There’s hardly a time when he’s not enthusiastic…hardly a time when he’s not as content as he can be, working alongside his sister for a goal that seems nicer in thought than in practice.
He’d be lying if he said he was always okay though. Praxina is stronger than him, composed and elegant and he listens as best as he can because she’s his sister. She wants what’s best for the both of them…but sometimes…sometimes the doubts creep up and hang heavy around his neck.
Sometimes his chest lurches and sometimes he feels fear of the very same creatures they create. Sometimes the cavern feels too small and he has to get out.
The rain makes it feel even smaller tonight. It’s cold and he’s alone. He cant stay. The shadows look longer, creeping, reaching things that threaten to drag him down farther.
So he flees…like he’s so used to doing. His magic is wild and strange, unfamiliar as it carries him to the edge of town.
His cloak hands limp against his back, fortunately the weather proofing spell still holds in his temporary weakness. The cold is a grossly, grasping thing that digs deep into his marrow and sadness.
Still he can’t bring himself to leave. The town looks warm, lit from within by the lights of humans living and laughing inside. People who are happy. He sort of, kind of hates them.
He sort of, kind of, hates himself.
It doesn’t happen always. This lingering doubt. This comparison to Praxina. He’s usually got enough of his own bravado to help bolster his own opinion of himself.
But today is one of those rare days, and even his footsteps sloshing in the puddles feel leaden. He’s tired. Apathetic.
He lets the gray haze pull him downward, until he’s sitting with an unpleasant squelch on the wet concrete, knees drawn up close.
He stays there for stars knows how long. Contemplates.
He hears a sharp little gasp, hears the curtness of heels clicking against the wet pavement. Annoyance curls in the pit of his stomach. He just wants to be left alone. He just needs a few moments. Just ignore him and move on.
But a shadow falls across him, obscuring the previously golden light of a street lamp.
As it is, the top of the umbrella is colored in a familiar pinkish hue, unnecessary brightness piercing his green eyes and making him look away. Still, he catches the streaming golden hair falling over a slim shoulder.
His annoyance turns to anger. He doesn’t want pity. He just wants to wallow.
“Go away, Princess.” His voice is quiet. Weary.
She seems hesitant, and for a moment of relief, he thinks she’s going to leave.
She’s stubborn like that.
With a sigh of resignation, she plops down in her lovely pink dress, draws up her knees to her chest and holds the umbrella over them both.
“Oh god, its cold!” She complains, but still doesn’t move.
Thankfully, the harshly glowing pink of her necklace has faded away to a dull smoldering.
Mephisto would rather she just disappeared, but there’s something that pierces through his hazy apathy. The warmth of her nearby. Just…contact with another person…it’s not so bad.
“Do you want to talk?” She whispers quietly, her blue eyes drawn tight into an expression of unsurety.
“You don’t need to pretend like you care. Just go away.” He tries again, and hunches his shoulders up closer to his ears. Lets his damp hair fall over his eyes so that he doesn’t have to look at her disgustingly kind eyes.
She talks. A lot. She doesn’t pry or ask him questions. Just keeps talking.
It’s annoying. It’s loud. It’s warm.
He doesn’t mind it so much.
Eventually, the glow in her necklace goes out completely. His chest feels…not lighter…but not as knotted.
He heaves deep breath, braces his hands on his knees.
“O-oh…okay. Well….uh…” Iris is understandably unsure of what to say to an enemy that you’ve kept company in the rain. “Have a good evening?”
He laughs. It’s a bitter thing, but his humor is genuine. He finally looks her in the eye, shifts his body until he can look directly at her. He seems to search for something, his green eyes glittering and awake. Less dull than before.
She stands. He mirrors her.
She raises her umbrella to hold it over his head still, maintains this little circle of human kindness under the glowing light of a street lamp.
He seems loathe to leave. She seems ready to let him go. She’s soaked too, and she shivers unconsciously. That thin dress can’t be doing her much good for warmth.
Mephisto tilts his head, unusually silent. Without another word, he unclips the fastener on his dark and heavy cloak. It’s not much, but he throws at her with a familiar sneer.
“Take it. It’ll keep you warm. I want it back the next time I defeat you, Iris.”
She sputters out a few nonsensical protests, before heaves a sigh of exasperation and promptly snatches it from her hands and unceremoniously drapes it over her shoulders.
As an afterthought, he looks over his shoulder as he walks away.
“Have a good evening, Princess.”
And he disappears into the rain, leaving behind a startled Iris who hold the umbrella crookedly. But the rain that runs down her pale wrist doesn’t feel cold.
It’s almost stifling under this cloak, but the gesture still has the feelings of genuine kindness and she walks home, trying to decipher what this all meant.
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