These parts have already been posted on Angel Hunt, but as promised for those who don’t enjoy the white on black reading format of the main site, I’m posting them here as well (and will do so with every new part I finish and put up).
Please refer to this post for all the basics and timeline talk that sets the stage for the main story. Also, as a disclaimer, while I enjoy writing these stories, my writing style is a bit of a thing with me. As it is with my art, I have a love/hate relationship with it. I’m not really looking for crit (whether it be concrit or the other kind) because I hate enough on my stuff for everyone already and don’t really need the dead horse beat any more than it already is. Whatever can be said by an outside source, trust me, I’ve already had it drilled into me by my own brain a thousand times over. I’ve never really been a good detail writer, I do best in summary in all truth, but I still have these stories in my head and I enjoy getting them out, so I do. Even if badly. Hopefully they aren’t so bad that they are unreadable, but even if they are, all I can say is “eh”. I’m doing it anyway because it makes me happy.
Also also, I write in present tense. It’s a preference on my part and it won’t change. Don’t like it? Feel free to move on. Also times three, as it is with everything, no matter how many billions of times I proof read things, stuff will be missed. I try to catch typos and the like as I go, but you know, things can slip through the cracks despite my best efforts. Try to ignore it I guess. Otherwise, enjoy and thank you for having a look. My characters are important to me, as are their stories so I’m just going to keep rolling them out like I do e_e /
So here we go. Angel Hunt’s back story is start.
[A New Game]
A glint of iridescence snakes across solid cobalt eyes when a nearby cloud momentarily blots out the overhead sun. The small, child-like figure sits perched high up on the mountain face, the chill of the gusting wind unfelt as it whips his scruffy ebony hair about, the strands held away from his pale features in two, haphazard kept ponytails and long side swept fringe pushed by the updraft from a face that carries only the guise of innocence, his small fingers grasping onto the jagged rock beneath his body while slender legs kick idly at the air and a stupidly pleased grin spans his mouth.
From his hairline halfway down to the bridge of his nose is a deep crimson marking, a simple elongated diamond that faces vertically and is broken in the center, the middle point just beneath his brows marked by a large circular dot. He’s dressed in the facsimile of clothing he once saw during his travels, even though he can no longer remember when or where –his skinny legs covered by opposite toned stockings, one black and one white, both loose at his ankles and stretched just over his knees, the shoes that adorn his feet are black with small silver buckles and centered just over his toes is the white stitched lines of an animal’s face and whiskers that resemble some kind of cartoonish feline. The shirt he wears is large enough to fit two of his current form, colored white with an uneven black crossing of decorative fabrics that spans both a vertical and horizontal line positioned center to his chest, a huge bunched up collar that partially covers his lower chin and sleeves that are roomy and frayed at the ends, the tendril fibers dancing in the wind. The hem of his oversized shirt is both bunched at his waist and tucked beneath his rear, the excess of fabric nearly hiding the short pleated black skirt that sits low on his narrow hips and covering a black pair of panties decorated with a fanciful ruffed bum.
Far beneath him spreads the vastness of a land he only recently helped to create and he marvels at it, finding himself pleased in a lazy sort of way by the beauty of his own handiwork. It’s a game board that stretches out in all directions around him, a perfect copied portion of a primordial planet he found, recreated by he and his Other and pulled from one plane into another for the sole purpose of becoming the setting stage for what he knows will be an epic new game.
The land is divided and with only the slightest shifts and flashes of color to indicate any movement in his eyes at all, his vision comes to rest on his created half of the board, the child-like creature taking the time to admire everything that he’s done with a joyful glee he makes no attempt to outwardly hide. His side of the playing field is wild and untamed, the trees and foliage so crowded and heavy in places that it’s impossible to see the ground beneath their roots. What ground does show is lush and overgrown, the tall grasses and plants of every kind placed every which way he saw fit when he was making it, the majesty of their makeup taken from the very planet this board had been copied from then put wherever and whichever way caught his fancy –ensuring it will be a challenging terrain all on its own.
According to the rules of their game, his playing pieces are meant to reside there, they are meant to call it home and he knows that its chaotic makeup will fool his Other into thinking they do once he places them because how couldn’t it? Where else would he have to place them anyway, right? He’s sure his Other will ponder this, even if briefly, asking himself what reason he could possibly have to put them anywhere but there.
Oh, but if only his Other knew what he was up to, if only he knew. He’d be so angry. He’d probably call a foul and demand they start all over again if he were to find out what he’s done, but he won’t because he’s been too clever this time, so clever in fact that in his modest opinion, he really deserves some kind of award.
