#mumthael

Over the space of several months, the Horadrim gather up any mentions of long-empty but still serviceable houses and bring them to the picky angel. He rejects most of them. Too large, or too close to mortals; Malthael might be more tolerant of Tyrael's group, but he still has little inclination to socialise with the common folk of Sanctuary without necessity. And while he’s used to Heaven’s spacious halls, the reaper doesn’t want a large dwelling. The last one they end up suggesting is an old abandoned cottage, sequestered an hour down the road from Westmarch and well hidden in a forest. The angel considers it carefully. It requires a lot of work, but from what they've told him the foundations at least are sound. He can fix it up to his own standards over time, make it his own.

The other thing he begins to consider is a more permanent choice of mortal appearance. He can't expect to be seen as several different people with the same child - someone would worry for his noteling's welfare, and understandably so. Thinking on how to appear, however, brings nothing to mind that's suitable. All of his previous guises have been chosen to make him less noticeable, boring appearances that the eye slides straight over as nothing special.

That is where the problem lies. The Aspect of Death has never before decided what he would look like. He's never needed to. Angelic bodies and armour grow and change according to life experiences, subconsciously and without any input on the part of the angel. He needs a mortal appearance that he can spend long periods of time in and be comfortable with. Something that is purely himself.

There is, thankfully, someone he can ask about this.

"Tyrael." His mortal sibling is startled by the sudden call as he strides into the man's office.

"Is something wrong, Malthael?" Tyrael looks him over, checking on the status of both the fallen angel and the noteling tucked protectively against his chest. Both seem healthy enough; Malthael's wings are becoming brighter again, much to his relief, and the adult angel is moving around far more easily now.

"I need to ask you about your mortal form. How did you decide upon it?" The older of them takes a seat without waiting for it to be offered. Tyrael makes a soft noise and shrugs, thinking about it.

"I chose my appearance to look approachable," he eventually replies, "but it was also a matter of it feeling right. Why do you ask?"

"I'm having trouble deciding on one for myself," Malthael admits slowly, running a finger over his son's tiny wings. "I will need it eventually to be able to procure necessities for this little one… things such as clothes and food." Tyrael clasps his hands together thoughtfully.

"Perhaps you're thinking too hard about it, brother."

"'Thinking too hard'." The reaper deadpans, wings flaring out a little in annoyance, and he shrugs.

"You've always been prone to overthinking," Tyrael points out bluntly. "Do not try telling me otherwise." The short grumble only proves him right.

And then he realises something that makes him pause.

"... Malthael," he starts carefully, and his brother tilts his head with a questioning sound. "You're still holding your noteling on your front." His brother has always favoured carrying around notelings on his back, be they the ones he's Attended to or those he's fetched from Pandemonium when they've gotten too adventurous. Malthael looks down at his son, hidden gaze deeply affectionate.

"He's half human," he explains calmly. Tyrael waits patiently. The reaper eases one little wing out, stretching the filaments visibly; they're perfectly smooth. The boy squirms and makes a shrill little noise of protest. "He does not have the wing claws to be able to hold on."

One small chubby hand lets go of protruding armour and grabs hold of a tassel as the fallen angel moves his head, tugging it. Malthael coos to the little one, getting quiet and slightly uncoordinated notes in return.

"He is developing well though," he continues, "so I'm not worrying over needing to carry him like this."

"Fair enough," Tyrael acquiesces; if Malthael is happy with the situation then there's no point upsetting him. "His sire is mortal, then? That will upset the betting pool." The reaper laughs quietly.

"I'm sure it will."

For a long moment, Tyrael just watches his nephew tug on the adult angel's tassel. The absolute patience that Wisdom had been known for is still present in Death's countenance; he doesn't even flinch at the hard yanks.

"Perhaps try thinking of how you want to feel when you next try a guise," the man suggests carefully, "rather than specific features?" Malthael shrugs, prising his little one's hand off his hood.

"It's worth a try," he agrees, leaning down to one side and setting his increasingly squirmy noteling on the floor. There's an immediate flutter of uncoordinated little wings as he starts to crawl around, happy with his temporary freedom. "Is there anything I can help with?" Malthael asks next, and Tyrael frowns.

"You don't need to-" he cuts himself off at the flaring of his brother's wings. This is, apparently, less of a question and more of a demand. "... You've given us several records of your travels," he tries again, and the filaments twitch once. "We could use some more details on certain things you've mentioned within them?"

"Of course," Malthael sounds far too pleased with himself, attention easily split between his son's exploration and his brother.

