Damien turned to look one last time at the collection of Nephilim that had gathered to attend the momentous occasion.
Sweat slowly dripped from his brow.
The encouraging faces of Lord Jorie, Lord Henry and Lady Michelle, were the solemn few places in which the imperial crown prince found any solace. The rest of the faces however, the flat, focused features of every soldier and worker in attendance spanning various ranks, and the almost zealous visage of his Grand Courtier, scared the 13 year old so badly he wanted to run for the hills. Even the hidden faces of his 6 veiled courtiers unnerved him now. It didn’t help that he had absolute certainty that every single Nephilim left working at the manor were currently scrying in to secretly witness the very first angelization of their next emperor.
Damien’s wings still weren’t able to even properly carry his body weight yet, and yet, there he was, about to attempt the greatest ritual of all Nephilim tradition and in doing so, finally carry the weight of his family’s long standing dynasty. It would be his first time igniting the golden ichor that ran through his veins. His first time hearing the song of creation from his heavenly fire.
At least, it technically was supposed to be.
The Nephilim that had been brought to conduct the ceremony was a short, non-imposing man. An Archbishop of sorts. Though he looked more like someone’s grandfather than a deity priest, the glorious robes he donned decked with a litany of war medals, priceless jewels and thick gold bands, spoke otherwise. The Archbishop continued to drone on the hundreds of verses, psalms and spells necessary to set up the ritual. As his deep rumbling voice recited the words, melding with the man’s intent gentle waves of power reverberated from the ecclesiarch’s short figure. Tendrils of brown, chanting, exalted fire, birthed from the Archbishop’s fundamental energy, emanated from the man, drawing around him the most complex series of interlocking magic circles Damien had yet seen.
Caging him in.
For what was probably the 14th time that morning, Damien wished he’d just kept his big mouth shut. But like with everything else he learned about his powers, he would learn his lesson after the fact. And in the most PTSD inducing way imaginable.
The ringing of the 3 massive bells floating above the altar within the small, opulent temple lulled Damien into a deep day dream, mercifully letting him escape from his fears if only for a few more moments.
As his thoughts slowly took over, the circular, tall walls of the temple, the many, tall stained glass windows enchanted with moving scenery, and the epic congregation of over 20 gods and goddesses of the Nephilim species, faded to black.
In its place, a scene from a week ago took hold.
***
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, his morning coffee totally forgotten mere centimeters from his lips, “c-can you repeat that sire?”
Lord Jorie sat there, trying to dab up the coffee that had ejected from his nose. Though it had stained the viscount’s burgundy, designer, button down and his impossibly expensive rug, he never once broke eye contact with Damien.
“U- um, uh” Damien stammered, losing his cool.
It was the day after he’d been released from the infirmary, a sunday no less. It was the only day of the week the Nephilim empire forbade any forced labor from being done, essentially giving the entire empire, except of course their armed forces and essential services, a complete day off. Any laborer still in service on a Sunday, did so out of personal loyalty to the empire, not out of necessity. But regardless, on that very Sunday, without any scheduled training, or classes to distract his normally turbulent thoughts, Damien’s mind wandered. Eventually, the memory of Lord Jorie saying that his real tutors had nearly arrived resurged, almost sending Damien into comatic shock. The viscount had been promptly booted from the prince’s infirmary ward by the angriest trio of winged doctors Damien had ever seen after he’d delivered his news, but not before the thought could plant a deep and firm seed of worry into Damien’s still recovering mind.
‘My angelization… my scythe…’
Everything about being a Nephilim was still too new for Damien for him to fully grasp the nuance of everything he’d seen, heard, and experienced attempting to understand himself and his magic. But he would never forget seeing Lord Henry’s angelization.
The endless power.
The vibrations, akin to earthquakes.
The bony, skeletal hands.
The impossibly perfect face, devoid of all emotion.
The wooden mask that covered half of it.
The chanting fire…
‘Chanting fire…’ he had thought eerily, ‘wait a minute…’
It reminded Damien of something that he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to mention for all this time. Something he hadn’t thought about since he’d left the orphanage…
Clearing his throat, Damien repeated to the two lords, “I think I’ve been able to angelize for a while now, since I was 10 actually. B-But I always used to attribute it to my SuperComputer. Don’t you guys have one too?”
Lord Jorie slowly turned to look at Henry. His deeply confused face meeting Henry’s deeply concerned one, as the viscount silently mouthed, ‘what the fuck is a SuperComputer?’
Henry shook his head from side to side, equally as confounded. Nothing about his briefing from Lords Jurovi and Clyde had prepared him for his imperial crown prince being trained much, less any kind of competent with his fundamental energies.
“My lord,” Henry said, addressing Damien slowly and hesitantly remembering what was now referred to in hushed whispered by the staff as ‘the alchemy incident’, “can you demonstrate for us this… SuperComputer?...”
Slowly, Damien nodded.
Squaring his shoulders, and taking a deep breath, he prepared to do something he hadn’t done in almost a year. Long before he had ever cultivated a single time.
He was going to attempt to connect his SuperComputer ego.
Slowly, the prince closed his eyes, and the world around him vanished.
Opening his eyes again, all he could see were sprawling fields of dense gray and teal long blades of grass. A vast meadow enveloped the boy prince, while the fields of ethereal grass swayed with silent, ephemeral winds. In the distance stood a tall, 8 floored gold and purple pagoda. It had massive, beautiful arched windows and many lighted adornments, radiating soft orange light. Though for all that as his Nephilim eyes allowed him to see Damien had never been able to see inside those windows. Lord Jorie had warned him he was far too weak to enter inside his Soul Pagoda, yet its presence, having suddenly manifested within his inner realm, already had massive impacts on the stability, purity and strength of the young Nephilim’s magic.
Looking up, he saw 130 massive stars.
110 pillars of domineering yellow light stood silent watch over his inner realm beside 20 more pillars bearing an even more powerful blue light. A shimmering, silver path connected all of the stars, captivating Damein’s vision as he slowly traced its length.
“Ok,” his astral body murmured, “not exactly sure what to do now, but I guess it should be just like the past.”
Damien let his mind rest and began feeling within himself for the mental presence he’d come to associate with his angelic powers. His SuperComputer ego.
For what felt like ages, he waited and waited, and waited, but nothing happened. Frustrated and ashamed of having to go back to the material world looking like a fool before the two divine Nephlim, Damien screamed into the empty landscape. His rage lashed out at everything and at nothing. Despite how hard he mentally pulled and pulled on the feelings that used to elicit his exalted, wild transformation, nothing happened. Well, nothing except the stupid feeling of being shaken that hadn’t stopped.
Eventually, Damien began to realize that the more he tugged at the feeling lost in his frustrations, the more his astral body shook with violent force until he tripped, landing face first in a patch of grass.
“The fuck…” he said slowly, looking up and around him.
Slowly, he came to realize that pulling for his SuperComputer more intensely, caused his inner realm to shudder more violently. Damien’s eyes slowly widened. His SuperComputer… was his inner realm!
“Wow…” he whispered softly, mind blown. Then a thought suddenly broke him from his stupor. “Wait,” he realized, suddenly annoyed, “does that mean I’ve always just been slamming myself into my inner realm like a dumbass to use my powers?” Looking back up at the stars above him he gave a low whistle, “Christ almighty, if those stars are all of the heavenly fire within me… then I’m really glad I never fully lost it.”
The complete scope of the carnage he could’ve actually caused every time he’d lost control…
No, he couldn’t think about that, not when he was going to attempt to reconnect with it.
‘Remember you got up to a few minutes of control a year ago,’ he reminded himself. Then a thought shook his budding confidence. “wait but that was also before I started cultivating,” he blurted out, stopping himself in his tracks “before I was even 13 and my powers fully activated… I have no idea what would even happen if I tried it now, now that…” he looked up hesitantly at his fully illuminated Star Path.
Memories of a massive, burnt kitchen, a smoldering forest and a boy who Damien was now the same age of, screaming for his life as a giant torrent of rose golden fire burnt him from the inside out, robbed the prince of his confidence. There Damien sat, in a patch of blue gray grass. Thinking.
“I’m different now,” he told himself, speaking for the first time in what felt like an eon, softly, confidently. “I’m different now. I know who I am now… who we are now,” he spoke aloud, addressing his entire inner realm as if speaking to a long lost friend.
“Inner realm or SuperComputer or whatever you are, you’re still me,” Damien continued, “and I’m still you, too.”
