morimens write

Marsh shakes their head, slowly, but they smile. "Humans can't see ultraviolet." They explain, even as they pretend not to worry about what it means. (How different these poor children are, from the average human. What was done when. . . creating them, in the way they were made.) "But you're both gods, so I suppose you get to be special like that, yeah?"

Pollux nods rapidly, wings pulling in and then spreading out again, flapping through the air in the way Marsh remembers . . . someone (who? a sibling? a friend? a lover? they don't remember, and can't recall if it's dissolution or simply poor memory to blame) flapping their hands when excited. "We have special eyes," he says, his own alight with joy, "so we can see your stripes! Do you think the Lightbearer gave us that gift?"

Marsh smiles at him, even as nausea churns in their stomach at the reminder. (Always the Lightbearer, always this or that but always tied to this religion. Marsh would have no hatred to it on its own, but the way that the Church acts — the things they have done to these boys, the things they will do to these boys, the way godhood already weighs down their fragile birdlike shoulders. . . it makes Marsh want to scream, or break something. Still, they bite their tongue.) "Perhaps." They indulge in the urge to lean forward and ruffle his hair — Pollux makes a noise of protest, but he's smiling, and giggling softly all the while.

"Now," Marsh stands back up, and puts a sterner look back on their face. "Back to your lessons, yes?"

--

The first thing they notice, upon their first breath drawn in, is the colors. It's as if someone had taken the world and — widened it, just slightly. They can't begin to even explain it, but Marsh just knows that something is different.

The first faces that greet them — Marsh knows those faces. They've changed, since Marsh's memory last recalls — childhood fat gone, sharper cheekbones and brows, eyes no longer quite so big on those faces — but Marsh would know them anywhere. The new colors give them pause — but Marsh shakes it off soon enough.

They've changed, the two of them — no longer small cygnets, but proper swans, tall and proud. Feathers gleam green and blue and purple in the light, colors dancing along the black plumes, colors dancing within black hair — and white, too, made more emerald and silver than the emerald-blue-purple of the feathers. The two still stand the same as they did when they were young — it's clearly been some while, for them to have grown so much (for Marsh to have missed so much, upon their death), but that, at least, is unchanged.

Marsh smiles, and stretches newfound wings as they step forward, arms open in invitation. "You've grown, I see."

Everytime Salvador casts "The Blessing" during investigations and battles, the stone tablets that hover behind him glow in pale blue light, lighting the markings of these tablets to cast their healing.

This otherworldly light was also present when the Keeper and Salvador first linked to each other.

A pale blue light, a mark perhaps of the All-Father's prophecy is all too familiar to Salvador.

He has seen this light even before he was awakened. This light was his salvation. The answer that the All-Father gave him in times of strife. It was comfort yet a curse. Despite that, he accepted that this light will always be there and this light will always need blood offerings to be seen once more. The payment may seem to be steep to others but in his eyes, no payment is too steep for the wellbeing of all the people he loved.

But for the Keeper, seeing this pale blue glow reminds them of Salvador's own light and warmth. They always knew Salvador was one of the kindest people they have ever met, even more evident that even Mythag students and faculty would seek him due to his comforting presence. A healing glow that he himself has, even without using The Blessing. The Keeper could only look in awe and bask in his glow when they spend time together. They would wish that they could just stay in his warmth for a long time but that is only a luxury perhaps the church goers can have.

As a Keeper, they knew calm, peaceful days are the minority. To go to investigations is the main job. To handle and neutralize dissolution is top priority. To indulge in such peaceful warmth for a long time is a crime for those who are suffering. This is what the Keeper signed up for in the Keygrave ceremony.

How to put into words the thoughts chasing circles through Castor's head? How to voice the wonder, the care, the worry?

Gently, gently, he presses his palm against Sylvester's cheek. It's cool to the touch — Sylvester has always run cooler than Castor. It's a stark contrast, the blackened skin of Castor's hand, talons sheening slightly green where the light bends, against the pale freckled skin of Sylvester's cheek, the soft white-silver hair and eyelashes. It's gentle, Castor's touch, because Sylvester deserves gentleness more than anything else. (He has given so much for Castor, already. Gentleness — a promise of protection, a promise not to harm — is the least that Castor owes him.)

"Castor?"

"Your eyes." Castor says, face still holding that stern appearane. "They're silver?"

Sylvester blinks, slowly — a slight widening of the eyes. Surprise. "Are they?"

"Mmh." Castor's face smooths out, as he leans forwards — thumb brushing just beneath the eyelashes, just beneath Sylvester's right eye. He's careful not to lean too far or too heavily, for his wings are heavy as is his body, and Sylvester is much slimmer. Even still, he leans closely.

