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Lacrymosa - part 2

pairing: Zeke x Reader ー Priest!Zeke x Angel!Reader (mention of Angel!Levi x Angel!Reader)

chapter warnings: /!\ sacrilege tw, blood tw, mention of war, food tw

world count: 7.8k

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Eyes flashed open, and the incessant rustle in your mind immediately dissipated.

Into the darkness, ears still buzzing with distant whispers an untrained ear would have mistaken for the wind, your whole body was oddly serene, as if fear was the mirage of an old memory. You were lulled with a strange feeling, there, at that exact moment, silence almost palpable all around you.

You emerged from a dreamless sleep. And you couldn't quite remember the last time it happened. Whispers of forgotten sins and the whistling of the wind had brought you out of a sweet and painless torpor.

Everything was dark around you. Before your eyes, the moonlight was dancing against a pale wall. Laying on your stomach, the side of your face pressed into a pillow, you tried to lean on your forearms, but your body was too sore, your throat dry. Carefully, you folded your arms under your chest.

You recognized this place – the color on the wall and that sweet lingering smell of the cotton sheet. Pressed tight against your shoulder blades was the heavy weight of your wings.

It felt like it all happened a lifetime ago; that room, the escape, the warmth of his skin against yours, and the promises coming out of his mouth. And yet, strangely enough, there wasn't an ounce of panic clouding your mind. Everything felt fine.

He did come back for you, and he ran through the forest, your breath fragile against his neck and blood all too rare running through his fingers. It was the sound of his voice that kept you anchored in his reality. His heart was beating so hard, and he had run so fast. Unsteady respiration mingled with the wind on your cheeks. The smell of burnt bread and his strides in the stairs. It seemed like you’d lost consciousness the moment he pulled you away from the flutter of his chest.

Life was taking a turn that you never would have suspected. None of it made sense, yet, you weren't afraid anymore.

Fingers slid from under your chest to slightly brush your neck, and you silently sighed with relief, feeling a thick bandage wrapped around your throat.

It was night. The Surface and its mortals, fallen asleep at twilight, unconsciously waiting for the return of the chariot in the sky, to whisper grace and hastening to sin.

Carefully, you tried to lean on your elbows again, and you slowly managed to raise your shoulders, arching your back, and tilted your head, lying down with difficulty on your side. The sudden change of position woke up numb muscles with an unpleasant yet reassuring twinge. Everything was fine.

From this position, you could finally see the small room. The same four walls, the same door. The window was ajar, night breeze gently blowing in, making the curtains dance in its breath. Milky white reflections of the moon hinted at a sky clear, for it to shine so brightly on the walls, in your eyes and upon his blonde hair.

So close, a sleeping form. So close.

It was as if he’d never left your side; he was seated on the floor, his head on the crook of his arm against the mattress. Asleep at your bedside, just like a boy would vainly try to fight fatigue to stay awake a bit longer. In the moonlight, you could see his back heaving to the rhythm of sleepy breaths.

One of your hands slipped out from under your body, and you reached towards him. It was odd, strangely overwhelming, to lay your eyes on the delicate shudder of his sleep, to listen to his muffled breathing.

Slowly, you brought your fingers to his forehead, on his warm skin, brushing aside a few strands of soft hair in a delicate gesture – only with the cold pads of your fingers, slightly enough to make out his closed eyes.

He looked soothed - the stern crease on his brow was gone, his face tranquil. Soft breathing, the only movement in suspension in the air.

You remembered how he said he had sutured your wound and how horrified you were - he had no idea what he had done, whose skin he had pierced, what blood he had spilled. But how could he have known? And despite all of that, with his words full of promise and hope, he had shut the door of death that was threatening to swallow you whole, once and for all.

Delicately, you tucked the strand of hair behind his ear, but it was too short, and as your fingers started to disappear along his jaw, the lock slipped back over his lashes. Adventurous fingers run the length of his jaw, your thumb brushing his unshaven cheeks and you could almost imagine him, fingers around your neck, steady suture and trembling breath, sewing your skin meticulously.

Your hand slowly withdrew from his skin, and hovered over his extended throat, following the curve of his arm, to his folded fingers. In his hand was a pair of round glasses. You laid your hand there, brushing against his.

The sound of his breaths guided you into a sort of lethargy, and now that the relentless whispers in your head were gone, you felt yourself tipping slowly somewhere where nightmares couldn’t be heard anymore? Somewhere where flames had been extinguished a long time ago.

You woke up, and the room was bathed in golden light. Everything was quiet, a soft breeze coming from the window. Zeke was gone.

