Grace rose and stuck in his throat like bile, his very being eager to reach out and dig itself into the boy before him. As the distance lessened immensely, the stains of wickedness burning into the jagged edges of the soul before him were made glaringly obvious. While Nuriel couldn’t see other’s souls as one might think (words couldn’t describe them, and they were too blinding to bear witness to in their undiluted glory; it was more of a feeling, like static electricity in the air or something so close to skin that you know it’s there even if it isn’t touching you), demons left scars. After all, they were creatures forged from the traitorous and damned; they were, in themselves, a monstrosity. Monstrosities who’s brands were very easy to detect if one knew what to look for. For, red painted the entirety of their being, and was impossible to wash from the souls they touched. And, while Nuriel has discovered that there is also beauty in that pain; that the ugliness of the brand of betrayal can be shifted into something damn near miraculous, he knew that the unfortunate who came into contact with that staining wretchedness often fell to it later. That they were the ones most deserving of prayer and of pity. They were the ones that needed it.
Beyond that unacknowledged pain (overshadowing it) was what had drawn the angel to the boy, though. Ancient, humming power. Familiar powerful. Friendly. Welcomed. Xavier’s. But, it wasn’t. Because it couldn’t be. Except, it had to be. It was probable but also impossible. Never had the angel felt more grounded, and that terrified him His spirit was to be untethered but here he was. Stuck in place, facing a boy who he both knew and didn’t know. His best friend. A stranger. ‘What are you’, ‘How dare you say ‘hi’ to me’, ‘What happened’, ‘Who are you’, ‘Hi’, ‘Xavier?’, ‘Where did you get that soul’, ‘You’re not him’, ‘Hello’, ‘What the fuck’, ‘How’, ‘Who’, and a million other questions and statements and words were thrown themselves around his mind. Nothing ever actually left his mouth, however. The angel simply stared, eyes (with a now azure blue flicking just beyond the pupil) dancing over the boy’s features. No names could be placed to the face, but what was beyond that carried many names.
“What did you do?” he said, instead. It was close to a whisper, and honestly Nuriel was surprised bright, blinding holiness didn’t spill from his lips when they parted. Now at his side, he curled his fingers into fists before unfurling them then repeated the process. The question seemed odd to ask a stranger, but Nuriel felt as though he answer he would receive could possibly head off all of the other questions ping-ponging around his head. Even if it wasn’t Xavier— ‘but it is, it is him, it is, it is, it is’, cried some part of him long forgotten. Some desperate, hopeful fraction of the soul that had been used to create him. The pleas sounded oddly like prayer.
An eerie silence filled the inches between them, too prolonged, as if struggling to break free from the binds of speechlessness. Not only was the other student at a loss for words, but so was he. Whatever he was. A human. A demon, A warlock. A goddamn ugly composition with limbs of all three torn apart and stitched to form a young Frankenstein. Was he not the monster, bumbling about, without a clue of not only his surroundings, but of himself? Shelley never revealed whose right arm or left ear the scientist used, thus creating a story within the story, tracing each body part back to its owner. In the same way, Daxon often contemplated the origins of his abilities. Why he could spark his fingertips with flame whilst coiling vines around his wrist? Where did these abilities come from? His whole life was a question mark at this point, yet it manifested from his fatal flaw of ignorance, almost a naiveté. Daxon never fully interrogated his bursts of memory or constant reoccurrences. After happening countless times, he accepted them, considering it routine, as if brushing his teeth or putting new sheets on his bed. Of course there is initial dose of confusion, but he learned to brush it off.
However, this boy could not be a chip off his shoulder, for his mere being was rooted deep into his soul, thousands of feet underground with those of the trees, cradling the corpse. But the corpse of who? Who was the stranger begging him to open up his mouth? There was someone else inside of him, there always had been, yet he had not fully come to fruition until this point in time. It wasn’t the malevolence — it did not articulate, it never did; it preferred to manifested in impulse and mannerisms. Besides, the demon harbored in his mind would growl with a low and raspy timbre, like coal running through razor sharp blades. This voice was male, shrill, pregnant with anxiety and prodigy, yet it sounded like it belonged to one of the students in his class. At first, the voice sounded human, though magic laced its mere words, much like his own. Warlock.
The response prompted now cerulean eyes to blink twice in astonishment; his next response sputtered into mockery. “What did I do?” Blunt repetition transformed with the fuel anger, his own anger. “What do you mean what did I do?” Normal breathing turned into heavy pants. His disjointed mind scrambled to find the right words, but only reflected its broken states through incoherent and nonsensical stammers. “You’re the one who came up to me — so — unexpectedly — familiar!” Calm, the stranger interjects so soothingly. Exhale. “How about you tell me what I did first."
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