Chief of Heaven's Greatest Creation

[fearooren-blog]

☾     Charles

          —— ⊰☩⊱ ;;;           What had it been, that busied him so? Of what did his hand search for before inertia took hold of his body, stilled his heart and drained what little color his flesh held? Charles, for some passing moments, held nothing in mind than that of immediate, feral instincts to flee. Conscious reason, however, told that such an act would be entirely fruitless. So, his hand falls. His heart once more beats again (had it truly stopped, or had time stood still?) - his skin, balmy, sweat having flared from nerves set aflame. He exhales. 

           He takes a deeper breath. 

           “...insufferably.” The response is an ironic one but, he has learned not to play too coy with entities as these. Entities that, for sheer sights of them caused watering to his eyes, a soft sensation of burning, reminiscent of the Cherub’s very touch he has grown to solemnly miss. It is difficult to gaze upon him long, so Charles does not. Instead, to bow his crown, not desiring much movement. It is these next musings, the next query that poses true hesitation to his throat. Of course, naturally, if this being must be so high that sight alone may spurn him, then certainly he need not truly answer. However, to not do so would be a gross lack of respect. It is simply that Charles acutely loathes the sudden vulnerability, uncomfortable where he even stood. 

            “I... I’m content to serve in any manner chosen of me, allowed of me. It is not my place to complain. My thoughts…” finally, movement. The glasses are taken away, a free palm to rub without mercy against lidded, glowing eyes. “I’m… content… to serve alone.” 

          And by chance, he only takes interest in those select few his most favoured came to visit here and there, moreover only takes interest for so long as they appear of sorts divergent and conflicting to the high norm of many a thousand that came to visit and plead and beg and were meant to leave with empty hands and even emptier hearts. By these thoughts, it may be just so favourable that the youth had stumbled upon him in a moment's stillness of time when all he had was time to spare and no busying orders to be taken from high and chiming voices above.

          So he watches the happenings in ways that have played countless times before those shining and all-knowing eyes of his. And was not meant to move all else but the very shift and turn and walking past without truly making any noise at all. It was always the same [ and he hears such mercilessly the fluent transition of frightened thoughts ]. "You are honest, I do appreciate that." For the first word that tumbles from lips and seems as if airhad been taken from the young man's throat, held captive and wanted [ desired, needed ].

          "Are you fearing what you see? Or are you fearing the pain I might bring you, from breaths taken, and glances stolen just alone?" Frightening feral inclination to all but flee and hide from a being who knows and knows [ and would never stop pulling strings like fervour tears upon single limbs ]. "I merely ask you to answer me in ernest, not to ponder what I know. Be more honest just, dear child, for I mean you no harm." Death's reach and its all-encompassing grandness - he means none of it and was as calm as a lake's still water. "As I meant none to the ones you call dear and loved as well."

[fearooren-blog]

☾     Roberto Nicholas

            And there is, all in all, only so much awe a human body can hold and mind all at once. The entire affair strikes him as unutterably dream-like, scarcely believable, and that may be why he is calm in spite of himself and the shudder of his quickening heart. This cannot be real, he almost wants to think–though he feels entirely tangible to himself, too much so to believe that passing fancy his faltering mind concocts in adherence to reason. It’s dreadfully ironic to him that he should be so quick to doubt the very existence of some wonderful and palpable magnificence as this–a touch of bittersweet, perhaps thinking a man like himself should never be one to deserve lay eyes upon a spectacle so divine as this, and that is surely why this must not be real. It is, however. He can’t, whether or not he might try, make himself believe it is not. He could not imagine a voice like that into the reality of any uneasy dream. He could not invent that kind of splendour that lingers lambent and wonderful above him, nestled in architecture that pales in comparison to the glory of something from a far greater design. In its wake, he is unnaturally still, beyond the struggling blink of his bright blue eyes–wanting to drink in the sight of this moment and drown that human disbelief (that very human feeling of being unworthy.) He can feel his pulse staggering with its own eagerness; amazed, like his eyes, like his thoughts.

              The voice in all its mystifying charm somehow soothes a restless laying deep in his bones, and revives another in its place from the very bottom of his thoughts. The sensation is almost joyous, the way those words ring through him to rectify one of man’s many and more minor mistakes, and goodness only knows there are so many of them besides the mere impurity of their language and retellings. He breathes in again until his lungs ache with fascinated elation he cannot describe or understand. That piece of him that always wanted to believe dares to wake inside him like some slow-opening flower having first met the sun–the fragility of that comparison seems apt to him.

            “I…almost dare to think that you are something heaven-sent. I can’t put a true human name to your face or design exactly, shameful though that might be. Forgive me–it might always be impossible for men to understand things they have never seen before, as much as we like to invent them.” Though Roberto has never dared to really invent. He steps closer by the will of some huge and burning compulsion that he is only faintly aware of. His enraptured gaze follows reverently the chilling display of deathly, bone-like wings that crane from his visitor’s back, majestic in every fashion they are piercing. Demise springs to mind in a way that is still not yet grim enough to shatter the Italian’s glowing wonder. “You are splendid, but fearful. You might even look akin to some agent of death or other to me, and yet I still feel nothing malevolent from you.”

          And in a human, childlike wonder had always been in a sliver interesting to the creation, for wonders like these, the very emotion and ability to do so beyond what was already known [ knowledge was so sure, securely limited ] had never been enough to stir a being that was all-knowing. And would never be able to be anything else. So he sits and waits and all but watches what would happen once words and questions of his own had been uttered in the grandness of an otherwise silent hall. And finds himself not moved a single inch more by what the child does find as an explanation for mind as scattered and shaken as its very own. There is no intention sure paid to it, and no chide at all would be placed upon it either. This is just how it always was. God's creations were forever so utterly fascinating. Especially to those who could not believe, while they wanted so sure believe in something. Anything. And find themselves captivated and caught, chained down once himself, or one alike, would appear before them.