They really are silver, Sylvester's eyes. Not silver like the color, but silver like the silver that Awakeners are born from. Like the silver that the Silver Key is made of, like the silver that Mythag values so highly, like the silver that sits within Castor's chest, that marks him as divine by the Lantern's scriptures. It's mesmerizing, looking at the irises — from afar they look simply gray, even if a pale shade, but up close like this Castor can see every individual shift in color. (Structural iridescence, he had read once, to explain the shifting colors of his and Pollux's feathers, to explain the dancing emerald hues in the feathers and hair, in Castor's hair, even with the pigment long lost to stress and years locked underground. That must be what brings forth those slight — but no less beautiful — shifts in color in Sylvester's irises.)

Sylvester leans into the touch, eyelids falling closed. "Your hands are warm." He murmurs, suddenly soft.

"Are they?"

"Yeah."

It's not a cold afternoon — it's late Spring, almost the edges of Summer — but Castor shifts his weight back just slightly. His free hand rests on Sylvester's shoulder, and (carefully, carefully, gently, gently) he begins pulling Sylvester closer to him. Sylvester must truly be tired, to not react at all — and, soon, Castor has pulled the man into his arms. For a few moments (wonderful, gentle moments) Castor simply stands there. Sylvester, held securely against his chest, wings spread to wrap around the other man as well. The Spring breeze drifts through, carrying the smell and promise of rain, rustling his feathers and hair just as it rustles the leaves of the many trees on Mythag's campus.

"You look like you need rest." Castor says, softly, to Sylvester. "Come lay down with me?"

Sylvester makes a soft, inquisitive noise. Though he runs cool, he's still warm, where he's halfway burrowed into Castor. "Will it be comfy?" He asks, bleary — the lack of sleep has hit, Castor thinks.

"It will be." Castor promises, arms tightening just slightly, pulling Sylvester just slightly closer. "There's still a few hours before nighttime. Pollux will be in his half of the room, but if you don't mind it, you could stay with me?" The words tumble out awkwardly, but Castor presses onwards. (It's easier to ask, when those silver eyes aren't looking at him. When Castor can't get lost, distracted by the pearlescent hues.) "You've been kind enough to allow me in your room, on several nights. I . . . want to repay the favor."

Sylvester pulls away, and Castor lets him (even as a stone sinks into his stomach, even as a small part of himself keens). "Let's go, then." Those eyes smile up at him, Sylvester's cheeks scrunched at the action, too. (It's cute.) "Any excuse to get to sleep more and not do work, right?"

Castor can't help but smile back in return. "Of course." He folds his wings against his back, to their proper place. Sylvester follows him as he walks, step-in-step, through campus towards the Awakener Dorms. For once, Castor feels no anxiety nor apprehension at the thought of Sylvester seeing his and Pollux's shared room — only cautious hope, that resting beside Castor (alike to the many times Castor had rested beside Sylvester, in Sylvester's room) may allow Sylvester the sleep that he is so clearly missing.

It's not that Castor's room is messy, of course. He and Pollux both go to great pains to ensure their room stays neat, organized, and free of debris or clutter. They struggle with having things, he and his brother, but they are slowly accumulating items to make the room feel lived-in. The majority being bedding — soft blankets and pillows, cushions left unclaimed and other such things. There are the bookshelves with their valued tomes set upon the shelves, an eclectic collection of other things equally distributed along both halves of the room — Pollux's carefully-copied notes in neat penmanship, Castor's elegant-yet-hastily written notes and questions in his own journals. The ever-growing collection of inks, and a few favored pens. The incense left in the corner, for daily prayer, and the small strip of gauzy purple fabric that was to be the only thing of the Church either would allow in their room.

Castor would be surprised if Sylvester noticed much of this, however — what with how quickly Sylvester heads toward Castor's bed. (It's easy to tell that it's Castor's bed, on account of the feathers, scattered and woven into the nest of blankets that Castor had turned his bedding into.)

"I'm sorry," Castor starts, hit with realization as Sylvester leans down to remove his shoes, and then cape. "I don't have any spare nightclothes."

"It's alright." Sylvester smiles, removing his vest, but leaving the undershirt and pants. "I can just sleep in my dayclothes."

"You're sure?" Castor's hands find his writs, talons running through and tugging at the long feathers growing there. "I — I could lend you one of my spare robes, if you'd prefer . . .?" (It'd be too big on Sylvester, they both know.) "I don't want you to be uncomfortable.

Sylvester laughs, and shakes his head. "No, no, it's alright. I just want to sleep now, if that's okay."

"Of course." Castor carefully watches for a few moments, as Sylvester eases himself into the blankets, burrowing down into them, until he's sure that Sylvester is comfortable. He sheds the outer layers of his robes quickly, leaving just the thinner inner robe, and carefully settles down onto the bed himself. Then, beneath the blankets — laying on his stomach, tugging at blankets until they cover him well enough.

Sylvester laughs again, and Castor turns to look at him, blinking — frozen, then, as those silver eyes gaze into his own emerald, mirth dancing within them. Sylvester says nothing, but shuffles until he's pressed against Castor on the bed, blankets pulled over them both — a hand gently tugging at Castor's wing until it's draped over Sylvester, and the blankets pulled over the wing and person both.

