IT’S DIFFICULT, HE THINKS, to be faced with a celestial and not see the ruins of his homeland. he remembers it too vividly: billowing smoke and ash scorching lungs, the carnage and blood spill, the cruelty of a god’s apathy turned wrath and the subsequent judgement delivered to the one who simply desired to free his nation from certain doom. if he felt any anger, it would simply be left to fester beneath ivory ribcage and an atrophied heart. this incessant anger of his has never once dulled— it became a persistent phantom, follows him in his shadows and in his every reflection, sinks claws into rigid shoulders and drills into bone, leaking and spilling like blackened ichor, and he can only do so much to keep it silent.
perhaps a few lifetimes ago, mael would have not entertained a conversation with aether, much less this little game he’s hinting at. molten eyne follow aether’s hands in their movement, and he remembers aether wasn’t one to turn a blind eye to those who sought his aid. on the contrary, he had an odd habit of being dragged into mortal affairs that don’t particularly concern him.
❝ yours ? ❞ he echoes, the hiss of a serpent somehow harsher than it initially had been. he looks to aether and all he sees is bloodshed on hallowed grounds. [ aether wasn’t responsible for the downfall of a once thriving nation. mael knows this. mael knows this and yet— ] his laugh is a wry one, honeyed as it was bitter, smooth as it was jagged. ❝ does it truly matter what i think ? ❞ meaning: he’ll see it anyways. fate was cruel like that. ❝ —but yes, it’s so common a face, i’m starting to think i’ll never see the end of it. ❞
his first reaction is dampened fury -- irritation, at what is his so kept carefully out of his reach. it is his memory, stolen from him, locked behind celestial gates, recompense for a rebellion he can’t even recall. every fragment feels like something precious. genesis : a path to what he has lost, whether that is godhood or whether that is his sister [ it is a long & winding road / does he even wish to be there any longer? ]
this is all that is left. intransigent. he can read through words tinged at the edges, knows a threat when it wears a laugh all but saying, do not bother / do not pry. he answers in an amused hum, iridescent light suffused through serpent’s [ biting ] response. if he were more easily frightened, more easily daunted by a threat of teeth, it would certainly be a good try.
“ hm. “ a simple sound that paints itself with broad strokes. too bitter to be amusement, and too kind to be cruelty. he knows, of course, a bruise beneath the hands, like the softness of an overripened fruit. the words may be different, but the reflex is always the same. “ i asked you, so it matters, yes. “
and the more he looks, the worse it feels. there is something here, just out of reach. a familiarity; the reflection of a mirror, as if they have done this, and many times before. he tilts his head into the palm of his hand, haphazard gold spilled over one arm, and narrows his eyes.
“ you may not like mine, but i like yours. you have nice eyes. “ familiar eyes, he should say. that’s what he’d noticed first. everything else may change, but the eyes always stay the same. the prism through which a soul is filtered. “ i’m sorry if i’ve upset you. “ [ but not, of course, enough to let this go ].