Taking a deep, slow breath, for a single moment, Damien could passively smell, lavender? And… lilies?
Then, amidst the serenity he commanded his inner realm, his aura, his energies, and his angelic blood, to obey him.
In the material world, with a simple voice, devoid of fanfare, the prince uttered the first word that occurred to him then. As if gifted to him at that moment, by the universe itself, a word bearing power Damien had yet to comprehend came forth, and the prince spoke it aloud, connecting it to his intent.
“Ignis.”
The two Astallon lords felt their divine auras immediately perk up with alert, as their prince erupted with heavenly fire. Damien's silver afro, eyebrows, eyelashes and eyes became a fierce shimmering platinum. The blue of his irises, turned almost impossibly clear, crystalline and radiant, becoming the eyes of an angel.
The prince screamed aloud, falling to his knees. His right hand clutched his chest as chanting, rose golden fire poured forth from him. Lord Henry and Lord Jorie both burst to their feet, immediately springing to their liege’s aid, but a light brown hand stopped them dead in their tracks.
Slowly, under the colossal weight of the fundamental energy made manifest as beautiful, burning energy, Damien slowly rose to his feet. The fire began to dim and rescind, pulling itself back into the prince’s body. Huffing and straining with exhaustion, Damein forced the energy to stay within him. It was taking so much of him just to not blow like a bomb, scorching the opulent room with the unimaginable amount of heavenly energy he was forcibly stuffing back into his body, that he almost missed the mix similar of horrified and confused looks the two lords were now both giving him.
‘Huh,’ his exhausted mind mustered, ‘you know they do kinda look alike.’
“What the actual fuck,” Lord Jorie began slowly, “is that?”
“Brother! Mind your language before his Heavenly Highness!” Henry reprimanded sharply, whipping around to admonish his eldest brother. Turning back around to study the prince again, he relented, forehead covered in sweat, his voice heavily exasperated, “but I have no fucking clue either…”
Lord Jorie raised an eyebrow at his youngest brother but said nothing.
While giving Damien cautious, appraising looks, the two began to whisper between themselves.
“That’s a lotta heavenly fire coming out of that kid, aint it?”
“Yes brother I agree, what’s really troubling is that he doesn’t have a mask, even a partial one… But there’s no way he could’ve mastered his angelization before he even had an anointing ceremony… he is a reaper right?”
“That’s quite the amount of heavenly fire he’s stuffing into himself,” Lord Jorie muttered softly. “It’s almost funny really…” he said pointing at Damien, “I think it’s actually bursting from his wings. Look, you see it? You see the smoke rising from his primaries? I didn’t know they could do that…”
“Great Almighty! What do we tell her, Imperial Majesty? I mean he doesn’t even have a scythe either?!” Henry’s hands worriedly rifled through his long, scarlet red hair, messing up its usually meticulously maintained form. “Brother… did we happen to break his Highness?”
“You know,” Lord Jorie replied, scratching his red beard slowly, eyes still studying the weird form his prince had transformed into, “he’s like, actually on the verge of explosion.”
“HE’S WHAT?!” Henry screamed.
Immediately Henry raised his right hand. The entire appendage was enveloped with dark red heavenly fire. Plunging his hand into the prince’s chest, Henry screamed, “I’iek ri afhka!”
Henry’s own golden and blue eyes briefly turned to shimmering platinum and diamond blue ones that roared with Damien’s rose golden light while the dark red fire had now lapped its way up the lord’s entire arm, greedily sucked up the golden fires that came roaring from Damien and into Henry. Eventually an exhausted Damien slumped to the floor caught at the last moment by a disheveled and rattled Henry whose long, scarlet red hair puffed out frayed all around him.
“Thank you,” Damien croaked weakly. The fire had stopped pouring from him, and his hair and eyes finally returned from the ethereal shimmering platinum to its now usual sliver.
Lord Jorie remained standing where he’d been, scratching his beard slowly, his eyes never leaving the prince’s limp form.
Henry looked up at his brother dryly, “don't rush to help too quickly brother.”
“So what do we do now, Lord High General?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his tone.
“Well whatever that was, it was almost an angelization,” Lord Jorie said, shrugging. On the outside he employed a calm demeanor, yet within, his thoughts were turbulent and perturbed.
Both lords were ripped from their thoughts by a small cough.
“I think… I think I need to give you guys some context,” Damien said weakly.
Henry helped lift him into a sitting position as the young prince began to regale the two Astallon brothers with his horrifying clusterfuck of experiences his angelic powers had been for him since Damien had turned 10. Every experience from attempting to seek vengeance for Annie, to his last experience taking on Ivan and his cronies came pouring from the 13 year old. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, unrelenting. As if like a rushing, thundering torrent. The two lords’ eyebrows rose with similar speed, their eyes widening at an astronomical rate at all they were hearing.
“Almighty be damned, if he’s been doing this long before his 13th birthday, then that’s intensely troubling,” Lord Jorie muttered, “especially now that he’s cultivated, he’s incredibly unstable…”
Scratching his beard he looked down at Damien, “oi brat, why you gotta be so fucking weird all the time man?” the viscount asked in a frustrated tone.
Damien looked down in shame. Tears began welling in his eyes. It seemed, even amongst his own people, he’d always be nothing more than a freak and an outcast…
“..Sorry…” the boy prince whispered to the floor bottom lip trembling, his voice barely a whimper.
However there was no need for Damien to shout or even proclaim aloud his feelings, the hearing of a nephilim was already on par with that of the Werebeasts. But the auditory senses of the divine, across every species, was beyond extraordinary. As such, both gods heard the prince’s wretched cries and depressed apology with crystal clarity, despite how much the boy tried to hide his feelings.
Instantly, Henry seethed with rage. A murderous look entered his eye, and his face contorted with absolute fury. Slowly he stood up, staring daggers at his eldest brother. Through teeth gritted so hard they could smash carbon into diamonds, the younger Lord Astallon challenged the older Viscount Astallon.
“Brother..” he hissed with venom, “there. Are. LIMITS TO YOUR THOUGHTLESSNESS!”
Standing, Henry outstretched his right hand and a pillar of dark red heavenly fire erupted forth, shooting out with a force so strong it blew Henry’s hair backwards. Clenching his fist, the fire broke apart, and in its stead… Damien saw a very familiar artifact, Henry’s scythe. Calling it a marvel of magic was too unflattering, too simple for what Damien eyes beheld. Standing over 7 feet tall, Damien beheld a majestic scythe, completely comprised of a soulless, beautifully haunting, ashen wood. The weapon ended in a massive front blade, blacker than the darkest void, and a shining silver, spear headed back blade that shone with heavenly power.
Damien had all but forgotten how to breathe. He hadn’t seen Henry's weapon in almost a year, and though it didn’t hum with the same kind of dreaded majesty it did when Henry was angelized, it was by no means even a shred less deadly. Not even a shred less hauntingly eye-catching.
“I may not be as strong as you brother,” Lord Henry stated aloud, heavily thumping the butt of his scythe into the marble floor, causing a soft boom of heavenly power to radiate from him in all directions, “but I am still more than strong enough to maim you, if at least, rip out that insolent tongue of yours before I die.”
There wasn’t an ounce of merriment in Henry’s voice, instead a strange malice that Damien immediately recalled from many months ago that Henry had used against Lady Michelle, resurfaced with a vengeance.
Lord Jorie, stood shocked, and for the first time since Damien had met the deeply erratic and eccentric viscount, Lord Jorie looked shaken, unsure and… ashamed?
The older lord gapped silently. Futily, the lord attempted to reach for any of his usual explanations or quips for his actions, or maybe one of his signature flagrant and flippant disregard for the concerns of others that only Lord Jorie was able to deliver. But this time, the viscount did none of those things. Instead, he bowed towards his youngest brother, right fist to the ground, left fist firmly folded behind his back, wings tucked, head down, deeply prostrated in total humility. It was what Damien had come to learn, was the ultimate sign of respect amongst the nephilim.
To bow to another in the old way, the way the angels themselves did when they venerated the All Mighty, was not a mindlessly done action. Especially not by one residing at the incredibly lofty ranks of power and social influence of those akin to Lord Jorie…
His next words highlighted the intense pressure of the situation, silencing Henry and Damien’s deeply shocked expressions from even the slightest peep.
