Hellboy I Am His Death

Author's note: The phrase quoted below from the comic "Wake the Devil" confuses me: how does Hellboy have any heavenly part? I am answering it for myself by a hopeless conflation of comic-verse and movie-verse. The quote from Doug Jones gave me an image of the Angel of Death as young and beautiful, inspiring me to draw a picture, which is here: .com/art/I-Am-His-Death-130336828. Seeing the way the drawing turned out made me think of her as a sort of mother-figure to Hellboy. Then the other day I was napping, and this story jumped into my half-unconscious mind.

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"There's a certain beauty to the Angel of Death, even though she looks kind of hideous and corpse-like, in a way. But you can tell that, in her day, when she was created, she was a glorious angel that was beautiful, but has been waiting a long time to fulfill her purpose. So she's a bit cracked and faded now, and withered. She doesn't know it, though; she still thinks she's just gorgeous."

-Doug Jones (actor who plays the Angel)

"I am his death. And I will meet him at each crossroad."

-the Angel of Death, Hellboy II: The Golden Army (movie)

"The Beast. Corpse-born blinder of innocent women. Heaven, hell, and human come together as one. Dacci ab jura. As fortold by prophecy, and yet… watch him."

-various demons and witches, Hellboy: Wake the Devil (comic volume 2)

I Am His Death

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Angels can have existential crises. Sure they can.

Being explicitly created for the purpose of doing the will of the Creator does preclude the 'what is the meaning of life?' question rather well. And since the will of that Creator is ineffable, sticky moral dilemmas aren't much of a problem either.

But unfortunately, the will of the Creator is not only ineffable, but often inscrutable. And being in the employ of one for whom a thousand years is like a single day does annoy those with a tendency towards impatience.

Generally, angels feel a moral certainty and have a moral strength that is completely beyond the abilities of humans. But that isn't always true; if it were, a third of the angels of heaven wouldn't have fallen.

On a certain night at the end of the 16th century, one angel was entertaining these types of thoughts. It had been a long night on patrol; a long year, really. This particular patch of English countryside had a reputation for being a hotspot for witchcraft and demonic activity, and it had been the site of several heated battles. However, that had all been half a century ago; in the meantime, its human inhabitants had had a spiritual reawakening, and when the demons found that they no longer had easy prey they became bored and moved on. Apparently there had very recently been some small crisis in the next town over, but it had been over in a single night, and she had been told not to get involved. That had been rather aggravating.

She was equipped for battle, in the tools she carried and in the very design of her body – the type of showy, one-on-one, divine battle that humans carved into statues and painted into frescoes. Perhaps it was true that she could only take on small-to-medium-sized demons, but didn't she look glorious when she did. She had taken part in her share of battles since she had been created, but somehow she had found herself increasingly assigned to mundane guardianship positions. She was happy to do what she was told – ineffable instructions and all that – but it felt more like a series of tasks than a calling. She had always had a hard time feeling overly empathetic towards humans: they were weak, silly, stubborn, and made out of mud.

She felt unsatisfied.

Lost in her thoughts, she was startled by a sharp, abrasive sound. It was the cry of a human infant, a very small, very distressed human infant, nearby.

Surprised and ashamed, she spread her wings, giving the row of piercing eyes that ran along the top edge full range of sight. Her wing-eyes were supernaturally sharp and could see through obstacles, but her sense of hearing wasn't many times more acute than human hearing; the fact that she had heard the baby before she saw it told her just how distracted she had allowed herself to become.

Now that she was focusing her attention, she saw the source of the cry. A small band of demons was hurrying furtively through the woods; the cry was emanating from the shelter of their bodies.

It made sense, in a way, that they were more easily heard than seen. They were practiced in attempting to evade the gaze of heaven, but they had no way to soothe a human baby. And yet, there were other ways of silencing it. The theft of an infant by demons wasn't strange – innocent souls are tasty, and baby flesh is tender – but why would they go to such trouble to keep it unharmed? Curious, the angel stealthily followed them, closing the distance.

There were only three of them. One took an outside and forward position; it was little more than a twisted and wasted framework of a body, and in one claw-like hand it held a single large eye, which gaze it directed in broad arcs. The demon on the other side was larger, much more strongly built, and lithe like a snake. The one in the center was almost obscured by the other two, but its back bore an odd number of skeletal wings, studded with the ragged greasy black remnants of feathers.

Though they made some pretence of watchfulness, they were too intent on their progress through the woods; and if they had some idea that they were being followed, they chose to hurry even faster rather than attempt to fight. The angel crept closer and set her sight on the one that resembled a snake. How convenient. She had the perfect tool to deal with snakes: a staff almost as long as her height, two prongs at its end formed into a semi-circle.

