Short Story / <p>New Dawn: The Beginning&#169;.</p> (revised)

He heard a voice and it called out to him and asked, “Who shall I send?  And who will go before us?”  And the lone man cried, “Here am I, send me.”

#

New Dawn is the beginning as well as the end.  It is the story of paths not taken, and those sheltered.  A story of a child birthed from the legends of Legiferum ab Hanum, and the spirit of beings who fought for the existence for all.  

But this is not the story that is here to be told today.  It is the story of those that live among us, those that are waiting in the shadows of the night.  For Hanoan religion states that Terra was a desolate place, and one day with divine cause, a breadth formed life where there was once only death. And Terra was seeded with beings much like ourselves.  But an unyielding fate . . . will tell a different story.

i.

The beginning of the end is near, and the smell of burning flesh and rising ash suffocates their nostrils as the world’s tell-tale sign of its near-end demise becomes more and more evident.

Zoe hunkers down in a cratered earth salted with blood, as dry tears stain her face.  “The sun is rising.  I promised we would make it to dawn.”  

Even she realizes that her half-attempt at providing some reassurance is failing, and after a brief moment of silence, she stares off into the horizon and closes her eyes.  “Is this really the end?”

Thomas, his long brown hair matted with dry blood, rubs his eyes, straining to look at her.  He’s unsure of what to say, and so he turns towards the burning city.

There is barely anything left, of the once, vibrant colony of Ragnar.  It was the epicenter of The Colonies’ economy—the sole financial center that every culture, every peoples, every government in the world modeled after.  But now Ragnar is in ruin, and its once large magnificent buildings crumble at their foundations.

Thomas stares at a backdrop brimming with fire as an unnatural breeze rises in the air and seems to carry soft, subtle voices from somewhere off in the distance.  They were speaking to him like ghostly apparitions whispering in the dark, and he could no longer bear the oath of silence he once swore to keep.  

“This is not how it should be,” he quietly remarks as another distant rumble shakes the earth beneath them.  

“What do you mean,” Zoe absently responds.

“We are to lose.  We are destined to lose.”

Zoe turns to him, and in her eyes he sees the long and lingering suspicion that has held her mind captive for seven long illustrious days.  He lies there silently, waiting for her to respond, but she does not—and so he ponders on what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he quietly manages to mumble, as her glare turns into a deepening hatred.  “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Couldn’t tell me what?  You were the one?  You betrayed us?  Betrayed her!  Was it that easy for you?”

“No!  It . . .” his answer lingers for a moment. “I was afraid.  I had grown . . . accustomed to you.”

“Accustomed,” Zoe, confused, begins as a small inkling of disbelief envelops her eyes.  She wants to say more, he can tell, but a thunderous explosion roars in the distance followed by the rising screams of a foretelling, ever-dimming future.

“Who are you . . . really?”  Zoe remarks as shock begins to filter into her body.  The end is near and part of her mind has already let go.  She is no longer truly concerned with the truth.  To her it doesn’t matter anymore.

Thomas pauses to answer, as sporadic screams continue to rise over a growing, grayish horizon.  He quietly takes a breadth, and pulls out a small charred book from his jacket.  On its cover is an engraved emblem of a small square dissected by a vertical line.  Beside it—a contorted capital “E” that carries an accented umbrella-like dash overhead.

He looks down at the worn book, and tears freely make their way to its leather, as if making feeble attempts to refresh the pages that are contained inside.

“I am Thomas,” he remarks with utter humility, “of the Nephilim.”  He runs his hand across the book, and slowly opens it. “And we were to lose.”

ii.

Legiferum ab Hanum, the oldest of all literary things, says that Hanos was an empty place.  A black void, endless and without substance.  And in some magnificent and mysterious way, the Ancient One was formed from an unknown place, created from an unknown thing.  And so we called him the Ancient, for he was the first of all things new and old.

Time was of no forfeit-and so when what seemed like an eternity had passed, the Ancient with a spark of creative touch formed a planet, and another, and then another.  He spoke into existence light where there was only darkness, and out of the void came the stars and the moons of old-and so it is how it became to be, that Hanos had taken form.

But the Ancient had become so destitute in his loneliness that after several thousand years another strike of the imagination had come forth.  And so then we were created, the Seraphim, the first of many.  We were formed and fashioned from the worlds around us.  We had all knowledge of what the universe was and is, but not of what it were to be.

He shared with us all things of nature and creation.  But it was grace that we did not understand, for Hanos was without evil, sorrow, or pain.  So says the true words birthed and written in Legiferum ab Hanum, and myself witnessed with my own, once celestial eyes.

