Blake opened his eyes. He was in a large city of some sort, and large towers shot into the air, touching the blue sky as they loomed overhead and overlooked the city. They looked like sparkling sheets of white. Sun glared off of them, and Blake stood up. There were houses that were in different colours, and they were much more beautiful than the houses Blake had always known. Blake walked through the winding streets, and appeared into a clearing. All of a sudden, the grass was torn from the ground and flew freely away, and sand whipped at Blake’s face. Small, sharp rocks stabbed at his legs and cheeks, and he saw the city behind him unfold into a scene of chaos. Reddish light glinted off of the towers, and pandemonium broke loose.

            The buildings shook and tore away from the ground and hurtled out through space. Sand and rocks continued to pierce Blake’s skin, and he felt beads of blood rising to the surface of his skin. He struggled against the gale, and was eventually swept away, and crashed into a, uprooted tree. He looked around him as the windstorm began to subside, and looked at the sky. He noticed that there were men with velvety white wings floating to the ground gently as they flapped their wings loudly. They had stern looks on their faces, and all were armored. When one of them landed, he closed his eyes. A sword materialized into his hand, and in glinted in the now reddened sky. He had pale skin, and long wings. He jumped forward, and as he jumped, he flew. It was graceful and beautiful. He flipped, and was suddenly in combat with another angel; only this one had smaller, cut wings.

            As they fought, Blake found his feet taking him into the battle of angels. He heard speech between the two angels he’d seen first. “Verchiel, you know you don’t need to do this!” exclaimed the one with the smaller wings.

            “It is the job of the Powers to be warriors, and we must rid the world of the disgusting half-breeds that were born into this world by the filthy angels who dared defy Him!” Verchiel yelled. “I will kill those who Fell, and anyone who helps the mortal-angels!”

            “The Nephilim are powerful beings that could save us Verchiel! Why can’t you see that?”

            “I will kill you, Ithuriel! No one will hear your cries in pain, and not even your precious Nephilim will save you!” exclaimed Verchiel. He jabbed his sword out, and Ithuriel jumped back, his wings carrying him up. He twirled his shining spear in his hands, and it began to spark. Blue and gold flames rippled down it, and he brought it down full force from the air and buried it in Verchiel’s chest, and then pulled it out. Verchiel stumbled back in pain, and then frowned angrily. “You may have struck Lucifer with your spear, but you will no longer strike me with it. When I see you again, I will kill you!”

            Verchiel backed into the crowd, and vanished amongst the war. Blake turned away and ran. He was suddenly lifted from the ground, and found himself flying away, sand parting as he flapped his wings. He flew away from the battle, and flew over the city, where there were smoldering buildings and fighting angels below. He sailed to the top of a tower, and watched.

            The clattering of weapons, the cries of the dying and the pounding of flapping wings saturated the smoke filled air. The tower he was on shook, and he felt it crumpling beneath his feet. He fell from the tower. He fell. Just like the angels had Fallen.


            Blake’s eyes shot open.

            He was still in the same room, on the cold floor. He pushed himself up, and walked through the room, leaving it. He got over to the place where he’d fallen from, and looked up at the far distance. Then, he looked around and spotted a thick stone column with a torch on a stone dish. He threw his hands up, and flames jumped from his fingertips and sailed up, touching the torch and lighting it. All of a sudden, he felt the platform he was on lift, and soon enough, he was back at the foot of the steps. When he finally got to the stairs, he walked up them. It was still pitch black, and his fingers had begun to bristle. He swiped his hands over the unlit torches, and they blasted into flames, lighting the way. Nathaniel’s power was pretty cool. His head was still hurting from questions when he emerged from the door and into the study.

            He turned his head and saw Whist sitting on a chair; his head leaned on his hand with his eyes shut. The sunlight that streamed through the window blinded Blake until he adapted to the light. He walked over to Whist, and considered telling him about the notes, his dream and most importantly… Nathaniel.

            Instead, he left the study and went into his room. He shut the door behind him, and shut out the temptation to look into The Mirror. Instead, he sat down with his sketchbook on his knees and began to draw the first thing that came to his head. But there was a problem with that. The first thing that came into his head was the thought of Nathaniel down in the cell that was hidden beneath his house, and the fact that he’d never believed that angels really existed. But know he couldn’t do anything except believe it.

            He let his mind empty out onto the page, and drew the picture. He drew carefully, not leaving out the scars, the broad shoulders and torn pants, or the blood. He let himself draw Nathaniel. He drew the stern expression, the angular features, and even darker and lighter shadows. When he finished the picture, he added colour to Nathaniel’s eyes. They were gold. It was beautiful: Chiaroscuro with a splash of gold. He made sure not to let any power seep into the drawing so that it wouldn’t come to life. When he was finished, he closed the sketchbook and tucked it under his pillow. He considered The Mirror, but then decided against it. He strode past it and walked out into the hallway, and then descended the stairs.

The End

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