Damian dreamed of the Angel.
Beautiful beyond measure, fearsome and regal, the Angel stood beside Damian at the edge of a clifftop. An ancient temple surrounded them both, carved into the sheer rock face of the tall mountaintops. Ivy cracked apart the stone floor and invaded the tall pillars, threatening to bring the temple's facade crumbling down at a moment's notice.
The Angel was naked, though to describe a being such as Them like that was heresy. To be naked was human—bare, exposed, vulnerable. The Angel was none of those things. Their resplendent wings, freed from the prison of chains, stretched out wide, feathers rustling in the wind.
The Angel's bare body was refined, like a sculpture from antiquity—every muscle delicately placed by the grand maker of the Heavens. Even Their manhood, proudly on display, seemed gracefully crafted.
Damian stood beside the Angel, the wind ruffling his hair.
In the far distance, darkness grew on the horizon. An inky, writhing mass of pure black, where once there had been a great city.
The Angel turned to look at Damian, Their golden eyes blazing with the fury of the Heavens. When They spoke, Their words slammed into him with physical force, pushing him back a few inches.
"You desire my power?"
In the dream, Damian looked at the disaster unfolding on the horizon—the darkness threatening to sweep over the lands and plunge the world into eternal torment.
"Yes, I do."
The Angel looked towards the darkness. Slowly, deliberately, They raised one hand.
"Burn."
And then the horizon bloomed with the brightness of a thousand suns, and Damian threw up an arm to hide himself from the fierce wrath of the Angel. But though he squinted his eyes tight, he could not hide from that overwhelming light, from the heat, from the screams of millions of souls crying out as they—