Like all great things of old that stand for millennia, so were the great hierarchies that represented all of Hanos.  The Ancient ruled the celestial plains and in this place the Seraphim, and all formed from them, were his most desired and beloved creation.  And though we were servants, we were free to live, to love, and coexist among each other like any other society.

Of all the celestial beings in Hanos, Lucian was one of the most powerful among us.  Passionate and strong, he carried the weight of power with great ease.  All respected him, perhaps because he held the ear of the Ancient, or perhaps because in the silence when the darkness prevailed before the dawn of the rising sun, many feared his strength—yet none would dare speak such fears out loud.  Perhaps, because at that time, we did not truly know what fear was.

Just as Lucian had the ear of the Ancient, the beloved Constance had the ear of Lucian.  She was the beauty of Hanos.  Powerful and yet tender, soft and yet stern, brave and yet yielding—-she was loved by all, the greatest of those being Lucian himself.

#

“You did not come.”  Lucian stood in the doorway as she turned to him with a soft subtle smile.  The sun began to rise over them, and it revealed the hidden treasures of a golden city paved with stone, and buildings formed from marble.

Constance hesitated to respond before turning back to watch a subtle dawn reemerge over the horizon.  “There is something in the moment when the sun rises here,” she finally responded as distant laughter emerged from somewhere off in the city.  She turned to him with soft, brilliant eyes before taking another look at an immaculate dawn.  “Do you feel it?”

Lucian glanced at the sun.  He felt nothing.  He peered throughout the city and paused to watch as celestial beings went about their angelic lives, gliding on a warm breeze the Ancient had provided them.  He reached out and touched her shoulders.  Her long flowing hair rose from the soft breeze.

“I was in need of your support,” he quietly said before peering towards a large, blinding white building preceded by golden steps.  “Even he was expecting your presence.”

She turned to him, a sense of doubt resonated in her eyes as she looked into his.  She forced a soft smile that would have melted the hardest of hearts.  “He is in no need of my counsel.  He will do as he wishes, regardless of how we may feel.”

“Exactly why I wanted you there.  To help persuade him.”

“Lucian,” she gently touched his face, “this thing he wants to create . . . this man.  If it is his will, he will do so, no matter how you feel of it.”

“What is man that we are not?”

Constance lowered her head, hesitant to answer.  A few moments passed and she looked at him with a solemn hint of grace. “More than ourselves.”

iii.

Now I, Thomas of Hanos, of Haidon, of the Nephilim knew Lucian well.  He would no more have
parted from Constance, than he would have from his ideals of the Seraphim and his objection to man.  But Lucian was not an ancient, let alone the Ancient One, for he came after creation and not before.  And so though his subtle pleas to rethink the creation of man did not go unheard, his warnings were still not heeded.

Like most in Hanos, Lucian believed the creation of man would bring more trouble than good.  But nonetheless, the Seraphim were willing to serve man, as the Ancient had bid for us to do.  And so Adonia was created, and on its surface, it was seeded with this new creature that most had come to abhor with great prejudice.  And because Adonia was seeded without sin, there was only one duty the Ancient One had assigned, and it was given to the most beloved of the Seraphim.

Constance became the Angel of Mercy, of Grace, and represented all that was pure and loved in the worlds, the most of these now being Adonia and its inhabitants.  Her beauty was fashioned after the very heart the Ancient had endowed in her, and so like herself man was formed after no other, but the Ancient himself, and himself alone.

And though Lucian was discouraged by Constance’s benevolence towards man, he had an instilled faith in who he was to her and her to him.  And so it became to be that another Seraphim hated man more than Lucian, and that was Arlis—a passionate being who loyally followed and had served the Ancient well.

#

“Such a strange creature,” Lucian commented as he stared down from Adonia’s blue skies, watching an ominous strange man as he slowly crossed a desert plain.  “Why does he wander so?”

Arlis chose not to reply, and in an instant he appeared before the man, unseen and unheard.  Lucian a moment later joined him, and watched as Arlis circled around the unknowing man, like a lion observing its prey from a distance.

“What does he see in it?”  Arlis asked with great distaste.  Lucian amusingly continued to watch, as the man suddenly stopped, lowering himself to the ground, as if paying homage to the dirt beneath his feet.

“He has no powers, no gifts.  Not the power of foresight nor that of knowledge.  He is ignorant to all that we inherit to know.  What is in him that is not in us?”  Arlis questioned, as he ran his fingers through the long blackened hair of the man.  The hair fell back against the man’s neck and he quickly turned as if suspecting he was not alone.  A moment passed, as he continued to observe his surroundings.  But hearing and seeing nothing, he stood and resumed
his walk.

