Morael

The creature at my feet was curled into a fetal position, one white wing curled about her. She looked like an angel, but I knew better. Something was off.

“Is she alive, your Highness?” Nakir ran to the edge of the circle and stopped just short of the edge of it, the golden symbols now fading like the winds around us.

I knelt and put my hands to her neck. A heartbeat.  But something stirred within me as well. “She alive!” I exclaimed excitedly, looking at this strange creature at my feet. I gently turned her onto her back. I gasped.

“King Morael…she’s…she’s a Nephalem!” Nakir shrieked, disbelief tinging his voice.

I stood and looked down at the creature, who was still unconscious. But Nakir was right, she was Nephalem for sure. Half daemon, half angel. Her left wing was a white angel’s wing, her right a black-feathered daemon’s wing. Her hair mimicked her wings: one side black, the other white. The skirts of her black gown, now ripped, fluttered in the breeze about her pale, immobile legs.

“Your Highness, how is this possible? The Nephalem were eradicated centuries ago!” Nakir exclaimed, his wide, disbelieving eyes still trained on the ethereal being.

“Come, let’s get her back to the palace,” I said, scooping her up into my arms to take flight.

Suddenly, a bright white burst into my vision, and my head felt as if it would split in two. I began to stagger forward, almost dropping the Nephalem in arms, but Nakir rushed over to catch her as I crashed into the dry, cracked earth.

My hands clasped to my head, I rolled around on the ground in agony. I could hear the muffled cries of my soldiers, guards, and knights, but I could not pay them any heed.

In my mind was a jumbled, chaotic litany of images, one after the other, all of angels: the frightening Seraph, its one massive cycloptic eye peering at me through its covering of wings; the six-winged Cherub, its human-like face sharing the space upon its shoulders with the head of a bull, lion, and eagle; and the surreal, bizarre form of a Throne, a wheel full of eyes, pulling back the veil to see directly into my soul.

As my body flailed on the ley line, I was simultaneously outside of my body, and the Seraph, most sacred to God, now hovered in front of me in utter darkness. Its one gigantic eye stripped me bare; there was no hiding in my darkest corners. The rawest and most vulnerable parts of me were displayed, laid painfully bare in the Seraph’s otherworldly gaze. The feathers on its wings fluttered in an unknown breeze, the color metallic and prism-like, glinting off a light I did not see.

“You stand accused, King Morael of Asirith, Ruler of the Eighth Realm of the Netherworld, First of His Name, Scourge of the Heavens, of killing your own kind. You must atone for your grievous sins!”

The voice, which emanated all around me, screamed inside my head. I felt a scream release from own throat, ragged and hoarse against the black, swirling sky.

I gasped, sitting up, drinking in the air as if it were water. I was back in my body, on the ground of the Plain, the host of God nowhere to be found.

I had just stood in the presence of a Seraph.

I stood shakily, two guards, lesser daemons, flocking to my side; Thazzen and Nakir were standing guard over the creature. Nakir hurried over, leaving Thazzen with curious soldiers gathering around the Nephalem to get a better look.

“My Liege! What happened? Are you unwell?” Nakir motioned for the guard to get out his way, throwing my arm over his shoulder and steadying me with his weight.

“Nakir, I do not know what happened,” I replied, shakily brushing my hair out of my face, trying to slow my breathing.

I was a daemon. I should not be seeing visions of angels, especially not the most powerful of God’s host. But I did not tell any of this to Nakir.

“Can you fly back to the castle, My Liege?” Nakir asked, guiding me over to the Nephalem, who was still lying unconscious on the parched ground of the Stygian Plain.

I nodded, putting the images of the angels out of my head, instead gesturing to Thazzen. “Take her back to the castle, but do not leave my side,” I demanded, Thazzen scooping up the lithe form of the Nephalem, which seemed like a delicate child in Thazzen’s massive arms. A Nephalem! How did I manage to summon a Nephalem? As Nakir had said, they had been destroyed hundreds of years before.

Why had I seen the vision of the angels? Why had the Seraph accused me of killing my own kind? I had never killed another daemon, not even in anger. The ritual…what had I done wrong?

Or maybe…this was right. Destined. Fated. The creature was still alive, and I had to rejoice in that. But there were so many questions, buzzing relentlessly in my head.

“My Liege, is she really a Nephalem? I thought they were all eradicated as Abominations!” said Thazzak, who glared at the woman in his arms with wide, dark eyes. But despite the excitement, his black wings beat calmly and softly, the opposite of my pounding, raging heart.