          So he does not move. Still sits pleasantly and high above the awe-stricken someone, stuttering and finding just a margin of reality before something that should be so surely unreal. The only things that move about him are the wings that fold and limber to get more comfortable and create a rest for striking physique. And deliberately seem they quite so feeble and breakable. A delicate construct that could dare to dream and fill with nightmares the mind awhole. "There lies a flaw in humanity. That you strive and want and always eagerly reach to understand what would be impossible for you to comprehend." As so is the fall of belief. To place a mind and an explanation to something that has only marginal any worldly explanations to offer - and himself? He truly has none at all.

          "See it like this,---" Always. He would never change.

          "---you feel no malevolence from me, even though that your mind does tell: Harbingers of Death are to be feared by those that love life and grasp for it with feeble hands." Hands bone-like and thin, brittle to be broken with one swift hold in iron grasp. And so he gave an answer and replies to nothing quite at all. "So if I say it so, why would I be here? Who would I be for you? Descended upon earth, with no means at all? Mind does race that there has to be an explanation for it. For sure, those that are the heaven's creations: they need reason to be, reason to wander, reason to stay." And it's brushed off the moment he says it so. Into the wind's chilling nothingness with shattering wings, all else drowned out and no sound to behold.

          Eerily still. As if the very air itself was too shy, too afraid to disturb upon this conversation. "Alas, there was already a fault in my speech." A willing one. "For I am no Harbinger of Death, as they are all my own to command." Tranquil. Fine. A design above all else, for he was God's finest. God's greatest creation. "And I linger about, just because it is my desire."

[fearooren-blog]

☾     Mekhi

              “Mm. That’s the one. A sweet, smart boy, our Aramis–but I daresay most of us things on earth struggle quite a bit for some originality, regarding what we ask of our higher powers. Not many questions we can ask in our short lives, and there’s rarely many we ask for the first time. History does repeat itself, eh? I wonder how many times you’ve seen that happen.” Thousands of times over, he has to hypothesise. The curiosity is quick to creep up and sink its hands into that encompassing awe with its depthless might, seemingly all at once. Even with Mekhi’s steadfast belief in the strange and fantastical, the sudden appearance of Gods from seeming fairytales escaping his student’s head is never to be taken so lightly–and particularly not this kind of creature and the whispery scent of Death that clings to them almost like a kindness. Not a very often sense of things, that. There are things that remain surreal even to the magician, he has discovered with no small amount of delight. Still in the wind that slicks back his hair from his admiring expression, Mekhi huffs out a sound not unlike a snicker.

              “Why, yes. It is correct.”As should be the least of what’s to be expected from heavenly designs, he imagines. The feat in itself is still intriguing by way of the magician’s wondering of, exactly, where that intrinsic wisdom comes from. Peering into minds? Listening to the stars, like angels do? From the lips of their maker himself? He can only wonder behind the smile that politely lifts his mouth. A step nearer, and then another while the man ponders aloud. “Perhaps it is better we don’t put names to unfathomable things, in your case, though I mightily prefer it. Seems strange, not having a name for our Gods, but that’s possibly the mortality in me speaking. We do seem to love putting names to things.”

          And that idea of compassion for one or the other amongst thousands and millions never really settled in the greatest's mind as much as he finds it more so novel to entertain a thought like this. Everything dies and withers and vanishes away, no matter how grand and immortal the thought of them truly might be. It is nothing short of a tale sung a thousand times. Nothing short of a history that repeats itself endlessly before those wise and contemplating eyes and still - a personal favourite of his comes to mind [ and defeats the thought present prior - but only for now, only for once ]. The youth of a heavenly creature that would bounce around him with unbridled fervour, finds himself more and more inclining open the design’s eyes for emotions that were quite so humane. Made by the Chief himself. And shouldn't Verloren accept it as just? With open arms and open mind?

          "As many times as mortality would never be able to comprehend. For each and every thinking, feeling creature would make the same mistakes, endlessly. Inexorable." So he stands and all but waits when that awe-filled someone decides to bridge that gap himself was sure so uncaring about. Decides to ask questions, without asking them at all, and there's that stark difference between that unruly and free little boy, and a man that had [ apparently so ] seen more than one would even imagine. But he does imagine it all. Completely and entirely with each piece of skin and hair that had breathed in hardships - or none at all. "You would do wise to not call me a God, for I am none and was created by the Wielder of the Heavens himself." And said creator, had he not given him all that wisdom that would be so sure unfathomable to humanity's greed that lingers and reaches and would be burned the second hand would grace holy form? He's still so surely, so perfectly unmovingly still. Past the slight tilt of his head, as if to echo an innocence in purest, snow-white shades.

          "Alas, if you truly desire to claim my person with a name. 'Verloren' is what I am called." Quaint. How surely quaint. "And my role is the judgment of souls. The one to know it all. I know all you've done - and surely as much - know all that protégé of yours does endure as well."

[fearooren-blog]

☾     Mekhi

;; @fearooren

             “Ah.” The sight is familiar, if only by dint of a troubled description shared over wine, one late night. Not terribly long ago–distant like a dream would be, and close like a breath overside his nape all at once. There is no mistaking that quaking inside that clenches at his nerves, familiar in no small part to the way Aramis had elaborated (while Mekhi only wondered, almost with envy.) The sight of this grand design now is closer than he ever imagined it would be. There is no understanding what it is that shakes his bones at the sight of these strange, divine things, no matter how many he has seen and touched, in dreams or in would-be deaths. He feels. That is the closest thing to understanding that he has.

           “He spoke of something like you. But he could speak for days and not translate a drop of what it truly was, to see. I’m sure he has even more questions for you than he ever had of me.” And Mekhi can sympathise, with the way his chest all but burns in this unexpected company. The wind lifts the tails of his coat, but much else about him besides his blinking eyes is perfectly, unnaturally still. “He never mentioned a name. Is that a thing you care to give out to wide eyed wanderers very often?”

