Dxd: A demon Among Devils-Chapter 20: []:Nephilim

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The former Fallen glared at her oppressor in hatred, but could do nothing and finally looked away. He could see the tears of anger that were threatening to form in the corner of her eyes.

"See?" Mittelt said primly, "I like this Raynare. She knows her place."

"She was once your comrade," Dohnaseek snarled at her, "You could at least act cordial."

"So?" the girl snorted, "She lost any usefulness when she got her wings torn off. We should have just left her in that damn church to rot."

"For someone marked by the Light for redemption," he interjected before an argument could start again, "you have substantially gotten off on the wrong foot."

That shut her up. He turned to Dohnaseek who was still glaring daggers at the youngest Fallen.

"If she is this weak, why have you not taken her away to recover?"

"Well," the man suddenly appeared uncomfortable, "we were hoping you would help with that."

The corners of his mouth lifted upwards into an unpleasant smile. This was going to be interesting.

"A Fallen that has lost her wings is vulnerable. The angels have always hated us. The same goes for devils. If either side finds out what has happened to her, they will not hesitate to take advantage of her condition and terminate her. We were hoping you would grant her a place to stay temporarily. "

He wondered idly if the man had gone mad.

"Why would I do that?"

"You are Metatron's avatar. You are his Voice just as he is the Voice of God. If she cannot be protected by you than there is no place on this Earth where she will be safe."

Is that what they believed?

"She tried to kill me."

Dohnaseek scratched the back of his head uneasily.

"We were hoping you would look past that."

"She tried to kill my friend."

The man grimaced.

"We were hoping you would look past that as well."

He gave him an impassive look.

"You hope too much."

A dry, bitter sound made them turn. Raynare was laughing, though from the look on her face she might as well been crying.

"Kokabiel promised me the world," she croaked out, "He promised me so many things. He tempted me with forbidden knowledge, weapons that would wreathe the world in fire, things that even angels would desire. And I refused them all. And then he tempted me with love, and I fell willingly," the woman pawed at her stomach, where Metatron's blade had slid, "Look at me now. Cast down. Broken. Battered. And now beholden to the tender mercies of a human."

"And do you regret all of that?"

She turned to glare at him, and to her credit she did not flinch when he met her gaze with a cold smile.

"I do not regret loving," she hissed, "But I regret everything else. I regret becoming Fallen. I regret doing all of those dark deeds. I regret not spitting in his face as I should have done when he first approached me. But what good is that? What good is regret now that the deeds are already done?"

"You would be surprised," he commented idly, "It was regret that saved your lives, after all."

They stared at him.

"I asked him to kill you," he said, completely unperturbed for it was true, "He asked me to spare you. I agreed, and here all of you are."

"But my wings..." Raynare murmured, "...they were my judgment."

"It should have been your life," he countered and she fell silent.

"Who are you?" Dohnaseek asked again, but this time his voice was trembling, "Who are you to cast judgment upon us? Who are you to have an Archangel plead for our lives? Who are you?"

That was a misrepresentation of events. He did not judge. He merely accepted. And Metatron did not plead. It had asked, and he had agreed. In the silence that fell, the man's eyes continued to grow wide until they lit up with realization.

"Nephilim," he finally whispered.

He frowned.

"Nephilim?" Mittelt laughed, though her tone sounded far from sure, "Is that what we're resorting to for an explanation? Legends and old stories?"

She turned, saw the look on his face, and all the haughtiness within her vanished in an instant.

Nephilim.

It was a title, and nothing more.

Sandalphon had called him that when he drew it forth from the fusion of the ultimate Moon Arcana.

Raphael had planted its diamond pommeled blade into the ground and kneeled to say that word to him.

Gabriel had smiled at him when he called it forth from the Arcana of the Empress, and sang that title to him in its soft, melodious voice.

And Metatron. Metatron whom he had made from fusing the greatest of Archangels, whose rank amongst the Heavenly Host was second to none except God Himself. Metatron, whose pride as the Voice of Heaven was renowned almost as much his hatred for the demon. Metatron, who showed only indifference to those that were lower than it, had stared at him behind its gleaming mask when it first appeared in the Velvet Room, summoned by a being that should have been all rights inferior to it.

"Nephilim," it had said, and then bowed its silver head in deference.

He could still remember Igor smiling that crooked smile as they both beheld the heavenly being that floated before them.

"I have been the Proprietor of the Velvet Room for many of your years," the old man had said, fingers steepled under his chin as they always were, "and have seen the unlimited potential humanity has to offer. And this," Igor swept a hand towards the angel of silver and steel, "ranks among the highest peaks," the smile turned into a leer, "You, my friend, have been a most interesting guest."

He had no idea what it had meant then. He still only had an inkling now.

Nephilim. Only a title and nothing more.

They stared at him, the Fallen Angels. Even Raynare, who no longer appeared bitter, who had lost her baleful, harsh expression. It was to her that he nodded to.

"She can stay."

He hated how the iron tone of authority had crept into his voice.

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