. There is no dancing in hell, and the only music is tambourines and their own voices longing for relief from their many and various sufferings, while outwardly pretending at gratitude and effusive praise for their depressing and restrictive circumstances.

Razæl gently stooped to the ground and distorted small golden dots within the oddly mossy carpet pattern into tiny hearts with their index finger, as the humans did not notice.

“…They cannot see you?” Razæl’s earpiece asked in concern,

“No one can see me, Azrael.  It’s a memory.  They could barely see me then, either.”

Whom did notice, however, was a bright winged, extraordinarily tall, rather ginger and falconish fellow at the front of the room. His eyes were iceberg blue. Beside him sat a younger man of greater contrasting features, with darker wings subtle under his oversized coat and shoulder shawl. They were seated cross-legged on thrones of gold velvet, behind them screens carved of fine wood, and before them throngs of human males infesting the floors like patient white beetles, sated and still.

The taller one subtly coughed for attention, eyes locked directly onto Razæl.

“The tall guy in the front,” said Azrael in the earpiece. “Is that Amon-Fischadler?”

“No, too Amerikan.” said Razæl quietly. “…Unripe Mango.  Fischadler’s best apprentice, actually.  Before Mango broke his nose and Fischadler required chelation they were near-identical.”

“…Understood,” said Azrael, with the tone of someone filing information he would return to later,

“Predictably Sufi.  The infernal inheritance claims another personality to the confinement of the robes of the guy before.  Sucks to be them,” 

Azrael inhaled and coughed a few times in the earpiece as Abaddon continued,

“I remind everyone in this audience that holy gatherings such as these attract the very attention of the Angels and Holy of the Jinn, who often sit among us to hear the holy words of your Lord.”

“You are nobody’s Lord, Abaddon, my penitent angel. However, this entire congregation would disagree entirely if they could hear me as well as you.” Razæl muttered,  knowing Abaddon could hear him clearly regardless.

He was Abaddon.  Of *course* he could.

Abaddon raised his right hand in a peaceful gesture, addressing both the intruder and his human audience simultaneously.

“Yes, indeed, there is only one Lord.” Abaddon pontificated.

“God.” growled Razæl, crossing their arms.

“Allah is entirely incomprehensible without a Perfect Guide.” Abaddon stated in outspoken humility. 

“Allah is closer than our jugular vein, and He Himself is our Guide. You are not perfect.” snarled Razæl.

“Indeed, for in our own imperfection, no one comes before God without the Prophet.” Abaddon bowed his head in recognition.

“Warners and Guides were sent to All Peoples, Oh Holy Goetia.”

Abaddon raised a sparse blondish eyebrow & continued

“….And with the help of multitudes of Angels, holy jinn, and blessed saints. This path started as something Strange and will end as something Strange. Glad tidings to the Strangers.”

And dare I say it? Abaddon winked. Razæl sighed, smiled lopsidedly, and put both hands over their heart and bowed slightly in reply.

The tallest one approached within two bows’ length from Razæl.

“This world is a prison for the Believers,” replied Razæl. “And you clearly run a tight ship. Good job.”

“When one bows before their Lord, they are relieved of their sufferings by His immediate mercy.” Abaddon replied pleasantly.

“When you are the one being bowed to, your every action appears holy to your own self.” Challenged Razæl.

“I am truly ashamed of my station and seek greater nearness to the one Beloved by Allah.” Abaddon replied with possibly sincere humility.

“Then leave your station. Your station reflects the state of your heart, and your heart seeks human esteem over God.”

Abaddon bowed his head in prayer as his minions bowed before him and Razæl stood in silence.

“Pssst.  Reaper-guy, Why aren’t you also bowing?” Abaddon whispered.

“Who would ever intentionally bow before Abaddon except the damned?” replied Razæl, still watching as the countless humans prostrated before him.

Eventually the prostration ended and the humans scattered like locusts. Abaddon whispered to his darker-winged companion to take over in addressing the individual humans, then walked toward Razæl himself. 

He was remarkably tall and fair with a neat mustache and barely existent beard. His face held the facade of kindliness through lines of pain, his skin seemed delicate, and his forehead was tense with headache.

The darker-winged one watched Razæl for a moment before turning away to his duties. He had said nothing the entire time. He noticed everything.

“The Demonic Angels gather under Ayat Al Kursi in tribute to their Lord, I see.” smiled Abaddon.

“Exorcism prayers only protect Friends of God. It is even more interesting that Abaddon keeps such prayers on the walls of his own prison.”

“In hopes that one day I may seek my freedom. I notice you did not bow with the rest.”

