"Ismael, are you doing fine? You look concerned and pale. This is normal, the longer you go through the process without finalizing it, the weirder it feels. Trust me. I've seen it before."
"Yeah, that's gotta be it. Thanks for looking out."
"No problem."
The Bringer and Cankt were talking regular formulaic words, ensureing they were on the same page, and June was focusing studiously, eyes closed.
"Everyone is doing just perfect, and I'm the one irregular here feeling a blast of anxiety. Where is that coming from? Probably the tales of ancient creatures wandering around, and I mean it did get cold at some point. Unbearable bullshit. If it does happen what will I do? If I do become a Neph, what's next? Then what? I just wander around like them and maybe kill people? I don't get it. I'm not afraid to admit I need guidance and structure before falling to a dangerous path."
"Bringer. Hey, sorry to interrupt. I'm just feeling lost. When this happens, I mean, um, when it's done, what do I do?"
"We'll fight Mars in a long time, don't worry about it. I'll give you instructions when time is due, right now, just focus and breathe in and out, you'll be okay."
"Right."
"That doesn't cut it! I'm not satisfied with this answer! I'll fall into madness way before I turn into anything more than a total killer. Of course it could not possibly be this easy. I've killed Helios and now I cna't even sit straight for two minutes? Give me a break. I am something that nobody else is, I am Ismael. And no one can take that away from me. I've learned to concentrate in horrible situations. I can do this now. Close your eyes. Breathe. Integrate the idea of being a Nephilim. Nephilim Ismael does sound kinda cool. Focus on that."
"Right. We'll begin then", the Bringer called, clapping his hands once. "Ismael. I'll drop my blood, a lot. This time, scoop it up in your hands like water in a river and slam your hands on your face. Let it absorb. Then, solemnly swear that Nara is your king and that you are a Nephilim."
"See? Easy. I knew it, this is in my range."
The blood purged and on his face, began to burn.
"Fight the fire, Ismael."
"Easy to say for you, natural Neph. This burns like my skin itself is made of brimstone. Why do I even bother, really..."
June was kept collected by the words of Anaïs, the way she was reassuring her, she could understand her compassion in her greiving tone. She knew the unstable witch wanted to jump in the seal on the ground and hold her dearly.
"Do not panic nor fret. It is the normal process you're going through right now. Leave it to me. Leave it all to me. The pain and the uncertainty, give them to me so I can protect you."
The Bringer had a different method for Ismael.
"Just take the fire."
"You're the first person I'll kill when this is done, man."
Upon mastering the art of taking pain, twenty minutes in, Ismael asked to be left alone, feeling weak and wary. A sense of incomprehensible dread perforing his confidence he took almost half an hour to build.
A bed, in a room, upstairs. Five hours of sleep that allowed him to completely heal.
"Everything could stop now. All this mess I shouldn't be apart of. And if I die, let it be. If I live, I hope I'll be at peace. Regardless, I'm done fighting."
Ismael opened his eyes on his apartment on the hill, a unique view of Cressenie covered in dust and greenery. Plants and grass had taken over.
He looked at the environnement, recognizing his first home with Gloria.
"I'm back? How?"
Checking his pockets, he found a note.
"You've marked our lives and left us for being burdens. You've made it past the deepest point and now you look down on us. Know death is preferable to whatever's waiting for you on the other side. In case you don't remember, here's what happened. You attacked the Lunatics and your friends, you killed most of us and acted insane the whole time. You killed almost all of us. Because I'm a witch, I was able to save myself and a few from your madness and now I am writing these last few lines with my blood, the last thing I have."
— Anaïs.
"They have the millions of lives, don't they? There's no way I've managed to kill all of them in such a short notice. Or did it take years? How old am I?"
Ismael, knowing the layout of his place despite the now notable differences, went straight to the mirror in his bathroom to get a good shot at what he looked like.
"Nothing. No change. This is what I look like."
Undecisive, incomplete, uncertain, he went back on the bed. After a few sighs a violent knock on the front door woek him up from his pseudo-comatose state.
Ismael jumped off his bed, drawing a gun towrads the door.
"Open up, Ismael, it's me."
"Get out now!"
"What kind of sick joke is this? First I'm back here, then I don't remember shit. Now someone's banging at my door."
Ismael announced he would open the front door and escaped by the window. Looking back at his apartment, the person was aiming at him.
There he knew, how ironic this was, that the perspective he once had of shooting his victims years ago had been switched to let him know how it felt.
"It's her, it's Genova. I can see the blue hair flowing in the wind at the window, the sun reflecting on her beautiful fucking yellow eyes, and the way she holds the sniper rifle. This is back on, me and Genova trying to kill each other for the millionth time...a quick decade, huh?"
"I told you, Ismael. I'll save you from yourself."