ITâS  DIFFICULT,    HE  THINKS,        to be faced with a celestial and not see   the ruins of his homeland.    he remembers it too vividly:    billowing smoke and ash scorching lungs,    the carnage and blood spill,    the cruelty of a godâs apathy turned wrath and the subsequent judgement delivered to the one who simply desired to free his nation from   certain doom.    if he felt any anger,    it would simply be left to fester beneath ivory ribcage and an atrophied heart.    this incessant anger of his has never once dulledâ    it became a persistent phantom,    follows him in his shadows and in his every reflection,    sinks claws into rigid shoulders and drills into bone,    leaking and spilling like blackened ichor,    and he can only do so much to keep it silent.
perhaps a few lifetimes ago,    mael would have not entertained a conversation with aether,    much less this   little game   heâs hinting at.    molten eyne follow aetherâs hands in their movement,    and he remembers aether wasnât one to turn a blind eye to those who sought his aid.    on the contrary,    he had an   odd habit   of being dragged into   mortal affairs that donât particularly concern him.
â   yours ?   â     he echoes,    the hiss of a serpent somehow harsher than it initially had been.    he looks to aether and all he sees is   bloodshed on hallowed grounds.     [   aether wasnât responsible for the downfall of a once thriving nation.    mael knows this.    mael knows this and yetâ    ]     his laugh is a wry one,    honeyed as it was bitter,    smooth as it was jagged.      â   does it truly matter what i think ?   â     meaning:    heâll see it anyways.    fate was cruel like that.     â   âbut yes,    itâs so common a face,    iâm starting to think iâll never see the end of it.   â
his  first  reaction  is  dampened  fury   --   irritation,   at  what  is  his  so  kept  carefully  out  of  his  reach.   it  is  his  memory,   stolen  from  him,   locked  behind  celestial  gates,   recompense  for  a  rebellion  he  canât  even  recall.   every  fragment  feels  like  something  precious.   genesis  :   a  path  to  what  he  has  lost,   whether  that  is  godhood  or  whether  that  is  his  sister   [   it  is  a  long    &   winding  road   /   does  he  even  wish  to  be  there  any  longer?   ]
this  is  all  that  is  left.   intransigent.   he  can  read  through  words  tinged  at  the  edges,   knows  a  threat  when  it  wears  a  laugh  all  but  saying,    do  not  bother   /   do  not  pry.   he  answers  in  an  amused  hum,   iridescent  light  suffused  through  serpentâs   [   biting   ]   response.   if  he  were  more  easily  frightened,   more  easily  daunted  by  a  threat  of  teeth,   it  would  certainly  be  a  good  try.
â    hm.    â   a  simple  sound  that  paints  itself  with  broad  strokes.   too  bitter  to  be  amusement,   and  too  kind  to  be  cruelty.   he  knows,   of  course,   a  bruise  beneath  the  hands,   like  the  softness  of  an  overripened  fruit.   the  words  may  be  different,   but  the  reflex  is  always  the  same.   â   i  asked  you,   so  it  matters,   yes.    â
and  the  more  he  looks,   the  worse  it  feels.   there  is  something  here,   just  out  of  reach.   a  familiarity;   the  reflection  of  a  mirror,   as  if  they  have  done  this,   and  many  times  before.   he  tilts  his  head  into  the  palm  of  his  hand,   haphazard  gold  spilled  over  one  arm,   and  narrows  his  eyes. Â
â   you  may  not  like  mine,   but  i  like  yours.   you  have  nice  eyes.    â    familiar  eyes,   he  should  say.   thatâs  what  heâd  noticed  first.   everything  else  may  change,   but  the  eyes  always  stay  the  same.   the  prism  through  which  a  soul  is  filtered.   â   iâm  sorry  if  iâve  upset  you.    â   [   but  not,   of  course,   enough  to  let  this  go   ].