She fell into them like a falcon.

The Snake writhed and struggled, but she had it trapped by its neck, pinned firmly to the ground as she bore down on the staff with her full weight. With her other hand, she took a dagger from her belt and brandished it at the other two.

The one who had been watching with the single eye barely flinched, but sedately moved its eye from side to side to get a better look. The winged one cowered, shielding the human baby with its body and darting a chicken-like head over her shoulder to look fearfully at the angel. From this close, the angel could tell that this one was a she-demon; she had sagging flat breasts, and flab that might have once been comforting plumpness, and sallow gooseflesh that might have once been soft feathers. In her original creation, this she-demon might have been like a mother bird, a creature beloved by the creator; or she might have been a cherub, four-winged and far-seeing, like the angel herself. The angel felt a pang of something like pity or regret for the Hen; she was acutely conscious that every demon had once been an angel. There, but for grace, go I. But back to the task at hand.

She twisted the staff, choking the Snake slightly, and shifted her wings so that she could stare down all three at once.

"Give me the infant," she said in her most solemn commanding voice.

"He belongs to us," snarled the Snake, coughing.

The angel sighed inwardly. So much of a battle of this type was pure spitting contest, and some demons were more full of spit than others. She held her dagger higher, squared her shoulders, and spoke louder.

"By my authority, you have no right to this human baby..."

A harsh snickering rose from all three of the demons in unison. The Hen, suddenly emboldened, sneered.

"This is no human."

The angel was caught off guard, but she knew that if she asked for a meaning, they would withhold it just to spite her. If she was silent, pride would soon drive them to explain.

She was right. Hen spoke.

"This is Anung un Rama."

The angel's head reeled with threats and prophecies: World Destroyer, the Beast, the Conquering Worm.

How could such an important figure be so poorly guarded? And then she immediately realized that a large retinue would be far too obvious to travel unhindered on earth. This small group moved fast, and they moved almost invisibly. If she hadn't been where she had been, close enough to hear the cries of the baby, they might not have been found and stopped.

Shifting her hand on the staff, keeping a constant pressure on Snake, she moved closer to the Hen to get a look at the child.

Its voice was purely the voice of a human child, but it certainly wasn't human. No human had skin of that bright red color; no human had a tail like the tail that was currently curling spasmodically like a pinched earthworm; no human had hooves like the ones that were kicking furiously and impotently at the air.

When the angel saw the hands of the baby, small and soft and fat and curled into fists, she felt a rush of relief and anger. "This is not Anung un Rama," she said shortly, "he does not bear the Right Hand of Doom."

Another round of cruel snickering from the three demons. The angel waited again for their explanation.

"Not yet," spat Snake derisively. "Wouldn't do much good to put the hand on him and let him starve right after, would it?"

Now the frantic crying of the infant and the urgency of the demons' travel made perfect sense. The angel sheathed her dagger and reached out, caressing the baby's chin with her finger. He shoved it into his mouth, gummed it ferociously, spat it out, and screamed with renewed anger.

"Where is the infant's mother?" she asked.

"Gone."

"Dead?"

"She was dead when she bore him, idiot. But then she went and disappeared."

The angel ignored the insult and made an inward prayer of gratitude. Wherever that poor woman's soul had gone, it wasn't in hell anymore. But that still left the problem of a baby with no mother.

"You have nothing to feed him?"

The question was stupidly obvious even to the angel's own ears. Of course; everything made in hell was nothing but a poisoned imitation of something in creation. Humans had encountered failure after failure in trying to build a milk substitute that would be as nourishing as a mother's milk; certainly demons could do no better.

Then, much as she hated admitting this possibility, she knew that it was a solution, and one that would be acceptable to them: "No witch can nurse him?"

They growled and spat and gave no answer. Whether a result of charms or curses or simple geography, that didn't appear to be a solution.

Ask a direct question, and it's unlikely to be answered; much better to make a statement and let the demons' craving to be right compel them to correct you.

"Your objective is to find a she-goat."

"No. We're going to find a human female, and take her back to hell for him."

Shocked, the angel spoke without thinking.

"I will feed him."

The demons looked at her with expressions of scorn. She spoke hastily.

"Even a cow will give sour milk if it is unhappy. A human mother can't nurse a baby in hell, she will die and then he will die, and what of her own child? I will find someone to feed your Anung un Rama. Let me take him."

The Hen clutched at the baby and sneered. "You'll steal him!"

"I will return him to you when he has been satisfied. You have my word."

