#ohreinsof

     Lyria, he believes is the name of the blue haired girl who has been in and out of his room over the past few days, had spent the last six hours describing various places, people, and something called coffee in vivid detail to him as she had sat upon the stool beside his bed - fingers curled about its wooden edge as legs swung back and forth. The dragon with her...Vyrn had occasionally chimed in, either adding to the stories she had told him or cutting her off before she could finish. They, alongside a brown-haired individual they referred to as the captain - who had laughed when he referred to them as such, and the alchemist who always run in and out of the room with one too many supplies in her arms as she ran various tests he didn’t quite understand nor know the purpose of, were the only people who had been allowed, according to said alchemist, in his room until now. Something about making sure he was ready for proper guests first (because apparently the other three didn’t count as ‘proper’ guests, whatever that meant), and constantly hushing the dragon when he and the blue haired girl would bring up someone named Sandy or Sandals, but according to Lyria’s rant today his actual name was Sandalphon, telling them both to keep this (he’s fairly certain she was referring to him when she had said that) a secret from him just in case ‘something else went horribly wrong’. 

        Well, he already knew what the ‘something that had gone horribly wrong the first time’ was. Lyria had so passionately described people he should have known to him to such an extent one would believe she was an artist recounting a painting, yet, no matter how long or how agonizingly detailed her recounts were, he still did not know who she was talking about. Save for a slight tug at his core when she mentioned coffee and the dreadful feeling of knowing but also completely not knowing when she described Sandalphon to him. He couldn’t remember much of anything. Not the Primarchs she had rattled off nor the details of any battle she had brushed over, nor the fact that he had died. She, actually, hadn’t informed him of that. The alchemist had told him that much while grumbling about the fact that the other two would probably never bring it up. Sometimes he learned more from her grumbling than he did from their rambling as they would often get sidetracked partway through the conversation. But it didn’t much matter what he could gather from them about himself when everything they said felt distant and unreal and foreign to him. 

        Today, after that six hour session of Lyria describing, primarily, Sandalphon and coffee to him, the alchemist (he still didn’t know her name - she came and left like a whirlwind most days and he only understood roughly one third of what she was saying) finally informed him that nothing she had tried thus far had worked and he was doing fairly well in regards to ‘adjusting to the body she had made him’ so they might as well, finally, tell the crew that he was around and that, apparently, also meant telling Sandalphon the good news alongside with the bad news, which was why Lyria had spent so long talking about him today - likely hoping she could jog his memory, but failing. They seemed to hope speaking with him would do the trick. He had his doubts, but he humored them regardless because he didn’t have much of a choice, but a part of him already felt guilty, especially when the alchemist informed not to tell the other that he had actually been ‘revived’ for almost a week now and it had taken everything in their power to keep that a secret from this Sandalphon and if he gave them away on it she wasn’t about to deal with the consequences of hiding him from the other for a solid seven days because he had been unbearable, apparently, the one time she had mentioned possibly attempting to ‘make him a body’. He’s not sure what her definition of unbearable actually was. She seemed to get frustrated fairly easily. 

         So, he sat, back leaning against a collection of fluffy pillows Lyria had shoved behind him to help his aching back and ‘just in case his wings came back they’d be comfortable’. What wings, he had wanted to ask, but she hadn’t given him the chance, in a small room somewhere on the ship that had been mentioned to him passing because apparently none of them had seemed it all that important to tell him much about it. The curtains were drawn back and the sun filtered in through window - highlighting the almost empty room in a flaxen glow that warmed the side of his face and painted golden streaks upon silky, white locks. Slender hands were folded neatly upon his lap where a white sheet was draped. They told him they had managed to recreate his armor, as well, but it was in the closest at the moment because the alchemist had told him if he damaged his body at all that ‘I brought you back into this world and I can take you out of it again’ so the Captain stole some clothes from someone named Lucio instead and shoved them on him - just a white robe and then he had gone rummaging through the closest and wrapped the red ribbon there about his shoulders said ‘perfect’ and ran off to fetch Sandalphon alongside the others.

