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Although you mustn’t let it go to your head. A Seraph is still less than a half-Nephilim, as I’m sure you’d agree.”
    “I suppose so, High One.”
    Mimir eyed him, before saying, “Therefore, you’re not a mere pack animal, but a Seraph. You’ve gained status by my finding, and rank within our hierarchy.”
    Joash mumbled under his breath.
    “You should be thankful, manling. Few men have status among us other than as beasts. Yet, with status come certain duties. Fail these duties and you’ll be in danger of sudden death.”
    Joash pressed his fingers against the knob of his new walking stick. What would Mimir do to him if he whacked the giant’s shin as hard as he could? Mimir used words like weapons. They wanted him for something. Otherwise, they would have killed him long ago.
    Mimir’s voice dropped an octave, as if he were being stern. “A disobedient pack animal is whipped. How else can one teach an animal? But a Seraph, he is not an animal. He has rank. When a Nephilim, or half-Nephilim, refuses orders, it’s no longer because of brute stupidity. No, then it is rebellion. There is only one way to handle rebellion. Do you know what that way is, boy?”
    “I most certainly do, High One.”
    “Oh?” Mimir asked, surprised. “Tell me.”
    “One must give the rebel time to repent. But without repentance, once the time of grace is over, the rebel must be destroyed.”
    “Manling,” Mimir warned.
    “High One,” Joash added.
    Mimir stroked his shaggy beard. “Where did you learn this concept?”
    “High One, I learned if from a priest of Elohim.”
    Mimir reached down, and gave Joash’s ear a sharp twist. “Do not try my patience. Never use that word again. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, High One,” Joash said, rubbing his ear, wishing he could ignore the pain.
    The giant sighed. “So, a misguided priest filled your mind with vain concepts. I understand what you’re hinting. Nephilim and First Born are not rebels. We’re warriors who wage a cosmic struggle. In the end, we will win, for only we understand true strength.”
    Joash limped along, more drained than ever. The giant’s words tired him. They were twisted theories, and went against everything he knew to be right. Yet, to speak openly would bring punishment. Therefore, he would say nothing. But it was hard.
    “Unlike your vain priest, Nephilim do not tolerate rebellion. We are warriors. Rebel, and die. If you were a pack animal, a simple brute, the lash would quickly tame you. I’ve taken the trouble to tell you this for several reasons. You are more than an animal, the first reason. The more important reason is that soon you will have to forswear your silly allegiance to the Overlord. You will give your allegiance to me. If you resist, you’ll perish. And that, manling, is something to fear.”
    Mimir lowered his voice, and leaned down. “If you sufficiently earn my good will, I will let you partake of the mighty gift of immortality.”
    Joash looked up sharply.
    “Ah,” the giant said, “so... you understand about the Tree of Life.”
    Joash looked down, clenching his walking stick. As easily as that Mimir had tricked him, and he hadn’t even had to speak. The giant was cunning.
    “I’ll be back to teach you more.” Thereupon, Mimir increased his stride, and hurried toward Tarag. No doubt, the giant dashed to tell the First Born that Joash knew about Eden.
    Joash massaged his aching forehead. What did Mimir hope to accomplish? Confuse him with words, or find out things from him? He didn’t know, and he found that depressing.
    Joash blew out his cheeks. This was all so hopeless, so vain. He mocked himself. How could he do anything to stop Tarag? He was alone, useless. The white-haired men at least carried heavy burdens. He couldn’t even escape because of his wounded thigh.
    Joash gripped the end of his walking stick. He couldn’t just play the dim-witted pawn. He had to do something. But what could a thigh-wounded human