Your arm was dead, so you pulled it out from underneath your chest, shaking it out slightly before heaving yourself upright. The sun was high and yet it was not the light that bothered you the most; your hand ran up your back, to feel your wings. They were flattened against you, and one of them was wrapped tight in what you thought was a bandage. It was folded up and curled slightly against your shoulder. It hurt a bit, like a muscle cramp, from having it clenched so tight. The other one was hanging out below the hem of a large sweater.

These clothes were not yours; the blood-soaked shirt that you remembered clinging to your chest had given way to a distorted brown knit sweater, a pair of cotton pants stained at the knees. They were comfortable and warm, already warmed by sunlight.

You pulled the neckline up over your head, letting the brown fabric fall on your laps and arched your back, unfurling your wing behind you, sighing in relief. Your throat was on fire, but you ignored it. One of your hands slipped between your shoulder blades, kneading the aching muscles there.

You had no idea how long you slept, but it was long past dawn. Your joints ached, eyes still burning from sleeping so tight. A glass of water was on the small table near the bed, and this time, you reached for it.

There was no music in the air, you realized as you stood up, but when you opened the door, muffled voices could be heard coming from the floor below. You looked down at the sweater in your hands for a moment, before putting it back on your shoulders.

Everything in that windowless space seemed strangely familiar, as if you had spent two thousand years in that landing, in front of that staircase, echoes of a forgotten song still resonating somewhere deep inside of you. You walked toward the stairs, facing it, and took in a deep breath.

You once ran, hoping to fly, but when you fell against the hard ground, all your certainties shattered. It had been liquid fear pumping through your veins before the hurtful realization that you needed help. That you couldn't do it alone. And so, you had let him collect scalding blood with his bare hands, and you closed your eyes on his mortal nature as he caught you with his fingertips, to forget everything and start again.

This time you wouldn't run.

One knee bent and one step at a time. Your hand slid against the wooden railing, steadying your legs.

They were downstairs, their voices echoing a bit louder with each step, yet so quiet. Familiar voices, one inexhaustible, another humming from time to time. Words mattered little, and you were barely sure you understood them; one step at a time, your wings in your back, and everything was fine.

One step at a time, and you abruptly stopped; right in front of you were two figures. Their backs turned, they were standing in what seemed to be a kitchen; there was a nice smell wafting across the room - that of food, that of the tall trees all around this house, that of freshly cut flowers.

The kitchen was long and narrow, with a large wooden table in the corner. It was messy, half-filled cups and a plate with cut bread, a pile of newspapers and a vase full of flowers. It smelled of lilies.

You took another step down and the boy -Colt, you remembered- was laughing. He was talking while looking at the man beside him, who was hands deep in a sink, and he was laughing. And as Zeke sometimes answered him, he would laugh a bit more.

“You shouldn’t make light of the honor that is to become a priest, Colt.”

You took another step down, and the boy suddenly backed away from the countertop with a laugh.

“I’m not, I swear!” he said, stuffing a piece of bread in his mouth, “I just can’t help but wonder why they’re all so… conservative, and you’re just-...,” he turned on his heels, and raised his head. Eyes meeting yours, he stood immediately still. His hand was interrupted in its motion, mid-air in front of his face, his mouth open and his eyes fixed on you.

His arm dropped softly, and his mouth opened a little more, and he watched you silently as you descended the last few steps, carefully.

This sudden interruption didn't seem to bother Zeke, who immediately spoke up to respond.

You didn't pay attention to what he said, something about isolation and congregations being up his ass and doing whatever he wanted, and you took a step forward, toward the boy.

Colt, the boy from the clearing. His voice overwhelmed with panic and confusion, the vibrant color of blood on the ground still in his eyes, and his silhouette in the doorway of the temple. The boy who ran when Zeke told him to. The boy who taught you his name without meaning to. He had called him “father”, and you couldn’t help but wonder; he was young, probably still in his teen years, and the warm brown color of his eyes were transfixed on you. His lips were parted where was still hanging the end of a sentence. He didn't make a move, his eyes following you at every step, and you eventually stopped in front of him.

Behind him, Zeke was still talking, his voice concealed by the trickle of water and from where you stood, you could see that he was washing some dishes.

Colt mumbled something, so you moved a bit closer. His hair was an ash-blond color, cheeks flushed of a lovely shade of pink, and he had crumbs of bread on his cheek.

He took in a breath, as if to say something, but stopped dead at the touch of your fingers.