       Now all he could do was wait. The room silent aside from the handful of footsteps and hushed voice he could hear running around just outside of it - the most he had heard in days so they must have informed the rest of the crew of that he was alive - that’s still a concept he’s having a difficult time grasping, but he doesn’t think it wise to linger on it. Instead, he tries to go over the various things Lyria had told him about Sandalphon - having committed them all to memory. But still, nothing, just a faint hum of his core that sounded almost pitifully sad and fingers lifted to press gingerly against his chest where it had started to ache. Blue eyes staring down at their tips where the light caught his skin. And then the door creaked open, his gaze snapping away from his hand to lift in order to meet the brown-haired man who now stood in the doorway. He was just a bit taller than the Captain, but his hair looked just as messy as theirs. A faint, polite smile stretched onto his lips, though it fell soon after. Despite all of their best efforts, even when looking directly at him and knowing, somehow, that this is him, he still doesn’t actually remember him. 

The faint smell of coffee that wafted towards her noise nowadays always managed to rouse her in early morning. The new supreme primarch had now wanted to live out a soft-sounding dream, and Diantha (along with the rest of the crew) were supporting him however they could. That included decorating and kitting one of the unused siderooms like they had with Raduga for Ladiva, and now a morning version of the place posed as a quaint coffee shop appeared before them. Of course, being roomed close to it didn’t bother the ex-maiden; she was an early bird by nature, and balancing her love of tea with a growing taste in light roasts was a nice new change of pace in the morning.

And so, taking in a deep breath of the brew, her eyes fluttered opened and she tried to stretch the rest of her lingering sleep away. The first thing was to get changed so she could open her door freely, taking in the fresh scent more head-on, just to feel more awake faster so as to plan everything out today sooner. Making her bed, putting away study materials left out in the night, organizing her shelves the tiniest bit to see what she should bring to breakfast today. A new herb collection guide was selected; she had been meaning to pour over it to see if any new uses for something caught her eye. And, from what little she had read, this author had the right balance of detail and simple wording to keep her both entertained and understanding of his words. A pencil put behind her ear, a quick look in her desktop mirror, and she was off to a calming breakfast...

...Though maybe too calming, considering no one was here besides the supreme primarch himself. Is he closed? Is it too early? Wait, does he even have a time table for this place? Thoughts washed over her as she stood frozen in the doorway of the place, though then a sheepish blush heated her face when she realized she couldn’t just stand there. She had never actually been one-on-one with the man, nor had they ever been near each other for a great length of time, but now under a forceful pressure in her own mind...

It was one of the many things that were kept out of Lucilius designs for him, an overseer that was too capable of sympathy for its charges would be useless. Evolution was meant to be observed, any sort of divine influence as far from it as possible.

Still despite his express intentions of being as distant as possible from his experiments and studied, his creator had given Lucifer the capability to think for himself and learn on his own. A gracious gift that was bestowed only upon him and one other, the rest of Lucilius’ creations were reduced to nothing more than programmed personalities and actions. 

That gift was one of the few things left of his friend that was well cherished and used to its full extent. Even if it was for things that the Astral would have certainly disagreed with with how inclined as his dear friend had been towards all things logical and understandable. 

Whereas Lucifer found great value in the things that could not be so easily explained, things that were not quite so reasonable. He had found himself drawn to them, to things like friendship and companionship. To shows of good will and good faith, even if there was simply no basis for it. Even if he had so truly struggled to learnt hose things, Lucifer adored them the most out of the living.

And that is why even with his poor grasp of those things, his poor grasp of sentimental thoughts and feelings, brought things to a point where even the former primarch could be wound up in festivities. Festivities especially that welcomed change, that welcomed prosperity, the latter of which had been lacking greatly in his life and another’s.