He has a secret. A super great, wonderful and grand sort of secret that’s sure to finally get him a win.
The mountain he sits upon marks the game board’s center and somewhere down there, miles below, tucked away and hidden to all but himself, is the true main stage for his playing pieces -a special thing he’s created without his Other’s knowledge for what he’s confident will soon become, his upper hand.
Kicking his feet out, he chuckles to himself, far more amused by his grandiose plans than he should be.
His Other is a lousy cheat and he’s tired of losing their games, so this time it’s his turn to cheat. This time things will be different. This time, he’ll shove a victory down his Other’s throat.
Without warning, the child-like figure suddenly pushes his small frame from his seat and launches himself into the empty air, allowing his slender body to begin a long, unabated fall. The wind whips his clothing and hair upwards as he plummets downward with incredible speed, the rock face that had been miles beneath him taking only seconds to rise up below and no sign of his momentum slowing as it rapidly draws near. Yet the second he would impact, his feet touch the solidity of ground as if he had only hopped down from a short ledge and now teetering on the mantle of a lower cliff face keeping his secret behind barriers that veil it from view, he throws his arms out to his sides in order to maintain a mock sort of balance that’s entirely pointless even as his hair and clothing are settling back to their earlier undisturbed place. Swinging a leg out before him, he takes one casual step after another as if he were on a balance beam of sorts and as he walks along the ledge, pretending every so often when it strikes his fancy to wobble and nearly fall and then waving his arms around in circles of pretend plays at re-balancing himself before straightening, his solid blue gaze slides from his own handiwork and over to the other side of the field, settling on the side that he didn’t create.
Unlike his side where the weather is as turbulent as the scenery, the grasses, trees and plants on that side are mostly still, the wind light and warm with the sun shining down to illuminate the pristine stretch of land in an ambient light. Far from the divide between his land and his Other’s, somewhere close to its center a circular marble walled encampment lies. The encampment contains cities upon cities, gleaming towers of alabaster and metal that are divided within themselves into seven separate enclosures -every small stone and walkway shining new and white, as if the color from the surrounding lands has drained from its confines or been bleached as pale as his Other happens to be.
The creature offers the marvelous structure a dissatisfied frown.
It’s uniform, pristine and boring –so very typical of his second half and his equally as boring tastes. It lacks imagination and it definitely lacks the beauty he’s bestowed upon his own side. There’s not one thing in its makeup out of place, not one stone, not a single scrolling decorated archway askew and knowing his Other as he does, the playing pieces he’s created are going to be just as uniform and just as boring as it. Thinking about it irritates him about half as much as looking at it does.
But, as the small dark haired figure throws a leg out to swing himself around for the fiftieth time in a row, spinning on the other heel until he’s turned back to face his created lands once more, he can’t help but smile again.
His Other may think he’s so clever because his same boring, uniform creations have been winning him their games time and time again, and that he’s going to win this one just as easily, but this time, this time, everything is going to change.
His Other can create those boring, uniform, linear flesh bags until the end of time for all he cares, they’ll never again be able to measure up to what he has now.
He has them.
The moment he found them, he knew they were the key to ending his losing streak, he just knew it. It’s because of them that he chose this place for the latest game in the first place, even if his Other is too stupid to realize it, or that he’d already begun to put his aces in play even before they’d even made their board. He made sure to hide them from his Other’s senses so he could keep them all for himself too and unlike his Other’s boring playing pieces, when he created his toys, he made sure they were super special in every way. He made them the prettiest bodies just like he’d promised them and bestowed those bodies with the only the best gifts in exchange for their part in his game. It was easy to talk them into working for him, or rather, he amends internally, it was mostly easy since there are a few of them who still resist his bribery and offered gifts, but he’s not worried. They’ll all see his side of it eventually; they just need the right little push and he knows that once the others are bonded, the rest will follow. Especially when they see what he built for them, bodies that are tall and pale and imposing, muscular and strong and sturdy, with wings that are majestic and beautiful, each spanning wide and shining pitch with the same hint of iridescence that shows in his own eyes. They are probably -if he can be bothered to remember, some of his finest work yet and just for his own amusement simply because he knows it’ll upset his Other when he sees them for the first time, he made sure to give them the same color of hair his second half favors so much, the same color he’s sure his Other has given his own worthless toys a hundred billion times before.
He’s going to get a special sort of kick out of the look on his face when his playing pieces go live… he really can’t wait.