“Perhaps that is it.  Perhaps that is why he is so special to him.  He is unique, because of his difference, because of what he lacks,” Lucian replied as he stared at the man with curiosity.  “He is always in wanting . . . in need.

“He is pathetic.”  Arlis sneered through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” Lucian nonchalantly replied.

Silence resonated between them as they lingered behind the tall wanderer.  After several moments the silence was finally broken.

“How can she find grace for such a thing,” Arlis provokingly remarked.  Lucian shot a glare in Arlis’ direction and in the blink of an eye, he stood erect before him.

“Do not speak of Constance,” Lucian warned with a strong glare.

“I am only saying . . .”

“It is what she is asked to do!”  Lucian angrily interjected.  His anger had gotten the best of him, and Arlis could tell.

“Then why do you take such offense?” Arlis cautiously continues, “She seemingly loves man more than you.  How is that possible?”

Lucian turned away from him, unwilling to entertain Arlis’ provocation any longer.

“I know you have taken notice of this,” he continued—determined to provoke Lucian’s already
delicate emotional state.   “How can you condone her nature towards this . . . thing?”

“Because that is what grace is!”

“How do you know what . . .”

“Anook-sala!  Anook-sala, Adiem!”  Arlis and Lucian turned to see another creature calling out from the distance.  Her long flowing hair fell past her bare chest, as she cheerfully beckoned for her lover, and the man quickly responded with a simple wave of his hand as he began to make his way back to her.

“Man . . . ,” Arlis remarked with disgust, “and his babble.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Arlis.”  Lucian turned to him with a glaring look.  “It will not work.  We do as he says.  We follow him as we always have . . .”

Lucian was to say more, but he was interrupted and his eyes turned towards the sky.  Arlis simply watched, as he closed his eyes, a hint of annoyance lingered from his pursed lips.

“He calls for you?” Arlis asked, as he glanced towards the sky.

Lucian turned back towards the man and its creature, watching as he embraced his lover that was followed with a tender kiss.  “Yes,” he answered through gritted teeth, and a piercing glare in Arlis’ direction.  And just as quickly as Arlis understood Lucian’s silent warning, Lucian vanished from his presence.

iv.

“Constance?”  Lucian stood before her momentarily captivated by her beauty.  She turned to him, as tears freely flowed down her soft cheeks, and he remained unmoved by her apparent sorrow.

“They are so fragile,” she softly replied.

He turned away annoyed with the mentioning of man, “Yes . . . and?”  He callously replied as he grabbed a small chalice and began to drink from it.

Constance looked at him, disheartened.  “How can you be so cold towards them?”

“You said yourself.  They are fragile.”  He brashly remarked, as he took another sip from the gleaming gold cup.  “They are not like us.”

“More the reason why they are in need of us, and of our understanding.”

“Of your grace?”  Lucian cockily questioned as his eyes coldly peered into hers.

“Is it so hard for you to accept . . .” Constance began to ask, but her interjection of Lucian’s disapproval was violently interrupted by the crashing of bowls that fell upon the ground.  She looked up to find Lucian gripping the edges of their eating table.

“What is it that you love more?  Torturing me with your foolish duties as man’s keeper or is it that you love that abomination more than I?”

Constance quickly approached Lucian.  Quietly but harshly she replied, “Do not speak of them in that way.”

“It is the truth.”

“It is not for us to say.”

“THEN WHO?”  Lucian roared with a booming voice that seemed to have shattered the very air around them.  “He treats them like babies fed from the bosom!”

“He is their creator,” Constance, unnerved, responded back.

“He is our creator!”  Lucian roared again.  Constance’s softened demeanor could no longer consume Lucian’s anger.  “And we are his beloved!  Not them!”

“This is not about the Ancient.  This is not even about man.  This is about you and me!  What is it you fear, Lucian?  That what you had done to Seraph, will now be done to you?”

“Remember, it took two to betray Seraph!”

“So it is fear,” Constance replied, ignoring her part in Seraph’s misfortune.

“I fear nothing!”  He exclaimed through gritted teeth, as his posture took a violent turn.  She stepped back, unsure of what to say.  Lucian’s eyes seemingly glazed over with mortal anger, as he walked past her, staring off into the celestial city.

“What has come over you,” she quietly asked.

Lucian looked over his shoulder, hesitant to speak.  “My thought was that this was some . . . pet project.  I thought it was like all others, like when he made the beasts in the air and those in the sea.”  Constance silently lowered her head fully realizing the origin of Lucian’ disturbing behavior.  “I met with him earlier.  He wants them to further seed Adonia.”

