This is a weird beginning, yes, but if you can make it through the first chapter, I promise you, it'll get better; I'm not a complete greenhorn at writing.

There'll be Raffryn and Raffryn fluff, but not without a plot line! If you like Raffryn fluff, check out one of my other one-shots.

EDIT: Yeah, this happens after Word After, and complies with nothing in End of Days. I'm continuing it regardless of the canon in that book. Enjoy, if you're willing to scrap all that.

~Benevolence and Belligerence~

Prologue

The massive Nephilim nimbly dances at the edges of the rooftops, just outside reach of Raphael's sword.

Its hooked claws grapple over the hay roof, fanged mouth repeatedly bared in a malicious snarl. Its eyes glow in the vivid evening sun. Long, dragonlike tail curling behind it like the slender tongue of a whip, the Nephilim bristles. How this creature, this demonic beast, had been spawned from Raphael's own warriors, he does not know. But he does know that the Nephilim must be slain before the sun sets, or else there will be no killing the beast in the darkness of the night.

In an act of desperation, Raphael snatches up a nearby torch from the hook on the wall. The splintered wood is brutal to his hand as he lifts the torch up to the hay thatching, almost as if it despises the concept of spreading onto the house. The flames are at first hesitant, as if they cannot fully comprehend their duty. But once they have a taste of their prey, they consume it quickly. The roof erupts into an inferno.

The Nephilim screeches first in confusion. He backs up nervously, balancing on the spine of the house, away from the strange fire, bewilderment gleaming in its wide eyes. The flames dance forward, and soon, he wails in pain instead of puzzlement. The Nephilim hisses at the fire, trying to curl smaller and smaller as the roof is claimed by the blaze.

The heat kisses Raphael's skin, the light burns his sensitive eyes. Raphael stumbles away from the roof as it is devoured by flames, throwing his arm before his face to shield him from the embers taking flight.

The stalks of hay groan and collapse around the weight of the Nephilim, allowing a thousand fire fairies to be swept into the dark night. The Nephilim releases a pitiful wail as it plummets through the burning ceiling, a wail that is soon belittled by the screams of humans as they desert the cottage neighboring the burning building.

Fire had leapt from one roof to the other, and it quickly devours the second home as easily as it had the first. Raphael pays the monkeys no heed, discarding his torch by tossing it over a shoulder.

With a wheezing breath that sounds above the crackling of the fire, a creature moves from within the remains of the burnt house, tossing wreckage from its path to freedom.

The Nephilim bats beams of wood from its path as it emerges from the primitive structure, flanks that were once dark black and covered in thick, tough skin now streaming with black blood and scaly with awful burns. Upon seeing Raphael, the beast's eyes widen with fear, singed hairs standing on end. It rears onto its hind legs as a last mean of defense, cordlike tongue lashing out like a whip to grasp Raphael's sword.

Raphael does not give it the time to encroach upon the sword. He swings without hesitation, throttling power into the blow. The Nephilim's screech is gurgled, hindered by its own blood. Its jaws snap together, a movement that only traps more of the thick liquid in the Nephilim's mouth. A stray tongue winds over the ground like a beheaded snake.

The Nephilim, caught in a rearing position, must eventually answer to gravity's call. When it does come crashing back down the burning timber, Raphael positions his sword and holds steady.

The sword pierces the Nephilim's hide. It shrieks in pain, going limp over the embers. Ashes spiral around the Nephilim's dying form, drifting up with the rising air.

Raphael stumbles away from the heat of the rapidly burning town. He watches grimly as the fire leaps from rooftop to rooftop, sending citizens fleeing. Panic ensues. A building collapses, ensnaring an elderly woman and her daughter inside. Hoarse and shrill screams greet one another in the darkness of the night.

A silhouette forms against the yellows and oranges of the village claimed by fire, a small one, and the only one that does not seem to flee from the tongues of flame. Sobbing with the strength of unmarred innocence, a tiny boy with dark brown hair approaches the remains of the still Nephilim. Bronze eyes reflect the firelight. His cheeks are streaked with glistening tears. A high-pitched cry of mourning escapes his lips. But as soon as the boy sees Raphael, barring the path to the smoldering Nephilim, he pales, and runs through the village.

Raphael snarls, the sound ripping through his chest. His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword. The boy disappears into shadows, but his tracks can be easily traced; a boy, no matter the species, is still a child. Baring his wings to the smoke, Raphael kicks off the burning timber in a swirling storm of ash. Wings fanning the sky, Raphael hovers over the burning town. Embers fly now with the grace of chaotic fairies. Ash clogs the sky, staining his white feathers grey.

Nothing unnatural moves in the town being devoured by orange flames; only monkeys flee the wreckage, tripping over their own feet in their demented hurry. Raphael growls in disappointment, hovering over burning chapel, disregarding the screams directed towards him. However, on the ridge of the neighboring mountain, a shadow quivers over the stones of the caves. It only quivers marginally, and only for mere seconds, but a shadow is all Raphael needs. Grim determination and bitter hatred fill his heart; these creatures are the beings that had thrust his Watchers into the Pit with not a tear wasted.