Coming to a sudden halt as an amused chuckle spills from his lips, the small child-like figure turns to face the dueling scenery beneath him once again, his small arms rising up to rest just behind the back of his head and he smiles a wickedly confident smile.
It’s his turn to take a victory and that’s exactly what he plans to do.
[We Are All Fools]
“I do not understand your reluctance-“
It is not reluctance… it is refusal. The voice states, disembodied and echoing hauntingly throughout the Temple walls.
The white haired figure frowns, his clear red eyes staring down into the dark abyss at his front and his frustration over this fruitless conversation growing with the seconds that pass. He stands tall and statuesque, just as the six other of his brethren stand, in a stone temple filled with abundant light. Elevated upon a circular platform with spanning stairs that surround it, his body is mere inches from a framed portal, the lip of stone decorated and engraved with the writing of their people, harshly curved lines of rough beauty – the gift of the written word given to them by the Maker of their bodies that connect them to the place where they once resided without solidity or form, to the place that now lies empty of them all save this very last one. The Demon’s sculpted frame is draped with ceremonial flowing robes of deep red silk that shift and dance playfully from the breeze that blows in through the domed opening far above their heads, his long pure white hair plaited at his back with the locks snaking and entwining around themselves, adorned with delicate scrolled bits of silver that are inset with jewels and stones that match the hues of his flawless gaze.
Their previous Guardian has died, shamefully falling in battle against their inferior opposites who were created by their Maker’s rival, and they, the Chosen Seven, have been tasked just as they’d been tasked so many times before with the calling forth of a new Guardian so their appointed duties can resume. The decree from their Maker for a reason he still cannot comprehend and in truth, does not wish to question, is that he wants for this one to be the next in line instead of allowing their normal manner of choosing to select. This one, who just so happens to be the very last of their kind without form, a one who had never accepted the gifts bestowed upon them as they all did, the one he’s spent an extremely frustrating passage of time seeking to make him see a reason that he stubbornly refuses to see.
“Our Maker’s gifts-”
That creature is no Maker of mine. The One interrupts again, pulling a deeper frown to the Demon’s lips and all around him, his fellow six’s voices rumble in distaste. You were all fools to trust it. You fell victim to its flattery like the idiots that you are and now you are trapped within solidity, imprisoned within form. I have no interest in such limits. I am happy as I am.
“You do not understand because you choose not to!” the white haired man’s solemn demeanor finally cracks, his sudden outburst pulling six pairs of identical eyes up to him, “What we have been given is beyond anything we had before, and what he offers you is an honor you should relish in receiving. Any one of us would gladly take your pla-“
Then do so. Take those so called gifts for your own and do so gladly. The liquid voice interrupts once more, mockery and contempt prevalent in every syllable he speaks, feel honored as you believe you should. Fight that creature’s pointless wars. Kill those mindless empty shells of the other’s. I do not care. I have no interest. This One will remain as he is. This One is content…
“You are a fool” the Demon hisses, “A small minded fool! He has asked for you, do you not understand this? He has commanded you to be his next Guardian, do you not understand what this means? Why he has chosen you is beyond my understanding, but he has chosen you just the same. Do you not understand that this will be infinitely easier on us all if you stop your infuriating denials and ridiculous rejections and simply accept his offered gifts?!”
For a long moment, only silence is given in response the white haired man’s words, but after one minute passes, and then another, a low, rumbling sound begins to resonate from the shifting darkness within the stone pit. Louder and louder it becomes until the laughter fills the temple, its mocking nature echoing across the pristine walls themselves.
I suppose then, that I do not understand. I suppose then, that this One… is the fool. The voice mocks, each word intermingled with the laughter that continues to shift about. And if that creature wishes to bestow his gifts upon me, then he will have to do so himself… my answer remains the same.
The energy inside of the temple is static, the air charged and thick and nearly impossible to breathe. Seven of his Chosen toys stand upon the Temple’s center platform, their adorned white locks whipping in every direction and their clothing shifting about their perfectly built frames as if carried by an invisible wind. Each of his seven hold their arms outstretched to one another, their glass tipped fingers near but not quite touching, their clear crimson eyes focused and yet unfocused and the collective murmur of their chanting spilling from pale lips in unison to create an overall buzzing hum.
A column of blue light stretches from within the circular stone portal they stand around and up through the opened domed ceiling, the very top of it growing thinner the farther it reaches until its tip disappears into the overhead skies. Its energy and magic is being pulled from this planet’s very core, a gateway that had once been ripped open between this plane of existence and the other a very long time ago. Within that column of light a lone figure floats, unclothed and immobile, his lifeless red eyes staring blankly into nothing while no breath heaves his chest. There’s not a single indication of movement, the figure little more than an empty shell for the time being, a perfect container meant to hold a single One.