“Yes,” she quietly responded.

He turned to her with a look of utter contempt.  “You knew?”

“He asked me to be present.  To comfort them.”

For the first time Constance saw her lover’s hurt, as Lucian momentarily closed his eyes in dismay.  “Why . . . do you love them?  Why do you forsake our love for them?”

“I do not, Lucian.”

“Do not treat me with such ignorance!  Everyday you join them in Adonia.  Walk among them, comforting them.  You reek of them!”

“I love them, because it is asked of me.  It is what is required of me.”

“I require it of you.  I require your love.”

“And do I not provide it?  Have I not loved you for a millennia?  Will I not love you for a millennia more?”

They stared at one another for a moment, before Constance lowered her eyes unable to look into his any longer—the growing hate she saw in them became unbearable.

He began to walk past her and she attempted to take his hand, “Or-Elen . . . my love . . .”  He pulled himself away and exited from her presence.

v.

Before man, Hanos knew no sin.  Evil was not among us, as there was no rage, nor bitterness, nor any other dark thing that rose like a phoenix out of the ashes to consume us.

Now it may be wise to note, that is if you may be thinking that betrayal is a sin, and I would intend to agree—that is not what happened in the case of Constance and her former lover, Seraph.

Though Constance was the first of the Seraphim, Seraph was created for her, to be her counterpart—so that she may experience the true gift the Ancient endowed for all Seraphim.  And though they loved each other greatly, Constance eventually found her heart split for Lucian as well, and in time she parted ways with Seraph to be with him.  Though Seraph missed his lover greatly, like all good Seraphim he knew the power of free will and was able to harbor no ill will towards Constance or Lucian. For it was the gift given to us, the choice to love and with whom, that was valued above most.

But what strange events had taken place to bring such irony.  The greatest gift given to us would be perverted and twisted.  And like a Harkon in the night enveloping any being that crossed its path, so did Lucian succumb to such evil.  And so it came to be that Lucian conspired against the Ancient—for unlike Seraph, Lucian was unable to forgive.

But do not mistake my words for merely a story about hatred, for it was not hate that bred this war.  It was the love carried on the chests of two Seraphim unwilling to yield to sanity.  Though Lucian was the first to openly make a stand against the Ancient, he was certainly not the last.  For with him came those that remembered a better place without man, Arlis my faithful friend, among them.  But in all great wars, as it were to be with this one, conflict would arise that very few would understand.

#

“I fear of what he may do,” Constance quietly replied as Seraph listened under a darkened sky on the outer edges of the celestial city.

“We are all troubled by Adonia.  He is not alone in his fears,” he reassuringly replied.

“This is more than fear, Seraph.  His senses have gone from him.  He speaks with anger, and distrust . . . with hate.  Something I have never seen before.”

Seraph turned to her, and his gaze dug deep into Constance’s own.  He stood from the wall, and approached her with a lowered voice.  “What are you saying?”

“I have not mentioned it before, because I felt it would pass.  But . . . he is not the same that I once knew.”

“What are you saying?”

Constance lowered her yes, afraid to answer.  Seraph gently grabbed her shoulders, intent on hearing the words come from her own lips.  ”Constance?”

“I fear he is turning away.  I fear he has already chosen to turn away.”

Seraph stepped back from Constance in disbelief.  She reached out to him, but he was unwilling to be comforted.  Moments passed before he was able to utter a coherent response.  “Come with me.”  Seraph began to make his way back towards the city.

Seraph began to make his way back towards the city.

“I cannot.”

“You must.”

“I love him, Seraph!”

Seraph stopped in his short trek.  He turned to her, and he began to see the tears that made their way down her cheeks.  It was in that moment, Seraph saw why his love still ran deep for her.  Her softness is what he enjoyed.  It is what he missed most.  He desired to comfort her, and he struggled with the thought of holding her.  But like any other, willing to sacrifice his heart to keep another’s pure, he did not entertain the thought of betraying her feelings even now.

“We cannot be held responsible for this.  We must go to the Ancient.”

“It will pass.”

“No.”

“It will pass.  His anger will die . . .”

Seraph quickly grabbed her arms.  “No.  No, it will not.  Deep down you know this to be the truth.  You never would have come to me otherwise.”

Constance lowered her eyes from his, and he quickly began to walk away.  She did not follow, and he silently turned to her.  His eyes told her to make a choice, but she was afraid to.  She knew, even then, what it would mean.  He extended his hand to her, and she stared at it with a deepened, settled hurt.  Her hand reached out and touched his, and in an instant, they vanished.

