Raphael stood motionless, though his spirit trembled beneath the weight of remembrance. The present faded, dissolving into the timeless haze of what once was. Around him, the air of the Ninth Heaven shimmered faintly, restless, as if even the light could sense the burden pressing upon him. The past was no longer memory; it was an avalanche of being, crushing and cold.
He saw it again, the moment when Lilith had left the Garden. The knowledge of it had pierced through Heaven like a spear of glass. The angels had whispered; the winds had carried the news from the roots of Eden to the farthest star. But for Raphael, it was not mere knowledge. It was a revelation that split him in two.
She was gone.
He had tried to tell himself he understood her, that he had warned her for her own good. Yet deep within, he knew that what he offered her had not been pure guidance. His words polished in the fires of self-deceit had been sharpened by longing. He had wanted her to see the truth of the Eternal, yes, but also the truth of him. When she left, she did not seek his aid, nor his comfort, nor his understanding. She had avoided him entirely.
Raphael's wings ached at the thought. His counsel, his faith, his very grace, none of it had been enough to earn her trust. She had looked upon him and seen through him. And in that gaze, he had seen something more terrifying than rejection: discernment. She had known he was not purely her ally, and that knowledge had set her free.
He remembered the chaos that followed her departure. Realms trembled. Powers old and forgotten stirred again, sensing that one of Eden's children had escaped its borders. Lilith was no longer merely the First Woman, she had become an anomaly, a spark of rebellion cloaked in divine inheritance. Angels, spirits, and gods alike sought her. Some out of curiosity, others out of fear, and many out of Lust. For wherever Lilith went, balance tilted.
At first, Raphael had watched from afar, unwilling to interfere. But as her journey continued beyond the veil of mortal comprehension, he began to see what no one else could. He saw her enter the dominion of one of the oldest beings, the Mother of Birth and Death herself, Coatlicue.
The halls of the Aztec Mother were unlike any Raphael had ever seen, even in the highest spheres. They were made not of light, nor stone, but of memory and marrow. Every wall pulsed faintly, breathing like living clay. The air shimmered with the scent of blood and life, as if creation itself exhaled within those chambers.
Coatlicue Aztec was the origin and the end, the womb that shaped gods and the grave that swallowed them. From Chaos, she had borne three sons: Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades. From Ymir, she had birthed Odin, the half-brother, the bridge between pantheons. Each son carried a fragment of their fathers' essence: the turbulence of Chaos and the solidity of Ymir's flesh. Together they formed the first mortal comprehension of order, brothers bound by divinity and rivalry alike.
Lilith entered this house of power quietly, cloaked in humility. She bowed not to the Mother, but to the balance within her halls. She understood what few others did, that Coatlicue's power was not domination, but creation and decay intertwined. For over a century, Lilith remained there, dwelling among gods, her presence neither welcomed nor denied.
Raphael, bound by duty, had watched. Though distant, his eyes pierced through veils. He had seen the way Coatlicue regarded Lilith not as a guest, but as a question. There was something in Lilith the Mother could not unravel, something that existed before clay and blood, before the making of heavens.
But it was the sons who faltered first.
Poseidon, the second-born, had always been the most vibrant. His laughter could summon tides; his wrath could sink continents. Of the four, he was the most alive. And it was that same fire that drew him toward Lilith. She was the quiet to his storm, the stillness his heart could never reach. To be near her was to feel his chaos calm, to taste something he had never known, peace.
But desire twisted peace into hunger. Raphael had seen it in countless beings, the shift from awe to possession, from reverence to conquest. Poseidon began to watch her too closely, speak too softly, linger too long. At first, Lilith ignored it. She had learned the ways of men and gods alike: to endure until endurance turned into power. But when Coatlicue herself began to encourage the bond, the air within the halls grew poisoned.
Raphael could still feel the sickness of it, the tension, the whispers. Coatlicue had seen the potential union of her son and the woman of Eden as an opportunity. A merging of divine bloodlines, a restoration of balance between heaven and earth. Yet she had failed to see what Lilith truly was.
Lilith had not left the Garden to find another master. She had left to never kneel again.
The day came when Poseidon's restraint shattered. Raphael remembered it vividly, the way the ocean god's eyes had burned with desperation, the way his voice had trembled when he spoke her name, and the way silence had fallen when he reached for her.