An angel's word is unbreakable. Even demons know that. Torn and hesitating for a long moment, finally the Hen handed the wriggling child to the angel. The angel let go of her staff to take him, sliding it into its holder behind her back. The Snake stood, rubbing at its neck and scowling, but it didn't dare attack her while she was holding Anung un Rama.

Taking a few steps away, the angel realized with a sickening jolt just what she had promised to do. Sure enough, being approached by an angel was far preferable to being kidnapped by a band of demons, but it was hardly appropriate, and a petty thing that hardly justified the revelation of an angel.

Do not fear. Peace be with you, blessed woman. Glad tidings of great joy? I'm afraid not. May I borrow your mammaries for a few minutes? Yes, for this demon baby. Many thanks, and blessings, and such.

And with a growing sense of despair, the angel realized that babies didn't only feed once. They needed to eat every few hours. He would need to be fostered by a human woman – a situation that would likely be made impossible by whatever was preventing him by being fostered by a witch – or he would need to constantly be physically carried from woman to woman, an impossible situation.

The angel looked down at him, weakly arching his back with misery, face flushed and mouth wide open, and felt the center of her chest tighten painfully with pity.

No. It wasn't just a sensation of pity, and it wasn't just in her heart. The pain grew and spread across her chest, intensifying until she gasped and scrabbled for the fastenings of the bone-china white breastplate she wore. Turning her back on the three demons, she pulled the breastplate away from her chest and looked down in amazement.

When she had been created, she had been designed for watchfulness, for decisive quick moves in a battle, and to intimidate lesser demons. She was female, and she was beautiful, but she did not have the same beauty as a human female: her beauty was in her double wingspan with its sharp eyes and glossy black feathers, and in the arc of her eyeless high forehead like a cool half-moon above her long black hair, and in her flowing skirts and intricately molded armor. Her hips were small and straight like those of a human male, and her chest was flat; a curvaceous figure was of no advantage to her in battle.

And yet, now, she saw that she suddenly did have breasts. They were small, but they were softly rounded and full. She put a hand to one in wonder, and a drop of milk leaked out.

Without another thought, she curled one pair of wings around her and put Anung un Rama to her breast. He stopped crying instantly and began nursing voraciously.

Watching him, the angel was struck with sudden horror at what she was doing. This was a creature who was fated to destroy the world, to release the inhabitants of hell, and that cold eldritch hell beyond hell, onto the earth. She should kill him. She did not even need to kill him; she could pull him away now, hand him over to the demons – they would be happy enough – and sooner or later, he would die. It would be easy. It would be better for him too.

And yet, as she watched him, she knew that holding the knowledge that she had let him die would be anything but easy. He was tied to his fate before his birth, but it was no fault of his. He was innocent. He was as innocent as any human baby that the angel had ever seen or had stood guard over. He would face his choices, and they would be complicated or compelling or difficult or heartbreaking, but they were his to face. She felt a rush of pity for him, and a strong fierce protectiveness.

Lost in thought, the angel was surprised when Anung un Rama started whining with displeasure and put up a tiny hand to squeeze at her breast. Empty. She cradled him in her other arm. As soon as his mouth touched her, she was swept into a vision.

His fate was his fate, she had known that automatically, and yet his choices would also determine the path of his life. And she, likewise, had a fate, and her choice of compassion had opened it to her. It was her fate to be death to him after all; but not now. When he had made his final choice, when he had fulfilled his purpose on the earth, she would take him away; but until then she would be his guardian and invisible companion, and she would accompany him at each choice and meet him at each crossroad.

The angel came back to herself, with a shock of fear that the demons had seen her vulnerability. They, however, were watching silently and apparently unconcerned, if a little confused as to what was happening behind the shield of her wing.

Anung un Rama was breathing deeply. His mouth slowed – he was slipping into unconsciousness. A second of stillness, and then he seemed to realize that he had unfinished business in the waking world. He stirred slightly and swallowed one last time, and then his body relaxed completely.

The angel looked at him, his belly softly swollen and his face a perfect expression of contentment, at peace with the world, and thought, Now he looks completely human. Or not quite – when humans saw their children looking like this, they would say, What a little angel.

She kissed him on his forehead, between the bony calluses that would one day be horns. Reattaching her breastplate, she turned and handed him back to the demons.

"He will be satisfied until he can eat solid food," she said, and wondered at how it could be true even as she simply knew that it was. The demons did not question her; they just knew that the baby had stopped crying. With suspicious glances over their shoulders, they took Anung un Rama and slunk away.

The angel stood alone in the woods. She could return to heaven temporarily, but perhaps she would linger here on earth for a little while longer first. She felt tired and solid, and more comfortable on earth than she had ever felt. She had a lot of waiting ahead of her, but it didn't seem so aggravating anymore, now that she knew its purpose.


End file.
