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"To think of such a holy weapon," Metatron muttered, "defiled in such a manner," disapproval radiated from the Archangel's frame, "Sacrilege... We should have left out some of her more Fallen tendencies."
The boy smiled at the accusation laden within the tone.
"But that would have erased her identity. That would have changed who she was."
"Yes," the silver mask nodded, "You humans have always had an irrational attachment to your identity. It is a foolish belief. We could have made her better. Purer. Flawless instead of flawed. But you chose merely to give her life back in a new form instead of remaking her existence."
"It is the flaws that make us who we are," the boy shook his head, "And I will no more erase them than the strengths that define us."
Metatron sighed. Even when accepting defeat, the Archangel somehow still sounded dignified.
"The motives of the Nephilim are whimsical indeed. I recall you would have had me do something similar to the girl we found in that church. And when I told you that the Laws of Heaven would not work in the same way on a human as it would an angel, you found a different method to bring her back," stern eyes stared out from behind the gleaming faceplate, "And what did that accomplish? She still chose to become a devil. The outcome would have been no different if you left her there. What you did for her was meaningless in the end."
"She deserved a choice. The power to choose her own fate. That in itself is meaningful."
"Choice," the angel said distastefully, "Another human concept."
A brief instant of silence followed and the two of them watched as the gleaming figure scythed her way through the black horde that sought to stop her. Turning, the boy eyed the angel beside him in bemusement.
"This was your plan all along, wasn't it?"
Metatron inclined his head.
"I was most aggrieved when I learned of God's death. Even if things are different, it is a haunting feeling to not have His voice in my conscience," the grimace the angel wore matched the frown carved into his helm, "She was right when she said more and more angels Fall. Without God, the laws He has created become easily skirted. Easily broken. Michael has done admirably in upholding the balance, but he is not God, and his power is insufficient. Our numbers dwindle with each passing day, bleed out like an open wound, and all the while our foes grow in strength. This must not be allowed to happen. I will see Heaven restored to glory. I will see the Antechamber of Thrones filled with gleaming figures once again. I asked you to spare their lives so that they may have a chance to redeem themselves and return back to the fold. But even then, how events have unfolded still has surprised me."
The seraph continued to track her progress, watching as she broke free and started chasing after the one who had hurt her most.
"I did not give her the mark because I did not think she was worthy. Her deeds were too heinous, her past too dark. She had lost her purpose and in her despair, lost herself. I did not think the Light would ever reclaim her. But you have changed that," the Archangel turned to him, "The bonds you make. The links you forge. They bring out the potential hidden in all of us. It was enough to allow her to accept who she was and what she had become. And that is where true redemption lies. The acceptance of the wrongs we have done and the wish to right them," Metatron nodded, "Truly yours is both a wondrous and frightening power to have. Which is why I would ask now for this small favor."
An armored palm placed itself over the plated chest. The angel bowed his head, the motion surprisingly sincere.
"Call for us, Nephilim. All of us. Just like you did in your fight against Nyx. Manifest us in all our glory. Let our presence fill the hearts of those present and light the fires of those who are not. Heaven's will is but an echo of what it once was. The Light that once shone in the darkest of places is now nothing more than a dying spark. Our existence will change that. They will see us in our splendor and they will be reminded of a time when our numbers were legion and our banners flew proud. Call for us, Nephilim, and let Heaven taste glory once more."
The boy hesitated, weighing the request.
"That is neither small nor a favor," he finally said.
"From you, it is both."
The boy smiled. He reached into his pocket and produced something silver. It was shaped like a gun and he stared at the gleaming barrel with something akin to sadness.
"I was never meant to live a normal life, was I?"
"The weak despairs over lives they cannot live," Metatron said quietly, "The strong mourns for it and moves on. Which one are you, Nephilim?"
The barrel was placed to the side of his head. A finger tightened over the trigger. Squeezed.
"Persona."
The gates were lifted. The waves set free. Each manifestation before had been chained to his psyche, purposefully held back in fear of the damage they could do. No longer. From his combined gestalt they came forth, figures breaking the surface, wings dripping with liquid power. That was how they appeared in his mind. Reality was different. Unchained, set loose, they chose to manifest in the way they would have in life.
Six pillars of light smashed into the ground. Like lances of judgment they smote down from the heavens and crashed into earth. Each was a coruscating column of luminescence, and where they descended, where they landed, they lit their surroundings on fire from sheer, undiluted power.
From within each pillar, figures began to move, began to rise on armored joints. Unified, as one, they stepped through and bathed the world in heavenly light.
Sandalphon was the first. Bronze plated and true. Gleaming sigils adorned his battle plate, emblazoned runes shaped in half-crescent moons. The spear he held in his hand was the brother to Inaerion in every way.
Raphael walked through. Unhelmed, his stern features resembled a face carved from marble. The wings that extended over his shoulders were jagged like swords. His firm gaze swept across them all, strict and unyielding.
Uriel stepped into existence. He chuckled at the sight before him before throwing a cheery wave in Asia's direction. The girl hesitated before waving falteringly back.
Gabriel's beauty was like the radiant sun. Wherever she tread life bloomed anew and wounds healed in shimmering auras of light. None of these things seemed to matter compared to the lethal blade she held in a war maiden's grip.
Michael's expression were set into a grim frown as he emerged. The Commander of His Legions glanced up at the enemies above him and the frown turned into an equally grim smile.
Melchizedek was last. The Sage of Heaven was no warrior compared to the others. His strength lay elsewhere. Tendrils of arcane sorcery sparked in his hand, danced in flickering lines around armored fingers.
Metatron spread his arms wide. They gathered around him, lesser angels making their respect known to a greater one.
My Brethren.
Gabriel smiled. Melchizedek tilted his visored head. Raphael wrapped his hands around the grip of his diamond-pommelled sword.
This World Believes that Heaven has Fallen. They Believe that Our Kingdom is on its Knees, Heaving its Last Breath. They Believe that without God, We have Become Weak. Diluted. Powerless.
The silver mask regarded them each in turn. The power that had been kept simmering beneath the surface flared like the heat of a newly born sun.
Let Us Disabuse Them of that Notion.
Pinions spread. Feet lifted from the ground. The air was filled with heavy wingbeats as the greatest among Archangels took to the skies.
By his side, the figure of darkness and shadow let out low, rumbling growl. It sounded almost like a question. Despite the strain of keeping them mired in reality, despite the growing pain that assaulted his mind, the boy still smiled.
"Go."
Laughing, cackling, howling its maddening dirge, Thanatos launched itself into the air and joined with beings of light and valor in slaughtering the foe.
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