“My youngest brother, and my imperial crown prince, please forgive me,” the Holy Viscount Jorie Astallon of Gera began with complete seriousness and clarity, “in my fear and impudence, I lashed out at His Heavenly Imperial Highness. A scourge born from the darkest depravities of hell, is too blessed a torture for my actions, for slighting the heir of one such as the Empress herself.”
He dropped his left hand to the floor, he turned to face Damien. Then, the deity lowered his forehead to the marble floor, fully prostrating himself in a way that Damien had only ever briefly heard of. A bow of complete submission, in the old way of the Angels at that.
“My liege lord,” Lord Jorie said, regret imbued deep into his tone, “please, I beg of thee thy pity.”
Damien just stared in shock.
None moved. Henry’s mouth hung agape, his scythe rested uselessly forgotten in his hands. Lord Jorie remained prostrated, until Imperial Crown Prince Damien, could give his verdict.
But nothing came to Damien.
How could it?
Before him knelt a Nephilim Lord. A Lord High General, who had led his empire’s people to countless victories throughout the Mortal and Divine Realms. A mage of the highest caliber. A god…
Who was he to judge a being such as the viscount?
Who was he to demand the respect of such a being?
Because he was a prince?
…Or because he was HER son.
Her only son…
Was he truly so fragile a being that he couldn’t handle a friend lashing out at him in what was truthfully very justifiable frustration?
Was he truly doomed to never be allowed another friend since Jessica and Anna?
Because of the person, the mage, the Nephilim, the god, the… emperor… that he could one day become? Or because of the goddess that his mother had become?
‘Nah, Fuck all of that!’ Damien’s mind roared.
Though his passion and rage was severely weakened, it would not die. It would not be smothered, lest, his own life be first.
‘I’m not going back,’ his mind half ordered, half begged itself, ‘we’re never going back. We will never be weak again…. Hoaquin’s heir can’t be weak.’
Speaking up after what felt like ages, Damien’s voice resounded full of so much confidence, it deeply shocked him.
“My Holy Lord Viscount,” Damien said, proceeding to take the exact same pose as Lord Jorie was still locked in, causing Henry to fall over, crying out in pain and shock at what he’d witnessed. The younger Astallon passed out where he fell, unable to maintain the immense stress the unnatural situation was putting on him. Upon hearing the shriek of surprise and pain from his brother, the viscount raised his head for the first time. His eyes stopped dead in their tracks, slowly widening in horror upon seeing Prince Damien also bowed to him, the thin crown circlet upon his head pressed to the ground. “I won’t leave this pose until you leave yours first dumbass,” Damien said chuckling, raising his head to stare down Lord Jorie, waving his tongue at the god tauntingly.
Lord Jorie was deeply mind blown, his mouth hung agape as his brain struggled to comprehend what was going on. Slowly, he began heaving shakily uncertain, deeply fearful chuckles. They were more of a trauma response than a reply to Damien’s humor. But then, as the absurdity of the situation finally came barreling into the Lord High General, he barrelled over, falling to the floor onto his back, hollering with laughter.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Damien also rolled over onto the marble floor, laying on his back similarly to the hysterically laughing divine nephilim.
“Thank god you didn’t call my bluff,” Damien sighed, “kneeling when everything in your body hurts from almost becoming a firework is horrifying.”
Lord Jorie just began laughing harder after hearing Damien’s remark.
Despite himself, Damien also began to chuckle, eventually leading to the child prince’s own mad belly laugh. The two of them, amidst their stomach cramping, uncontrollable laughter, spotted Henry laying passed out, ass up in the air, where he’d fallen over. Lord and prince stared at each other, wide eyed and silent, neither believing the scene they hadn’t known they needed to see,but were both so grateful they had. It was the perfect little bow to top their majestic cake of insanity.
The two then promptly lost it, crying freely flowing streams of tears as their uncontrollable laughter reached new, beautifully painful heights.
The silent, Grimm class knights guarding the room outside, glanced at each other briefly, as sounds of the chaos emanated to them. Saying nothing, they each then returned looking forward, and proceeded with their sentry.
***
“Brother,” Henry inquired after the three had taken the time to eventually compose themselves, “what troubled you so that you spoke in such a way to His Heavenly Highness?”
Reminded of his earlier shame, Lord Jorie groaned, wincing softly. Slowly, he swirled a glass champagne flute of some kind of liquid. Damien had never seen Lord Jorie this uncomfortable, despite himself, Damien could feel his dread start to swell.
“The Illuminated Ecclesiarchy,” the viscount replied dryly, voice full of venom and disgust, stretching out every syllable as if his words were an Illuminated Ecclisiarch he could rip in half just as slowly with his bare hands.
Henry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting his head hang over the backboard of his lavish, plush armchair, he then gave the single most “I’m so fucking done with this shit,” groan that Damien had ever heard. Growing up around Anna, Ma LaCroix, an entire orphanage full of hundreds of children of all ages, a gaggle of nuns and vampiric priests, a swarm of ex soldiers, current soldiers, young adults and especially Jessica… that was a serious achievement.
Deeply concerned, Damien tentatively inquired aloud to the two depressed, brooding Nephilim gods, “what’s the Illuminated Ecclisiarchy?”
The two brothers each sat up in their chairs. Glancing at each other, silently for a moment, each was in heated, silent deliberation in a psychic conversation Damien was not privy to, until Lord Jorie eventually broke the silence.
“As much as I would love to take on the job of explaining that well ingrained, parasitic mass of tumor ridden, maggot shit to His Heavenly Highness,” Lord Jorie began with a resigned sigh, angrily swirling his wine, “he’s going to need to know exactly what he’s doomed to inherit the moment his royal rear pops a squat upon the imperial high throne… all I’d end up imparting him with would be countless new swear words and nightmares, so this one’s yours Henny. And you were always placed high amongst the bookworms of the empire.”
“I appreciate your honesty brother,” Henry said with a deft nod towards his eldest brother, “but please stop calling me Henny.”
“Noooo,” Lord Jorie sang nonchalantly, but respectfully returned the motion, before immediately returning to getting himself more inebriated.
Henry turned to face Damien, and began to speak. Then he paused, thinking about it some more. Turning back to his brother he pointed to the open bottle and second empty champagne flute sitting atop Lord Jorie’s end table.
“I’m going to need one… or three of those first,” he admitted.
“Attaboy!” Lord Jorie cheered drunkenly, “I knew we were family! I never lost hope no matter what everyone said about you behind your back! Buuurrp!” The viscount burped into a hiccup, nearly spilling the drink he’d poured for Henry all over himself, but never once did it ruin his gradually lightening mood.
Lord Jorie gestured at a perplexed Damien as he sat slumped back into his armchair, watching the brotherly scene born of depression transpire.
“We givin’ the shrimp some?” the viscount slurred, facing his brother.
“1, he’s 13, the empress will personally flay the flesh from our bones,” Henry responded before throwing back the entire glass in one large gulp like a shot. Then another, and then a third. Lord Jorie sat silently amazed, staring at his youngest brother anew as if meeting the man for the first time. Then the viscount broke out into a chaotic whooping cheer, jumping out from his armchair to clap Henry enthusiastically on the back with one hand, while pouring the coughing younger lord another drink with the bottle in his other hand.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“2,” Henry went on, after he had composed himself. He was now noticeably very drunk, though he still cautiously sipped the rest of his wine as he talked, sitting perfectly composed as he usually did. It was almost as if his coughing fit had never occurred, though, Henry slightly swayed drunkenly as he sat. “He’s still mortal, one drop of this wine, even heavily diluted, would still be enough to quite literally kill him and hundreds more mortals combined. Even a sage would be hospitalized for at least a week if they drank this.”
“Awe,” Damien whined forlornly, slumping back into the plush chair.
He’d been trying to cook up a way to beg or demand for some alcohol to partake in the merriment, but upon hearing the disastrous consequences that decision would bring, his excitement immediately imploded on itself.
“HA!” Lord Jorie laughed jeeringly, pointing mockingly at the crown prince with a now empty wine bottle, “you know what sucks the most Your Highness? No one may know what or who your father is, but on the pedigree of your mother alone, in the old dogma of the universe you would’ve been immediately born a god.”
“Ain’t Taboo a bitch?” Henry chimed in quietly while Lord Jorie laughed aloud evilly at Damien’s silently pouting face.
Walking over, Lord Jorie rubbed Damien’s pure silver afro, messing up the hair that the prince’s daily hair groomers had meticulously worked hours on.
“Chin up kid, all you gotta do is just ascend. It's easy, I mean,” he said chuckling, “even Henry managed to do it.”
