second-generation nephilim

probably the first generation angels would be like first-gen immigrants, who have a hard time adjusting to human culture and always referring to old-world traditions of total obedience and smiting and their proud culture of fratricide. the second-gen would grow up with only the stories, which they think about with a strange mix of amusement, disbelief and horror, because their parents are peculiar but kinda very frightening sometimes, you know? third-gen would take the stories less seriously, because didn’t grandpa and grandma go crazy towards the end, screaming about fire and destruction and the apocalypse that was supposed to happen years and years ago? a fourth-gen kid would scoff at the stories and say, “nah, i don’t believe in angels.”

#SUCCESSIVE GENERATIONS OF NEPHILIM FORGETTING THEIR HERITAGE     #the second generation trying to explain away their parents' wild-eyed fervent faith with a shaky laugh and a ''yeah my parents are religious     #nutjobs; don't mine them--let's go up to my room.''     #the third generation who knows only the shuttered expressions and tense body language of their parents when grandma brings up the charge     #of the heavenly armies in the battle for the eastern gate     #and some of them a weirdly fascinated--it's always the later generations that try to figure out their roots     #maybe secret societies start to form--grandchildren of nephilim all coming together to enact old rites     #(or what they think are old rites)     #and discuss the strangeness and divinity they are heirs to; the privilege of their bloodline and the righteousness of them     #they probably call it something terribly pretentious like the cabal of lucifer and refer to one another as morningstars     #but really this just mirrors the sects that developed even in the first generation--when the fallen warriors sought out     #other warriors; guardians to guardians; scribes to scribes; and they all observed and told of different ways and so     #the splintered leavings of heaven splinter further     #they are human now     #what else is there to do?

fake novel meme

ON THE HEAD OF A PIN

Sister Althea Parker is your average caseworker--assessing individual need, facilitating celestial placement, and providing both guardian angel and the blessed assistance through the transition period. (Her office is full of bright, cheery brochures with titles like "Body Language for the Newly Corporeal" and "Being Named A Prophet of the Lord: What Can I Expect?")

Yet when one of her clients is discovered stuffed in a dumpster, his wings torn off and blessed protectee missing, Sister Althea is not content to simply turn the matter over to the Principalities. Instead, she finds herself traveling deep into the seedy underbelly of celestial hierarchy, determined to discover the truth about her client, and find the missing saint.

Along the way, she finds a grudging ally in the unaffiliated Ramiel, an angel whose casual blasphemy and rumored Nephilim past make her dangerous company. (Her habit of blood-red lipstick and flirting with Ophanim doesn't help.) Yet together, they are intent on uncovering the ugly truth--even if it damns them.

ones who have fallen

Later, you will say you met down by the river, that he offered to help water the sheep—oh yes, Rachel was not the first to offer that particular excuse, when a father asked why a young man with a hard mouth was before him, daring.

The truth is something closer to this—there was a man in the shade of a tree, eating a handful of dates and watching you swim. That when you emerged, he tilted his head back so he might meet your gaze, instead of his eyes lingering on your breasts, the swing of your hips.

I am called Tamiel, he says when you ask. I am a messenger of the One True God. Be not afraid.

You are not (though you thought him just a man, then) so you do not feel strange in asking, Do you have a message for me?

No, says. His face is guileless. I just like it here.

Very well, you answer, sitting beside him in the shade. After a moment, you steal one of his dates from his palm, and watch him smile.

Brontide

Brontide—the low rumbling of distant thunder.

One of your earliest memories is the children of the village pelting you with stones, and having to remember to bleed.

.

(In your mother’s stories, you father is a creature of flame and wings, strangeness and magnificence. In all the rest of your life, he is only an absence, sighted slantwise in your reflection on the surface of the river.

You have his eyes, your mother tells you. You wish they looked more like hers; then maybe the villagers would not desire to tear them from your face.)

.

Sometimes strange men pass through the village, men with wine-dark eyes and cloaks that shift and billow even when there is no wind. They speak to one another in a language none other knows, and you follow them as close as you dare, looking for some resemblance to your own features in their strange faces.

Are you my father’s people? you ask once, when the latest wanderers catch you trailing behind, when you will not be turned aside by a proffered coin. I am Tamiel’s daughter—

Some Nephil’s spawn, the elder of the two sneers, regarding you as though you were one of the diseased dogs that scrounge in the marketplace. Pay it no mind, it will leave us alone.

They abandon you there in the street, with questions you are not certain any other can answer. You watch them go, their cloaks shifting without wind, and hate them.

Nephilim and their abandonment issues

first. 
among your earliest memories is of sitting with a twisted rag clenched between your teeth, as your grandmother ripped newly-sprouted feathers from your shoulders, scraped down from your belly. Her hands, worn rough and unlovely, applying salve to your ravened skin.

she stroked your hair afterwards, the only part of you not aching. (you hid the unnatural paleness of your braids beneath katam dye and the mitpahat that was your mother’s, careful, so careful.) 

there, your grandmother always said, her hand warm and heavy on the crown of you head. There, now you are my daughter’s daughter.

you thought that was love, grateful enough to be anyone’s.