I am Truth.

the inquisitor is not starved of touch. he does not leap at the opportunity to share it whenever it rises. there is comradery in a touch between soldiers, a handshake or a pat on the back, that he'd often share with cullen or blackwall. there is familiarity in the way josephine would fuss over him before a ball.

but the inquisitor is not a man reached lightly. he knows the distance between himself and most others and how hard it can be to overcome. he does not yearn, not usually.

this, here, makes him wonder what would happen if andraste came down from the skies to frame his face in her hands. would he be able to return the embrace? what a terribly andrastian thought.

yet he asks himself the same question when aurelius leans so close to him in his investigation. the inquisitor is quiet for those first few moments that the closeness between them becomes near inescapable. finding himself stuck instead of finding an answer, he remains still.

halfway through aurelius' speech, he leans forward to put his forehead against the angel's shoulder. it feels strange at first, yet his heartbeat picks up speed. he laughs, softly and quietly, to himself.

maybe he is still scared of andraste, after all this time.

' i doubt you would do what others haven't already. ' he's not a poet. it's hard for him to put these feelings into words. but he knows, ultimately, that aurelius is his own person. he awards him that which he's always wished to be awarded himself. ' if your holy light can make me fly … well, i say we give it a try. '

he doesn't exactly pull away, only turns his head towards aurelius.

Aurelius likes that kind of focus under scrutiny. So he lets the inquisitor rest his forehead wherever convenient while summoning thing tendrils of golden light to his palm.

"I've never done this before," the angel admits. "But as with most things I've never tried, it's only a matter of intent that creates reality."

"If you can place your trust—your faith—in me during the process, then my blessing shall be able to enter you more freely. For example—"

The hand held by Iloren's wrist moves to the elf's shoulder, while the one cradling the tendrils of light shift to Iloren's nape. There, Aurelius presses two fingers lightly against the skin, allowing his divinity to make contact with the surface and sink slightly into flesh.

Wukong's not stupid, he knows what people who are freaking out look like. Except he's never been good at dealing with it, and he's never even expected to see Aurelius going through it either so he finds himself at a loss here, and with the similar panicked feeling rising up in return.

(Last time he tried to help someone in a crisis like this one he failed so spectacularly he'd almost lost the person he cared about the most. He can't - won't - fail like that again).

His hands move to cover the angel's shaking ones, squeezing them tightly in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. If nothing else, it reassures him.

"Okay, okay, we don't have to do anything more than this. It's okay." It's not, but maybe they can pretend for a moment while he thinks. Wukong rubs his fingers over the other's knuckles, tries to make sense of the words. It's not easy (he's clearly missing context, but asking right now would likely just make things worse), and he's pretty sure he doesn't fully get there either, but after a moment of silence he slowly starts, "What if I tell you what I want to do, and you tell me if you'd want to do it too? N-not that we have to! Just- if that makes it easier?"

Aurelius leans into the touch, forehead trying to bury itself in whatever patch of Wukong's fur seems closest within reach. His hands are still shaking, but he takes a deep breath and holds it there in little, stuttering fits as the world seems to pull at the seams around him.

He should be fine, he thinks. Wukong is more than capable of dealing with any threat, and Klaus has gone off to take care of the worst. If anything, it's very inconsiderate to cause his friend distress after the other made all that effort to visit him. So he should calm down.

Calm down.

Calm down.

Calm. Calm. Calm.

His chest tenses with the effort before he expels a shaky breath. A faint sheen of perspiration has found its way to the nape of his neck, but Aurelius ignores it to forcibly voice out his words.

"A-all right. Yes. Yes, of course."

"Sorry. S-so very sorry. It isn't my—my intention to be. This. T-tell me, what, to do?"

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It wasn't because he spent the night with Wukong, was it? Or is he thinking of unicorns, and he was blasted with holy light for another reason. Probably for some sins of the past, surely. Surely!

Or, maybe it's just that he's made of magic and darkness (and metal and plastic), and bright lights banish the dark. What a weird concept.

[Text]: Reflect on what! I stopped working and you bothered to take me home! I don't think you understand how important that is to me. You did a GREAT thing! [Text]: It wouldn't be right to keep your jacket, though... Hey, how about you come by some time this week and pick it up! We have a new house by the beach, we'd be happy to have you. [Text]: Well I would. Not that the kids wouldn't! They're just going through a lot back where they're from and I don't wanna bother them. [Text]: Don't get me wrong it scared the @#$% out of them for... reasons. But like I said, everything is okay!