Your hands were not as frozen as they once were, for the touch of his cheek against your fingertips was not as feverish as you remembered Zeke’s skin. With your thumb, you wiped away the crumbs.

His eyes widened; your breathing stopped. You quickly withdrew your hand, as if you’d burned yourself, and took a step back.

Light was illuminating his face, coming through the large glass door. It was wide open, and beyond its frame, you could see the dirt path, and the sea of trees.

Feet slid unconsciously across the tiles towards the sunlight, and your fingers brushed against the cold glass.

One step forward and you were outside, in that small garden surrounded by the low stone wall - the gate’s doors were still wide open, towards the forest, and in the trees, you could see the birds flying behind the leaves and the sky was filled with their songs. A world of color and light was before your eyes, and this time your heart was calm in your chest, a soft warmth against your cheeks. You truly realized that everything was going to be fine.

“I'm glad to see you up and about again.”

The sound of his voice startled you, and your body turned suddenly in his direction. A small smile on his lips, his eyes on you.

In his back, Colt was standing in the doorway, looking at the two of you, his hands behind his back, and you noticed that his face had turned a scarlet color.

Behind small round glasses, Zeke squinted in the sunlight, and you could make out his half-closed eyelids. He was rubbing his hands on a dish towel, his sleeves rolled up over his forearms, fine blond hairs shining in the sun. His aura was appeasing, and knowing his attention was on you was strangely reassuring.

You weren't going to run away. You could have had, if you’d wanted to, with the doors and windows open to the wind. But there was no reason to believe that someone was trying to keep you in that house. You were no prisoner, and your very presence outside proved it. None of this was threatening. You didn't want to be their captive, and obviously they didn't either. It wasn't your intention to run away, yet you realized how much it looked like it.

His smile immediately faded when you took a step toward him, and he filled the space between the two of you, his hands forward, as if you were going to stumble. You weren't going to run away, and you didn't want him to think you were stupid enough to let fear guide your judgment a second time. You didn't want him to think you weren't grateful.

You opened your mouth to tell him, to let him hear, but your throat made a strange sound of protest, voice broken and hoarse, and your fingers touched the heavy bandage against your throat. You tried to swallow, and your throat was on fire.

“It’s all right,” he said, and you raised your head to him. “You should save your breath, angel. We don’t want your stitches to burst again, do we?” He was close, and his hand came to brush your arm.

Feathers of your wings ruffled, violently trying to flare out as emotions rose to your cheeks. Whole body tense, and everything screamed at you to pull away from his touch, every bit of your body alert as five fingers slid over the thick garment.

However, you let your body anchored itself to his touch, and you took a deep breath, silencing the emotions. Slowly, you looked up at him, and he was right there, searching for your eyes.

“Are you…” he whispered, and you could almost feel his breath on your nose. He looked lost for words, and the sentence hung in the air between the two of you. As you were about to open your mouth to speak, he cleared his throat and glanced away. His hands gently withdrew from your arm.

“Never mind”, he said with an embarrassed smile, and you swallowed down your words.

You glanced briefly over his shoulder, and Colt was still standing there, arms dangling and eyes wide. They met yours and he lowered his head quickly.

“It’s his first time seeing an angel, don’t hold it against him,” Zeke said with a soft laugh, drawing your attention back to him. He had followed your gaze towards the house, so that you could see his profile, his blond eyelashes behind his glasses, the straight line of his nose, and the curve of his lips.

You cocked an eyebrow, suddenly amused. The opposite would have been surprising, you thought. You reached between your two bodies and pointed at Zeke.

“Me?” he asked with a laugh, pointing to his nose with his forefinger. He said in a mischievous whisper, “Oh, you know, running through the woods carrying bloody beings fallen from the sky recently became a habit of mine.”

The remark awakened a twinge in your chest, and even if his tone was light, you couldn't help but feel guilty. Of all the places on the Surface, you had fallen right into his arms.

“Sorry.”

It came out of your mouth like a croak, a false note in a symphony, and Zeke seemed taken aback. His eyes alternated in yours for a few seconds.

“That’s not-... Well, you don’t have to…”, he blurted out, looking embarrassed. “Don't force your voice, okay? None of this is very important anyway.”

Gently, you placed a hand against your throat, swallowing the fire of your words, and took a breath. There was so much to say, so much left to do, and so little time. He had promised, and you felt like time was running out; you had to get back, find a way. He had promised to help you.

“Will…” you began, feeling the rocky sound of your voice rub against the walls of your throat and he stared at you. The ghost of his fingers tipping your chin up was still there, and you raised your head, feet grounded:

“Will you keep your word?”