          And he is perfectly, unmovingly still himself. Watching after that wondering someone addressing with questions, what he seemed to have such a hard time addressing, and once it falls from awe-widened lips, it became quite logical, quite understandable, but however, nothing the creation wouldn’t be aware off in these few fleeting seconds of rummaging thought. “He – the Cambion.” For the design knows. And Verloren does so truly know everything, in the way his voice would resound around them and still fall so perfectly, echo-less blatant in its grandness. He does not smile, nor does he truly move. Motionless, set to shifts, yet so truly, excellently placed. “He spoke a many things once I met him, and still hadn’t uttered any questions at all that were past what I had heard a million times before.”

          And so he rises and stands and moves not at all to brush off clothing from this or that fine flimmer of debris that tumbles around them in the up-picking winds. “I do not care to give a name as more often than not it finds itself unneeded all the same.” For names are just something manmade and given due to the need to explain what was so surely unexplainable. “If you desire to give me one, be free to entertain a thought, your own is sure known to me. Mekhi, is that not correct?” And he knows just, how truly correct he is.

[fearooren-blog]

          Scattered souls of wavering faith, were always quite so easy to filter out. So easy to see amongst those masses of flaring colours [ be those dark and dulled or bright and shining ] and even simpler to pick out whenever the Reaper might just desire to mingle about with those that were so truly - utterly - mortal. One could call it a stark amusement burning vividly inside of him. A wave of interest, made invisible [ missing chime of facial features, calm and unmoving ] before he rises words and voice towards that lost boy now being far too close in his reach.

          "Are you troubled, child?"

          So it exclaims itself with a rising voice, that rises not beyond a silent whisper [ and was still ringing sure so clear ]. He sits there, as if waiting for an end that will never come [ knowing to it all, and being all-present as well ], and decides just, to listen to sorrows with questions that are already answered. "Rare just, to find a Vampire within those that believe in God. But are you happy with such, or are you hesitating in your thoughts?"          || @fel-ode-se ♡~

[fearooren-blog]

devilesque:

             “Men and monsters and angels alike. Yes. They are not meant to unite and much less to beget children. They are gone, those sorts of offspring…usually the very day they are born to begin with. Those lucky few that aren’t, they live in the shadows with any other strange things like or unlike them. We are all secrets, essentially. You’re not wrong in saying that they would be mistaken to betray their true selves.” For what a kindness it is they have lived even long enough to bear that secret for themselves. Aramis remembers to count what few blessings he has to be alive, untouched and in debt to the feeling heart of a somewhat-father and a mother left behind him. 

               “I may have met nothing else yet with a devil for a father, though you remind me of something I might have met instead.” Something he has longed to see again for many a year, and yet still hasn’t, not once in his drifting months moving from place to place. He blinks at that, brow furrowed, pondering whether the reality of his old memories may well have been a dream, some fanciful vision–not unlike the image of this silver being looming ahead that Aramis determinedly saunters closer toward.

               “So you collect the souls of the dead, do you?” The description is apt, the title a fitting one for something such as this. There is a quietness to their person that is only too suiting for something that cavorts with death and all its connotations. “I see. So that is how it is. That would be a fearsome title to some. Though you echo with more divinity than what such creatures are often spoken of with. Tales have not truly done you justice.”

          And such very few of small little souls have they all not seen? Those that were never meant to be, and yet would wander this world in the shadows, hiding from this or that greater or lesser evil that desires to devour them whole for selfish reasons. A reason as selfish delight - that, apparently, profits the 'collective' as a whole [ or so they proclaim ]. Still, Verloren himself couldn't even begin to be bothered by this petite life that managed to flee their destined end and would find itself now in front of the one that could eradicate all effort with the single swipe of his hand. He couldn't even begin to truly ponder - and wouldn't past the tilt of his head that seemed such as much a curious wonder. "Frankly just, between those that bring life, or demand death, none are meant to be seen by something as feeble and breakable as a human's eye - or the ones of far more powerful, far more regal beings beyond them."

          And so many had stood before the Reaper, demanding and demanding - and still be ground to dust by iron fist. It is a good thing. A favourable thing, that apathy was to reign beside endless powers.

          "In a sense.” In a sense, he does all the things. Has seen all the things. Has done all of them as well. “I remind those I meet of many a curse. Of death, of demise, of hope and of a future." So he speaks and wanders and follows a trail a soon to be deceased, slow last breaths taken, calling out for him into the night. "And that 'tales' have not been sung about me in correct belief, is for the reason, that tales have not been spun in my likeness, but in the likeness of many others, I call my own. Messengers and heralds and those to summon my reign." For how was it possible for a single soul to triumph it all? [ For a single being of grandness to judge them all. ] And so he closes, with a soft certainty betraying tumultuous powers. "I am God's greatest creation. The harbinger of demise for any and all - I am not what you perceive to be of a Death God's kind, for the Gods of Death themselves - are under my order alike."

[fearooren-blog]

apos-teriori:

             Even stride through autopilot holds to convey him rather quietly. His mind, a muss - elsewhere off and far parted from the current familiar spaces abound him. Notes, figures, reports - findings of the stranger, more unusual aspect of work held in lonesome hours. Gloved fingers thumb through the mass held, the information spiraling inside his mind. Something, albeit, feels odd. Out of place perhaps, or may be entirely normal, halted in steps to pry himself from pages of somber news. Perhaps one may pen it to designed instinct, an unsettling sentiment the shadow conscious perceives, though the waking conscious does not.              Not until, that is, the query is spoken - and Hiraga’s heart quivers. This voice… was absolutely phenomenal. Wondrous in octave to rouse his very skin alive, something prickling, as if at once he felt the organ entirely whole. He has not noticed his breathing ceased until the body demanded for it, a shuddering form of gasp. He swallows none too easily before finally turning in direction of that heeded voice. “Roberto has… seen you?” Scarcely a whisper, though coveted with gaiety. 

            The sight before him stirs weakness therein gracile limbs; Timorous, though ventures further. Enliven, however falling mute each time the mouth parts to speak. He has not the capacity for aptly receiving that which is inhuman - may only there stand idle, for a brief time, before he by force of will may well speak again. 

