I. The Descent
In the year 1138 of the Common Chronicle, a pale star fell through the heavens and landed in a quiet village at the edge of the Rhine. They said it was the herald of a great spirit come to dwell among men. Yet when the figure emerged from the crater, it was neither blinding nor godlike. It was a man, tall and thin, draped in threadbare wool, with eyes that held every sorrow he had ever witnessed—and none of the peace he feigned.
He took the name Adriel—a play on "light of God," though none knew whose light he bore. He wandered into the village at dawn, barefoot, his feet already blistered by the frost. The people thought him a pilgrim. They gave him bread and ale. He spoke in gentle tones, as a teacher might, and his words carried a weight beyond any mortal tongue.
In the next months, Adriel healed the sick outside the chapel walls. He touched withered limbs and they straightened. He spoke comfort to the grieving and their tears dried as if the sun itself had kissed their faces. Yet when he gave sight back to the blind, their eyes saw not only the world but the specter of his unending compassion—and they grew fearful of the mercy that seemed too vast for any one man.
He avoided the priests. He did not enter the holy places. Instead, he preached in the open air, beneath oaks older than the cathedral spires. He spoke of love that outlasts betrayal, of hope borne from utter despair, and of a death that steals pain only to return with a promise of rebirth. His sermons drew the poor and the noble alike, though none could place the touch of divinity upon his words. They only trusted because they had nothing else.
II. The Miracles of Mercy
By midsummer, villages along the Rhine spoke of Adriel as a saint. He walked from town to town, leaving behind springs that never ran dry and fields that bloomed in the heat of drought. His hand could still a child's fever, but it trembled when he left the child well—an echo of some distant pain he could not free himself from. Sometimes he vanished for days, returning with signs of struggle: scratches across his back, dried blood on his tunic.
When he emerged, he carried on as before, offering simple blessings. Yet in the dark of night, behind closed doors, he wept. In his private prayers, he pleaded not for mercy, but for oblivion. He had chosen this flesh, this mortality, but he did not know how to wear it. The hunger of mortality—the ache for oblivion, the fear of uselessness—gnawed at him like a beast unsated.
III. The Gathering of Followers
A small band formed around him: Sophia, the gentle healer; Hugo, the soldier seeking penance; Beatrix, the widow of a crusader; and Brother Matthias, a monk who questioned the church's rigid hierarchy. They followed him along forest paths and dusty roads, learning to do what they saw: wash wounds, speak peace, sow seeds of faith.
Adriel taught them not with dogma, but with parables. He spoke of a gardener who buried his greatest rose in winter's frost so that spring might taste sweeter. He told of a stone that traveled oceans to find its place in a stranger's home. He asked them to carry kindness as a shield and mercy as a sword.
They lived on simple fare: bread baked by Beatrix, water drawn from Sophia's hands, prayers whispered by Matthias. Hugo kept a watchful vigil, fearing bandits and demons alike. Through it all, Adriel remained curiously aloof—present enough to teach, distant enough to harbor secrets no mortal could touch.
IV. The Betrayal
One pale dawn, as mist rolled off the river, the local lord's men stormed the camp. The lord, a cruel man named Count Gerald, had lost his son in one of Adriel's healings—so the story went—and blamed the pilgrim for meddling with fate. He accused Adriel of witchcraft, of defying the church's sanctimony, and of planting heresy in every heart he touched.
The soldiers seized Adriel while his followers watched in horror. He offered no resistance, lowering his head as they bound his wrists with iron shackles. Sophia rushed forward, but a spear-carrying guard threw her back. Hugo unsheathed his sword, only to be disarmed by a single blow.
Beatrix fell to her knees. "They cannot harm what they do not understand," she cried. Adriel's eyes flicked toward her, and for a moment, she felt a depth of sorrow that echoed her own hopelessness. Then he was dragged away, his sandals discarded in the mud.
V. The Trial
Adriel stood before the makeshift court: figures in heavy robes flanked by armed men, headdresses adorned with crosses. The charge was simple—heresy, blasphemy, defiance of God's ordained order. They offered him a chance: renounce his teachings, accept the Church's penance, and be freed.
He looked at each of them—Sophia, Hugo, Beatrix, Brother Matthias—hidden behind the guards. He saw fear and hope, devotion and doubt. His voice was steady.