Your voice was strangely high but talking wasn't as painful as swallowing - you tried to focus on the weight of the captive wings on your back, and the effort seemed less tough. He slowly started to smile, stood straighter, and nodded.

“I will do everything in my power to help you.”

“You have to keep your mouth shut. No one else,” you gave a quick glance at Colt behind him, “can know.”

“Understood.”

“Swear.” you said and took a step forward. He slightly flinched.

“I swear.”

“Good,” you nodded. Fire in your lungs.

He took a step back and started rubbing his hand over his neck.

“Er... I don't know if you're hungry. But if you are, I made soup.”

You didn't know for how long you’d been there, and how long you had fallen. Food was not essential to you most of the time, but the rules were different here. You felt weak, you couldn't fly, and your abilities were enfeebled. The tugging in your stomach was a new sensation and the hunger made you feel hollow, and you hated it. So, you nodded again.

His face broke into a wide smile, little wrinkles forming around his eyes. He took a step to the side, and you slowly moved forward; Colt rushed back inside.

When you came in, he was arm deep into a cabinet. You recoiled as he abruptly turned around - but in his hands was only a soup plate and a glass.

Zeke stepped from behind you and pushed away the pile of newspapers and passed the towel over the table, before pulling up a chair; his eyes met yours again, encouraging you to sit down.

Quietly, you took a seat, keeping an eye on them as they jostled each other, bustling around you; the kitchen wasn't narrow though, but they kept bumping into each other.

The last time you had been here, you hadn't really paid attention to the ground floor, then focused on your steps and fear beating inside of you; but this time, the space was clearly taking shape in front of your eyes. The walls were covered with windows, letting in the late morning light. The staircase was in the middle of the room and cut the space in two - on one side the kitchen you were in, facing the stairs. On the other side, you could see a fireplace. There were shelves full of books near it - you only realized that the ones that were once lying on the floor on the second floor had been put away.

A hand reached out in front of your face, and you raised your head. Colt was standing in front of you, and he said, with a solemn tone, “The name’s Colt Griece, by the way. It’s nice to meet you!” Zeke turned abruptly from the stove.

Colt looked very serious, almost self-conscious, giving you his name like that. He still had the spirit of a little boy, and it was clear that the recent events might have been a bit overwhelming for him. You would have liked to forget his name just to learn it all over again, if it would have made him smile, but instead, you simply said, “I know.”

His eyes widened again, and he turned to Zeke, who was watching the two of you over his shoulder - he let out a small laugh.

“Goodness…” Colt whispered, looking stunned. “Is that because... you're like... omniscient?”

"Colt." Zeke scolded, placing a bowl of soup before you.

You didn't say a word, eyes on the plate in front of you, the aroma everywhere around you and you were already salivating. When you eventually looked up, four pairs of eyes were on you.

“No,” you answered.

“Oh,” said the boy, fidgeting with his fingers, “Of course. That would be weird, right?”

You smiled at him, and nodded, keeping quiet on the fact that it wouldn’t be that weird at all, before looking back at the soup plate. There were different sorts of vegetables in it, and you were dying to fill this weird feeling in your stomach.

“Go on,” softly said Zeke, sitting down next to you. He pushed a spoon towards you on the wooden table, before grabbing a newspaper and unfolded in front of his face. Colt sat back down, staring at the man in front of him.

In your nose was the pleasant aroma of soup, and you had no strength to stand on ceremony. Your body was responding to the laws of the Surface, and if in Paradis you didn't remember ever feeling hunger, this time it was real, and it was gnawing in your stomach.

You pushed the spoon away and brought the bowl to your lips. Warm liquid ran down your throat, like a shower of needles, but the sensation was bittersweet, almost pleasant. With your eyes closed, the taste of the delicious aroma in your nose and down your throat, you exhaled and put the bowl back down in front of you.

The two men’s eyes were on you.

Colt slowly pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to you. You took it, wiping your mouth, and exhaled slowly.

Just as you were about to speak again, a clock struck a little further away. You sharply turned towards the sound, towards the room with the fireplace and Colt stood up quickly.

“I didn’t see the time go by,” he said to himself, “I’m gonna have to go.”

“Don’t forget your bag,” Zeke pointed out, his voice a bit louder as the boy was already up, putting on his jacket.

“Oh yes, of course,” he laughed, “Thanks Father,” and your body stiffened.

