HERETIC

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝟓

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙖𝙜𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙪𝙗𝙟𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙮 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙪𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚. 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣. (Please note, this book has not been proofread and may contain minor grammatical and or punctuation errors. If you find any please feel free to berate me in the comments. Thanks. (￣ε(#￣)

Sitting on a stool with arms folded on the counter and chin resting on his hands there, Ezra stares at one of the beakers of color. Never looking the kid's way, Raphael stirs and mixes more liquids together. Almost dreamily, Ezra stares at the colors, his thoughts far from this place. "I have so many questions." He watches the Doctor stir his serums, unaffected by the boy's wants. Ezra is in shock and surprise and the Doctor shows little worry about any of it.

Coldly, the Doctor asks, "What's your first question?"

"...What religion is real? You know, who's right? Muslims, Jews, Christians?"

"None of them." He blinks in subtle disappointment of the faith he's followed all his life. "The truth is something humans have never understood... They see a being with wings descend from the sky with golden armor and sword in hand, ready to battle another with darker wings and armor of black leather, and humans depict it as a time of trouble when the great prince Archangel arose to slay the Dragon."

Familiar as he can be with religious quotes, Ezra gawks at Raphael's telling of something he sounds like he was there for. "...Is God real?"

The Doctor takes a minute, his manner silently evaluating a right answer for one so innocent. "What is your next questions, Ezra?"

The boy's brow twitches as he grows a little wiser about history. "...Why does Hera take those serums?... is it really because she's sick?"

Looking over his shoulder the man takes a minute to answer. "No." He turns back to the beakers, his gruff tone rolling out the next part to his reply. "She's old."

Ezra studies the man. "If you're the angel Raphael, then you're old too right?"

"Yes... Older than Hera," his voice reaches over his shoulder.

"So the serums keep both of you alive?"

"Yes."

"But Michael and Dantanian are angels, and they surely don't know how to make that stuff like you do, right?"

"There are other ways to stay alive, Ezra." Turning his way, Raphael pours from one beaker to another. "Ways which Hera and I are above." Glancing over his working hands, his eyes settle on Ezra. "But not everyone is."

Catching the hint that the Doctor's answer would be sacrificing babies or something like that, Ezra moves on. "How come demons can live so long? Do they use those bad ways?"

"No... daemons are different."

Tilting his head, the boy ponders, "they're just fallen angels, right?"

Picking up a cloth, Raphael wipes at his hands. "Ezra, a daemon is made by sickness, not sin."

"Sickness?"

He sets down the cloth, looking over the vile of serum he made for himself. "Long ago, there was and angelos who became sick... His body weakened and turned pale... His eyes grew dark circles... Slowly, his wings lost their feathers..." The man picks up the vile, examining it before moving it to his lips and drinking it down. "...That angelos was Aamon."