             “I… confess that I held no knowledge of your being here, please forgive me my ignorance.” A breath, quickened - “I’m… I’ve come here for the work of my hands demands of me reports. Ah…” so abruptly flustered, having realized, perhaps, he speaks with by far too much familiarity. It is so then his crown falls, accompanied by nerves newly flared. “I apologize, I do not know of how properly I ought to address you. Please forgive me.” 

          And all but reminded the entity is, that in commonplace, his very visuals are alarming, breathtaking, shaking those unbelieving, those halting themselves before his very eyes, to the core and leaving them without words to pursue an answer well-deserved to be given. Even just, the creation does never change, for how uncharacteristic of someone so surely inhumane would it not be that they adjust to fancy of a human mind. So he does not move, nor does he even shift, and all but watches with eyes of shining lilac colour, the way colour all itself would drain from the child standing so in awe before him. "Yes, I call upon him from time to time." That voice of his without any clear resound, for Verloren does not will it, does not want it, an offered secret for a lost little boy, shared and still kept [ and immeasurably grand in regards to the minuteness of personal kingdoms ].

          More so, the Chief's creation seems so truly unmoved by staggering admissions murmured forth in the spell of having asked to confess. As if right now and here, presence 'unbeknownst' to the heaven’s greatest, would be a fault and of displeasure [ while being none the like, for he knew this boy and knew - too well - what hides behind intelligent eyes ]. So a hand does rise from where he sits and all but ushers the youth to calm, slow and soft, near evocatively, bringing back reality to a mind that should not be quite so reverent [ how laughable just, must it not appear? before a design as grand, as unique as his own ].

          "Ease, my child - I do not mind your uncertainty."

          For he hadn't minded a hundred else sorts before this one. Hadn't even thought and pondered about that multitude of little souls around him in impressionable feelings trying to attain what the Reaper calls his own. "I am called Verloren, and I merely frequent this place in regards to the Pope needing aid with worldly troubles." Needing aid with so much that brings no thought, no interest to something as omniscient as himself. "This place here is my stay for mere moments just, I will leave soon enough again and rarely do tend to engage with the likes of humanity. Don't be so frenzied, for I mean no harm."

[fearooren-blog]

 ☾ || Earth

@fearooren

        Scarcely ever has traveling been permitted - kept off and parted from his person as some loss love. This ancient misery cascades as easily as water, though, for each step removes from him some foul bitterness for the absence of much no longer so sorely aches. Still. Still, much has changed. The air presents itself stranger, the soil more quiet, somber than before. Nothing at all entirely lost, but - enough. Enough for wry being his smile, softening only upon this presence once near enough itself to be noted by his own weakened essence. 

         So, to smile with more true jubilation in this holy place, and softening is just what his tone, portrait, person has become. 

        “Should have known one to be, but - you, specifically…” while not having sighted the being, still speaks the earth with greeting. “Would you indulge me, I wonder? Though if you’re here - perhaps time is not so expendable…” 

           And how he's all but pondering about that unexpected presence' movements that chimes and sings and calls faintly out to him. That 'earth' itself was set to wander, and wander indeed in the welcoming presence of the Chief's most grand creation - the one that all but brought Death upon this world, for the spirit to now stand before him, ushers life to blossom, bloom and strive. He's not unfriendly by choice, and would never be unfriendly to something that so truly, desperately, seems to search for a company long lost.

          So despite not being quite so visible, speech does not elude the design, and so softly words ring out from nowhere to be found. "Perhaps, just for today, time does find itself pleasantly available." And so he moves, moves and shifts out of the shadows that formerly devoured him whole, and sets foot right to stand beside that slender spirit that just so much desires an engagement unexpected.

          "What leads you here, so I truly wonder? You seem quite so lost, even that the world is yours to hold."

[fearooren-blog]

▌ Shamsiel

             “Good. That’s good. If nothing else, I may as well make myself useful to you by those particular comforts alone. That is a fine way to be useful in exchange for your company. Something is more than nothing.” Quid pro quo. Shamsiel is happy knowing he takes nothing from his elder without the exchange of something, perhaps needful or perhaps not, but something all the same in return. A slice of one another’s time, a fraction of the favourite’s company, a share of the cherub’s intrinsic benevolence to warm that depthless solitude. A fair, funny little trade they’ve worked out silently between themselves through handfuls of visits from a golden child so eager to glance into the other man’s world. 

               And such a world it is. His eyes dance, uncertain of where to be and wanting with silent delight to be everywhere as they stroll and meander together. It’s never any different when he comes here. His newness leaves him still powerless but to be in awe of the pulchritude of things. His innocence always leaves him still to wonder of Verloren and his certain, haunting beauties–those that seem somehow to him like the only fitting ensemble for the immensity of death itself. A sound stirs at the bottom of his chest at that, contented and easy.

               “I am glad that you do.” Gratitude twinkles in the timeless colour of Shamsiel’s eyes. His footsteps follow tamely through the sacred ground of the favourite’s garden in light and even strides that neatly skirt after the man’s turned back. A sigh shivers newly on the air. “Rest assured it is not just you, though he has his unique ideas about us all. Camio is not comfortable in anyone’s company. He is wilder than we and cannot rest one place without wanting to be somewhere else. He’s strange, isn’t he?” Stranger than many of his brothers besides him, at least, enough to keep Shamsiel perpetually busy with pondering it. And that, he supposes with a lofty hum of the moment’s finality, is to love and to mind others as dearly as he would mind himself. He has Verloren to mind at this moment, and the beginnings of something that feels almost like a secret that he seems suddenly eager to share. His face brightens with a wave of blinking curiosity, sauntering nearer to that gesturing hand.

