The surname spoken and the man named was the father of his elder siblings. Corona was a creature that he hadn’t come across in what felt like a lifetime. The names were ancient, stirring memories that felt buried beneath a heavy mire. Everything was blurred around the edges, lost and forgotten as he aged and decayed. How many lives had he lived since then? How many lifetimes had he crossed since those days were present? A sudden weariness was invoked. The mentally ill—or, in Samael’s eyes, the damned—were never meant to live long. The burden of their own mind eventually wore them down into the dirt. Soon, he’d lose himself to the chaos. The star branded into his flesh was perfection.
He grinned a mad, Lykoi grin then. “Another life, another time,” he said. Perhaps he too was the relic of a time long since passed. “How many have you lived since then?” Was his time finally running out? Was she here to remind him that his corpse would eventually stiffen and cease all movement? There was a sudden tremor that passed along his spine, imperceptible to any outward gaze. Fear of death again clawed at the inside of his mind with ragged, dagger-like nails. Oh, how he longed for the angel’s welcoming embrace, reminding him that he was simply coming home.