He paused, turning to you. “It was really nice meeting you, uh…”

As he stared at you, you realized he was going to leave. You had no idea where he was going, if he was going to tell someone about this, about you. He was leaving, endangering himself, and you with him. You'd already gone too far, allowing too many unacceptable things to happen.

He tilted his head to the side, and shyly smiled.

“Okay,” he huffed, “Well, I’ll be going now. I’ll see-...”

He stopped when you suddenly grabbed his arm.

He had to stay.

He had to stay and swear not to say a word to anyone - or something bad would happen to him.

As you thought about what to say, what to do, a hand came to rest on your shoulder. In your back, the soft warmth of Zeke's body. He spoke softly, his voice soft and low, like the wind playing with the lapping of the ocean.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his breath against your ear, “He won’t say a word. Right, Colt?”

“Ah, yes of course,” said the boy, looking alternately at your faces. He smiled again, almost too eagerly. “I’m on your side. I’ll help you. I mean, if you’d let me.”

Zeke's hand against your shoulder was getting warmer, and you almost felt his fingers slide down the nape of your neck. You gently released Colt’s arm, and nodded.

You stood by the low stone wall for a moment as Colt was moving away, down the path that ran alongside the house, toward a valley. He was riding one of the vehicles that sat against the wall – he called it a “bicycle”.

Before disappearing around a bend in the road, he turned around and waved his arm in your direction. And just like that, he was gone.

Despite the claims of the two mortals, you couldn't help but be cautious and skeptical about the situation. You couldn't rest on your laurels; all of this was temporary. Everything would be fine, but you still had to find a way home.

You turned toward the stone house to look at it more closely, from the edge of the sunny garden, before catching a glimpse of Zeke. He was leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest, and he was staring right at you.

He had a way of looking at you with such intensity, blue eyes shining with an indescribable gleam that made your skin tingle with agitation. It was always that same smug look, that insufferable smirk that you wanted to rip off his face. He had the smile of a man who knew he had the world's favor - he saved your life, twice. And his eyes were so captivating, you were sure he knew you were somehow in debt.

It had been so long since you had seen mortals, since you had felt the beat of their lives with your fingertips, glimpsed their fragile bodies in motion. At that time, your body was as delicate as theirs.

You didn’t venture to the Surface. You weren't allowed to, and you weren't interested in doing so anyway. Nightmares and echoes of screams still clouded your sleep- you were still hurt by them and by this cursed land.

Levi would come down sometimes. He’d leave for nights on end, and you would wander the marble floors, hoping that he wouldn’t waste his blood to recklessness. And when in the bright sky you’d see the glow of his silver wings, when you would eventually hear the sound of his footsteps echoing in the halls, then you’d breathe again.

Of all children of Ymir, Levi was the only one to descend. She had allowed him and only him - you always thought it was because he was the strongest of you all, because his determination was so great that it could overshadow the rest of the world.

He once told you that he couldn't talk about what he was asked to do, down there. He rarely spoke about it, but the truth was that you never really asked. He would have told you everything if you’d just asked him.

There was only one memorable thing you could remember him saying about the Surface, but you couldn’t really pinpoint when it was. It was a hot day, as they usually were, languorous and lazy. You remembered the sound of his voice calling you through the bright white stone of the walls, and it pulled you out of an odd torpor. With a glimmer of hope in his eyes, he only said that things were changing.

And as you stood there, in this very moment, your eyes in those of this unaware mortal, the wind swirling in the treetops around you, you realized he really never said anything. The world hadn’t only changed. It was not the same, transformed, the wild spirits in fire appeased. Blood had been spilled for too long to keep on longing the massacre of daughters and sons.

You wondered if Zeke knew, if he knew the Old Stories. If he would ever be able to understand the filthy truths of his world.

He straightened up, scratching behind his ear, and you spoke. Strong and steady, your voice gravelly - unscared.

“We should talk,” and your voice echoed around you, through the tall trees of the forest. Maybe even down the valley, up into the sky. Somewhere, a bird chirped.

“We should,” he replied, with a small smile. He backed away slowly, maintaining eye contact, and walked back inside the house. When you walked past him in the doorway, he hadn't taken his eyes off you.

You went towards the side of the room you’ve never been in, and Zeke was on your heels.

There was the massive clock against the wall in front of you, the one that had made Colt run away, ahead of himself. It was made of finely lacquered brown wood, and a delicate sound punctuated the space with a discreet ticking. Behind a glass window, a golden pendulum was swinging with the passing seconds.