“I am still not sure how this happened. The ritual was for an angel. But she is a Nephalem for sure.”

As the gates of Asirith came into view, I couldn’t help but be anxious, as every angel I had ever summoned had died at once within the gates of my domain. But this one was different. Surely, she could live. She did have some daemon blood, after all. But would I get the same amount of power from her, since she was only half angel? I knew nothing of the Nephalem, except what I had read in books and stories my parents had told me before they died.

The eight spires of Castle Asirith stabbed into the black, silent sky, where a crimson moon hung, the light bleeding from its wounds onto the grim landscape below.

The moon illuminated the façade of my castle, surrounded by a high, turreted wall, all made of the black, glossy stone ospyx. Above the portcullis, an immense skull had been carved into the stone, a forbidding reminder to my enemies of their hostile surroundings.

I took a deep breath and flew into the gates, into the land of Asirith, and looked down at the girl in Thazzen’s arms.

She was still breathing.

“She’s alive!” I shouted, turning to my host, who still lingered outside of the gates. A thousand voices lifted into the air, the rare sound of daemonic jubilation.

I felt their joy but tried to contain it. She still had not woken. Nothing was guaranteed. Yet.

“Thazzen, take her,” I said, depositing the limp form into Thazzen’s awaiting arms. “Take her to one of the rooms next to mine,” I ordered and began walking ahead to the throne room. “I want to be close, so I can keep an eye on her.”

“My Liege, a royal suite? Not the dungeon?” Thazzen hesitated on the threshold, the red moon illuminating his inky black wings.

“Not the dungeon. We have to treat her like royalty. I don’t want her dying before we can perform the final ritual. Now go! I’ll be up soon.”

Nakir came running inside the throne room as I was about to place one of the girl’s white feathers into my throne. My throne of angel corpses. Bones, feathers, skulls. I sat daily upon my own failures.

I gazed at my throne in silence, built of the bones and skulls of the angelic earthly Guardians I’d tried to summon before. But each time, no matter how much I improved the ritual, it did not work. The angels couldn’t survive once inside the Netherworld.

So how had my father done it?

It had been a burning obsession of mine, to take the power of an angel, to be as powerful as my once great father had been. But he, an immortal, had died—been murdered— suddenly, taking the knowledge of his summoning with him to his funeral pyre. And my mother, in her unfathomable grief, had thrown herself upon his pyre and died with him.

Now, my failed attempts mocked me, the gleaming white skulls grinning morbidly at me in the darkness. White wings spread out from the throne, glorious and dazzling, an impressive sight against the black ospyx wall. But I couldn’t take comfort in my beautiful, painstakingly built throne, crafted from the remnants of holy vessels. I had failed repeatedly, summoning Guardian Angels from the earthly realm, as they wouldn’t be missed. What I needed was a Seraph, Cherub, or Throne, but they were too close to God; I wasn’t about to start a war with the Heavenly Host.

As I stuck the feather in its place, the feather began glowing gold, then the entire throne suddenly illuminated. I stepped back, mouth agape.

What was happening?

As quickly as it started, it stopped. Was it because she was still alive? I had only built my throne of those angels who had died within these gates.

Nakir stopped short, shock etched upon his ebony face. “My Lord, what is happening?”

“I’m not sure, Nakir. But we need to find out. And soon.” As I turned and began to walk away, Nakir called out to me.

“Your Grace!”

I spun around, concerned by his tone. “Nakir? What is the matter?”

Nakir walked up to me hesitantly. “Turn around, My Liege, if you please, and unfurl your wings. It could be a trick of my eyes, or—”

“Or what, Nakir?” I asked, alarmed as he walked around behind me, my wings unfurled to their full breadth.

“My Lord…” Nakir gasped, and with a slight sharp pain, I felt him tug a feather from my wings.

“Nakir, what in the Nether are you—”

Nakir turned me around forcefully, his great dark hands on my shoulders. “My Lord, there is a white angel feather… growing out of your daemon wings.”

My mouth fell open slightly, spinning around to glare at Nakir. “An angel feather?  In my wings?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yes, My Liege. What does this mean? Does it have something to do with the summoning ritual?”

I stared at Nakir in grave silence.

What did this mean? And how had it happened?

But I couldn’t think of that now. I hurried upstairs to see the Nephalem. I had bigger problems to worry about.