Chapter 1: You´re the knife in my lips that will stab my brains
Chapter Text
I am not a reliable narrator, but I have dwelled on this planet for years, and I am the only one who can tell you directly how things truly happened. The only narrator bold enough to defy the silent pact between Heaven and Earth by revealing my existence.
"In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth."
That is what concerns us. My existence likely traces back to something beyond what we know. Perhaps not my existence—my preexistence. My father. Though I never met him, I carry fragments of memories that belong to him. I recognize events that are not mine. My father was one of them—one of those 'mighty men of old, men of renown.'
Have you managed to piece it together? My father was an angel of the God who created the heavens—a rebel angel who betrayed Him out of lust and fathered children with women formed from the dust beneath our feet, the daughters of Adam.
Much has been said about the giants who were born—my brothers, the Nephilim—primitive and brutish creatures whom God had to eliminate. Little is known of my sisters, the Oscilias, also known as the Nephila's. There were few of us. Our fathers discarded us, and many of us inherited such imperfection from our mothers that we died within days of birth. Only a handful survived, hidden from the barbarity that consumed the world in those days. If our fathers didn’t kill us, the divine or satanic wrath that ruled those times surely would.
We could all recognize one another, but we didn’t interact directly—we knew the dangers of drawing too much attention. From a very young age, we learned this truth: if we ever felt out of place, if something about this planet seemed unfamiliar, it was because we weren’t from here. Nor from Heaven.
The Earth is not what it seems. To adapt and survive, we had to follow a series of steps:
1. Do not trust humans. They appear to have rules, but those rules are not always the same for everyone. Emotions must be kept under control—unlike the Nephilim. If we show vulnerability, they can sense it and take advantage of us.
2. Avoid crowds. If you must enter one, always avoid eye contact. The beings that inhabit this planet do not see the world as we do. If we stare too long, they will recognize us as different.
3. If you feel something is constantly watching you, it’s because it is. Disappear and change location. The connection here is more dangerous than anyone could imagine. This small blue globe was created with a purpose, and creatures like me can disrupt that order—and be severely punished for it.
God has allowed those of us who are harmless to remain unscathed—those who have renounced the sins of our fathers and serve Him in silence and repentance. We are merely delaying the end that awaits us. This planet is not what it seems; everything that feels out of place is because it does not belong here, and it is better for such presences to remain hidden. Whoever reveals themselves will be destroyed.
There are a handful like me still dwelling on Earth today—even a few descendants of my kind. I don’t know exactly how some Nephila's managed to reproduce with human men without being punished for repeating the sin that destroyed our brothers, but somehow, many succeeded in forging a bloodline that leads to the Messiah.
God knows why He allowed it; He assigns each of us a purpose. The Earth is filled with hybrids who, at the end of the day, are still creatures of God.
I’ve managed to prolong my life by following the rules I mentioned earlier, and also because a trace of divinity remains in my blood—allowing me to regenerate the decay that time may leave upon my body. I am, after all, 40% celestial organism. As long as I avoid plagues and mortal wounds, my stay on Earth could be infinite. Yet my existence remains mortal.
Some angels were given the option to rescue the Nephila's from the Flood, as we were harmless creatures. Though they could never return to Heaven—and our entry would have been fatal, since our matter was not designed for that realm—the angels managed to create a kind of limbo where our lives could be preserved. I have no memory of that moment, and I never dared to ask.
A Nephila had managed to marry Japheth, the son of Noah who remained the most unnoticed. Adataneses was entrusted with raising and hiding Nephila's after the Flood. Our existence was an open secret, quietly preserved by Noah’s family out of compassion.
My father kept me hidden until the Earth was repopulated. He left me in the house of Tiras, a descendant of Adataneses and Japheth. This led me, under certain circumstances, to become connected with the Etruscans. I share an indirect bond with this group. Though they know there is something unusual about my existence, we have managed to form an alliance and support each other when survival is at stake. They don’t ask questions, and I don’t question the favors they may require of me.
I don’t know exactly how many Nephila's are still alive—we are few, that much is certain. I am one of the last remaining, waiting to see what will unfold now that the arrival of the Messiah has been confirmed. We all feel it—something in the Earth shifted after His birth, as if the energy itself began to vibrate differently. As half of a divine being, I cannot help but feel drawn to His path, though I also feel threatened by it. All it would take is for Him to brush one of my hairs with the tip of His finger, and I would cease to exist.