#

I would imagine, even in these darkest of days, the Seraphim do not really know why Lucian had truly rebelled.  Though betrayal started the war, it was the love for the betrayer that fashioned it.

Lucian, who so openly spoke of his concerns of man to Constance, was not prepared for her actions in return.  And when the Ancient had heard of Lucian’ growing spite towards man, he removed him as the first of his Order and Seraph was placed back at the right hand of the Ancient One.  And it was so, that in the moment that Lucian learned of this, he was consumed with bitterness, and his heart hardened towards Constance.

Though Lucian rebelled out of love for Constance, Arlis had rebelled for his devotion to the Ancient.  Much like Barnabas, so devout was Arlis, that he lacked the understanding of the Ancient’s true intentions for man, and the capacity to relinquish his own fears.

And so when night had fallen over Hanos, Lucian and Arlis had banned together a mighty army of Seraphim.  Like in the days before your time with the raging battles between Greeks and Romans, so was the befallen war that ensued with Seraphim against Seraphim.

I am ashamed to admit my own weakness, and be the narrator of such a war witnessed.  Though you may say I joined Arlis out of anger, perhaps out of fear, but I believe it was neither.  The truth be told, I was sympathetic to his cause.  Like Arlis, my love for the Ancient ran deep.  To see his devotion leave us was more than I could bare, and I understood Arlis’ pain more clearly than most.  And so when the first wave of trumpets had blown over the darkened skies of Hanos to warn of our coming, I took up my sword to strike down any Seraphim that
opposed our former way of life.

vi.

The scene was a portrait fashioned for a king.  White light that trailed the tips of blades.  Dark mist that rose from the ashes of the fallen.  As great battles spurred throughout the celestial city, a story was being written, and to any man that would have witnessed such a war, it would have been seen as spectacular.  Poetic even.

But I, Thomas of Hanos, of Haidon, of the Nephilim, never understood what it meant to fight a brother until that day.  For when my sword struck against another’s, a struggle ensued like light over darkness.  Like when the sun struggled and pleaded with the moon to rest, and allow it to rise in its place.

Seraphim fell at the feet of the city, like Harkons at the end of their lives.  And it came to be that throughout the long night, as day never came by the rise of the sun, our risen swords clashed against each other’s blades.  Light against darkness, pride against vanity, a fool’s love against a selfish one—it was the strongest of these that would win, and it had come to clear me that I was on the losing side.

#

I do not know of the number of days that passed, as the Ancient had brought a darkness over the kingdom by bidding the sun to not rise.  But in that time of war, when even moments seemed like an eternity, the Seraphim fought under the light of the third moon that prevailed over the city, and shined its bright rays upon the steps of the kingdom gates.

Under the laws of Hanos, under the writs of the spoken word mentioned in Legiferum ab Hanum, the Ancient could not interfere in the conflicts of his creations.  And so when he had done so, and confusion had clouded the minds of our armies, Lucian and Arlis lashed out with a vengeance.  They felt deceived, and I was among them.

Babble filled the air.  They were words we recognized, but no longer understood.  Ancient utterances of reverence to the Ancient had spared those loyal to him and the preservation of man.

As they fell against our sword, a dark mist rose and seemed to consume them, and yet in an instant with the speaking of an ancient tongue, they were engulfed in a bright light and vanished before our eyes without a trace.

“You cannot interfere!”  I heard our commander, Lucian, roar.  I turned to see his sword pointed high above the kingdom’s gates.  The Ancient silently watched, remorseful, as many of us realized our attempts were being conducted in vain.  “Destroy them all!”  He cried out, as he slashed through the neck of a Seraphim, and another, and then another.

Our armies resumed with great vigor, but I silently watched in dismay, as Arlis approached Lucian.

“We cannot win this way.  It will be an endless battle!”  Arlis desperately said, as Lucian’s sword swung through the air in fury.

“Fight!”

“He’s saving them!”

“I no longer care!”  Lucian roared as he pointlessly slashed through the body of a Seraphim and then another.

Arlis in desperation grabbed his arm.  “Lucian, stop this.  It is hopeless!”  He cried out.  But Lucian did not respond, as he shoved Arlis to the ground, his sword raised over his head.  Moments had passed, and as Arlis lied staring at the blade in fear, Lucian’s eyes turned to see his beloved Constance watching from the kingdom walls.  Beside her stood the commander of the Ancient’s armies, Seraph.

