Naberus

 

THE LAUGHTER IN THE ABYSS

In the depths of Olam-Chuphshah, where fire glows cold and the echoes of rebellion linger like smoke, laughter still resounds. Not the laughter of joy or hope, but the hollow mirth of one who mocks even his own ruin. It belongs to Naberus—once a President angel of the Raphaelic clan, now a demon whose humor masks an eternity of despair.

In the radiant courts of Shamayim, Naberus had been cherished for his wit. His words lifted hearts, his laughter scattered gloom, and even the most burdened of angels found rest in his company. For his archangel, Raphael the Restorer, believed that laughter itself was a form of healing—a melody that mended invisible wounds. When the 24 Elders anointed Raphael, they named him “The Restorer”, for his very presence could return broken things to perfection. His clan reflected that anointing: they were physicians of body and spirit, artists of renewal, ministers of peace.

Among them, Naberus shone as a voice of joy. His laughter was not trivial but purposeful—an echo of divine balance. When disputes flared among the host, Naberus was sent to restore harmony through humor. His words reminded others of humility, his tone carried lightness that made even Archangels smile. It was said that in times of strain, his laughter echoed through the corridors of Shamayim like music from a golden bell.

But the day came when Shamayim trembled with division. The Ten King angels, outraged by the spared rebellion of Lucifer, chose to leave in what would later be known as the Peace Fall. They did not go as enemies but as mourners of justice, stepping into exile as a solemn protest. And because loyalty was sacred among the angels, countless followers joined them. Naberus followed his King-angel into the unknown, believing that peace could perhaps be found beyond the borders of Light.

At first, in Olam-Chuphshah, he tried to restore what was lost. He brought laughter to the exiled legions, softened despair with his humor, and taught the fallen that joy could survive even separation. Yet that joy was hollow, for the light that once sanctified it no longer shone upon him. The universe of exile was vast but empty, filled with the echo of divine absence. The laughter that had once healed began to wound.

It was then that Satan, now lord of Olam-Chuphshah, saw Naberus’s gift and turned it to his advantage. The deceiver has always known that mockery can wound deeper than a sword. Through laughter, one can twist truth into ridicule and reduce holiness to scorn. Naberus’s jokes, once instruments of comfort, became weapons of derision. His laughter, once a balm, became a contagion.

When the time of the Strike came—the moment the fallen united in their ultimate rebellion—Naberus stood among those who gave consent. Under Satan’s command, every being, star, and planet in Olam-Chuphshah lent its will to create the Arrow of Light, that terrible weapon formed of the universe’s collective essence. It was a thing of radiant power whose heart was darkness. When released, it flew through the void to pierce Ahavah, the Most High, and for half an hour of heavenly time, all existence froze. Even laughter ceased.

That silence was the price of mockery turned to sin. The laughter that once lightened Shamayim had become the echo of blasphemy. When the Spirit of Ahavah rose again and restored creation, the fallen were no longer angels. They were demons, stripped of radiance, bound to the forms of their corruption.

Thus Naberus became the Laughing Demon, the one whose mirth rings through the caverns of Olam-Chuphshah like chains against stone. To the damned, he is both entertainer and tormentor. He mocks their suffering, not from cruelty alone but because his laughter cannot stop. It is the sound of madness—the echo of a joy that once healed but now festers.

Yet the memory of his purpose still lingers within him. There are moments, rare and fleeting, when Naberus’s laughter softens, when a whisper of the old joy returns. In those moments, he remembers the days before the Fall—the laughter that healed the Mizbeach-Halal after the Battle of Michael and Lucifer. For when that sacred altar of worship was stained with darkness, it was the clan of Raphael who restored it. They cleansed it not only with light but with laughter—the laughter of angels rejoicing in renewed purity. Naberus had been there, his voice part of the chorus that sang Shamayim whole again.

Now that memory is his torment. He laughs because he cannot cry. Every jest is a wound reopened, every mockery a memory of what he destroyed. Among the fallen, some say he laughs at the Most High, others that he laughs at himself. But those who truly listen say his laughter hides a plea—an unspoken longing for restoration.

The laws of creation still hold even for him. The 24 Elders decreed that no demon is beyond redemption, though few will ever accept it. To be restored, a fallen must renounce his rebellion, repent of his sin, and consent to be transformed into a soul—to live as a mortal upon Earth, where he may partake of the salvation brought by Yeshua’s sacrifice. Only through that passage can eternal condemnation be broken.

But for Naberus, whose pride masks itself in humor, repentance is the hardest act of all. To admit fault is to silence the laughter that shields him from his own sorrow. Yet perhaps that is the true purpose of divine laughter—to break the silence of despair, not to hide within it.

Some of the watchers of Shamayim believe that one day, when the stars realign and the final age draws near, Naberus will be given one last chance. When the heavens open and every secret is revealed, perhaps his laughter will change—not into mockery, but into repentance. Perhaps the sound that once echoed through darkness will again become light.

Until then, his voice continues to haunt Olam-Chuphshah. The demons laugh with him, not knowing that their laughter mocks their own chains. Mortals who summon him through forbidden arts hear that laughter in dreams, and it chills their souls, for behind it lies the sound of an angel remembering paradise.

In the chronicles of the 24 Elders, Naberus’s story is written not as a warning alone but as a reflection of divine irony: that even laughter, the gentlest of gifts, can become a weapon when divorced from love.

So his question remains, echoing across the cosmos:

Is his laughter a weapon… or the last trace of the angel he used to be?