The King of the Watcher looks at me with horrific, hollow eyes. They are empty wounded sockets that have never sealed nor healed completely.
Michael ripped them from his skull, crushing the dark diamonds in his righteous fist.
He gazes out in blindness, salt riming his perfect, mottled lids. The flesh rotten in beautiful decay.
Metatron, Angel of Corruption. Blind like Samael, but in an entirely different way.
Those eyes that hungered weep blood now, a cold black grit that pours half-congealed down his immaculate flesh. His skin is stone. His words mad whispers in the crushing dark.
Raving. Broken. Bruised.
I know not whom to blame.
