Shamsiel’s large shoulders were not tired, but they would have been, if he had been a human. The bright blue angel had nothing else to do but to watch and think. There was no exertion, no weariness when it came to the beings in his realm. They did not grow fat or slothful in their position. Yet, in spite of the natural patience of his kind, Shamsiel had indeed grown tired. Tired of watching his friends walk to and fro about the earth. Tired and a little jealous perhaps of their freedom, a freedom that he once had himself. He longed to return to his old position… To regain what he had lost.

Azazel had come to him again, as he did quite often. Azazel was in a position where he could walk the earth whenever he pleased. Azazel was a Watcher of Mankind. Not merely a watcher of the second men, but all of the people upon the earth. Those created from the Word, and those created from the Breath. Azazel had many questions for Shamsiel, about the wanderings to and fro of people of the earth, and their dealings with Adam and his family. Many of the other Watchers came and went, always asking, asking, asking, and he always answered.

There were two of them who stood there. He and Metatron, but Metatron never said a word to the visitors, for he reported directly to the Book, and when the visitors left to go wander again, Shamsiel was left alone with his stoic companion, whose face was always set to the east.

Azazel, with his purple glimmering wings, Kokabiel, in his gold cloak, and Semjaza, of the purest white and yellow – would flutter in off of the wind. They would question Shamsiel night and day until he had told all that he knew of all that he saw. What man had been doing, who married who, when the rains would come… Shamsiel did nothing to hold back any truth, for truth was all that he knew. He had been created this way, as had all of them… To always speak what you know.

“Tell us Shamsiel.” Azazel would ask again and again. “What do you see here? What do you know of these days, of these things?” So many questions, so often, so urgently. Azazel was like an empty vessel, always needing to be filled.

What was seen, what had happened… All would know of it eventually. All would tell of it, so what was the matter if Shamsiel told of it first? This was the mind of an obedient guard.

And so, in a full force of evil, when that ‘Dark Day’ came, where the son took up a stone to kill his brother… After that, Azazel brought Semjaza and Kokabiel, and he was forced to tell, again and again, every part of the story. No detail was amiss. Azazel was almost drunk on hearing the tale. He made Shamsiel tell it once more… His eyes, full of lust, of wanton need, watching Shamsiel’s eyes and lips when he talked. To know fully. To know every last detail. He wanted it all. He needed it all.