for all of his life, the architect's apprentice had often dreamed of angels.
not the white-winged perfect beings that others thought of, but the indescribable heralds of great catastrophes and change. the ones with one hundred-hundred wings, thousands of eyes, and the voices of countless lifetimes. sometimes, he likened himself to those things.
luciana had thought of him like that- an angel of sorts. with his mask, she said he could look like anything underneath. when he refused to take it off, she asked him why. he told her that he would make her eyes burn, like the angels. and he knew she didn't believe him. the answer held her curiosity at bay for a time- and that was enough.
when he saw the angel of death, he knew- who else wore a mask like his? this erik, so unhappy, had certainly lived quite a time unloved. and the architect's apprentice gave a soft sigh.
' you are grieving, ' he says, and his voice is the sound of heaven. erik had forgotten that he was wise beyond his years- even then. yes, he is grieving. ❝ i am grief. i am regret. i am a ghost in the shadows. ❞ he too, sounds like an angel.
the architect's reaction is concealed by the black mask he wore, but his gold eyes remain soft. he looks at his hands, calloused and sun kissed. then, he looks at the man before him. the ghost- yes, pallid from his time in the dark. the man before him is a phantom, a haunting yet to come. ' why do you grieve, angel? '
❝ erik is not an angel, ❞ but he is. he is an angel as much as he is a phantom- as much as he is a magician and an architect. a person unlike any other. someone who could have everything but the thing he wanted most. ❝ a ghost, yes, but never an angel. ❞
' but, there is someone who thinks of you as such. of me. luciana- '
❝ luciana ... erik lost luciana long ago. but not yet, not for you. erik knows this life. when i lived in the light. and i am so sorry that you will not stay in the light. ❞
the angel-phantom weeps, then, kneeling at the architect's feet. ❝ forgive me, forgive me, ❞ he cries, he tears the mask from his face- half damned and half holy- and waits.
the architect kneels, and he, too, takes off his mask. he is still young. he is more holy than he is damned. he does not bear the scars of mazandaran. he does not know more than the cruelty of the carnival. he has not met the khanum- he has not been saved by nadir, because he has not yet needed to be saved. ' it isn't your fault, ' the architect says. he studies the phantom's face without judgement. he has not learned to associate deformity with wickedness. he has not been tainted by that. not yet. erik wishes to believe his past self. that it is not his fault.
someone else said the same- christine, as she knelt with him, cried with him. when he set her free, he had understood- had brought back that lost part of him. the one that sat with him now. the part pulled from him by the faceless stars- ' there is nothing to forgive, angel. '
when the warmth flows through his chest, erik thinks he has learned what it feels like to forgive himself. at least, for a little while.
for that brief moment, he understands what christine finally saw in him.