In front of the fireplace were two mismatched armchairs. You looked at them for a moment, before grabbing a small stool, near a large bookcase by the window. You put it down in front of the flame-blackened den, trying not to glance at Zeke who was standing still, watching you.

You sat down with a sigh and stretched softly. Wings slightly shuddered in your back.

“Tell me about the temple in the clearing,” you said plainly.

“Okay...,” Zeke replied, stepping around one of the armchairs before sitting down. He leaned on, propping his elbow on his knee, his eyes locked in yours, “But first, let’s agree on something; I think I do have at least as many questions as you do,” he gave you a mocking smile. “So what about this: you ask a question and I’ll ask one back. Once you've asked all your questions, I’ll shut my mouth and keep my questions to myself. What do you think?”

You stared right back at him an instant, before letting out a small laugh - but seeing his serious face, you frowned at him some more.

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Of course not,” he said with a laugh, lowering his head. He sighed, rubbing his hand along the top of his thigh. His legs were very long. “But you know that this, er...,” he motioned his hand between the two of you, “relationship... doesn’t necessarily have to be hostile.”

In your back, wings shuddered again, and you realized how uncomfortable you were. It wasn't so much that he was too close to you, but the stool was lower than the armchair, and he was looking down on you. And he was becoming dangerously annoying. You thought back to the burning touch of his skin against yours, how he had touched you so carelessly, never questioning whether you were hostile or not. Maybe it wasn't necessarily hostile, but it was definitely subject to change.

“Fine,” you finally said through clenched teeth. “But I’ll only answer your questions if they suit me.”

“Deal,” he answered back and slid down off the armchair, kneeling on the floor right in front of you. Behind his glasses, his pupils were dilated as he held out a hand, his head slightly back, to look up at you, and you felt incredibly naked under the weight of his gaze. He motioned you to take his hand.

An outreached hand, just for you to take. You couldn't help but smile at the irony of this moment, the irony of everything that was happening to you. Again and again, it was him, with his tousled flaxen hair and his odd clothes, with his eyes of the purest shades of the horizon and his sly smiles. It was his outstretched hand, it was his skin, tanned by the sun of a past summer, and his slender fingers and veiny forearms, scattered with sun-colored hairs.

Then, gently, you stretched your hand towards his, and your fingertips ran along the warm skin of his hand, and when his palm was firm against yours, his fingers closed around your hand gently.

“Then it’s a deal, angel,” he cooed softly, and his eyes were sparkling like a child's. And with the soft warm feeling that spread in your chest, you finally discerned what all this was.

It was in his gaze, in the carefree and reassuring touch of his skin on your body, in his silent smiles and concealed laughter, it was in his sleeping form cradled by the moonlight, and in his soft and light handshake. He radiated a delicacy, a fragility that was almost indiscernible, and you were sure that if he could have held you between his fingers, holding you safely against his chest, he would have. You wondered if it was because you had shattered right before his eyes that he was so eager to treat you like a porcelain doll.

Gently, you let off his hand, clearing your throat, “So, will you tell me about the temple in the clearing now?”

“The temple in the clearing, uh?” He unfolded his legs and sat cross-legged, looking thoughtful, scratching his neck.

“It’s not really a temple, angel. Well, at least, not anymore. People around here call it the ‘Old Chapel’. It’s one of the oldest buildings in the region, I believe.”

He paused, and you watched his brow furrow as he looked for words.

“I grew up in the village down the valley, and ever since I was a boy, this place’s been dilapidated. It’s not used anymore, mainly because it’s literally falling into ruins, and, well, there’s no funding to restore it and it’s too far from the village for anyone to venture there. That’s surely one of the reasons why the clergy house - well, this house,” he said, gesturing around him, “is so far from the village. It was built when the Old Chapel was still used for the service. Some centuries ago. The history of the building, I don’t know. I assume it dates from well before the Great Purification. At least.”

You weren't sure you understood everything, but your assumptions were correct; this place, the one he had called a ‘chapel’ was indeed a temple to Ymir. Abandoned by all, rebuilt to the liking of the mortals. You thought they had all been burned down.

You smiled at the irony, once again - of having fallen from the sky, into a place of the Creator's mortal spirituality. You, whom no one had come to find, in the remains of the first religion. You wondered if all this was connected.

“My turn now,” he said softly, but it sounded more like a question. You clenched your jaw, and nodded.

“How did you fall?” he asked, and his eyes were narrow.

You winced.

For a second, you considered telling him everything, before pulling yourself together. It was better to stay evasive; Mortals weren't even supposed to see you, so creating a connection with them and discussing Holy Wars and the contingencies of celestial life seemed completely absurd. And either way, you were not really sure that you could remember all the details before you fell.

