Chương 17: Chapter 13- Baraquiel

His smile was slight like that of a man who knew more than he let on. Diehauser only left that subtle word of advice when he instantly vanished from the room, leaving the two women in silence. Only Igor's soft breathing filled the quiet. What was he dreaming about?... … |DxD|- Chapter 13- Baraquiel …... The Continent of Antarctica, the land of the lost and forgotten. The frosty landmass was covered in snow softer than wool and was colder than the deepest trenches of the sea.

This unforgiving land did its description justice. Winds felt like iron filings against the skin and every breath of air was a dagger down the throat. Every step on thick steel-like ice could swiftly turn into marshmallow snow that swallowed the entire leg. Sometimes, the whole body would fall through and one would only tearfully realise they were skirting beyond the edge of a cliff. Few had the capability to call this continent their motherland.

Only a small range of animals had the capacity to survive the never-ending winter. A form of keeping warm in these low temperatures was not an optional qualification. The Aurora Australis, the beautiful rays of lights in the sky were the continent's most defining and notable phenomenon. The 'Southern Lights' as they were called, were more than the eye could see. Rather, the entire continent itself was a land of mystery.

The number of times Baraquiel came to Antarctica could be counted on one hand throughout his life. This was however, the first time he had stayed for an extended duration. It had been almost two weeks since he spent a night at home with his wife and daughter. Circumstances had prompted him to stay here, circumstances he was still in the midst of understanding.

"Baraquiel." The small hill behind him shifted just slightly. Melting snow revealed two large nostrils billowing smoke like a chimney. The rumbling voice rattled the snow covering its body. A large head and a long scaled neck were revealed. The creature raised its head. It was a white serpentine dragon with majestic horns and piercing red eyes. He was an ancient being, a divine dragon whose existence persisted since the times of Enoch, possibly even before.

What Baraquiel knew for certain was, Yinglong was one of the few remaining existences who lived before the Great Flood.

"Old Ying. I didn't expect you'd be awake." Yinglong, though not his true name, was what the old dragon insisted he be called. Yinglong lowered his head. His eyes were red like molten lava.

"I presume everything is well?" His scaly beard scratched and cracked the ice like chalk on a board. Warm breath hit Baraquiel like a gust of wind. Sometimes, he could forget how big Yinglong was. He was barely taller than his smallest tooth.

"The crisis has been averted. My family remains safe and well."

"Hmm." It was a hum of affirmation. It could also be a hum of curiosity. A pair of tendril-like whiskers sashayed like the waves spilling onto the shore. When his head rose, it was as if a thousand rocks were rubbing together.

"The sun has risen from the West." Yinglong stated that single declaration before coiling around himself again. A sudden gust of wind blew and where a giant coiled dragon stood, was now a hill thick with snow, no different from other hills and mountains. Just as quick as he came, he was gone. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. [Cryptic as always, Old Ying.] Baraquiel released a breath he'd been holding.

He himself was aged and long-lived, but Yinglong still gave him a sense of oppression. His last words… what did they mean? [A sun rising from the west, huh.] Baraquiel patted the snow off his coat. Shuri had told him of the boy she took in, of how he not only survived, but killed a stray devil. It was an interesting development and certainly could warrant a visit from that Belial boy if this Igor had a unique energy signature.

Regardless, he wasn't one to waste time drawing conclusions and today wouldn't be his first. There were still some things he had to do for Azazel. It would take him roughly five days, three if he was fast. [The Dwarves should be done by now.] A shower of golden lightning came to life around him in vibrant crackles of a dozen whips striking the air. The snow gathered on his hair and beard steamed off his body. His foot shifted just slightly and in the next moment, the surroundings changed.

Shimmering snow now had become endless green mountains of untainted nature. The view below revealed deep valleys and coiling rivers, all prefaced and surrounded by lush vegetation and magnificent towering trees. This land, this rare beauty of nature uncaptured by photos, belonged to the Fairfolk. Elves, Dwarves, Fairies, Sprites, and Spirits all lived in this secluded sanctuary. Grigori and the Fairfolk had an unspoken agreement between the two factions.

It was a mutual research agreement to share innovation and advancements in medicine and healing, but with how volatile the supernatural world is, many would treat it as Grigori expansion and power-grabbing. The world was very quick to try and eliminate those who broke the delicate balance. Such considerations were for his brothers Azazel and Shemhazai to stress over. His job was to be the silent field operative who went unseen.

Whether it was to use the pen or the sword, he would do what could not be brought into the light. If Azazel was the light, then he was the shadow… and a very good one.... … |DxD| …... Dreams, they could be a blessing in disguise or nightmares stemming from terrible events. For Igor, it was the former. As the years passed in the time chamber, he had forgotten the faces of his parents. He'd forgotten how their voices sounded and how their presence felt. This dream… this dream brought all of it back.

Valour was the name of his father. He was tall and imposing, a thick pillar of muscle that could not be bent. He was boisterous and brave, the type of man who could not spell the word 'yield'. His father was a simple mechanic with his own garage—lowly to many, but a hero to him. His mother was a doctor. She was gentle and always smiled at him. Her name 'Seraphine' was one many of her patients would utter with awe and admiration. His father often called her an angel and he was right.

His parents both had blonde hair, but his mother was a painting brought to life. His father boomed when he spoke. His deep voice could make the chest rumble. His mother was soft. It was easy to get lost in her voice when she spoke. He loved his parents with every fibre of his being and to get to see them in his dream in such clarity was a blessing beyond words. The days he spent with them were joyous beyond imagination. He relived his childhood days when everything was simple.

He got to feel his father's rough hands ruffling his hair. He got to smell his mother's scent when she took him into their soft embrace. He received their comfort and encouragement when he fell and scraped his knee. His mother taught him to smile and his father taught him to endure. Igor knew this was an illusion. Dreams did not have such clear voices. It wasn't normal to be able to smell the oily scent in his father's workshop or taste his mother's cooking.

But most importantly, his dreams weren't supposed to let him feel the warmth of family or relive his childhood to such a degree. Somewhere after the days turned into months, there was an odd feeling, similar to pulling himself from underwater. There was a great clarity and the grim realisation of reality. It was like encountering a slightly torn piece of paper. By tearing it, he could break the illusion and reach back into reality. But did he want to? The answer was obvious.

He willingly submerged himself again, satisfied to drown in the world where his family was with him. He lost all sense of the present and lived in the past for the next coming years. It was blissful. The things he took for granted became deeply seated in his mind. Their words of love and encouragement were what dry grass is to fading embers—a spark that revived something dying within him. The dream world came to an end, but it left behind a little spark of light in his faded heart.

When his eyes opened, it wasn't to the familiar sparse room with grey light pouring in, but the gentle smile of his savior. Her soft caresses on his head sent tingles down his spine. The orange glow of the sunset illuminated the kind smile he had once believed to be a lie. Words could not describe how he felt in that moment. She was the one who gave him the opportunity to go back. Because of her, he remembers what his parents looked like. He remembers how they felt, their scent, and how they spoke.

He could still hear his father's rumbling voice and his mother's gentle tone.

"Thank…you…" He was grateful. She gave him something to hold onto, a little candle in the dead of night. His hands gripped the blanket a bit tighter. He would always cherish this grace she gave him.. AN: I wonder if Igor will grow to be tall like his father. Though I'm more curious of his reaction once he realises everything was nothing but an illusion.

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