I feel danger too. The demons now dwelling on Earth are seeking vengeance, for the undeserved mercy God showed in saving us was not enough for the rebel angels. I know what they want and what they think—after all, I am the result of one of them. They will go after the Messiah; they will claim the lives of His children—those they could not save during the Flood. For there is no word with which a father can bear the death of a child, not even in the celestial tongue. Jesus is also a fallen and degraded angel who will pay for the sins of His father.
Chapter 2: Jesus can always reject his father
Notes:
Of course this chapter was written while listening to Ethel Cain. I’m sorry I didn’t continue the story — I basically lost my home and now I’m in zero contact with my mother. I might have some symptoms of post‑traumatic stress, but HEY, I’m writing again!
Chapter Text
Jesus is not simply the son of God, but the descendant of a degraded celestial lineage. This does not deny his divinity; it transforms it into something more complex: a mixture of redemption, cursed inheritance, and inevitable destiny in which children pay for the sins of their parents.
There was a different energy on earth from the moment he arrived; I would dare say these have been the years in which I’ve seen the fewest illnesses. I am still a witness to barbarity—something not even Jesus Christ himself will ever be able to cure—but in some way, life feels a little less heavy
The Messiah was not born like the others. His blood carries the echo of the fallen angels—not by sin, but by purpose. He is the bridge between what was condemned and what can be redeemed. The demons hate him not because he is pure, but because he is proof that even God can allow something as corrupt as humans to bring forth light.
Life itself has always seemed fascinating and beautiful to me; I hold life in my hands whenever a woman entrusts me with her childbirth. Even when I know that a small and uncertain future awaits that newborn life, I cannot help but pause and simply admire the miracle I have been allowed to witness. God has permitted me to hold His creation, and in those moments I feel that perhaps I am not wicked, and that I can prove my worth. When I manage to carry out a successful birth, I wonder if heaven and I might be at peace—if only for a brief instant, for someone else’s sake.
But God never answers me when I speak to Him. Even though I should be content simply to breathe— is it wrong to demand the presence of my creator? Is it wrong to desire more than what He gives me, when I feel I have earned it more than His humans? When heaven closes itself to me, it is not the punishment that hurts, but the silence. In that silence, I was formed. Not as a weapon, nor as redemption. But as a witness.
I was not born of dust, nor of fire. I was born from the echo of a fall, and for years I have waited for my existence to mean something— to be more than a survivor of our creator’s punishment. Perhaps if He were to look at me, I might finally feel real, and I might find peace when I bring my soul to its end.
Curiosity has led me to strange places; it led me to learn about human anatomy which, despite being similar to mine, carries an overwhelming fragility. Humans are so small and so delicate that I wonder why they constantly expose themselves to harm and danger. A single wrong turn of the head, a poorly distributed weight on the knees, or one bad night of sleep is enough for their lives to be diminished—or ended.
Curiosity has led me to study pregnant women, unable to grasp the complexity of the state they are in, how exposed and vulnerable they truly are. Why do they do it? Why don’t they stop? Why don’t they rest? I have had to resort to superstitious myths just to convince a pregnant woman to stop cleaning the roof of her house, because otherwise they seem uninterested in understanding the fragility of their condition.
Curiosity has led me to understand that humans need to prove their worth, even when they claim not to care. Deep inside, they are searching to be seen, for someone to grant them that recognition, to show that they deserve their place. That curiosity made me recognize the human feelings I inherited from my mother.
Curiosity has led me to follow the Messiah in silence on his journey through Galilee. Following him from afar, without drawing attention, I have watched him with admiration and with fear. And although I know I must remain hidden, my curiosity has led me to walk to his camp and see him face to face. Because in all my years on this planet, I have never known a creature so powerful who understood human fragility and, instead of exploiting it, called them friends, comforted them, and healed them. Someone who came from heaven cried with them, felt the pain they carried as if it were his own—and perhaps it was, because I have encountered that same sensitivity when dealing with complicated births. Feeling human desperation is what led me to help and protect so many women willing to give life, even when circumstances were not in their favor.
I found myself asking a question that many people asked when they met Jesus: How can someone like him be anything like someone like me? Because no matter who you were, there was something in him that was just like you.
Jesus is not an angel degraded by punishment, but by choice. He descended into flesh to carry the weight of a story that even heaven does not wish to remember. His cross was not only so that men might see him, but so the forgotten daughters of the flood might see him as well.
I am the fracture in the covenant. The daughter who was never meant to exist. The proof that even the adversary can beget. I am the child of the one who fell—not out of hatred, but out of desire. And now, the son of the One who remains watches me from his campfire while his disciples sleep.