Seems like he yaps in text form, too. Suppose that's easy when you can text from your head without looking at your phone.

It's no use, Tenna's rambling a mile a minute and it takes Aurelius concentration to keep up with the messages spilling over in real time. His phone dings softly with each new text, until the angel's finally fumbling to find the silent mode button on the side to quiet things down.

When the one-sided conversation seems to finally die down, the angel carefully crafts his replies again.

[txt] I see. [txt] I've recently become a father, so I can understand that sense of responsibility.

[txt] Perhaps my son can befriend your children. [txt] Sephiroth is a very good child.

Then it'd be a playdate...Aurelius's heart warms at the thought, even as he shies from the thought of direct contact.

[txt] I'll be needing a little more time to recover at home. [txt] It's really no trouble. If it's a hassle to look after, I'll ask Klaus to pick my jacket up. [txt] I don't think you're inherently hurt by angels [txt] Rather, [txt] Divinity is a heavy burden for any mortal shell. [txt] I gave you too much light at once.

He pauses

Aurelius says it isn't all terrible, that he can be happy, that things were alright.

How can it be? When did something in both of them break? Aurelius must be going through so much. Endless questions and worry, fear perhaps. For something like that to happen to him? And for Klaus to have waited too long to even put an end to it? Klaus felt he should have acted the moment he knew something was off. If he had acted sooner...

"I--...."

Perhaps the only way to stop Klaus's tears was to burn so hot that it dried them instantly upon touch. Aurelius feels his own hastily-contrived composure slipping as Klaus sinks deeper into grief. His hands on Klaus wavers.

Then his seraph looks up at him, and lips capture his own.

Like a cooling balm, they quell the restless pain, though what he tastes on his tongue is both salty and bitter. Still, Aurelius returns the kiss, bending down from his added height on the step stool to take as much of Klaus as he could against his lips, a certain desperation fueling his movements.

"I want you to be how you always were, but..." Sebastian ruined everything. I ruined everything. I'm sorry...I'm sorry, Aurelius. On behalf of Sebastian, I'm sorry.

"Aurelius......I want you to be happy. I want-----I don't want..."

What was he supposed to do now?

"I—" Aurelius leans into the embrace, returns it with his own, murmuring kisses now into the sides of Klaus's forehead, his cheeks, his tears. "I can be happy."

"Please, don't—I'm not hurt anymore, Klaus. I'll be more careful not to get tricked again. It isn't all terrible..."

His mind races in fretful circles, searching for anchors to calm them both down. It finds a spot of rationality and seizes upon it like a lifeline.

He meets a stranger, they express opinions, and in the aftermath of holding his ground, the other explodes in wrath. Most of the time, that anger seems to stem from a vehement denial of the angel's observations.

Aurelius can't help but think it simply proves his point. If these humans (and elves) were as better as they claimed to be, they should be able to express that without resorting to spewing insults at his face. Perhaps no one had taught them how to speak properly.

Or perhaps, he wondered as the man before him was reduced to a feral, snarling mess, these were a class of soul more bestial than human, confusing their instinct to bite with bark. More than one of them had expressed the (strange) thought that he wanted them to taste his shoes. Personally, he found the suggestion abhorrent.

Feeling helpless.

What’s different is being blinded.

Deafened.

Worse than being locked in the dark. Worse than being trapped alone in solitary confinement, where the only things he could hear were his own breathing and the fluttering of his heart trying to escape his ribcage.

The last thing Till sees is the blonde bastard with golden eyes. And even when deafened to everything else, Till is forced to hear Aurelius’s voice ringing in his ears.

‘Fuck you,’ Till thinks maliciously, blind and thrashing against his bonds, fueled by hatred and spite. Maybe if Aurelius’s god is good, He will deliver the message for him. ‘Your god is dead in my world, and so are your beliefs. You’re no better than They are, looking down on humans and everyone like them. The only script here is all that shitty propaganda you’ve swallowed, and your stupid book.’

Hands chained, he can’t even try to claw free from the metal that blinds him. He has no way of telling where he is, except for the feeling of grass against his skin, shaking with rage and fear. Utterly helpless.