Lord Jorie burst out into his signature hyena like, hysterical laughter at both of their upset faces and Henry’s outstretched middle finger.
“Anyway, have fun in class brat,” he said, walking away and giving a wave, “I’m gonna go grab another bottle.”
Though, before the god vanished, he gave Damien the same taunting tongue wave the prince had done to him earlier before giving another drunken snicker, vanishing in a flash of purple light.
“Jackass,” Henry muttered, hiccupping softly. Sighing, he shook his head, took another sip and turned to face Damien. “Guess it’s class time yet again, my lord,” Henry said with a weak smile.
“Guess so,” Damien replied beaming back, genuinely just happy to be included in the banter. “Though,” he said, fingers stroking a bare chin where a beard would one day populate his face, adopting a fake snooty tone while turning his nose up and folding his arms, “it is a little absurd that both of my esteemed Lords are both staying so well taken care of and their crown prince can’t even be spared a juice box…”
Henry gasped in fear, then realizing Damien’s banter he began to softly, drunkenly chuckle as Lord Jorie suddenly teleported back into the room right in front of him. Henry shrieked aloud in fear, falling over out of his chair.
“Oops,” the viscount drunkenly apologized before reclaiming his seat, “teleporting while very krunk… very hard…. buurp”
With his other hand, he threw a juice box he’d apparently been holding, directly into Damien’s forehead. Catching the prince off guard with a yelp of surprise at how much force the tiny box held, before he too was knocked off his chair. Lord Jorie burst out in laughter again and nonchalantly resumed pouring himself more alcohol.
“Alright, alright” Henry said in an annoyed, slurred tone, sourly picking himself up off the floor and reclaiming his seat, “class is back in session. Like it or not, we’re gonna go over the Illuminated Ecclisiarchy today students so shut the fuck up and listen, both of you. And yes this will be on the midterm.”
Lord Jorie’s raised hand silently fell as Henry finished, glared at his eldest brother.
Though Henry had called them all to attention, bringing the three back to the topic at hand, he still stuck out his empty glass for another refill, shamefully avoiding glancing at his brother. Damien wanted to burst out in laughter, but restrained himself if only just barely. Lord Jorie, to his credit, just silently obliged his brother’s silent request with a silent smirk of his own, choosing to conform to the struggling studious atmosphere so Damien might at least learn something.
“Oh fuck,” Henry groaned softly, smoothing his slightly damp, red hair back from his lightly sweat saturated forehead, “where do I even start with those jokers?”
Giving a sigh, he let the glass in his hand go. Damien had long since known not to expect physics to be at play regularly wherever mages frequented, and so, wasn’t shocked that the glass hovered in the air where Henry had let go of it instead of crashing down to the opulent carpet. What did shock the prince though, was seeing the spell Henry proceeded to cast, while heavily drunk, with the earth seal he’d freed up both his hands to form.
‘Ooh,’ Damien thought to himself as the scenery in the room melted away to darkness, ‘it’s the story telling spell again.’
“Igrael, santare, yo’ultr,” Henry chanted softly as his hands began glowing with dark red light. “Expand,” Henry finished, breathing the word of power, heavily imbued with the god’s divine intent.
His thoughts were validated as in place of the darkness, images he had seen many months ago of the millions of years of horrific and bloody wars resurfaced. The then many Nephilim races had constantly fought amongst themselves till only a pitiful 7 remained, started filling his vision as the room they were in melted away back to death and carnage all around them.
“Your Highness, would you believe there’s more than a few absolute sickos all throughout the empire that consider this mindless, savage, constant bloodshed as the “Golden Age” of the Nephilim?” Lord Jorie muttered darkly, looking over at Damien with an incredibly pissed off expression seared onto his divinely perfect face.
“Indeed there are,” Henry replied ominously, to no one in particular, watching the carnage unfold around them.
Damien gulped fearfully and quietly sipped his juice.
“Ok,” Henry softly grunted as he slowly lifted a foot to rest it on his other knee as he lounged backwards into his chair, “here's where we Nephilim, as a collective species, managed to finally solve countless generational Conflicts and issues, and in doing so, we created countless worse ones.”
“Huzzah!” Lord Jorie cheered emotionlessly.
On that bright note, Damien could see a warband of Nephilim moving around them. The style of their robes and of the armor they wore were incredibly ancient. Now that they weren't watching the past from above, but instead getting a live look at the horrors of these past battles, Damien studied the apparitions with renewed interest. For one thing, he noted with rising interest, in stark contrast to the various colors and forms of feathered wings he’d seen every Nephimim sporting, the vast majority of this warband lacked wings of any kind. In fact, only one Nephilim in this vision seemed to have them at all. He was currently hovering way up in the sky, many meters above the disheveled group, but Damien could still clearly make out the shimmering platinum effect his hair and wings were taking. With immense shock, the prince realized that the strange man’s wings were like a mass of blades fashioned to look like feathers. Taking his gaze back down to the larger group of ragged and battle weary Nephilim from the flying one providing sentry, Damien pondered how most of these Nephilim were largely indistinguishable from regular humans were it not for the golden and blue eyes they all shared.
‘Weird,’ the boy prince thought, ‘and strangely ironic.’
As if reading his thoughts, Henry resumed speaking, answering the questions Damien’s mind was progressively generating.
“Remember, Your Highness,” he said, “in the dark ages of Nephilim history, it was only the Principium of their respective species that could fly or even angelize.”
“Principium meaning the original Nephilim born directly from the Angels and their mortal fuckbuddies,” Lord Jorie cut it, making the two empty bottles spin around midair while Henry paused to take a drink.
“That particular Principium,” Henry went on, pointing to the one that was still angelized, watching over the warband, “is the Nephilim who, in a few years from this moment, will become the first emperor of the Empire of Gera. Your blood ancestor, the first Reaper, Jerriza The Illuminated. Ancestor of Emperor D’Amorn The Great.”
“Wow,” Damien breathed in wonder, “first Emperor Jerriza was also the first reaper?”
“Indeed,” Henry nodded, “and he and his freedom fighters, as they were called, were getting slaughtered, horrifically. Trying to be the only force attempting to unify a sea of warring, bloodthirsty crazy people, proved to be almost too much to handle. His small force was on the verge of death, and at the 12th hour, an unlikely force came to his aide.”
The scene skipped forward in time and now they were in an underground cave. There was a mass of rock, seemingly magically manifested from the cave floor in the shape of a large round table. At it, there were 12 powerful Nephilim. Damien couldn’t tell exactly how strong they were, but the symphony of multi-colored heavenly fires burning around them, gave hint to the scale of destruction they could cause as a single force. Of the 12 gathered, Damien could count 5 Principium Nephilim amongst their number including Emperor Jerriza, and yet the other 7 in attendance stared them down unfazed. Talking to the direct children of angels, treating them as equals despite the great differences in distributions of heavenly blood.
“A mix of 5 Principium from various Nephilim races would sit at a table fashioned crudely from stone, in a random fuck off, miserable literal hole in the ground, with 7 heads of some of the most powerful and influential of the veritable hundreds of Nephilim religions at the time,” Henry went on, unbothered, “and there, in a place that would, many centuries later, be the cave atop which the Imperial Palace would be erected, they would draft The Veu’u Yanik Qwerxinum Tu’un, roughly translating to, The Commandments of The Earthly Host, the document by which the Empire of Gera was formed and is still led by till this very day. With many, many amendments of course.”
The small dayroom was silent.
Lord Jorie sat back, staring at the scene with barely kept contempt and disdain. Henry just sighed.
“Those 7 non Principium would later become known as the first 7 saints of the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy. They brought their religions together to create a single fighting force, held together by the saving power of delulu. They offered this mammoth army to Jerriza that they called the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy,” Henry finished, “though they would never admit it, and to say it now is considered great heresy by the ecclesiarchy punishable by torture or death, but Holy Jerriza was originally interred as the 8th saint. Yet, all throughout Nephilim history books nowadays, he is instead listed as the first saint of the empire, the patron saint of the ecclesiarchy.”
“God bless the saving power of mass book burning! And God bless the wholesale slaughter of the whistleblowers!” Lord Jorie called out, raising a glass for an imaginary toast.
“That’s horrible,” Damien breathed, horrified.
“Oh, don't worry Sire,” Henry reassured dryly, “it's only about to get so much worse.”