“It isn’t proper to follow anyone in prayer who remains astray, darling.”

“Perhaps you need a proper Guide.” and Abaddon placed a hand on his own heart and bowed slightly,

“I have one, Merci.”

“Azrael isn’t a Shaykh,”

“Why would an honest Guide try to poach the Right Hand of another scholar?”

“Death isn’t a scholar.”

 Razael paused, “Well, There wasn’t much competition for his apprenticeship- however Thanatology and mortuary science remain valid fields of academic discourse.”

“I remind you as a Muslim you must think of Death well often,” …Razael continued, with a short prompt from his earpiece,

 “I was simply fortunate enough to have him as my Mentor instead of fearing him…Why are you still even doing this, Abaddon,  you know you are in Gehenna, right?”

“I try to give human beings here hope. I try to make their penance enjoyable and meaningful.” Abaddon paused. “I don’t always succeed. You never belonged here Razæl. This isn’t your prison.”

“It does not need to be your prison either, fallen one.”

“Without being a slave I am nothing.” Abaddon bowed.

“Then try being Nothing. You did not need to renounce your death for your continued servitude and false lordship over regimented hell.”

“You are indeed truly inescapable, as Death’s apprentice.”

“Then why will you not leave Gehenna?  If you know you are already past the first death, that there is no illness, only transition, what is your delay & dysfunction…?” Razael interrogated

“Although it remains far better to serve in Heaven than rule in Hell… please let me have my moment of glory. Since our separation, I have found much contentment in fulfilling human desires.”

“Human desires for wealth and power. Or human desires for You?”  Was the immediate retort.

Abaddon did not answer at first. Then his eyes flinched, showing the start of tears, and he bowed low and close enough to whisper from his prestigious height.

“Atticus. Why do you not appreciate me saving you from this hell? Why did you come back after I showed you exactly what I am?”

“Because I am your Reaper, and I don’t care about the hell you helped create. I am only here for you. Let it go, be done with it. Be free, Abbadon… Grab your besties and let’s go. You don’t need to keep doing this. You know all the right words, you studied every pathway to escape, and then you allowed yourself to be trapped like Prince Caspian while being worshipped like Aslan.”

Abaddon stood with his head still bowed. Razæl leaned forward and kissed his forehead, placing their left hand on the side of his face gently. They didn’t speak. Tears simply flowed down both their faces.

In the earpiece, Antony said nothing. He understood when to be quiet far better than Razæl could ever emulate.

“I am sorry, Razæl.” said Abaddon, looking away.

“I am not.” replied Razæl gently. “You said never give up, right? I haven’t. You can leave here at any time. And hey…”

Razæl put a gentle finger under his chin to direct him to meet their eyes.

“You’re Abaddon. You can find me anywhere, anytime you want to. My door is always open to you. Despite your prestigious height, you can see God just as easily not in hell.”

“Thank you, you weird excuse for a Pir.” replied Abaddon.

A moment passed between them that had no theology in it.

“Afwan, Musawir. Follow only Allah, but remember your Death.”

“Death is a mercy for the believer in God and the Last Days.”

“Then please choose the latter soon.

…As it is written: Do not think of those who are killed in the cause of Allah as dead. Nay, they are alive with their Lord, well provided for. (Quran 3:169)…”

Razæl turned toward the only unlocked door and left without looking back.

“Otherwise you’re going to end up another cat in Alaraf.”

The line was quiet for a moment.

“Well, that extraction went terribly” said Antony.  “No wonder you replay it so often.  Precognizant.”

“Better than the flashbacks of interrogating the guy I swore to protect & never harm in anyway whatsoever.” Atticus sighed

“We all have bad days, kid.  Some days just last a few months” replied Atticus closest loved one and distant supervision

“And perhaps Abaddon,  in his beige kingdom with his tambourines and his prostrating beetles, considered that death is quite often not the end of a thing but the beginning of it.  Look at us now: In Phoenix. ”

“Simorgh, Arizona lacks the same draw for tourism, kid. At least it isn’t Ohio.”  Replied Antony, who hates the phone and was presently pretending to be from Ohio at that moment. 

Antony didn’t have another accent prepared as Atticus was unknowingly watching history accidentally repeat and referring to it as “Just a flashback.”

He did wonder if naming extraction officers after psychopomps was perhaps unwise,

…but Azrael/Antony/Ibn Arabi/Duke Leto2/Schopenhauer/Fylgia/Lykoi knew Atticus would shrug and say

“Naming conventions are just part of our Rizq”

Ameen.

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