He was everything you could ever want to be.
Cold as ice, tough as stone. He never once cut himself short, never once doubted his faith. He did not waver, he did not stutter. He roamed the land on his own terms, mercilessly slaying those who dared to oppose him or his goddess, eternally devoted to his evangelical mission.
He was a walking powerhouse, and he knew it—it showed in the way he talked, the way he walked, the way he carried himself. He knew he was unstoppable, for he had Ishmael's blessing, in return for his undying loyalty.
Because of this, many would call the self-proclaimed Arme Thaumaturgy a god.
You, on the other hand, were as much of a legend as the Holy Emissary of the Goddess—yet, so immensely different. You were elusive, silent as a mouse. You were the legend parents would tell their young sons and daughters on Halloween, the scary story friends would share around a campfire, the monster under children's beds and in their closets.
You were Apostasia, the Ruler of the Abyss, a failed product of the goddess herself, an avid denier of her religion. Henir's corruption overtook your mind and body, crippling it to a chaotic shell of its former self. You ruled over the never-ending void of Henir in solitude, manipulating the unrelenting chaos surrounding you as you pleased.
You, the fallen angel, were everything Arme Thaumaturgy despised, and everything he would never be.
"How could you?" A voice spoke; hushed, yet entirely alert.
You looked over your shoulder, only to be greeted by hate-filled, icy blue eyes. You didn't cross paths with Arme Thaumaturgy often, but every time you did, the same question was posed: How could a creation of the Holy Ishmael herself fail so miserably?
How could he, the divine servant of the goddess . . . become you?
"Answer me." You could hear the anger in his voice rising, yet he remained so calm, so stern. You could hear him summon a weapon. One of his holy spears, presumably.
He was here to kill you, he always was. Ishmael couldn't possibly let a failed product of hers roam freely, she had to put you out of your misery. All for the sake of the El, so she would say. You could already feel the excruciating pain of the angel's spears piercing your tainted skin.
". . . she abandoned me first . . ." You whispered, staring down at the black, broken pendulum in your palms. ". . . the mission is for those who will eventually disappear, and I, who was created for nothing more than that mission, mean nothing."
"How dare you speak of our—my God-given mission in such a manner?" The priest hissed. You knew he wasn't pleased with your answer. He never was, and never would be.
"The goddess has let you go free for far too long. You're nothing more than a threat to the mission . . . and now, I will end your worthless existence."
Worthless. He spat the word out with poison, every syllable stinging and echoing in your mind like a sour memory. You knew it was true, you always have. What worth was there in a denier of the goddess? One who abandoned her religion because he was too weak to go on? Ever since you were a Wanderer, you were never up to par with the goddess's expectations—you were lucky if she even bothered to give you the time of day. You truly were . . . worthless.
You let out a solemn sigh as you crushed your pendulum in your hands, your scythe beginning to materialize. You still didn't dare turn to face the Goddess's Emissary, you fully believed he could destroy you with his eyes alone.
You could hear the angel scoff, the fact you even dared fight back amused him. When one who has nothing to live for clashes with one who has everything to live for, they must either be brave, or stupid. You were sure he believed you were the latter. Why else would you challenge him in such a way?
"So be it . . . Apostasia."