#esiel

"Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under 't." Esiel knows he's different from the other angels. It isn't obvious, and he's grateful for that. It is subtle, like the darkness hidden beneath the  surface of the ocean: easy enough to ignore, but unsettling once you start paying attention to it.  He had begun noticing It when he was still young enough to be cradled in his Daddy's arms. Sometimes, when he was curled up on his chest during one of their naps, he would have the strangest dreams, dark dreams that filled him with dread and despair and made him wake up crying. It was those times that made him very glad for the presence of his angel father.  Other times, often during an argument with Radaranarael, he would feel a fiery heat flare up behind his eyes. That was usually the point at which Radaranarael would stop speaking and stare at him with an expression of sheer terror on his face. No matter how much Esiel begged and prodded and demanded after the argument, the younger fledgling would never tell him what it was that had made him shut up so suddenly. These little incidents always went unnoticed, or were attributed to the usual petty troubles of childhood. It wasn't until he'd been placed in a learning group with strange fledglings that It had really begun to show Itself. More often than not, Esiel would find himself being made to sit apart from the rest of the group because of some squabble or fight he had instigated. It didn't matter how many times he promised his Daddy that he'd behave better next time; he seemed to just have a natural tendency towards trouble.  His troubles in his learning group came to a boil when, after being scared by an older fledgling, he had clawed said fledgling across the face, leaving four deep and angry red scratch marks on his cheek.  The expression on his Daddy's face had been blank when he came to pick Esiel up, and had stayed blank as the seraph listened while the teacher gently suggested that perhaps it would be more suitable if he taught Esiel himself, since he didn't seem to get along with other fledglings well. The flight back to their cloud had been silent, and each time Esiel had dared to look up at his father's face, his unreadable expression made him bow his head again once more in shame. That day, his Daddy decided that perhaps he, Esiel and Radaranarael ought to spend some time on earth with Papa, as a family. Later that same night, in Papa's house, Esiel had covertly listened in on a conversation between his fathers. In hushed tones, his Daddy had recounted all that had happened, and had expressed his worry.  Esiel had felt very bad then, both at listening in and at having caused his parents worry. He didn't sleep well that night, and was uncharacteristically quiet the next morning. He was relieved to find that, although It got worse as he grew older, It became easier to control. As he matured into his teen years, he found that he was able to reduce the impulse to lash out in fear or anger to just that-an impulse. But despite the control he had gained over his body, it was his mind that betrayed him instead. His thoughts seemed determined to lead him into ruin. Dark thoughts they were, filled with vengeance and blood and loose feathers. The fire that seemed to burn behind his eyes was only fanned by those thoughts, and some days he would almost pass out from how strong it was. He was terrified of It. But he was more terrified of himself, because he was It, and It was him. That is why, when Radaranarael went to join the ranks of the Host, he chose to remain the pacifist. It wasn't because he was afraid of hurting himself (as he had claimed only half-jokingly); it was because he was afraid of hurting someone else. Instead of a sword, he chose to wield a paintbrush. He chose to adopt a weak but lovable exterior that reflected the interior that he wished was in control more often.  It was better that way. Not easier. Just better. 

"Radaranarael." The blonde cherub stopped, and turned around to face the angel behind him. "Metatron," he answered, his voice cold and impassive. The older angel was giving him a look of mixed emotion. His expression was one of hurt, of love, of not understanding, and almost of disappointment. But it would never really be disappointment, and even if it were, it would never be because of anything Radaranarael did. "Congratulations," Metatron finally said, nodding at the second pair of wings Radaranarael had recently been granted. The cherub nodded. "Thank you." Silence passed between them for what seemed like an eternity. "Well, I must be getting-" "Come see us sometime, why don't you?" Metatron said suddenly, cutting his son off without meaning to. Radaranarael raised an eyebrow. "You haven't visited in years, Rada," Metatron said, hurt showing in his voice. "Your father and I miss you. Esiel misses you." "I'd have thought he was too busy to miss me." "He talks about you every night, Rada. He wants you to be at his wedding. As his Best." "I have other things to do." "You can't take a day off?" "No." Silence passed between them again, and when Metatron spoke, it was laden with pain and sorrow. "What happened, Rada?" he asked, searching his son's face for any sort of emotion. "The two of you used to be so close. We used to be so close. And I hear too that you deny your own father now, who raised you when he could have stayed in Hell and never have been part of your life." Radaranarael's cold expression held firm as he replied in a monotone, "Things change." He turned away and spread his wings in preparation to take off. He paused for a moment, and looked back over his shoulder. "Goodbye, Metatron."