Upon each of the gathered signing the massive document that brought the first notion of an empire of mortal half angels into existence, large, thick silver cups, more akin to goblets or chalices, were brought out and placed before the 12. Each of the Principium took out one chalice each, but, Damien noticed, the 7 Nephilim that would later become the first leaders of the Ecclesiarchy, had at least 4 chalices each that they revealed. Leaning forward to get a better look at the red liquid that seemed to fill each chalice almost to their brim, Damien yelped in shock.
“Is that, Is that blood?!” the boy cried aloud in fear.
Looking up at the face of quiet frustration on Henry and the face of open rage that was seared onto Lord Jorie, a dark, ominous feeling slammed into Damien like a ton of bricks.
“Indeed Sire, for those cups, are the blood chalices of the Nephilim,” Henry affirmed quietly, almost as if regretfully.
“Blood chalices?” Damien asked, deeply disturbed, “what do blood chalices have to do with the Nephilim? We’re not vampires… are we?”
“Well Your Highness,” Lord Jorie cut it, “it’s simple really. The only Nephilim that existed at one time, were the Principium. In order to make more Nephilim, they had two ways.”
The viscount stuck up a ringed index finger, “fuck like rabbits, or” he stuck up another ringed finger, “drink from a Nephilim race’s specific blood chalice. Those shit filled cups were given directly to the first Principium of each respective Nephilim race, by their Angelic fathers or mothers, in hopes of increasing their numbers to one day serve the All Mighty. The angels filled the chalices with their blood, and water from the earth. To pass on their powers but not their lineage to any mortal the Principium deemed worthy to drink from the cups, and ascend to the Earthly Host. Those cups cannot be forged, not by any deity in the mortal realms, they’re the personal artifacts of the angels themselves. True 1 of 1’s.”
Realization slowly dawned on Damien. As he slowly turned his head back to the visage he was seeing, his mind roared a million harrowing questions.
The boy meticulously counted and recounted the number of chalices he saw.
Once, twice, thrice.. More… at least 7 times.
He then studied the defining features and characteristics of the 12 Nephilim he was seeing, looking for defining racial differences. Counting the distinct races he could ascertain.
12 separate races the Nephilim prince affirmed, yet, there were still at least 30 chalices gathered on the stone table…
‘But,’ his mind asked, rejecting what he was seeing, ‘how could they have so many chalices? There’s no way they would’ve convinced that many Principium to give up the main way of creating more of their races during the largest euthanasia and genocide focused wars of all time. Unless…’
Damien’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.
“No…” he whispered, horror soaked into his tone, “they wouldn’t.”
Lord Jorie gave an impressed, half-hearted chortle, “it seems princie here is a quick study.”
“From the son of Hoaquin of 10,000 minds,” Henry’s depressed, half slurred tone agreed, “I’d expect nothing less.”
Facing the prince, Henry looked deep into Damien’s eyes before saying his next words, clearly and slowly.
“Yes, Your Highness,” he said gravely, “yes they did, and yes they have continued to do. While they may have started out with morally questionable but arguably good intentions, make. No. Mistake. Though the ecclesiarchy is mostly a broken and disjointed mess of beliefs and insane people, they are still the single largest religious force in all of Gera’s expansive empire. They command power that allowed them to commit countless heinous atrocities in the name of The Almighty and the Imperial Throne for many thousands of years… Do not incur their attention unless you absolutely have to. And if you must, do not offend them. Lest you are ready for war.”
“Yeah except fat chance at that,” Lord Jorie shot back in, “if it wasn’t for him being the empress’ only son, he still needs a proper anointing ceremony to unlock his true angelization and his scythe, and a goddamn Reaper’s mask so he doesn’t recreate Fat Man. He’ll be forever neutered, stuck at 50% or less of his true potential, unless he gets a proper anointing. And I’m sure Empress Hoaquin would just looooove that.”
He closed his eyes and took the most pained, strained, deep breath Daimen had ever seen from him. Though his next words made Damien realize why with crystal clarity.
“And only a Grand Ecclesiarch can lead such a ceremony on such short notice,” Lord Jorie grumbled hatefully with resignation, “unless, of course, any of you jokers know how to contact any of the Earthly Saints from wherever the fuck throughout the Mortal Realms they currently are. Oh, and get them here before the kid farts the wrong way one day, and blows the entire damn manor off the face of the goddamn earth.”
The group fell silent as the three deliberated their choices and how bleak the situation was becoming.
“What about Saint Bernil Smith?” Damien asked, suddenly speaking up.
“Saint Benril left many months ago after we arrived at the manor, Your Highness,” Henry replied softly, swaying slightly from the godly alcohol, “he’s currently deployed out on an expedition deep within the Andromeda realm for another 6 months.”
Turning to face Lord Jorie, Henry arched an eyebrow.
“And you brother,” he slurred drunkenly, “shouldn’t have been rejected for sainthood so many times then, maybe you would’ve at least learnt the anointing rites.”
“Oh fuck you!” Lord Jorie yelled, chucking the other empty bottle at Henry’s head, which the other drunk god deftly dodged. “That’s the most openly rigged rank to attain in all of creation and you know it! I’m more than strong enough to easily cripple more than a few of those so-called saints.”
Leaning back, Lord Jorie kicked up his feet and smirked, “besides, why would I want such a prudish, self righteous title anyway? I just got me a much cooler one recently anyway…”
***
Snapping back from his memories to the ceremony he was currently in the middle of, Damien looked down at the long, pure white and gold ceremonial robes he’d been forced into that morning for his anointing ceremony.
Sweat began to slowly bead up on Damien’s brow.
Thankfully, the layers of magical makeup and glamours he’d had mercilessly caked upon him, against his will with unbelievable perfection, by the imperial makeup stylists, held true. The paints and spells did the lord’s work trying to mask his fear and dread, but nothing could hide the frantic shaking of his hands. He had long since plunged them deep into the folds of his robes since they had not stopped shaking horribly since he’d woken up that morning. When any had tried to mention that hiding his hands was improper and that he should take them from their hiding place, Damien’s unintentional resting bitch face made all withdraw from him under the imperial heir’s withering glare.
But now it was too late.
There he stood on the altar.
A choir of ecclesiarchy Nephilim, bearing fabulous red and green garb, along with golden helmets obscuring their faces, sang aloud in a unified voice more beautiful than anything Damien’s ears had ever perceived, second only to The Hymns of Creation themselves. The brown, heavenly fire of Archbishop Maxwell grew stronger and stronger. Its own chanting, a lesser imitation of the sacred words that the original members of the Heavenly Host had sung alongside The Almighty itself to rend reality into being, roared stronger and clearer.
The indescribable ocean of heavenly power amassed by the choir and the archbishop reached out into Damien’s soul, resonating with his own. It flowed into his inner realm, alighting his star paths, and forced forth Damien's own rose golden flames.
A soft gasp rippled throughout the crowd.
The beautiful flames of their prince, of their future emperor, roared to life around him. Surging forth, his rose golden flames were drawn into a massive, jet black candelabra bearing 13 huge candles that had been standing beside Damien and Archbishop Maxwell at the altar. As more of his flames were sucked in, and with each candlestick they alighted, the amount of energy pouring forth from Damien redoubled.
Quiet murmurs turned to silent amazement as the pillar of rose golden fire billowed out stronger and stronger from the prince, till it finally evaporated, leaving behind an exhausted Damien that was barely standing and a firmly blazing 11 massive candlesticks.
The archbishop’s attention was completely arrested. Mystified, he stared at the number of lit candles. The grand ecclesiarch counted them again, then twice for affirmation, and unconsciously, a feral smile broke out on his face. His back had been facing the rest of the congregation, so almost none had seen it for the mere fractions of a second it happened.
But Damien had.
Despite his exhaustion, his body began shaking anew with rejuvenated fear of the short, portly deity standing before him.
Slowly, the blood red wings of Archbishop Maxwell began to spread open from their perfectly folded resting state, arching upwards as if to cup the sky between them as he stood directly before the candelabra.
A small orb of blinding yellow light began to form, hovering well above the ecclesiarch’s head as the archbishop lifted his hands to the sky. Streams of burning fundamental energy from the 11 burning wicks flowed into the orb of light, changing its glow to match the color of Damien’s fire.
“In the ancient days of blood and strife,” Archbishop Maxwell began, his deep rumbling voice magnified many decibels beyond normal by his magic, “we Nephilim and our forebears fought with anger in our hearts, with violence in our souls, with hatred and evil in our magic. But with faith, with blood, with The Almighty, we prevailed. We survived. We prospered!”