A hand runs through black feathers, and Castor's eyes fall closed. A soft trill escapes his throat, and Sylvester hums softly. (Some song, that Castor can't name, but knows dearly all the same.) "Your feathers are soft." He murmurs, tucking his face against Castor's neck. "Goodnight."

Castor doesn't have a name for the fondness welling within his chest, but he'll treasure it regardless. Sylvester is asleep, already, but even still, he smooths down Sylvester's hair again. Sighing softly, and with a smile upon his lips, he presses a soft kiss against Sylvester's forehead. "Goodnight, Sylvester."

Silver.

Mythag University have been researching the use of Silver in their technology ever since the university's inception.

But this is the first time they encountered a being, no, a person with actual hair made of silver.

How is it possible? Then again, finding her in the ■■■■■■■ explosion was already a mystery on itself, this person might be not a person at all.

A young lady with hair made of pure silver. But the impurities and imbalances of her body makes her hair susceptible to contamination as her body also produces black liquid that are just like dissolution slime. The lady is still unconscious but at least the researchers know she is still alive.

To know more about this girl, is to make her body be stabilized enough to help her awaken. The conflict of silver and D-slime truly is like an oxymoron in her vessel. They are determined to see her eyes open.

Researcher ■■■■■ spearheaded the research, analyzing the girl's vitals and genetic makeup. Despite the two huge anomalies in her biology, she is still mostly human. Perhaps a unique human. But as more tests and days go by, with days comes to weeks, to months and years... the girl still hasn't woke up from it's slumber.

They slowly determined that perhaps the amount of black liquid and the balance of silver might be causing this. Perhaps her whole being needs something much different than what normal humans would need to wake up. So they experimented even more.

-----

In the three years they have worked on her, "she" has finally woken up from her slumber. They gave her the name "Kirie", a name fitting for a being of miracle. Her hair isn't fully silver anymore, as it has patches of black along it's silvery streaks.

It took her a bit to adjust to being awoken, as her 3-year slumber have made her truly weak. She slowly learned how to walk and eat on her own, thanks to the doctors in the university.

They also made her officially a student, but wasn't allowed to interact with other students as her own wellbeing and physical health weren't stable enough to be introducing new variables. Within the year, she was able to move to places on her own and do many things on her own, to the relief of the researchers.

Slowly, they allowed her to go beyond of Mythag, as long as she was monitored remotely by Mythag in case of emergency. She wandered through streets of Londinium, where the smell of food were all around.

She eventually found herself in front of the Church of Redemption and went inside.

Feelings of wonder rush into her as she looked all around. She eventually sat on the nearest pew to absorb the awe that she felt. There were songs that played in the farther areas of the church that resonated all around the place that was soothing for her. Slowly, she drifted to sleep.

--------

She felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and saw a figure towering over her. Her eyes are not focusing well immediately.

"Child, it seems that you have drifted to sleep. I don't see you around here often, are you perhaps new here?"

She squints her eyes. Despite the multiple attempts to clear her eyesight, it remains blurry.

"Are you alright, dear?" Said the deep, caring voice.

She was embarrassed to admit she needed help. Then a slight blue light have appeared in a flash, that after it's appearance, stabilized her eyesight. She sees a man's gentle smile in front of her. She was still quite shy to look fully at the man's face.

"Th-thank you, sir.."

"In this place, everyone is welcome. Perhaps the All-Father guided you here. Welcome, dear lamb."

She looked at her pocket watch. It was getting late.

"Nice to meet you, and thank you for the welcome as well... but I need to go now. Sorry for falling asleep in a public place.."

"Do not worry, little lamb. Your comfort is always the All-Father's priority. You are always welcome to rest in His house. May you have a safe trip back to where you came from."

"Thank you, sir..."

She did a curtsy and hurriedly left as she was aware of the curfew that was imposed on her by the university. The Priest that saw her off made a small smile on his face.

"What an interesting individual..."

----------

When she arrived in front of Mythag's gates, the researchers were looking sternly at her.

"I'm truly sorry for being late, sirs and madams. I really did not mean to fall asleep outside of Mythag. I accept any kind of punishment for my tardiness..."

She immediately was taken to the lab to make some tests on her. She didn't really mind it as she was used to this but she was quite unsure why she was thoughly examined once more... perhaps it was due to her passing out during the trip outside Mythag.

The researchers found out that the balance of Dissolution and her Silver essence within her changed drastically while she was outside but was eventually balanced out by some sort of miracle during the trip as well.

Ever since that day, she was not allowed to go out for a while until she is able to fully go without her chemical imbalance being a detriment to her trip.

During those days being quarantined, she couldn't forget the nice man whose voice comforted her in the church and helped her when she was having a bit of trouble...