Lucian stopped short of coming down upon Arlis’ head.  He scrambled to his feet, as he watched Lucian’s sword drop to his side.  Lucian took a step forward, and his eyes gazed deeply into those of Constance’s.  Her tender demeanor had softened Lucian’s anger, and for the first time, in a long time, I could see a glimmer of sanity reflect from his being.

“We must regroup.  Rethink this,” Arlis exclaimed as Lucian quietly walked past him.  He could no longer hear Arlis’ pleas.

Out of the dark mist and plume that engulfed their surroundings like a deepening morning fog, a blade pierced through the mist and hurled its way towards our commander.

“Lucian!”  Arlis cried out as his sword stopped a deadly blow in mid air towards Lucian’s head.

Lucian’s eyes were filled with a desperate glare, as he slowly continued to make his way past Arlis and the warring Seraphim.  “There is always hope,” he quietly uttered as his desperation hastened his step, and his walk turned into a quickened pace as he headed towards Constance.

vii.

In a feeble attempt to capture Constance and convince her to side with him, Lucian and Seraph had come to blows.  It initially had seemed during the lover’s quarrel, that victory was to tip in our favor, but ultimately Lucian would lose.

#

I anxiously watched as Lucian ran with a desperate vigor towards his lover.  He cried out her name, but she stood still.  Unwavering.  Seraph leaped from the wall and he and Lucian had begun to charge towards one another, their swords blazing with an all encompassing fire, as they sought to meet each other in battle.

They roared as their swords swung through the air, and at the moment that their blades met one another, there was a thunderous shake of the city.  Both sides of the armies stopped and turned to see Seraph and Lucian, battling with hard and fast fury.

After what I believed to be several days of battling one another, Seraph, though exhausted from his bout with Lucian, had finally gotten the upper hand.  Constance stood out in the distance and had found grace with Seraph.  And in that moment that she spoke strength over him, Seraph, with one mighty stroke of his sword had drove upon Lucian’s own.  Seraph stumbled back, and as Lucian fell against the steps, all Seraphim, were able to see that only half of Seraph’s blade still remained in its hilt.

Lucian’s blade had been dismantled by the blow, and had come apart in pieces.  His body had begun to quake and a roar rose from Lucian’s lungs, in what I could only describe as utter pain and defeat as he realized Seraph’s blade had settled within his skull.  

Lucian gazed into the downward look of Constance’s face and defiance had settled in—he was
unable to accept defeat.  His hands, bloodied and blistered, were no longer able to hold a sword let alone remove the shards buried deep within him.  And so with a roar that shook not only Hanos, but said to have shaken Adonia as well and burp out its seas upon the land, Lucian uprooted the very being within him that caused his flesh to push the broken pieces from his head.  But when the broken pieces had fallen to the ground, two large stubbles remained where his flesh had protruded to remove them.

Though every Seraphim had fought in this war, it was the battle between Lucian and Seraph that ended it.  Weary and unable to go on any further, Lucian exhaustedly fell back against the steps, as all stood by in awe at what had become of him.

#

No Seraphim had ever encountered the wrath of the Ancient.  It was not until the war had ended that we would.  Our armies had lost, and the Ancient’s wrath fell upon us like night falling upon day.  For once it had done so, there was no light, no escape in sight—and it was the same for us.

When the Ancient had come forward to give his decree on our punishment, Arlis fell before him, begging for mercy—but none would come.  The Ancient created a place for us and we were cast down into it, and we called it Haidon for it became our new, dark home.

None opposed Lucian when he proclaimed himself ruler over Haidon.  He had changed, as hatred had consumed his very being, and had become the counterpart to his now beastly appearance.  We
became restless and wandered the desolate, rocky mounded home with our newly-given tortured souls.  We were in agony, for it had quickly settled in that we would never see our beloved Ancient again, nor the only home we had ever known.  And for the first time we felt remorse. Guilt.

The majority of our pitied souls blamed Lucian for our demise, believing that his jealousy of man and his lover Constance had caused us to be outcasts.  And so it came be that another war would take place.

#

After several thousand years had passed, Arlis and one we called Simon, had taken up arms against Lucian.

For his benefit, I should explain that Simon was a causality of war.  The time spent in Haidon had destroyed his mind and soul.  He no longer cared for anything, and opposed everything, all except for what Arlis commanded him to do that is. He was like a pet, like a dog obeying its master.  He never questioned why, he only strived to complete the task.  So when Arlis commanded Simon to round up as many loyal Seraphim as he could, Simon did so without question, never thinking of its consequence, but then again none of us did.

Arlis, desperate to return to Hanos, believed that if he fought Lucian it would prove to the Ancient his true desire to return home.  But Arlis’ coup d’tat had failed.