              “I’m eager to be enlightened, then.” As he is always eager for whatever whispers or worldly things the elder decides to share with him. They tread deeper into the emerald flourish of the garden’s tranquil beauty, and Shamsiel is only gladdened to see it can grow more beautiful still. The world seems to open up into a newer one entirely, to an alcove of a slightly different loveliness altogether–the glittering chorus of water takes his eye at once, and charms the air with its powerful song. Woodnotes chant around them, and the cherub is moved in the simplest of ways by natural delight as he steps tentatively deeper into this little realm unseen before now. “It is…truly wonderful here,” he starts through his smile, “though I mind Edens of my own, I am no less filled with joy at the mere sight of yours, you see? This is a beauty belonging only to this one, I think, as all beauties are unique, and so is the joy that they bring me.” He laughs his songful laugh, watching the water foam and swirl at the waterfall’s edge with keen, bright eyes. “I’m happy you have shown this to me.”

          And that quiet arrangement in spending time with one another, was one that he all the more gladly entertains in the endlessness of an otherwise chosen solitude that brings him just the calm needed, just the time in his everlasting life he truly decides to take upon himself and understand the fine intricacies of the different creations of the Chief himself. Shamsiel is just one of these little creations, just like that more wild and rebellious brother of his, and one he minds with the same attentiveness as the young cherub does mind him from time to time [ and in these thoughts he still doesn't quite understand ]. Maybe it will come in a few years he decides to have the youth at his side, maybe it will never come to him why the precious cherub is quite so enraptured with the creation's presence, for all that he finds worth his time. It mattered not - this one was his favourite, personally.

          Maybe, maybe just - he will have him know if a few more ticks of the clock pass by---

          "This Eden of mine is created by personal ideas and thoughts. Accumulated together due to travels the Chief had sent me upon." A hand that rises towards the branches of a tree, one of the very few to hold no means succumbing will to the very incarnation that is Death's beautiful grasp. Stroking along the unimaginable, before letting softened structure go anew. They minded one another in ways that were unheard of [ whispered upon by other youthful ones, following the Heaven's greatest creation like small fledgelings to follow their caretaker ]. But not a single one of them had yet seen the very hidden depth of Verloren's own mind - and nothing else but his mind would show itself on endless display.

          With the softness of trickling waters. The chiming sounds of a breeze to travel among young sprigs of newly growning trees. The uniqueness of this place to leave Shamsiel in well-deserved awe - it is a true novelty simply because this very place, this sudden organism, was changing and shifting and designing itself afresh upon the return of its very owner's desirable grandness. And a perfection like his own, how little did he not care about it in the company of something such truly pure, such wonderfully elated upon being shown what the entity had just neatly craft. He couldn't help but wonder, how wondrous this all might appear before eyes that are so easily drawn in by the sensations created by the hands of a being like himself, couldn't help but hum when he reaches out anew to take a flower of unavowed design and carefully pluck it off from a low-hanging branch.

          Shining silver, singing with the interwoven colours of golds and reds and discovering itself in a craftsmanship never attained by anything that was only remotely of mortal greed. With three kinds of petals, sprouting afresh - a Heaven's creation - bestowed upon the youth by Verloren's very own hands. "It will grow into another plant once you bring it to one of your own personal gardens. Do not be afraid, it won't die as long as I will give it to you." And a gift unlike any other [ for he had granted all but entrance - and only that - to a select few with the help of his Kor ] was to be settled in the boy's reverent grasp. "It doesn't have a name yet. Name it for me."

[fearooren-blog]

demiroirs:

                Though he has tread upon the echoes of these same footsteps time and time again, though he has spied every glorious piece of this world within a world, he is not numb to the newness to its splendour that the basilica has strangely seemed to have gained. He is not immediately knowing of where it has arisen from, in this or that familiar bit of artistry, or what to make of the unknown something that swells and hums in his veins, very close to pleasant, and only two shades nearer to being unsettling. Something is certainly curiously different tonight that Roberto does not understand, nor can puzzle out through the sound of his own voice that recites aloud passages pored over numerous times before.

                But it is not his own voice that echoes back to him. And those are not his own words bending around the walls with a radiance that chills him as his voice makes short its fervent recounting, and his blue eyes swim over the known scenery that enshrouds him. “What…?” His brow furrows at the sight of no-one surrounding him, and the sound of no more words to accompany it. A shiver of time. Unease moves him to speaking. “…And so? You aren’t going to tell me how it should be properly spoken, now?” he ventures into the sudden quiet, daring for an answer, searching for and expecting a face–something, anything. But for a long, terse while, there is not a soul in sight. That is, until his eyes search unexpectedly higher to stumble upon the unworldly vision of something far above him; a thing that is grand and great and utterly unlike a single creature Roberto has seen before–no matter its divine, uncanny likeness of a man that does nothing to quell the race of the examiner’s pulse at the sight of it. For fear, or awe, for wonder or alarm–there is no making sense of the confused storm of things that rattles through him all at once. He must look such a small, amazed sort of thing from where that grander design sits on high, for Roberto becomes little if not a picture of wide eyes and a wondering mouth that parts, hopelessly at first, against the crash of things he so sorely wants to ask.

                 A flawed recital being the very least of his worries, for now. “…Who are you?” bleeds from the priest in drones of hush and heavy bewilderment he is ill equipped to express. Both calm and not in the face of this inexplicable something, Roberto merely stands, and stares, and dazedly, earnestly questions. 

          And so a design like no other sits and waits and all but watches nestled alongside company unmoving, unrequest to speak and surely quite so unwilling to. It is a curious little happening that the creation even desired to raise a voice in the quiet hours of an enshrouding night, and it is even more curious to see that this human child had meant and made to find him in the echoing grandness of an, even more, mind and thought-devouring hall. Only had Verloren’s murmured itself out, because verses and rhymes recite sounded so truly - utterly - misplaced in being serenaded alongside all but loneliness to be an everlasting companion. And so loneliness had been made to disappear by the Heaven's will, now to be found and recognised and eyes to wonder, ask in awe.