“I was pushed,” you conceded, absent-mindedly touching a snag on the knee of your pants. He let out a small laugh and you looked up at him.

“There's nothing funny about it.”

“No, of course not,” he said, “I’m just... I mean, it’s really absurd, this whole thing,” his eyes were steady on your face, “everything that’s going on, it’s just-... It’s unbelievable,” and with a beaming smile, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses, he whispered, “You’re unbelievable.”

The ticking of the clock suddenly fell silent, carried away by the pounding of your heart in your ears, and you could swear that from this close, he could hear it too. Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and his eyes were piercing, almost intoxicating. It was an ache, in between your ribs, a pulsation in your core and it was consuming you whole. It was a wave of all the emotions you forgot, all of them, burning on the tip of your lips and every one of them was ignited by him. It once was fear, panic, and then relief, calm - yet you couldn't put your finger on this one. All of this was confusing, and you were losing yourself in a universe too big, too vast, and his eyes were too deep to regain your footings.

Truth was, you had no idea who he was, what he was doing to you or what his motives really were. You only knew his name, and you knew that he had healed your wounds. But everything around him was blurry. Among the mist, there was the forest and the temple. There was Colt. Colt with his blond hair and his gentle temperament. Colt, who called him in the forest, over and over again.

“Why is Colt calling you ‘father’?”

Zeke took a second before answering you. Then he said, as if it was obvious, “Because I'm a priest.”

You tilted your head, and he slowly moved closer to you. “I’m not really his dad. If that’s your question.”

“That’s not my question.”

“Oh, okay.” He cleared his throat.

You glanced at the window, towards the clearing above the trees, “I didn’t know men could be intermediates for Ymir,” you said almost to yourself, “they usually are women.”

“I-,” he mumbled. You turned back to him and he was looking uncomfortable, lost for words, rubbing the back of his neck, “I never heard of priestesses, actually. Women aren't really admitted to the priesthood.”

“What?”

“I mean, the rules probably have evolved since the last time you were… here.”

You huffed out a puff and went on, “That doesn't make any sense. Whoever came up with this rule is an idiot.”

Zeke chuckled softly, “Whoever came up with this rule is long dead, angel.”

Everything was so odd, and you wondered if all this was the aftermath of the War - a world deconstructed for men, obscuring spirituality as a whole. He had spoken of ‘Purification’ and there was so much you didn't know, after sleeping away from the mortal realm for so long.

“Okay…” he resumed, “Now don’t take it the wrong way, it’s a genuine question.”

You braced yourself to his question, noticing the impish look on his face.

“Did you do something particular to make a higher authority cast you out of-...”

“I wasn’t casted out !” Your voice broke a bit, “How can you even suggest that!”

“You said we were pushed!”

“Pushed doesn’t necessarily mean ‘casted out’!”

No one had been casted out for centuries. And it certainly wasn't like this, only falling from the sky. It was darker, more solemn. Wings ripped away from the flesh. Feather turning into mud. Curses and blood. You remembered it happened once, but it was so long ago that you couldn't remember their name.

“If I had been, you wouldn't have even been able to set your eyes on these wings,” you said, pointing at them as they stick out of the sweater. “You touched them already, didn't you?”

“I sure did,” he said with a smirk, “They’re amazing.”

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” and his smile widened. You added, “It’s a sacrilege.”

"Shit..." he grinned, leaning back against the armchair. He looked amused. It was clear that he wasn't taking this conversation seriously.

“You won’t tell on me, will you?” he whispered coolly, like it was a secret between the two of you.

“Of course I’ll tell on you!”

“But I saved your life, angel,” he stated plainly, smirking. The ease with which he was getting under your skin was quite extraordinary.

“Coercion is also a sacrilege, Zeke - you’re just making things worse.”

He didn't answer this time, that same smile on his face - his eyes were full of meaning, and you could almost feel them running over every inch of your face. You wondered if you had said something wrong.

“So you do know my name?”

Of course you knew his name. It was perhaps the one thing you were the most sure about, in this wild, strange world. Everything was unclear, swaying in a stream of questions with obscure answers, and the only thing you really were sure of was that he answered to his name in the forest.

“It’s not your turn to ask a question,” you said.

“Yeah,” he drawled, before bringing one knee up to his chest.

The movement made him wince slightly, and he rubbed his hand against his lower back, arching it.

“Does your back hurt?”