Raphael sails over the ridge, chasing after the last ribbon of sunlight cresting over the mountains' horizon. He lands before the open mouth of the cave with but a whisper of feathers, hands braced on his sword. His wings furl by his sides, readying him for the swift action of taking to flight immediately in case of attack from the desolate cave. Feet steady on the stone, Raffe takes a single step forward.

And the little boy steps from the shadows of the cave, his bronze eyes wide.

No higher than Raphael's knee, the boy lacks the build or height of a fearsome imp; no, the boy does not look any older than four. His tousled brown hair is tossed to one side. A brown cloak that seems to have once belonged to a full-size adult pools around his legs. The boy cranes his head up to look at Raphael. There is fear in his noble expression, terror, but there is also bravery, and an overwhelming sadness harbored in the boy's gaze.

He blinks twice. "Please, Mister Raphael, remember me, sir," the boy whispers. And then he bursts forward.

Raphael had expected the boy to sharply run to either the right or the left and had pivoted his body accordingly. When the small child does neither, instead bowling beneath his splayed legs and sprinting off, he is caught off balance, a balance that is not easily regained as more and more Nephilim pour from the cave.

There must be nearly twenty of them all. None are quite as large as the first Nephilim Raphael had left to die in the embers of the burning town, but none quite have the petite size of the Nephilim that had darted between Raphael's legs. That particular Nephilim morphs as it runs into the distance, headed for the distant trees, two legs becoming four as they drum against the soil. It leads the brigade, several paces ahead of the second in the train.

The last Nephilim to dash from the safety of the cave does not find the easy exit of its precessors. Raphael's blade sings in his hand, and the beast yelps in accordance with the sword's melody. Dragging the blade from its spot buried in the monster's flesh, Raphael chases after the Nephilim.

Blood roaring in his veins, Raphael inspects each and every Nephilim. Though there are near twenty total, not all twenty are running. One takes to the sky, unfurling a pair of greasy wings. Some of the leaner ones have one or two pups on their backs. One demonic baby shrieks from the shoulders of a smaller beast. A larger one carries a human female on its back.

If timed correctly, Raphael should be able to take two out with one blow if he keeps times his strikes right. First, though, Raphael leaps into the air and brutally stabs the winged Nephilim at the base of its neck. It shrieks and goes limp, neck bones loose. The death of the Nephilim sends a wave of triumph through his veins. The short shot of ecstasy is his sword's way of informing him that they'd slain something, and, after all this time, Raphael is accustomed to the quick jump of excitement in his veins. Tearing the blade from the twitching body, Raphael plods onward.

Nephilim after Nephilim falls, each spurt of black blood providing a new thrill for the game at hand. Some go down gracefully, bodies still mostly intact. However, some tumble in a wave of limbs and snarls. One Nephilim dashes onwards no matter the pain inflicted, forcing Raphael to stab it many more times than he deems necessary. When the beast does fall, it does so of blood loss. The sun creeps lower and lower in the sky, a small sliver all that remains. Soon, only two Nephilim remain, dashing ahead of Raphael with their scaly tails tucked. But the forest is near, as is the protective cover of night.

The wind is like an icy hand raking through his hair, through his feathers. His heart throbs excitedly in his veins, bloodlust narrowing his thought process. Exhilaration on high, Raphael takes revenge on the creatures that'd ripped the Watchers from their glory.

Raphael's lungs heave as he levels out with the Nephilim falling behind, sword light in his hands. The Nephilim's ears press against its skull. A tingle of satisfaction accompanies the yelp of pain and buckling of the Nephilim's knees. Its eyes roll back into its head, and it goes still.

Another snarl, a grisly growl of anger, attracts his attention. Raphael pauses, looming over the body of the dead Nephilim, gaze drawn to the source of the sound. The last Nephilim buries its claws in the ground, turning on a dime. It bares its teeth at Raphael. Rage glints in its bronze eyes. The tiny thing snarls, muscles tensing, and –

Raphael whacks its head mercilessly with the broad of his blade. The Nephilim's eyes roll close, and it falls lifelessly to the ground. The very last drop of orange sun squeezes over the horizon, allowing only a small flicker of light to reflect off the oozing liquid staining the Nephilim's temple.

Adrenaline high fading rapidly, Raphael studies the carnage he'd created: the trail of dead demon bodies, slowly morphing back into those of children, the plumes of smoke and tongues of fire whipping at the sky, the rivers of inky black blood tracing down the mountainside, and the wails of the humans watching their homes burn to the ground.

Leaving the tiny Nephilim's body in the dark of the night, Raphael takes to the sky.

It becomes important to the storyline eventually. Basically, it's my interpretation upon how Raffe took out a bunch of the Nephilim.

Bear with me. Please.

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh