He has little more than the fantastic tales the girl in blue and her red dragon companion has fed him over the past several days to go off of, but even with the almost countless stories she’s imparted onto him he can’t help but feel that something is missing. And that something is is more his own fault than due to any details she had left out (most of which he had been able to gleam through the alchemist’s mumbling whenever she had come into the room to check his vitals). And so he desperately tries to figure out what that something is as his eyes remain fixed on the other - brows creased every so slightly as he tried to dig through the murky mess that was his jumbled mind, but had nothing to show for it aside from vague feelings of familiarity that nipped at the very back of his mind and settled in his chest when they were through with tormenting him there. But expression softens when he hears the other’s voice. He can’t quite place the emotion behind it, but it’s enough to spring up a strange mixture if sympathy, guilt, and despair within him.
He should know him. He’s gathered that much from Lyria’s tales and how the faintest hint of recognition threatens to bubble up, but always dies before it can truly take shape. But he doesn’t. So, he can only meet those words with a frail smile when the other enters the room, and kneels down beside the bed. Hand comes down to rest in his lap where it had been splayed against his chest, fingers absentmindedly coming to toy with one of the thin sheets on the bed - clearly still trying to think of something, but entirely unable to do so. Though, despite that, his attention remains largely on who he knows is Sandalphon - somehow, despite not being given much in the way of a verbal confirmation.
“It is. She is a rather animated storyteller.” He speaks softly, attempting to fill in the gaps between their conversation in order to stop silence from settling in as he knows, if it does, the guilt he feels will eat him alive. “But she thinks highly of you.” Her stories were always positive when she recounted them to him. The occasional jab from Vyrn was truly the only reason he had found out that she and Sandalphon hadn’t started off on the best foot. Those stories; however, feel like a fairytale to him. Despite what they had told him of his own role in them, they felt distant, as if they were happening to someone else, leaving him feeling empty after each passionately described tale left him feeling dazed, confused, and isolated.
He can; however, hear the sincerity in the other’s voice, and smile. His own, though a fragile thing, is just as earnest. He may be struggling to mentally piece together broken lines that no longer fit, but he doesn’t wish for it to show. He’s not certain if speaking to the other will suddenly trigger dormant memories, but Lyria had expressed such hopeful optimism towards the idea that he was determined to try anything she had come up with. And, for whatever reason, looking at Sandalphon in such a manner made him feel inexplicably crestfallen.
“I am,” he pauses for a moment. He can’t say what he feels - fine doesn’t seem like quite the right word to use when he knows there’s something wrong, but, physically, he appears to be up to the alchemist’s standards which mean that was was fine in the loosest definition of the word. But he doesn’t wish to cause to cause concern either. “I appear to be doing…well.” That also doesn’t feel like the right word, but he doesn’t know what to say then, and settles for that he can say instead. Smile doesn’t falter, but it gives the impression of glass - something breakable that reflects the light that clings to white locks where it pours in from the window.
“How are you faring?” Should he even be asking that question? It seems both appropriate and wild inappropriate at the same time. He masks his own hesitation with a glance towards the window and ceases his mindlessly fiddling with the blanket. “I pray that you have been well.” And he does hope the other, truly, has been well - words heartfelt when they leave his lips despite the fact that he cannot recall the other. He does know, more than he has known anything since he had awoken, that he wishes for Sandalphon to be well. “I am grateful that you’ve come, I have wanted to speak with you since hearing all of Lyria’s stories. I hope you will not mind if I keep you for a while, but I won’t push if you have somewhere you need to be.”
All of this feels incredibly, incredibly wrong. It is as if someone is tugging at his heartstrings, a cruel way of fate giving him what he wants but not exactly how he wants it. Talking to Lucifer like this feels wrong, but Sandalphon knows that this end result is no one’s fault but his own. He is aware that the reason Lucifer ended like this is simply because of his past actions, it is because he was forced to take care of his cradle when Sandalphon felt like he was not enough.
When he attempted to destroy everything, only to find out there were words that both parties refused to stay. His mind rushes back to that shaded garden, to the way Lucifer also formed those quiet smiles. They had an entirely different meaning. Back then, it was one that concealed things the Supreme Primarch did not think necessary to say. Right now... it is out of politeness.
It angers him and saddens him, and yet he does not do anything else but keep up this charade. The smile stays on his lips, faltering for only a fraction of a second before appearing again.
A terribly bad idea, he thinks. There was so much unsaid, and Sandalphon would give - would have given - everything to be able to talk to Lucifer again. One last, meaningful chat. But not under these circumstances. Not with a man who does not remember him, not with a man who is simply a pale shade of what he had been... but still, he cannot blame him.
Lucifer did not ask for this. If they did, would the primarch refuse the idea of coming back to life? Would he simply wait for Sandalphon, aware of the dangers of running against nature’s course?
Even if that meant waiting forever. They both knew that. Sandalphon had a new responsibility, a new life. Waiting forever for someone who had such a small chance of showing up... he knew this well.
Sandalphon sacrificed so much, it would be too selfish of him to wish for a different outcome. The words that choked up in his throat finally come out, finishing a sentence that comes with a terribly bitter taste.
“-- an honor to be with you longer, Lucifer.”
By any means, he should be happy about this. And yet. And yet he does not reply to such a simple question. It would run against his whole being to lie to this man, but he cannot tell him the truth either. That there is nothing they can do, absolutely nothing to bring the man he really wanted to see.
But he is there anyway. Again, Sandalphon understands. He would have done the same. He did something even worse to simply catch the attention of a being so supreme and perfect that thought no words were necessary between the two of them. The term ‘divine retribution’ crosses his mind for a second, and once again his smile almost falters.
This would be better than nothing, he thinks. He repeats these words like a mantra, forcing his mind to accept it as the absolute truth. This is better than nothing. A reunion is better than being left alone for all of eternity. Perhaps Lucifer would remember him eventually.
Even if this spark of hope threatens to be consumed by the incredibly heavy weight of reality. His next words are picked cautiously and carefully, not wanting to disrupt this incredibly well fabricated serenity.
“Was there... anything in particular you wished to know?”
