An Old Foe

The fire cracked, giving the room a nice, cosy feeling. The obscure, brown walls, tinted with the light of a single oil lamp and the chimney, seemed like hallways leading to darkness. Shelves and shelves of books surrounded the place in the most bizarre ways. The Oriental rug was covered with yellowed papers, and there was a single armchair in the room, facing the chimney.

An old man sat there, smoking his pipe. He took a long drag and kept his gaze on the painting above the fire. A woman was standing there, with her hand holding the white hat so it wouldn’t get carried away by the wind. Her blue eyes shone with joy and there were small crinkles by her eyes because of the wide smile plastered on her lips. She was a beauty between bushes and trees, the woods behind her seeming dull and dim with her form standing in the middle.

When the man took a breath, the smell of leather and old parchment filled his nostrils. Oh, how he loved that scent… He glanced around the room, nodding to himself as he assembled the antique books sitting around him in their rightful places. He took another drag of smoke and sighed, feeling his bones weighing as he moved only an inch to come back to his initial position. Yes, it had been a long time since the old, grumpy Alexander Baker had been young. His now-cracked bones hurt when he moved around with his cane, and he only got
older with the time.

He had been feeling alone in that enormous house of his, listening to the distant echo of his steps every single day since Susan, his wife, had left him. The man wasn’t much of what he used to be, his big belly was always moving around graciously, earning a funny look from his neighbours. On his head, he had a thin tuft of white hair, barely covering his pale and wrinkled baldness. Hazel eyes were always curious and eager to set his sight in new books.

Oh, yes… Alexander loved to read books and was an avid searcher information about places he couldn’t go and Ink Worlds that writers wrote, about damsels in distress and mighty kings, and about old wars and forgotten tombs. He read any kind of book that crossed his path and it didn’t matter if it was too expensive; the book would end up on his shelf.

As he continued to watch the painting like every free hour he had, a faint knock on the door made him wince. Alexander knew that he would eventually come, but he didn’t expect the time to be so early. Maybe he would apologize…? Highly unlikeable.

“Come on in,” he said, almost like a whisper.

There was a minute of silence, in which only the soft rain drizzling against glass outside could be heard. Inside his library, there were only three windows; two in the west of the room and one in the south. There were no curtains, and the man didn’t care as long as they were clean.

Just when he was about to repeat the two words again, the door opened and another figure came in. He was wearing a black tux, and his long, pale fingers dusted his jacket off. His skin was sick pale, and his big grin made Alexander shiver. He hadn’t changed a bit since their last meeting, in which the elder man promised to come back to him. His wrinkles were deeper than Alexander’s, and his black, raven eyes scanned him. His hair was also black, and there wasn’t a hint of grey in it, despite his age.

The man in the armchair swallowed and spoke with a shaky voice.

“You came,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe he was there.

The elder chuckled, but it seemed more of a patronizing snicker than anything else.

“I promised that I would, didn’t I?” he almost shrugged. “But enough of me. How have you been doing, Alexander?”

The way he spoke to Alexander, the way his name rolled around his tongue, made him
shrink in his armchair. He was the man who took Susan, and he had come to talk about
him?

“You never told me your name, despite the fact that I've known you for…how long?”

The elder seemed to be musing about the question, and Alexander then became completely frightened. What if he said more than what he expected him to answer? Would he smirk as normal people did? No…he would only look at him with his empty, emotionless eyes, mocking him with his mysterious and eerie black pools.

“I have many names,” the man said, looking at the painting above the chimney. “Most of
them are unpronounceable, but the one that by all means is my favourite…is Azrael.”

“Azrael?” Alexander spoke, disbelief in his voice, for he had never thought that he would
have a name.

Azrael looked at him, a ghost of a smile painted across his features. He nodded and then fingered a chain attached to his sleeve—an eccentric place to hang a chain, in Alexander’s opinion—taking out a small pocket watch. It was silver, with grotesque details of bones and runic letters. As the grandfather clock in the house echoed through the walls, the old man sitting down couldn’t help but feel somehow relieved. He didn’t have to worry about when would he come, he was there now. The agonizing wait had come to an end.

“I see you’re not afraid as you were thirteen years ago,” Azrael commented with a brush of his tongue.

“This time, I know there’s no next. It’s… it´s calming to know so,” there was a gush of wind and he knew he had said the right words.

“I thought you hated me.”

There wasn’t any sign of reproach in his voice; instead, there was still mockery that
started to annoy Alexander. The boy—at least compared to the man in the tux— turned his head towards him, suppressing a groan when the sharp pain hit him.

“I don’t,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “I hate what you do and what you did to
Susan.”

He looked then to the fire and noticed that it was smaller than usual; its flames were shrinking at each minute of the clock, making the cosiness turn into a gloomy state. With a sigh, Azrael took out a locket. Not a silver one, but a golden one, and Alexander’s eyes widened at the sight. He snatched it away from his hands and looked at it, eyes warming with the feeling of tears springing out. His hands were shaking so badly that the locket rocked back and forth continuously. Azrael didn’t feel any pity for him.

“She’s waiting,” shifting his weight from one leg to the other, the elder’s tone hanged into one of command. “And she’s impatient.”

“Then why did you take her away!?” Alexander exploded, standing up while his muscles screamed in protest. The cane that had been resting at his side fell with a loud thump. “Why did you take her away…?”

This time, his voice was faint, tired, pale. He flopped into the armchair and sobbed.

“Why…?”

Azrael simply grinned, but tried to act professional.

“Because it was her time…now it is your time, Alexander Baker.”

With reddened eyes, the normally grumpy man took his hands away from his face and placed them on both arms of the armchair. He breathed in…and nodded, smiling sadly
at the elder.

“Oh…okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Azrael smiled viciously and extended one arm towards Alexander, who sucked in a breath, but when the wrinkled man touched his limb, he breathed out, relaxing. He stood up with no need of a cane, and Azrael wrapped his arm around his shoulders, making him walk to the door.

“Is it good there?” Alexander asked.

“Oh, it sure is, many people are there already, many of them you know…”

And as they walked out, a locket fell to the floor from a limp hand belonging to a corpse. That corpse was sitting on an armchair, a hint of a smile tugged on his lips as two ghostly figures floated away.

Alexander Baker was dead, found two days after by the gardener who had the key to the house. The ambulance took him to the hospital, but it was already pointless. He had died because of natural causes, the doctor said. He was buried and a few people attended to his funeral, old friends and some enemies.

The only enemy he really felt there that day was by his side, watching from the side with an arm still wrapped around his shoulder. Azrael could have been anywhere, and he was there. He was his foe, though, wasn't? A foe.

For him, death was really an old foe.