The archbishop closed his eyes and the light began to grow in size and intensity. “Holy Jerrizah. First of the blessed Reapers. First of the Heavenly Emperors. Do you watch from the exalted lands? Does the hearts of the ancestors sing with glee and jubilation?”
The light began to grow brighter as if answering the Archbishop’s questions. At this point, Damien had to avert his gaze. The shaking of his did not stop.
“Hark!” the choir of helmeted ecclesiarchy hailed, “Hark! The glory of The Lord is at hand!”
“Do the angels of The Almighty bear witness? Does heaven, recognize its son?” the bishop’s voice continued, raising in intensity as the light now shone with painful brightness.
“Hark! Hark! The glory of The Lord is at hand!” the choir chanted again.
‘
Peering into the congregation, Damien’s breath caught in his mouth. Hundreds of shimmering platinum and diamond blue eyes stared back at him. Unblinking, unbothered by the harsh light. The entire crowd had angelized at some point during the ceremony. The mass of so much heavenly power amassed into one small temple, shone with a horrifyingly punishing intensity.
What light could be harsher, than that of salvation and forgiveness itself?
“The Earthly Host recognizes its son,” every voice responded as one.
Each angelized Nephilim spoke in a voice that was compounded millions of times, across millions of tones and annunciations. When they spoke all together, it was as an ocean of heavenly voices, an army… the might of heaven itself…
“Then who is he!?” the archbishop screamed, his eyes burning with brown, heavenly light, mirroring the brown fire that was still pillared around the exhausted boy.
“He is the son of The Terror!” the army responded, unmasking him.
“The blade of Gera!” they screamed, shackling Damien to his fate.
“The Defender!” They cried, “First, to rise! Last to die! For Heaven! For Gera! For The Almighty!”
The light reached its zenith, quaking under the weight of its own immense light until it burst. Silently, the oppressive force of light shattered into a rain of trillions of softly falling, sparkling lights. Above the archbishop’s head, where the light had previously been, was a small, glowing, crystalline chalice.
“So you have proclaimed,” came the thunderous voice of the only Nephilim other than Damien who hadn’t yet angelized. The archbishop continued.
“So the venerated, holy ancestors of old have testified, and so heaven hath ordained…”
The chalice softly descended till it landed in the hands of the grand ecclesiarch.
“And now,” his voice came, thundering into Damien’s ears like the howls of damned souls, “by the sacred chrism, with which you shall be anointed upon your honored death, I will anoint thee. Before the master of earth and sky, before the hymns of strife and joy… thou shall be bathed in the merciful, saving light of The Empress and The Almighty. And thou shall give unto Gera, your life.”
Damien wanted to puke. A great and terrible fear like he’d never known prior overtook him. Though the ecclesiarch’s eyes and fire glowed with the might of heaven, all the prince could see, was a demon.
Cruel and malignant.
Approaching him.
Reaching for his soul.
Damien wanted to flee.
He would run through the wall of thick, brown, heavenly fire madly thrashing and screaming, if only he would be free. If only he didn’t have to stay another moment in front of the archbishop.
But duty held him in place.
Service to his people, to his empire, to his mother’s honor, glued his legs to the altar, though they quivered terribly in fear.
The 13 year old knew he still had much to learn about the world, but in that moment he knew one thing for sure, he did not want that ecclesiarch to touch his soul and anoint him. He did not want any that could condone extermination of their own kind with a smile, to recite verses of love, sacrifice, honor, righteousness and duty to him.
It sickened him. To his very core.
But, for the sake of his people, the imperial crown prince raised his quivering chin, and stared down the demon as it approached him, cornered like a rat in a cage of fire.
And yet, embers of that same fire burned deep within the defiant eyes of the child scion.
The pillar of brown fire burst apart, and suddenly the bishop stood before Damien.
Though the prince stood a full 3 inches taller than the archbishop’s 5’2”, his presence loomed over Damien like that of a leviathan. Reading the man’s divine aura was as unnecessary as it was impossible for Damien.
“Kneel,” came the thunderous voice of the archbishop. It reverberated throughout the entire soundless chapel. Though the short man had barely spoken above room level, the sheer presence he commanded, backed by the swarm of still angelized Nephilim of all backgrounds, encircled around him in a ring of oppressive, shimmering platinum, robbed the last of Damien’s willpower. The prince’s exhausted body and mind gave out, and he crashed to his knees.
In that moment, his bravado gave out.
A single tear fell from his eye.
‘Save… me…’ was the last thought his brain could process, before a massive explosion of white hot light erupted behind the archbishop.
In one second, hundreds of pairs of eyes turned in unison to face the sudden explosion of light, and in the next second, hundreds of mouths hung agape, as before them, hovering at the altar, was a 7 meter tall winged figure.
It was beautiful, beyond all comprehension. The massive, flowing, simplistic white robes it wore, tied in place by a simple string belt, belied the causally oppressive yet strangely loving aura it gave off. The powerful, ashen gray and gold chestplate adorning its torso, matched the holy majesty of the halo of light emanating from behind its head. From its right hand, a long, golden chain held a large incense burner, billowing a strange yellow smoke that instantly soothed and calmed Damien’s ragged body, in its left, was a massive, burning sword and from its back were 4 massive, white wings. But it was not for any of these things that Damien would be able to name the being that had manifested before him, he would always recognize those shimmering platinum and diamond blue eyes anywhere he went.
After all a sea of them were currently also staring at the massive being.
The being spoke, but only to the child kneeling fearfully before it. Only, into his mind. Almost like a hard command as much as a warm, heartfelt greeting.
‘Do not be afraid.’
“...angel…” the child prince whispered breathlessly, his mind thoroughly shattered.
“Ayo! Is that a motherfucking Power?!” Lady Michelle screamed in her multi-hundred, angelized voice, breaking the paused serenity of the event.
A sea of shimmering platinum and diamond blue eyes turned to her disapprovingly, including the angel’s own.
“Sorry,” she squeaked, again in her exalted, heavenly voice. Averting her gaze quickly and looking to the ground shamefully, she quickly drew the hood of her black battle coat over her simmering platinum hair.
“Indeed, honored daughter of Heaven,” the great figure spoke.
Its voice put anything the effect of angelization did to the Nephilim’s own to shame. Its tone was singular, distinct, melodic and true. Yet held so much more regality and beauty than anything even the deities of the Mortal Realms could fathom. It came reverberating throughout all of their minds the same time as the being said them physically. It was a voice that if any listened carefully, could be heard amongst the scores of chanting ones within each and every Nephilim’s own heavenly fire.
Immediately all eyes snapped back to the exalted denizen of light, Lady Michell’s outburst instantly forgotten.
“Indeed, I am a Power,” it proclaimed. Turning its great head and billowing brown hair back to face Damien, it continued. “Child of Heaven, Son of the Archangel Metatron. Son of Jerrizah and D’Amorn. Son of Saint Hoaquin,” it spoke aloud, “Behold. I am Jurael, defender of the throne, Power of The Almighty, and herald to Their most holy, loving and sacred will. I will anoint you. Thus, says the Lord.”
“Amen.” came an almost immediate, unconscious reply from the mouths of every Nephilim, including Damien, despite himself. Though his came as a hushed whisper.
“B-but,” interjected the voice of Archbishop Maxwell, reminding the entire congregation that had completely forgotten he was even still there.
“Silence ecclesiarch,” Jurael commanded, turning to deliver a withering stare towards the short man, “unless… thou deign to perceive… that thou knoweth more than The Almighty itself?”
The archbishop sputtered silently, grasping for a million words, yet, for all of the man’s mighty, divine, heavenly power, not a single word could be summoned before the angel of The Almighty. Even casual bursts of heavenly energy surrounding the great being, effortlessly trumped anything the archbishop could manifest.
“N- never,” the grand ecclesiarch managed to eek out, crashing to the beautiful altar floor on both knees, forehead pressed firmly to the floor. “Never my Lord Power, how can a lowly Nephilim such as I ever question thy will, for it is the same as that of The Most High, itself!”
Juriel looked down at the shaking, kneeling man with barely contained, lazy disgust.
“Then I will say it only once more, ecclesiarch,” the angel said, its powerful voice crushing the archbishop under oceans of tremendous heavenly power, “I WILL ANOINT HIM, SO SAYS THE LORD. NOW FLEE MY SIGHT!”