He sighed, lolling his head against the armrest, “A bit, yes. But don't worry... it's probably just old age…” he said with a tragic air.

“That's because you're always sitting on the floor,” you pointed out.

“Nope. That’s because I keep running in the woods these days.”

“You literally slept on the floor last night. I saw you.”

“I wasn’t exactly hiding.”

He glanced at you with an amused eye, watching you as you searched for your words. He truly had no shame. You decided you liked him better when he was sleeping. Still and silent. At least you didn't have to put up with all his teasing.

“Then, don’t blame this on me,” you blurred out. He frowned, straightening up.

“I don't,” he said quietly, “I’m not blaming you for anything.”

It was a bit overwhelming, to be honest. Playing games with him while you were running out of time. It was getting hotter and hotter, and your head was dizzy. Fingers came to check on the bandage around your neck, but it was dry. You stood up, and walked over to the window.

Before grabbing the handle, you took a look at the books there. The pad of your fingers came running along the dusty gilt edges and you pushed open the window - breeze rushed inside the house.

“Okay, my turn now,” he said, and you turned back to him. He stood up, one hand on the floor, and brushed some dust off his pants. Before he could speak, you cut him off.

“I haven't asked mine yet.”

He crossed the space in one long and smooth stride, and leaned against the window beside you.

“You have,” he said without looking at you, and added, “about my back.”

“What? No, that was not my question.”

“But that was a question.”

“Why would I care about your back? I was just-...I was…”

“First of all,” he said, looking at you over his glasses, wearing a sad face, “that’s very rude. Second of all, you should watch your wording, angel, because I thought that was your question.”

Frustration grew in your chest as he flashed an amused look. Leaning against the windowsill, he arched his back once more, and you wanted to break his spine with your own hands.

You held up a finger, “You’re cheating,” you said but the threatening voice you tried to use had no effect on him.

“If you’re asking a question, you’re the one cheating.”

“Then we’re done.”

“Don't you want to keep playing?”

“No I don’t, Zeke,” and this time your voice was loud. His smile faded immediately - you ignored the twinge in your heart.

It was enough - you couldn’t afford to play for time, to bet anything on his stupid words.

“This is not a game. None of this should amuse you,” you let out an exasperated sigh, and realized how close you came to him. "Something terrible happened,” you urged, “and I’m running out of time. I-... I shouldn't even be here, you shouldn't even be able to see me; you shouldn't have even touched me. All of this will have consequences. Zeke, you made me bleed.”

He was looking confused. “I didn’t-...,”

“You pierce my skin with a needle, didn’t you?”

He glanced to the side, then back to you.

“Oh.”

He took his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes. The action lasted a few seconds, and his hand eventually stayed there, against his face. He sighed.

“Shit.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

Was he crying? He wasn’t sobbing, but he was so still, and you felt so overwhelmed.

You didn't know what to say, you didn't know what to do. Perhaps you could have pushed his hand away from his face, slipped your fingers against his cheeks to lift his head up, to take a look in his eyes. Instead, you whispered to him: “I know you didn't do it to hurt me,” and it came out softer than you would have hoped.

“I-,” he began, his face still hidden by his hand, "I'm a little lost here, you know,” he conceded.

“I feel like I should know what to do, but the truth is, I'm terrified. You're right, none of this should be happening, and yet,” a small laugh, “here you are.”

His fingers slowly slid along his nose, brushing down his lips, over his jaw, and his eyes found their way back into yours. They were narrow, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to talk anymore, “I’m gonna need you to help me, angel,” he said, almost imperceptibly.

The sun was in your eyes, the wind in your hair, and you smiled.

“First of all, you should stop calling me ‘angel’. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“What should I call you then? I guess I could call you ‘dove’, but I don’t thi-...”

You cut him off before he could continue his sentence.

“Why don't you call me by my name?” you suggested. Careful words, and you weren’t even sure of what you were asking. Your bodies were so close to each other, and this time, you could have sworn it was his heart you heard beating in his chest.

“I couldn’t…” he whispered, the sound of his voice hanging in the air, his breath short on your face.

“Calling me by my name is not sacrilege. It’s actually quite respectful,” you added, concealing a smile.

“I would love to,” and he bit his lip, looking down again. “I mean, to call you by your name. You just never told me.”

You let out a small laugh, and he locked his eyes on you, gaze lingering on your lips.

He took a deep breath, and there were dandelions blowing wishes in your lungs. Carefully, your voice imperceptible to your own ears, you whispered, “Then ask me. Maybe I’ll answer the question.”

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