But in truth what Lucifer crafts - so inspired by the beautiful wreathes hung upon doors - is not for him. The reality of his situation has never left him. Lucifer is dead, here within this village the former primarch breathes and exists, feels every sensation he used to. But he is not among the living. Not truly. He is little more than a ghost, settled among those who are truly alive.

For someone who is alive, for that one person, does Lucifer put forth the effort to try and make what would be a nonsensical trinket to most.

For Sandalphon, who deserved - deserves - a prosperous life. A life filled with experiences Lucifer could never give him and perhaps experiences he never would be able to give. Those sorts of feelings, grown from a deep love and a sentimentality that followed Lucifer to his grave, are the reason why the man has tucked himself into a corner of the greenhouse. 

It’s why a... sizable pile of snowdrops rest by his side. 

And by those lay a discarded pile of what are undoubtedly attempts at making flower wreathes. A fair share of them being too thin, lacking just enough flowers to be pleasing to the eye, some too bulky, others simply fell apart or were unfortunately mashed by a lack of delicate touch.

It would not be entirely remiss to say that Lucifer, in all his skill and grace, was not made to be artistic. No, that skill set belonged to another primal entirely. Lucifer was made for practicality and Lucilius may very well be tossing and turning in the grave he’d been put in if he knew that his masterpiece was even making such a... fruitless and entirely wasted effort.

But his creators proficiency in scathing commentary of ones person and ones efforts hasn’t reached Lucifer in years, and could certainly not reach the former primarch here. The only thing stopping Lucifer now was.

Himself, really.

By his count this is the twelfth wreathe his attempted to make, for once the flowers remaining entirely attached and not at all a terrible mess. It’s by this wreathe - and however long he’s been at it - does he hear the greenhouse door open and a bit childishly he peeks out from his corner of the building.

“Ah.”

Sandalphon’s presence in the greenhouse doesn’t entirely surprise him, having confessed that the greenhouse had been a good place to chase away the winter chill. Even with the arrival of spring and its slightly warmer weather, it was only natural that it wouldn’t be warm enough for either of them to stand being outside for too long.

What is a surprise to Lucifer though is that he’d thought there would be more time for him to not only make his gift. But to have the suitable amount of time needed for him to rehearse how to give it to Sandalphon in the first place.

Is this what it feels for skydweller children to be ‘caught red handed’?

Now the man has neither a gift nor has he figured out how to explain himself; and while Lucifer’s well aware both of them can be oblivious he’s more than certain that Sandalphon wouldn’t be able to miss the former supreme primarch in staring at him.

Unfortunate how this little plan seemed to be coming apart now.

“I was expecting you to come here later -” 

A quick, if a little embarrassed cursory glace to the sky above them though tells Lucifer that its midday and this is right around the time he’d expected the other to arrive. Had he lost himself in this activity so much he didn’t even notice the change in time? 

“- but would you like to come join me?”

meme [ fix ] for your muse to treat mine’s injury but reverse

   Stubbornness was the constant, unrelenting gaze following him, always a step behind, until they were allowed to touch his arm. Gran didn't know how strong primal beast's regenerative powers were, nor if any hit from something that wasn't dangerously strong even mattered when Sandalphon's own powers reached so high. But Gran had seen the impact, knew it was from covering a blind spot that Gran would've been a second too late to notice, and that only added to the need to make sure he was okay. Nothing life-threatening, no, wouldn't have been even if they had been the one hurt, they had been through worse and Sandalphon was strong. Still, you don't ignore crewmates, and you don't ignore their efforts.

   It's not a long process, because it doesn't take long for Gran to find the area hurt, an immediate frown while they request for him to not move. Gentle, blue light beneath their hand, sipping through their fingers while they keep it above his upper arm. A basic spell, but it was all Gran needed for what was leftover. Maybe all they did was speed things along and nothing of importance, but more than anything it bought them time.

   How strange it was, to be looked out for by someone who once tried to kill you.

Oh.... oh no...

it gives me the intense desire to Squish