          And still not recognise anything at all. " 'My son, if your heart is wise, then my heart will be glad indeed.' " So it sounds out by wish to behold. To be heard and felt in the righteousness of words long gone, long forgotten, brought to life in all but an Italian tongue, confusing itself with nothing else but the unrelenting grasp of a language formed and changed and brought back to life. " 'My inmost being will rejoice when your lips speak what is right.' " So mortals fleeing the Lord's inevitable punishment had written down the sayings endless tune. Had brought to hope, where hopelessness only is to remain and find a true solace, only in what they behold of ethereal making. Of those beings, like the child's own may to espy, widened in disbelief, while belief and faith inside these halls, chimes itself in reverence to questions tingling upon the boy's tongue. He could have called it nearly, like his most favourite would do, endearing so. Could have called it such, if not newer words were to stumble, mould themselves to life and find an ear that only so - rarely just - would lend itself.

          He's wondering sometimes [ and in these moments quite not ], why Shamsiel fell in love with humanity as a whole. "Who?" So the being echoes just and sounds truly surprised himself. If said echo would not be, if listened to closely, the near picture-perfect symphony of the lost boy's voice. "Who do you think I may be, my dear child?" Perching like a vision out of a dream, amongst the beauty of all but mortal craft. Being otherworldly beautiful himself. "For you seem to assume I am anything but what you know and call upon your memory, riddled with questioning glances of awe, of uncertainty. So who do you think, I may be?"

[fearooren-blog]

☾ Shamsiel

@fearooren

               “That one there. I do not see him through your eyes, but my own, which yet are still young and unknowing of many things, yet…” He ponders earnestly, with a certain hush to his gentle voice that sounds out as soft as the dying breeze somewhere far beyond them–his dark and wide and earth-like eyes are poised with near childish interest upon a particular someone that prays at this glorious temple today, and Shamsiel seems–as always–strangely touched by the gesture in a way he does not quite describe with word or sound. He blinks once, brows high, expression full of an unusual sympathy. He does not look yet to the elder at his side that brought him here, that ghostly vision of divinity far older than his own, silent, waiting.

               “I see that something trembles in him that may one day become a fine sword, should he hone it well. I see that though he is young, he has a great age to his heart beyond his years. He may become a world-weary ruler, or an unsung hero. Quite possibly…” The thought runs dry on his tongue at that, and his head shelves itself curiously to one side. The quiet is sacred around them for a time as it lays undisturbed on the air that eclipses them so, that Shamsiel only tentatively pierces again with such a kind voice, with such innocent eyes that delve for his elder’s image.

                 “Verloren, what is it then that you see? Do our eyes perceive things all that different? I understand things in a way most unique to others, or so I am told. But I would like to understand things in the way most unique as well to you.”

          And he had brought the curious youth now here with him for one - or another reason yet to be told. Had brought the innocent cherub to all but sit and listen and watch, announce his thoughts whenever they find themselves such curiously raising guiltless head beyond and above what another many brothers would tell him in the heaven's far beyond about information not to be found else but in the earthen's offering womb. So Shamsiel sits and listens high above those that manoeuver through a temple's beautiful design, and offer words of pleads and wishes for many gods known to mankind, yet unbeknownst to be heard by two so close to the creator's very person.

          Verloren himself is attentive to the softened hush. Attentive to all the little ideas bubbling in young mind and behind bright eyes that have yet to see all the wonders of what warriors and Kings, peasants and nobles would strike up in their pursuit of this or that personal history written by ink and quill. And how the little angel seeks upon his elder the questions still unasked, answered with wisdom far beyond anything ever known. "My eyes do see nought much different than yours, Shamsiel, but in finer nuances, the threads that twine themselves through the young man's soul, the little ways of parting fate, that could - like you said - make him all but a fine sword. Or yet a hero told upon in legends."

          And that, in itself, was the first difference the creation offered wistfully speaking into the quiet of sudden murmuring air. In the noiseless movement of skeletal wings, a being he sends away to catch him something eyes of his own alone were able to perceive. "Your purity is what makes you see beyond the shell of mortal sins, you see quite right and well, what humans wandering your way would want and desire - before a word may even leave lips in reverent devotion." For he wonders and sees as well - if all were to settle right, Shamsiel himself may become a want to worship [ and yet, so the entity knows, he truly desires not of such ]. "This boy you spoke about just moments prior - he is unique amongst his kind. A hero to be made, striving everlasting to fight against the corrupt and tainted."

          Free hand, left from his Kor's very grasp, would rise now, point beyond, towards a young female drawing closer. "And corruption is all-present still - look into her, will you not?"

[fearooren-blog]

          And after a while, an unlikely encounter became such a usual one. The way he would sit and wait for a lost child. For one that all but finds the entity engage him with riddles and missing solutions upon the way of speech he extends in uttering words without apparent rhyme or reason [ answering questions in ways that only more arise ]. It had become such a normal little thing, that one might want to wonder why he ever allows it to happen [ had the Chief not ushered him to be here for other reasons just? ] and yet finds himself without a single mind to it all.

          A regular tiny thing - but there was no surprise in the sudden irregularity that shows itself right before him in the shape of someone else. Someone new. Someone that had the possibility to find the creature sitting low and in reach [ not upon his usual perch high above ] and found with eyes closed waiting for the inevitable - today the smallest bit changed and turned.

          Still, there was no way for him to be truly caught off-guard [ Verloren knew, he always knew ]. "Do you seek something, my child?" But still, asks as if he decidedly tries to be closer to unknowing human being. And surely is nothing of it at all. "Or is there a reason else, instead of simply 'finding' me, that you are here in your partner's stead?"          || @apos-teriori

[fearooren-blog]

          The quiet of a neverending era. Swiftly passing by, in the endlessness of life. He wonders, sometimes, how those on earth would feel the shifts and changes of weather, of seasons, of what humanity calls 'time' [ seconds, minutes, hours, days and years - how quaint ], for heaven itself has none the like and strives not to need it either. It's often enough that one would visit him, would curiously pass him by and seek conversation where none should be needed [ perchance, it was wisdom they wanted - or simple company ], of a kind much younger than himself, fluttering for disposable time, and still be cradled wholly by the Chief and himself.