The archbishop ran to the back of the temple so fast, diving to hide behind a pew, that Damien could’ve sword he’d teleported instead.
‘Damn,’ the prince thought amazed, in a weak attempt to sooth his erratically surging anxiety, ‘I didn’t know gramps could book it like that.’
Looking back down at Damien, the great angel stared into the boy nephilim’s eyes.
Golden and blue eyes met emotionless shimmering platinum and diamond blue ones, and for what felt like eons, time slowed to a crawl. Reaching out with a hand, the massive angel beconned the floating, shining crystal chalice of sacred chrism up towards itself from where the Archbishop had left it in his haste to flee. Slowly Juriel raised its sword and plunged the blade into the chalice. Though the chalice wasn’t much larger than a regular one, albeit it was slightly larger, the entire 6 foot sword disappeared into the floating cup.
When Juriel spoke next, it was thundering, overpowering. As if every word casually spoken by the Power came from The Almighty itself, threatening to tear Damien atom from atom. Thundering all around him and yet, only within his head.
“Damien Son of D’amorn, for countless generations your family has served the heavenly host and The Almighty,” the angel boomed, “and for countless generations more, lost to time, the Nephilim have continued to prove themselves as Heaven’s greatest failure… and yet still, its greatest pride.”
Damien’s head that had dropped in shame snapped back up in surprise. On the face of the angel, was the barest of a smile.
“Let the blade guide you,” Juriel proclaimed aloud, lifting the chalice. “Let the shield bear you. Let the kingdom be thy strength. Let the mighty legions be thy wisdom,” the angel tipped the chalice over, and a long, slender stream of silver blood fell forth and splattered onto Damien’s forehead, drenching him, soaking completely into his body.
“Let the Song of Creation embrace you,” Juriel whispered, “and let The Most High, light thy fire. Roar little one, show heaven thy power.”
Immediately every orifice, every cell of the prince’s body, exploded with rose gold fire.
But Damien didn’t scream, there was no need to. There was no fear, no anxiety, no pain.
No pain.
He couldn’t remember the last time unlocking anything related to his powers and magic hadn't been painful.
As his aura swelled to twice, five times, eventually to 10 times its original size, Damien’s fundamental energy and his mortal energies exploded and mixed. As one, unified front, the prince’s internal energies tore his body asunder as they finally surged forth from his body in a beautiful cacophony of multicolored flashes of lights within a massive wave of rose golden energy.
Though Damien would never know it, at that exact moment, millions of statues all over Gera, statues of great heroes, saints and royals began to glow with immense rose golden light. Billions of Nephilim would stare perplexed, deeply confused about what the strange phenomenon could mean. But, deep within a massive palace, in a private room, in front of a great, blood red fire, a woman seated in a massive throne, momentarily paused from the Wanderroot tea she had been drinking, and smiled slightly.
Time slowed to a crawl.
Damien felt his body fall away to ash. But there was still no pain.
A scratchy feeling crawling across what was left of his face brought his slowly fading conscious racing back to reality.
The itching grew and grew in intensity until Damien actually began screaming… but it was in a voice that was not his own.
It was the multi hundred voice of his SuperComputer… of his angelic angelization….
The itching sensation turned to a horrific burning feeling. Heavenly fire had somehow inched across Damien’s face, completely engulfing it, turning him into a floating, burning, screaming head, hovering amid the turbulent mass of burning energies his body had once been.
Slowly, the fire consuming his face, began sucking in the energy around Damien. As the flames hungrily and greedily lapped up the prince’s power, the flames began to cool, and Damien’s body began to reform.
The boy that had once been anxiously kneeling before the massive angel, shrouded in uncomfortable ritual robes, was gone. In his place, stood a true avatar of light. An angelic being, swaddled in new shining, golden robes. A being, with shimmering platinum hair and eyes bearing diamond blue, cold, unfeeling pupils peered out from beneath a mask of black bone obstructing his face. Unblinking, he stared down the crowd and the massive angel, all of whom, bore the same shimmering platinum and diamond blue eyes as he. The mask that obscured his face was a thing of heavenly beauty.
It had a smooth, polished, onyx black surface. Swirling rose gold patterns and runes alight with burning energy adorned its surface, and from it, within it, all could feel the roar of the prince’s heavenly fire. Perfectly stable and safely tucked away, his heavenly fire stood at attention within the mask, silently waiting for the prince to beacon them forth. Ready to mercilessly scour the life from anything that wrought his ire with a fury and vengeance only Heaven could bestow.
It wasn’t hard to deduce that the scythe held lovingly, yet always at attention in his hands, held a significant part of that threat.
The collective silence as the crowd of Nephilim beheld the scythe of their crown prince, was deafening.
6 feet of beautiful white and black material lay in his hands. Ending in a massive, clear blue front blade, connected to a cleaver style, short back blade, it was as all Nephilim weapons, angelic beauty intertwined with heavenly wrath and death. Upon the front blade, was a faint etching of words etched into every Nephilim’s angelized weapon.
“Noli me tollere sine causa,” came the booming heavenly voice of Juriel, full of reverence. The angel bowed its great head, lifting a hand to cover its heart, “noli me ponere sine honore.”
“Do not pick me up without cause,” Damien repeated automatically, “do not put me down, without honor.”
Upon the thunderous, yet reserved reply of amen from the crowd, Damien could feel his consciousness roar back to life, waking him out of the trance-like state he’d stuck in since he’d transformed.
For a moment, the boy prince just stood, dumbfounded. Unconsciously he reached for his aura and his inner realm and felt, for the first time in his life, the full extent of his innate power. Through the blessed, long awaited union of his Reaper’s mask, and his scythe, Damien finally could access 100% of the magic stored away within him since his birth. 100% of his refined, cultivated power. 100% of the Nephilim he was always meant to be. The son of Hoaquin. The son of the Terror.
Softly, Juriel smiled down at Damien.
“Little one, little warrior, little angel” it called to him, “give unto The Almighty thy power and thyself, and unto thou, the entire glory of Heaven will be given. May all of its might shall strike down thy enemies. So says The Great One.”
Juriel lifted its blade to Damien’s forehead.
“Speak, Reaper, son of The Grim Angel,” Juriel commanded softly, “and let all bear witness to thy will.”
Damien could feel all eyes on him, but it was of little concern to the prince. He wouldn’t be able to recall what gave him such conviction in that moment. Maybe it was all the heavenly fire that would normally be burning everything around him to cinders while fervently praising The Almighty, locked safely behind his mask. Maybe it was the power and reverberation of his strength that had manifested as his beautiful scythe inflating his tortured and broken ego. Maybe it was finally touching his full power, and swearing then and there to himself to never be taken advantage of again. But the answer was of little importance. In that moment, behind a beautiful pitch black mask, shimmering platinum and clear, diamond blue eyes, stared back at Juriel’s own, unblinking, unwavering.
And the boy prince responded.
“Unto The Great One, I give myself,” Damien whispered, still unaccustomed to the strange, exalted voice coming forth from behind his mask, through his now angelic lips. “Unto Heaven and Gera,” he continued raising his scythe into the air, with one hand, “I give my scythe, my heavenly fire, my blood. Till my eyes forever close, and I join my heavenly ancestors in the ancestral planes.”
“Then take the gift prepared for you by your forebears and serve heaven well,” Juriel finished. The Power began to shine with unimaginable intensity, yet all of the angelized Nephilim continued staring, unblinking, unbothered. A harsh, yet beautiful song tore through Damien’s mind and for a moment, all he could see was… red. Instantly liquifying and restoring his brain, millions of times over in fractions of seconds.
And then, with an epic, resounding thunderclap, Juriel’s glowing form collapsed in on itself, and the great being vanished.
“OH. MY. GOD!” Lady Michelle shrieked, pointing at the swaying, stumbling form of Damien leaning on his scythe for support, brutally mauling the peaceful serenity that had befallen the temple.
“HIS WINGS! HE HAS THE BLADED WINGS!”
Resounding gasps of shock echoed throughout the temple, one even escaped the lips of Damien himself as he turned to look at his massive, white wings.
Immediately, the memory of Emperor Jerrizah standing lone sentry above his warband of refugees and warragged warriors from various Nephilim races, as they scurried for their lives amid the perpetual hellscape of war that the Nephilim races had turned the Earth of the far ancient past into. The same white wings bearing beautiful, glinting swords masquerading as large, white feathers, were now attached to Damein’s back. If there had been any remaining doubts among any witnessing about the crown prince’s ancestry, they had been soundly quashed.