It had only taken a day’s turn for Lucian to dissolve Arlis’ attempt at rebellion.  When the short-lived war was over, Lucian perceived the ultimate hurt for Arlis and ourselves.  He requested the presence of the Ancient, and when it was granted, he requested that the Ancient himself see to our fate.  Arlis was overwhelmed with joy as he believed the Ancient would find favor with his intentions, but he did not.

The Ancient judged against us, as Lucian was our keeper, and we had rebelled against our master.  And so our souls were stripped from us, and though we had become celestial beings again, we were stripped of our powers and sent to another desolate planet called Terra.

We were branded with a mark on our necks that resembled much like the symbol for snake on the Terra colony Ug’asa.  And though we looked like man, we were considered beasts for we were fallen Seraphim—and so we were called the Nephilim, half man and half beast.

viii.

Our suffering was endless.  Though our knowledge of our former home remained, so did the haunting memories of our very existence.  Arlis became our leader, and with it came a suffering of his own.  He spent his days in pain and agony, and for millenniums he accepted his fate.  But when his suffering had taken over his mind, he decided there was only one thing we could do.  To end the suffering of the Nephilim, he would find a way to end the suffering of man.

#

A small campfire glimmered before us, and Arlis rested against a tree, as Simon and I quietly listened to his drifting thoughts.

“Do you remember what it was like when we were first brought here,” he asked.  I had known that he was speaking to me, for Simon no longer carried the words within him to speak.  He had not for many centuries.

“Yes.  It was almost suffocating,” I replied.

Arlis scoffed as he nodded his head in agreement.  A long silence had beheld him, and Simon absentmindedly watched as a shooting star shimmered through the sky overhead.

“The air is so different here.”

I glanced at Arlis, and the campfire glimmered in his eyes.  My head slowly became erect, as I saw in his eyes the same that I saw a millennia before on the battlefield of Hanos.  Lucian carried the same look.  That look of revenge, remorse . . . pain.  

“Arlis . . .” I began to say.

“It is dirty.”  He glared at me.  “The air.  It smells like dirt.”  His face turned away from me, and down from the hill where we sat, he watched as two warring parties battled on the fields of Argos.  “Like them.”

I turned to look at the stupidity of man.  War was a common place on Terra.  And it was evident that they had not learned from their own suffering for foolish gain.

“Do you know what it is said?”  He continued.  “It is said they are made of dirt.  Of clay.”  I quietly continued to listen as the fire’s glimmer violently danced in Arlis’ eyes.  “One battle, one war after another.  They foolishly destroy themselves.”

“We did the same.”

He glared at me, and I realized that my remark had assuredly provoked him.

“We fought for our way of life.  We fought for providence.  They fight for land, money . . . greed.  They seek power.”

“What did we seek,” I asked, staring with great countenance, as the Spartans rushed the Arcadians and Argoans.

Arlis leaned forward, his mind contemplating a response, as his eyes focused on the battle below us.  The battle was like that between night and day.  It was unbalanced.  The Spartans moved swiftly and with poise.  Their enemy was no match for their unyielding power.

“Absolution,” he finally answered in the darkness.  His voice was calm, and yet in it I heard great resolve.  I turned to him, and a smile began to linger on his face.

There was nothing I could say.  He had made up his mind.  Simon’s absent look continued to dart among the stars, and my eyes cautiously followed as Arlis rose before us.

“Simon,” he called out.

Simon turned to him, and stood from his postulate state.

“Go to the others.  Tell them we move on.”

Simon walked away, and I continued to watch Arlis, my mind wandering upon his own dark thoughts.

“Our time is coming, Thomas.”  He said, as his eyes scanned the battle field below.  “One day.  One day a dawn will come for the rise of Nephilim.”

He quietly walked away, and I closed my eyes, as I realized that war was no longer the tool for just men.  Once again, the Nephilim would birth its own.

ix.

A thousand years before the creation and exile of the Nephilim, a myth was born.  A priest in Adonia had spoken of a lost city called Sion.  He claimed that a man and woman, instilled with the power of the Ancient, had been placed in the city.  They, their gifts unknown to them, had procreated and so the powers were unknowingly passed from one child to the next.

But one day a child was born that was aware of what was inside of him.  And all Seraphim had come to realize that he was destined to become a powerful creature of the earth.  Lucian, realizing that such work could only be done by the Ancient One, became angry and demanded Sion be destroyed, as it disrupted not only humanity, but the balance of good and evil.  Knowing the child was not in the city at the time of Lucian’s demand, the Ancient agreed to its destruction and the ground opened its mouth and swallowed the city as it slept.