          One of those very souls roams through the vast expanse of space, wanders closer to him as being announced by excited whispers. As being proclaimed to him when a hand reaches out, reaches for that skeletal, small being, now to perch dutifully upon an outstretched hand.

          "Do you seek something, Jethro?"

          With how low and soft, and nearly drowned out into the noiseless surrounding his voice could just appear. With how he knows of the youth without even needing to spot him, when long wings unfold, bend and stretch, to fall back to calm in means of decided pride that - yes - it had found its master answers never truly sought [ as they were all steadily in his mind ]. "Or have you gotten lost in your stroll? How unlike you, shall this be of truth, or is there something I personally can do for you?"          || @amarulentking

[fearooren-blog]

          Still and quiet, unmoving past the shallow breaths taken in lungs that betrayed being there at all, for his chest does not heave, his eyes do not avert, his whole vision is as still as the picturesque pulchritude fringing appearance in their golden glory. Sitting up high on the apse. Out of view of human quarrels and wonders, desires and grievances [ sitting so wonderfully unmoving, he may just be a statue quite as well ] until the large structure of mortal greed and beauty, would fall into the glimmering darkness of an upcoming night. 

          He had seen the Pope today. Listened to his sorrows and held no mind to them, still found words of placid comfort and unyielding truth. Of a wisdom far beyond that of any existing spirit’s alike [ only par to his creator’s very own ], before wandering his way in hopes of a far simpler, a far softer kind. So the entity wonders quietly---

          ---what does one of his favourite ones do? He should invite him sometimes. Should lead him around and have him sit with him, to watch little souls of boundless desires, wandering by again and again in offering their pleads and wishes. 

          “That verse, my child, was recited wrong.” 

          So he rises with voice upon the chiming low murmur of a holy book’s verses, that all but tumble and split open, by this or that word’ unknown applications [ to be thrown towards the oddities of language restrictions ]. “Albeit, as it is, I should not chide you for that. Languages of time long lost, I shall not expect them to be fully understood.”          || @demiroirs

[fearooren-blog]

☾ || Kain

                Just as the devil is always endlessly wise beyond his youthful, human little masquerade that feigns innocence, owns none, and smiles with the sly, cold truth up into the other man’s face. He knows and remembers, understands and has experienced. The game of keeping it all to himself is one that delights him so entirely in this dull little world, for how very unusual a circumstance for an old and ancient brethren of his to be left void where his mind once was his memories will one day be again. Oh, of course, Kain reminds himself with a wry little sneer and a toss of that dark head to one side–of course it’ll come back to this once-cherished favourite some day. But not now, and not by Kain’s hand, and not by anyone’s but the chief’s very own (perhaps the way he’d prefer it to be, a victory won not with any wisdom but his own.) He hums again, a careful tune of thought and mirth that purrs in his throat as he saunters merrily after the other man’s footsteps. “And such a pity that is, knowing I have never lied to you. Though that doesn’t imply I do not conceal, and there is plenty yet I might conceal from you out of the joy of a particularly fascinating study.” A sage nod is all the follows, a sweeping glance upon the creature gifted to his person that Kain is not shy to admit being pleased by. Intently, he wanders the Kor’s design with curious eyes and a curling smile, a breathy stir of his dulcet laughter. “No,” he agrees at that, “I’ve no intentions of damaging it when instead I might keep it. As a great collector of oddities, it would wound me to do otherwise.”

                  Though Kain has broken many things with these small, deceiving hands that should belong to something kinder, something sweeter. He knows he will go on to break many things too, in this life and whatever one he concocts when he chooses to be someone else. He huffs at that, a  brief and pondering reverie crossing his momentary silence at the very concept–for reinvention is always a bottomless pleasure–though the idea of it is intercepted at once with the present as his company speaks from where he saunters ahead, and Kain simply twists his mouth into a telling little smirk. “Precisely that, Ayanami. We do nothing that does not please us in some way, and our wills our entirely our own. I will not leave until I’ve grown past what enjoyment there is to glean from your dear, troubled company–or that of your people. For no place is this for a man looking so humble as I, though I daresay that’s far from what will inspire unrest.”

                  As those dogs of his would surely know better than to trust what they see and would know what they feel. The allure of what certain chaos he could sew in his visiting wake is a pity to ignore, only with the settling agreement that he’d far sooner mind Ayanami quietly, with his unkind humour at the man’s floundering expense–even knowing the man is far from helpless. A brow then only arches as the chief makes a declaration almost unexpected, an immediate reminder of that very thought. He oughtn’t have known, or so he liked to think. About the nature of toys and troubled young minds that Kain has already torn asunder into his dark little Eden to keep and covet. A pause lengthens, the implications considered. Blue eyes follow the shape of the other man’s turned face, not quite with wonder so much as with contemplation. He knows. And Kain supposes at that, with a grin and a growling pride rising in his chest, he might as well know more. “Oh, hardly boring, I would say. I would even venture that there has been no better distraction from my bored and endless dissatisfaction than he. But I am full of greed that no one thing can sate, and my amusement muse be spent in places besides merely one–as delightful as any one place might be.”

          And Kain has always only been a pest unparalleled in all that time he had been alive [ how quaint to think that, how strange of a knowledge - given all he has slain ], and would continue to be a pest until thoughts may come back to the Chief of Staff of a time long lost and surely 'shared' with this one now so easily sauntering after him,--- "Just like a dog. Wagging your tail at my feet all by yourself to get an attention that should mean nothing for the likes of you." And yet surely does, so much he knows and perceives and is easily able to realise in taking step after step inside otherwise empty hallways. It's easy and well that there was nobody around this time [ it would be a chore to explain how a stranger had come in this place ]. "Call me what you wish, and if it is a 'fascinating study', so be it. We will see what happens once I gather again, what surely is astray for now." And how utterly easily capable he was of knowing it would come back if time need be---

          ---he knows, knows so well. There was a moment for everything in someone's meagre life [ human shells mean so less and nothing at all for either of them ]. The Kor itself would be regarded out of the corner of his eye, a very sure thing that drawls out between them, as much as the little demon might be a collector of said 'oddities', these kinds of peculiar little fancies should not be unknown to him. A slow extending of skeletal wings, when its master's eye lay upon it - that is all, and all there will be to it. "What will inspire unrest in my men, is merely the fact that you bother and trouble me past any need be. And perchance the fact that I let you linger around while disposing of you should be a better option - a more understandable one."