Beneath the vast night sky, Jesus sat in quiet anticipation. Dressed in simple white linen, His eyes held the wisdom of the cosmos. A warm smile played on His lips as He greeted my approaching figure, "Welcome, friend. I've been expecting you." The stars overhead shimmered, casting a soft glow on His figure.
“We are not friends, Rabbi” I said, clutching my headscarf. My voice comes out low and trembling; there is something in his presence that weakens me and keeps me from meeting his gaze. “We are the children of the divine, the ones tasked with paying for a sin we did not commit,” I said, keeping my distance, unable to understand why he looked at me as if I were an aberration against creation itself.”
"The burdens we carry are heavy indeed," He replied softly, "but tell me—do you believe divine justice is meant to punish... or to heal?"
He turned slightly toward me, His expression neither condemning nor pitying—only understanding. A cricket chirped somewhere nearby as the flames crackled between us.
From one of the tents behind us, Simon stirred in his sleep before settling again with a muffled grumble. The scent of embers and dew-damp earth mingled in the air. Jesus reached for a piece of bread from a small woven basket beside Him and offered it to me with both hands—a simple gesture, but deliberate in its kindness.
"You survived much... yet here you sit under these same stars that watched over Noah." A faint smile touched His lips. "What does your heart seek now?"
“I think we’re both cut from a different cloth,” I reply warily, keeping my distance as I watch him. He keeps offering me the bread, though he shouldn’t. Our fathers must be writhing at the mere sight of us breathing the same air. “Curiosity brought me here. I wanted to see the face of the one responsible for my destruction, since I am the offspring of demons.”
“You are not your origin. And I am not the one responsible for your pain.” The firelight danced across His features as He leaned forward slightly—not to intimidate, but to bridge the distance. “Curiosity is a thread God wove into the human heart… even in those with mixed divine blood.” A pause. A night bird called out in the darkness beyond our camp.
Behind us, Matthew shifted in his sleep inside his tent and mumbled something about ledger numbers under his breath before quieting again. Jesus didn’t turn at the sound; His focus was unwavering on my guarded stance.
“If you came looking for the ‘one responsible,’ tell me… what were you expecting to find? An executioner? A judge?” His hands rested open on His knees. “...Or perhaps someone who could understand that struggle between the celestial and the mortal that you carry within?”
“I don’t believe you are responsible for my situation, but your coming marks the end of the celestial beings who rebelled against the Heavenly Father.” A shiver runs through my body. “I am half human—clearly curious about what does not belong to this world—but I am also half angel, and I feel drawn to the creatures that resemble me,” I confess. “This is not an antagonistic encounter; it is simply my chance to finally speak with someone like me. Children of humans, children of the divine.”
“Your existence is not an accident. Every creature serves His purposes in ways that sometimes only He understands,” Jesus says, finally setting the bread aside.
The firelight flickered between them as He leaned marginally forward, “You are unique… a bridge.”
“A bridge that will burn,” I said seriously. “We are unwanted, unnatural creatures. I don’t fully understand why your Father showed me compassion, but it’s obvious He wishes to destroy me.”
“Noah and his descendants were preserved. Does that mean, then, that all the Nephilim are condemned?” Jesus asks me, His voice as warm as summer rain.
“You’re not supposed to give me hope,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want to die for my parents’ sins, but if I must, I’d rather you end it now.”
“I came to earth to give hope, to any creature,” He looks at me with a faint smile, and something in me wants to run. “Especially to those who labor for life. I am not the one who will take your life; I did not come to take your life—I came to give My own. You are so much more than the sin of your parents, Elaria. You do not live under the shadow of His wrath.
“For as long as I’ve been aware, I’ve felt that God has abandoned me and is only waiting for the moment when He can finally bring about my death. He has never drawn near to me, and I am afraid of Him.''
”Do you think I would be here now… if He had abandoned you?”
“Distance and stillness can feel… cruel.”
“All my life I have felt abandoned.” I look Jesus in the face. “I don’t belong to anything or anyone, I’m simply alone… and now you arrive, and I feel…” I hold back my tears, but my legs give out and I fall to my knees, as if after so many years carrying the weight of my existence alone, my body finally needed someone else to bear it. “I feel something I have never experienced before… as if I were dying…”
“You are not alone,” He whispered, His hand gently cradling the back of her head. “I see you. I hear you. It is the weight of loneliness breaking,” He murmured—far too familiar with that feeling of divine isolation. His hands hovered above her shoulders, close enough to radiate warmth yet still respecting her space. “What is dying are the chains that bound you to abandonment… not you. You were never a mistake,” Jesus said firmly—His voice like bedrock beneath rushing waters. “And today… at last, you hear His words through Me: ‘Come, My daughter.’”