“So about that note on Greyhollow Isle…”

---

"Focus on how I want to feel, he says…" Malthael grumbles, no closer to choosing a mortal appearance than before. It's been a couple of weeks since he consulted Tyrael on the matter, and contrary to the mortal aspect's experience, he's nowhere near as good at feeling his way through something like this.

A little string of notes comes from his son as he crawls around slowly and Malthael pauses, mind derailing. That was - he had just - he sings softly, encouraging a response, and the babe sings back happily.

It's not a name that is being sung, but the reaper's wings fluff up proudly all the same.

What he hears within those little, rough notes is 'carrier'; his son has begun to recognise things and people around him and call them by something.

Warmth laces its way through his resonance, and he holds tightly to it as he recalls fuzzy memories of spending hours upon hours with his siblings and their angels, chasing down overly adventurous notelings and playing with them, knowing-

Oh.

He had been known, then. That old warmth is what he wants to carry with him in mortal form, Malthael decides abruptly. He's spent far too much time being unknowable and cold to the kin he used to be very close to. The spellwork comes easily this time. Armour melts away; his robe remains as his form reshapes itself, his very resonance moulding itself to suit his wishes.

He takes stock of himself with interest as the spell settles. His appearance is… surprisingly comfortable this time. He understands instantly what Tyrael meant by it feeling right. He's smaller, as expected, but still tall. The reaper takes a moment to just move around, getting used to being so constrained. The mortal form doesn't allow for an angel's natural flexibility, nor for his tendency to be more fluid than his siblings.

His noteling stares at him, and the reaper coos as he lifts him into his arms. The ping that comes from the child is unsure - a question to check that the person holding him is really his carrier - and Malthael sings back in reassurance. There’s a few seconds where the noteling continues to stare, and he fears his son might start to scream. Then the little boy blinks slowly and snuggles against his chest. The adult angel relaxes with a deep sigh of relief.

The windows will survive another day.

“Shall we go and confuse the Horadrim?” He asks softly, tone full of a type of mischief that only a select few know exist. His son burbles happily at him, one little fist grabbing a dangling white braid. Malthael winces, but does nothing to stop him tugging as he tucks him into a sling. “Hm. You have a particular fascination with hanging things, don’t you, little note?”

The Horadrim stare openly as a stranger carries Malthael's child past in a sling. They're confused by the sight, aware of how protective Death is of his son.

"Who is that?"

"Malthael let him take his son?"

"If he didn't, we'd all be hearing the screeching. Didn't know he'd gotten a babysitter though."

"Syl's going to throw a fit if he hasn't told her."

Tyrael smirks as he passes, and the stranger holds up a finger in a silent demand for him to be quiet, smirking back at him. The noteling pings unhappily and the tall man pauses, glances down, then changes direction for the kitchen instead.

Even Sylvie is confused when he enters, then seems to clock something about him and laughs softly.

"You look like a mage," she comments, "or a necromancer. I never expected you'd be so pale, considering."

"You're incredibly perceptive," he compliments, "especially when your fellows couldn't work it out. How did you know?"

"Let's see… your gait, the way the little one is relaxed and trusting in you, and your eyes." She crosses her arms, and Malthael gives a rich, deep chuckle, tilting his head in question.

"My eyes?"

"They're the same purple as your wings," she tells him.

"Hm… How long do you think it will be until they realise too?" Sylvie grins at him in reply.

"That depends on how long you can hold back your tendency to tilt your head or sing to your son, doesn't it?"

"Maybe." Malthael hums quietly in response, filling a bottle for the child and cradling him easily. "... It feels strange, being so small," he muses, "like I'm holding him wrong, when I know that the position is perfectly safe."

"Small?? You're still taller than Tyrael."

"As I should be." He gives her a rare smile and leans back in the chair while his son drinks enthusiastically. "But I'm used to being taller." She gives the angel a curious look, setting a cup of tea in front of him. Malthael inclines his head slightly in thanks. "Ask your question."

"If you're 'small' now, what do you count as tall?" Sylvie takes a seat next to him. The reaper hums in thought.

"Imperius's height at least," he states airily. "Until I became Death, he was the tallest of us Aspects. A good ten feet."

"And you as Wisdom were…?"

"Around eight feet," he admits, pulling the bottle away from his son and placing him against his shoulder.

"Death?" Malthael smirks at her and rubs the boy's back, purring.

"Eleven - I should have grabbed a towel." His expression shifts to one of mild disgust; some milk now running down his back. "Thank you, little note…" Sylvie starts to laugh and he grumbles, handing the boy off to her. His son pings at her happily, very familiar with the woman by now. "Watch him for a bit, would you? I require a bath…"

"Of course," she giggles at him, tickling the little boy and getting a bright squeak in return. "Take your time. Make sure to wash your robe thoroughly, or the smell will stick."