          So the soldier says it all with the rise of a hand that Ayanami just waves a little later at nothing but empty air. He knows that he will be questioned for choices of letting a foreigner run free and be quite a nuisance for the high ranked officer himself.

          Knows that there will be no answer given past the nearly imperceptible rise of strong shoulders in a shrug and the disregard with words that tell to issue one's troubled thoughts rather back to own professions, than his very own fancies and affairs [ and it wouldn't matter who does inquire. not the highly decorated disposal, neither his dear partner's query - the Chief would dismiss it all ]. And surely, the latter of his thoughts rummaging around his mind would be the one to see through that deceivingly soft image of something quite as breakable as the man now following him suit. Would know that there is a stark and important reason for these little adjustments, these little acceptances. And oh, how truly interesting, that bringing up something he should not be aware of, would be one of those common and casual acceptances both men might issue between one another. Might allow between one another in unspoken acceptance that one would be 'torn apart' by eager hands. "So I see. That one little human-like creature that truly is no human at all." So he knows and knows even more - yet 'Kain' decides to give him plentiful, to be prideful of said fancy little possession he keeps in his hands and is all the more greedy about it.

          "It's interesting that you do not break him beyond what he desires from you - alas - I know, know it very well. The man works in an organisation that had contact with my own. Such a high-ranked little one he truly is." But past any work-accommodations, he never had contact with the person named Arima Kishou. "He is sure way to die, now isn't he? And I do not mean by you - how surprising that you chose to make the life of one so forsaken a little bit more beautiful. One would not expect such gracious behaviour from a being that is all but a vexation leeching off of any around."

[fearooren-blog]

devilesque:

           “So I am told. I have strangely still not yet met others like me to tell me their stories otherwise. They are always one half or the other, or something of an entirely different design, the things I meet. But then, I have not known everything or everywhere in the world.” Though he knows they exist, as surely as he is known by eyes that know far more than his youth has had time to afford him. There is an innate wisdom to a figure so much purer, older, infinitely more powerful that strikes him near to being remarkable (for so few times has he faced a force as such.) Though he daren’t draw nearer, held back by that chorus of various strengths ringing out into the soundless air.

               “You are only familiar to me in a way that certain powers are. I know a devil when I see one, the same as I would know what they call an angel, too, for we do not always fair well with them.” And there never is a way of truly mistaking that very sense of things, the way it sings down to the depths of him. The impression is unforgettable once felt (one gentler than this, but no less scalding because of it, he remembers.) “A reaper of sorts, is what you’re suggesting?” An arching, silver brow, a lively wonder in those bright eyes again. “No. I have not known sight or story of divine gatherers as such. Not in this short life, no tale quite like that.”

          There is so very much one with such youth is yet to encounter upon endlessness of their own troubles. There is so very much one would want to surely know, upon meeting a force unrecognizable like the creation’s very own, that speaks so gently, offers itself up so kindly. He doesn't bother, nor does it matter for him how that young man behaves in front of his own vision, for a vision it truly is and will always stay to be, and yet never find itself disturbed by outside energies of any kind and shape and form. He's compliant for a while, the very picturesque statue of the Chief's whims. Compliant as one would only expect him to be - with an age much grander. And a personality much more apathetic---

          "It would be a mistake for them to crawl out of the shadows they are hiding in. For you should know it well enough, that the unison between mankind and those far beyond is one to be eradicated. Ground to dust and destroyed in iron palm." How threatening it surely could have sounded, if a different sort of dusky timbre had underlined the gravity of a knowledge like this. "There are many a kind not even meant to be." And slowly just, he begins to drawl away - saunters along a pathway leading towards nowhere specific. "I know any and all wandering around this world. Devil or Angel, specifically, are near the same for me in how they strive and grow. Their reasons, in particular, are just so starkly different, yet align perfectly to be the same." How quaint to think that one could so easily turn into the other - and yet never find the light again. "A Reaper of sorts." He echoes faintly, subconsciously. "You might say that if it is something you surely comprehend."

[fearooren-blog]

devilesque:

                  He is known by merely a glance; the sentiment’s hastened precision should not surprise him, having felt that lick of something old and familiar along the inside of his skin, that fair and foreign tremble that all things from on high have perpetuated in him. In a way, it does not–though few are so very quick to the proper deduction, anymore. Aramis blinks, still as moonlight in his slow and patient regard kept at the same, tentative distance.

                  “You know it to be so. And so it is. One of few not slain for that kind of sin, or so I am told.” His head tilts forward, though his eyes are poised, keen. “But then there is you. I know only few things like you. They are not nearly so easy to find on purpose as monsters, much less stumble upon without purpose at all. You come from higher places, is that not so?”

          Far fetched to assume that he does not simply know. That those that roam before him can’t be deduced by glance and the feeble structure of their souls singing to him of their haste in life. It’s all the same, for how precisely does he not know about upcoming hardships, pleasures or conclusions that string themselves around each and every ‘stranger’ and lighten them up to be read on values unattainable for any other being? He doesn’t mind, nor does he bother to see any beyond---

          ---it’s mostly enough to know about that what. “Or so you are told. Alas, stories told and truths presented - they are not always two sides of one coin.” Slow and soft and surely uninterested to explain more than need-be. “You may not know a single thing like me. Only things that are similar to me, things that behave or at least subtly feel like me. I am from Heaven, to collect humanity’s mistakes, but surely - only for today - I find myself with a bit of time at hand.”