The prince stared at his new wings wonderstruck.
One hand released its grip on his scythe, and brushed against his now blade-like feathers. Damien knew with one look that the wicked sharp edge each feather now bore, would stop at nothing to carve down his enemies. And yet, as the boy prince found, poking his finger against their edges and eventually squeezing a hand softly around a bundle of his larger feathers, the blades refused to cut him. Not even a minor nick was left upon his hand.
“Wow,” Damien breathed, lost in deep fascination.
“Wow indeed, Your Highness,” came a deep voice that ripped Damien from his fascination with deep fear.
The super heightened reflexes of his properly angelized state had caused Damien to blow himself away from the voice with a powerful burst of his bladed wings. Hefting his scythe defensively, the crown prince’s aura instantly roared to life, exploding around Damien in a massive rose golden pillar of burning light. All before a single thought had the time to form in Damien’s mind.
Damien found himself glad for the weird, black, smooth reaper mask obscuring his face. At least no one had to see how badly he wanted to shit his pants in that moment.
“Woah Your Highness, be at peace,” Archbishop Maxwell said, hurriedly raising his hands before him.
Even in Damien’s new exalted state, even with the first emperor’s bladed wings, even still standing a calm 5’5” to the Archbishop’s 5’2”, Damien felt a deep, primal fear of the Grand Ecclesiarch that had not subsided. In fact, since his angelization, Damien could swear, it had increased.
Though, a thought shot through the veil of tormenting thoughts haunting the child prince’s horrified mind.
‘Don’t offend the ecclesiarch Your Highness,’ Damien could recall Lord Henry saying to him all those days ago, amid the small dayroom.
With the balance of power between the royal families and the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy being as currently strained as it was, the royals couldn’t afford the consequences. Were they to have the loyalty of the noble houses and the lesser royal thrones tested or the allegiance of their Holy Saints put into question if conflict between the Imperial throne and the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy were to break out, even over an unintentional slight from the Imperial Crown Prince, a civil war to end all civil wars would likely be imminent.
Damien’s nerves were firing on all pistons. His newly exalted, angelic body silenced the terrible quaking that would’ve made him drop his scythe, as the prince fought his every flight and fight reflex to slowly lower his defensively raised weapon.
“Good, Your Highness,” the archbishop cooed, raising a glowing hand, “let me bestow upon the future emperor of our great empire, a gift, a blessing courtesy of the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy.”
All the prince could see was the glowing hand of the archbishop approaching him. He didn’t know why, but everything within Damien was screaming at him, not to let that glowing hand touch him.
Closing his eyes shut, Damien resigned himself to his fate.
At the last few moments before the glowing hand of the ecclesiarch fell upon his masked forehead, Damien whimpered, quietly, wretchedly, begging the universe for a savior.
“No…”
Instantly, a sea of shadows fell over Damien. Opening his eyes slowly he saw the glowing, glorious angelized figures of Lord Henry, Lady Michelle, and his Grand Courtier and stood at attention around him. Like a personal squad of warrior angels, they were all brandishing their heavenly weapons, protecting their crown prince. In Henry’s bony, skeletal hands was his wooden scythe, held at the ready. Lady Michelle bore 4 powerful, burgundy wings that blocked Damien from sight while a long, thin, golden rapier burned with viscous, purple heavenly fire. The hawkish features that her expressionless, angelized face, beautifully chiseled with righteous malice, had adopted, peered thinly with barely kept rage at the archbishop. The Grand Courtier’s milky brown skin was hidden within a massive, 7ft suit of silver, glowing exalted armor. The pitch black battle cape the Grand Courtier usually wore, had come alive. It had grown to cover his new, taller, bulkier angelized, armored form, roaring to life with great angelic power as it met the surging aura of the Nephilim within. The runes embossed across the Grand Courtier’s armor’s thick, heavy plates, growled with an angry, teal heavenly fire. Though Damien couldn’t see the deity’s face behind the large helmet that obscured his head, the tightness with which the deity gripped his massive, shimmering warhammer, clued the boy in to how the Grand Courtier was probably feeling.
‘Huh, so not all religious zealots are on the same side apparently,’ came Damien’s intrusive thoughts, despite the near constant ringing in his exhausted head.
Lord Jorie’s skeletal right hand held the archbishop’s in a death grip and his half skull, angelic face, devoid of a reaper’s mask stared down at the ecclesiarch unblinking. His normally red hair and beard were now shimmering platinum, and dark violet heavenly fire softly lapped up the rod of his rocky scythe.
“Ecclesiarch,” Lord Jorie said in his exalted voice, emotionless, “I believe the crown prince said he would not appreciate the blessing.” A faint but definite sense of malice crept into the lord’s voice, “I hope you’re not assuming your will is above that of His Heavenly Highness, the Imperial Crown Prince Damien?”
The archbishop leered at the tall lord in return.
“Smells like an Astallon,” the short Nephilim replied, waving a hand before his face, “release me Lord Viscount. I have done nothing out of line, I am simply doing my duty and blessing a future saint of the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy!”
Wrenching his wrist free, the Archbishop turned to face the crowd. Lifting his hands to the air he cried out, “behold, the wings of the First Saint! Heaven has blessed our prince! The soul of Holy Jerrizah has blessed our prince! And so, Heaven itself has blessed Gera! As it once blessed our blessed Empress Hoaquin!” A wave of murmurs of agreement, some reserved, some more enthusiastic, began bubbling up amid the crowd.
Turning back to face the 4 deities still protecting Damien, he clicked his tongue.
”Tsk, now now,” he admonished with a warm, hearty, fatherly chuckle, “is it so wrong to give an extra blessing to our great scion? Was there ever a time that too much protection proved a bad thing?”
Lord Jorie sighed slightly.
“I know you ecclesiarchs have hearing problems and issues with being told no,” the angelized viscount gravely voice boomed dangerously, “but I would be really disappointed if I had to educate an elder on manners.”
Archbishop Maxwell seethed at the barely veiled threat.
“Are you pulling rank? upon me?” he asked incredulously, a dangerous smile tugged at the corners of his lips, “does the rank of Lord High General really fill your head with such empty fantasies… boy?”
The old man laughed heartily, shaking his head as if he’d been told the most ridiculous story he’d ever heard. “Incase you’ve forgotten, we have more than a few Lord High Generals enlightened under our churches, Holy Lord Viscount.”
“Oh no,” Lord Jorie chuckled merrily, though his exalted voice was completely devoid of mirth. “I would never dream of pulling a rank as meaningless as Lord High General over one such as, you. But…”
Lord Jorie smiled evilly, tilting his head innocently, “what about Nightmare Rank 1?”
A visible wave of shock tore through the entire temple.
Even the 3 divine Nephilim protecting their crown prince were visibly shaken.
“Brother…” Henry whispered, fear somehow evident on his expressionless half covered angelic face, “how?…”
Lord Jorie simply winked and stuck out a tongue at him.
Recovering from his shock, Archbishop Maxwell growled with rage. “You dare attempt a lie so egregious as that! Lord High General Astallon?! On behalf of the Empress, I should have you exe-.”
His screams of rage died in his throat as the eyes of not only the Grand Ecclesiarch, but also the entire temple bore witness to a gray, skull shaped medallion held around Lord Jorie’s neck with a simple, golden linked chain. Upon the skull’s forehead, was a simple, golden number 1.
Color drained from the Archbishop’s face. Sweat began heavily perspiring, soiling the Nephilim’s perfectly preened robes. Immediately Archbishop Maxwell fell to his knees before Lord Jorie, shaking with fear.
“Any more proof needed?” Lord Jorie asked sweetly, eyes closed.
“NO!” the Archbishop screamed involuntarily, “I-I mean, no… My Lord. Forgive me my insolence.”
“Awe, don't worry… boy,” Lord Jorie replied down at the kneeling man, dropping to a squat till he was just above Archbishop Maxwell’s head. With the largest, most shameless shit eating grin plastered on his angelic face, making the Nephilim viscount appear demonic and insane, Lord Jorie studied his prey mercilessly, enjoying his suffering. “It’s not everyday that one such as you gets an audience before the Empress’ right hand. The 2nd strongest within the entire empire.”
Losing the childish voice he spoke with empty, commanding wrath, “among all gathered here, I alone speak directly for Her Heavenly Majesty, Empress Hoaquin. And she says, begone.”