We, the Nephilim, were unaware of the truth, and had believed the myth to be only that of a story told by an old dying priest.  But the Seraphim knew otherwise, but never questioned why Sion was created, for they never foresaw what the Ancient had foreseen.

A hundred years after Sion was destroyed, the Ancient sent Constance to a lone man, and he dreamed a dream that revealed the secrets of the city.  When he awoke, the Legiferum ab Hanum claimed that Constance remained by his side and without fear he questioned her.

#

“I do not understand,” the lone man proclaimed as he stared at the beauty that sat before him.  Her body was like wavering silk in the wind.  She had no form, yet she was not formless either.  Her very presence was like a mystery.  The way she spoke, the way she moved, the way she carried her hands as they silently spoke peace into the air.

“Man will one day be destroyed.  It is the natural order of things for you.  But an attempt
at bringing man’s destruction sooner will take place.”

The Fallen Ones?”

“Yes.”

“But they are stories . . . told to us when we are children.  That if we are not good, they will come for us, and we will suffer with them in Terra.”

“Though the stories told to you may have only been used to govern you, the ones that they speak of in them, are very much real.”

The lone man quietly sat, unsure of what to say.

“You must pass what you have learned, on to another, and he should do the same, until the rise of the Fallen Ones,” she continued with much grace and tenderness.

“Where is the child?  The one in my dream?”

“The child is far from here, and safe.”

“Why was Sion created?”

Constance silently sat before the man, and a soft smile was seen upon her face, revealed by a subtle shimmer of the lone man’s campfire.  She finally resolved to tell him.  “The Ancient One saw the impending war.  He knew of it, before The Fallen Ones had fallen.  So he created Sion, so that a child may be born within its walls, to balance out the war that would come to be.”

“That is why they are now men on Terra.  It is where the Fallen Ones are.  It is why the child was sent there.”         The lone man had begun to understand.

“Yes.  There is a purpose for all things.  The child will seed a generation, in which the last of them will become the last child of Sion before the rise of the war.

“Why have you chosen me,” he asked with great curiosity.

“You were chosen for your loyalty, and for your ability to protect that which is most important.”  Constance handed the lone man a plain leather book filled with parchment.  She softly touched his face, and it brought him instant peace.  “Do not be in dismay.  When the time comes, you will know who it is that will inherit the knowledge next.  It is why you of all men have been chosen for this task.”

The lone man gripped the book and silently nodded.  Constance smiled one last time, before
disappearing into a cloud of mist.

#

None of the Seraphim understood why the message was given to the lone man, until thousands of years later when one of the men on Adonia was taken-up by the Ancient, and sent to Terra where he became a Hanoan priest.  There he seeded the knowledge of the last child of Sion to another, and that one did the same.  And so it became to be that one man and one man alone, at any given time, inherited the knowledge of not Terra’s Hanoan religion, but its true origin through the secrets told and revealed in the book of Legiferum ab Hanum.

x.

“So you see . . . we are to lose.”

Zoe’s eyes are weary as she quietly lies against the mound.  Thomas silently waits for a response.

“So she really was the child of Sion then,” she finally remarks.

“Yes,” Thomas solemnly replies.

“Why?”

Thomas turns to her, unsure of what to make of her question.

“Why would you help us?  Why did you ever come here?  Why take us as far you did?”  She quietly asks as she stares off into the distance.

Thomas contemplates his answer as flames rise overhead in the distant city of Ragnar.  ”Redemption, I suppose.  I made mistakes that created who I am.  The only way I could come to terms with my own guilt, was by helping you.”

“Aren’t you afraid of Arlis?”

“Yes, but I suppose that means nothing now.”

Zoe heavily sighs as she closes her eyes, tears streaming down her face.  “Hanoism . . . it’s a lie.  All that we were taught . . . all that I have ever known has been a lie.”

Thomas doesn’t want to respond to the remark, as he can sense her bitterness and disappointment in what she has learned.

“By the Ancient . . . all those colonies.  Ragnar, Cosea, Andrea . . . “  Remorseful and

hurt, her words drift off.

“What is important now is that even as the dawn has risen, there is still hope.”

“And if we win . . . “

“When you win,” he quickly interjects with a reassuring voice.

“When we . . . ,” she can’t bring herself to say it.  “What will happen to you?”

Thomas glances over the mound.  In the distance, on a hill top, stands a tall figure—the rising sun seemingly crowns his head.  In his arms lies the body of a small child.

Thomas turns back around, and stares down at the charred pages of the book.  “It never truly says.”

the end.

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