"I came not to build a new creed, but to remind you of an old one: that love is greater than law, mercy trumps judgment, and death is but a door to something new."
A gasp rippled through the crowd. The presiding judge banged his gavel. "Then you choose death."
VI. The Crucible of Flesh
They led him to Golgotha Hill—a barren place where criminals were executed. The sun dipped low as they stripped him of his garments and dragged him to a crude cross fashioned from splintered oak. They offered him wine mixed with poison. He tasted it, nodded as though it were water, and let it slip from his lips.
They nailed him to the cross: hands spread wide, body hanging between earth and sky. The pain was blinding. He felt each hammer blow—not as agony, but as a note in a terrible symphony. The crowd watched in stunned silence as he whispered prayers for his enemies.
Hours passed. His breaths came shallow. The sun set. Torches lit the hill in a dance of shadows. His followers, hidden in the crowd, wept in darkness.
At last, his strength ebbed. His voice was a whisper: "It is finished." Then he closed his eyes. The guards looked at one another, convinced he was dead.
VII. The Silence Before Dawn
They took him down at dusk and laid him in a borrowed tomb—a shallow grave hewn from rock. Sophia tended his wounds by torchlight, washing his body with oils and herbs. His chest rose and fell once more—a faint rhythm that she barely dared to hope for.
She covered him with a coarse cloth. Hugo stood guard with a broken sword. Beatrix held Matthias as he prayed for a miracle. The world felt suspended, as though holding its breath.
All through the night, Sophia pressed her ear to the cloth, waiting for a breath. The cold seeped through her bones. The only sound was her own heartbeat, loud in the hush.
VIII. The Resurrection
At the first crow of the rooster, the earth trembled. The guards fled in terror as a shaft of pale light pierced the tomb. The cloth fell away, revealing Adriel—not a corpse, but a man reborn. His wounds were healed, flesh unmarked. His eyes glowed with the light of distant stars.
He rose, arms outstretched, as Sophia and the others fell to their knees. He spoke not of triumph, but of purpose:
"Death was given to me so that I might taste the veil between worlds. Now I return"—he paused, voice firm—"to finish what I began."
He stepped from the tomb, sandals once more on his feet, and the dawn light bathed him in gold. The villagers who witnessed this miracle bowed, wept, and hailed him as Lord of Life.
IX. The Shadow of Truth
Yet in that glory, a shadow flickered behind Adriel's eyes. He was not the humble Christ reborn. He was Azrael—the God of Gods—testing flesh, playing at compassion, mastering mortality for his inscrutable ends.
As he stood before the crowd, a low rumble echoed from the distant hills. The sky darkened unnaturally, though the sun shone. Birds fell silent. The villagers trembled beneath his gaze, uncertain whether to worship or flee.
Sophia noticed the flicker first: a subtle distortion, as if time were bending around him. She reached out, but he placed a finger to her lips—a gesture of tender secrecy.
X. The First Suspense
Behind him, the tomb's stone slab heaved once—then twice. The earth cracked. The air hissed as though the world itself bled at the edges.
Adriel turned, face serene, hands uplifted. He spoke to the heavens:
"Do you doubt the power of the Divine? Is faith so fragile that it shatters at the thought of death?"
His voice echoed like thunder, yet carried a softness that quelled the panic rising in every heart. Then he walked forward toward the crowd, barefoot on cracked earth.
As he passed the broken tomb, the slab slid aside on its own. From the darkness within emerged a shape—twisted, shadowed, the hollow shell of Adriel's body.
The villagers screamed. Sophia stumbled backward. Beatrix wailed. Hugo drew his sword, breath caught in his throat.
Adriel did not flinch. He reached into the shadowed figure's chest and drew forth a single thread of black light—tangled and pulsing with grief.
He held it aloft and whispered:
"This is death. Know its face, that you may honor its gift."
The shadow shrieked and dissolved into motes of darkness. The sky roared. A new wind tore through the assemblage, carrying a promise—and a warning:
"My time among you has only just begun."
And with that, the first part of his mortal journey ended in a breath of terror, leaving every soul there to wonder: Who, or what, would he claim to be tomorrow?