In that single instant, Lilith's protection, the remnant of the Eternal's mark flared like a dying sun. To mortals it would have been unseen; to gods, it was annihilation. Poseidon's scream was half-born before it was consumed. His body convulsed, his veins turning to rivers, his bones to sand. Raphael had once heard the sound of stars dying, it was quieter than what followed that day.
The scream tore through realms. Mountains bowed, oceans stilled, even the sons of Chaos fell silent. When it ended, only water remained. Poseidon's form had melted into the very element he ruled.
Coatlicue arrived moments later. Raphael could still recall the look on her face, a fury so pure it transcended wrath. Her serpents hissed and wept; her skirt of skulls clattered like thunder. She saw her son's remains and, without a word, turned her gaze upon Lilith.
Every creature in the universe knew that gaze. It was the look of a mother who would unmake creation itself to reclaim what she had lost. Yet something, something unseen stayed her hand. The Mother of Birth and Death froze. Lilith did not move. The silence that hung between them was older than language.
Raphael strained to understand what had happened. In that moment, he realized even Coatlicue felt it, the presence of the Eternal still guarding Lilith, faint but absolute. The same force that once forbade death from touching her now forbade vengeance from finding her.
So Coatlicue knelt beside the pool that had been her son. With trembling fingers, she gathered the water and clay, shaping and reshaping it into the form of the son she remembered. Again and again, she whispered creation into him. But every time her hands met his flesh, it dissolved, returning to water. Every effort ended in failure, every prayer unanswered.
Raphael felt her grief echo across the realms like a heartbeat. Even angels wept that day.
When at last her strength waned, Coatlicue sought the aid of another,the only being who might mend what Eternity had undone. She called upon Ymir, the primordial father of Odin. Ymir came as ice and shadow, his breath freezing entire worlds as he approached. He looked upon Poseidon's remains and saw not life, but potential.
He did not rebuild him in clay. He bound him to the element that he had claimed. And thus, Poseidon lived again, but not as he once was. The oceans became his body, the waves his heartbeat. He would rule them forever, yes, but he would never leave them. The sea was both his throne and his prison for a time anyway.
When Ymir's work was done, Lilith vanished. No one saw her leave. Not even the gods knew where she went. But Raphael had glimpsed her shadow as she crossed the veil, a silhouette of calm amid the fury. She had gone to Kali, the destroyer of illusion, the devourer of time, master of transformation. In Kali's realm, Lilith would be untouchable.
Raphael lingered in that memory, the image of her leaving seared into his mind. For all her defiance, for all her cunning, she had still carried sorrow. Perhaps she had not meant to kill Poseidon. Perhaps she had. Perhaps in her eyes, he had simply become another symbol of what creation demanded of women: submission or destruction.
As Raphael stood in the silence of the Ninth Heaven, he understood the truth that haunted him, Lilith's path had never been rebellion for rebellion's sake. It had been necessity. Every choice she made, every being she left behind, every empire she shattered, had been to preserve one thing: her sovereignty.
And yet, there was a time he had gazed into the timeless expanse of the ninth heaven, and he had felt something stir.
He saw the oceans move. Somewhere in the mortal world, waves churned violently, as though the imprisoned god below still screamed in endless silence. He saw Coatlicue's temples darken under mourning skies, her worshippers carving prayers into their own flesh. He saw Odin watching from afar, silent, knowing that his brother's curse would one day be broken or reach him too.
And Raphael, angel, witness, and a fool felt tears burn his eyes.
The universe had not been kind to its mothers. Chaos had given his sons fire but no wisdom. Ymir had given his child endurance but no peace. And Coatlicue, the first mother, had given life only to be condemned to grief.
Lilith alone had refused the role.
Raphael's wings unfolded slightly, trembling as light spilled from their edges. He felt the weight of millennia pressing into his bones. The story was not his, yet it had marked him deeper than any blade but with that half his seals were undone without much fanflair.
He looked toward the far reaches of Heaven, where the Eternal's throne glowed faintly beyond the veil of creation. "You let it happen," he whispered, not in accusation, but in wonder.
Perhaps the Eternal had known all along. Perhaps this was how balance was maintained, not by mercy, but by tragedy or maybe he was just trying to absolve hiself of having broken the world
Raphael closed his eyes. The memory of Lilith standing before Coatlicue, of Poseidon's scream, of the clay that refused to hold shape, all of it shimmered behind his eyelids like dying stars.
The Shattered Clay had never been just the story of a fallen god. It was the story of every being who had tried to shape love from power.
And Raphael, who had once tried the same, knew what it meant to fail.