Positioned at his Chosen’s backs against the inlaid stone wall connected to the platform, Hesue stands upon the alter they’d built for him, simply watching, simply waiting. The guise he wears is very different from the one he prefers, his body tall and his features older and sculpted. His pitch hair is very long, braided in a single cascading plait that nearly touches the floor and adorned just as his Chosen’s hair is adorned, with fancy bits of scrolled silver and scatterings of blood red jewels laced within his locks here or there. Contrasted to his Chosen’s red, dark pitch robes drape his lanky frame, layers upon layers of silken fabric that spill around his bare feet like a pool of ink. This form is so different from his other and quite honestly, he loathes to take it, but for the sake of his game pieces, he tolerates it just as he has from the very start. For their benefit, he shows them a form they will trust. To keep them in his game, he shows them what they want him to be, what they need him to be – a tall godly figure who is preternatural and refined.
Iridescence snakes over solid cobalt eyes every so often as the surrounding electric waves flash and flicker around them, the forces that shift and twist within the Temple never reaching him. It’s as if he’s in a protective bubble, a lone figure still in a turbulent, shifting sea.
The slightest of smiles curls the corners of his lips upwards as he watches his Chosen in silence, waiting for his turn to take part in the current game being played. In the past he hasn’t needed to see this task done in person but this particular toy of his has remained resistive and so he’s here, standing in this form, lending them assistance to ensure its success.
And this time, it will be a success.
His Chosen have tried many times to follow his orders, to pull this One out and designate him into form as they are designated but his stubbornness has kept them from fulfilling his wants, his refusal and will somehow stronger than the entire collective will of his kind.
It may have been problematic and frustrating for them, that will, but his stubbornness is exactly why he likes him. It’s why he wants him in his game. He’s not like his people. He’s not boring.
The others on the other hand have become tiresome. Form has apparently weakened them in a way he didn’t expect, their once raw power muted enough to make them less than what they truly are. They have begun to forget their origins, following him as if he truly is the Creator of them and not simply their bodies, as if they are little more than the empty shells his Other had made when this game began, never questioning him anymore, never questioning his gifts. It’s brought the game to a stalemate and he’s disappointed in them for it, disappointed in the weakness they have begun to show. He’s grown so tired of them and if it weren’t for his determination to win this game, he’d have abandoned them long ago.
But this One… this One alone has remained obstinate to him, never accepting and always questioning, always rejecting what his people have become and what they now are. His snide remarks and contempt of their growing blindness and stupidity never fails to entertain him, it hasn’t failed to amuse him from day one. He knows this One will be the one to win him this game, that he won’t forget who he is even when he has form and that he won’t fail like the rest of his kind have. He may protest the idea of it right now, but he’s confident that once he’s in his body he’ll accept it just as the others have and when he does, he’ll finally have the playing piece he needs. For that reason and that alone he’s standing here in this distasteful guise, lending his aide to his Chosen to ensure that his newest piece will finally go where he wants him to go.
It happens in a split second, the force he lends the others just at the right moment successfully ripping his prize from the abyss and ensuring he cannot pull back. From one breath to another, those lifeless red eyes slam shut and the suspended body begins writhing in mid air, his head thrown back and a guttural, agony laced cry rising up from within. Hesue’s grin widens as he watches the Demon’s struggle within the new confines of his skin and with a single word spoken not out loud, the spells his Chosen chant snake out to wrap his newly bonded vessel with a magic he’s strengthened to keep him from tearing free of his flesh. The fight continues for many long minutes but it becomes clear the One is losing the battle when the portal beneath his body begins closing, the blackened abyss quickly solidifying into stone and soon never again to open, the connection to his origin gone forever.
He is fused. He is flesh. He has become exactly what Hesue has wanted him to be -the final piece to be put into play.
The energy in the Temple suddenly snaps off and with it no longer circulating, adorned hair and clothing alike still, his Chosen’s chanting falling silent. The column of light dissipates a moment later, dropping his prized toy onto the etched ground below and pulling a pained grunt from his pale lips. Snow white plaits cascade over perfect features and even as he begins taking his first true, labored breaths, the dark haired figure steps from the Alter and onto the platform, the heads of his Chosen bowing as they part to allow him through. Bare feet come to a halt before the prone Demon, watching with amused interest as long glass like nails claw at the stone beneath his built frame while the felled man struggles to push himself upright, his clear crimson eyes opening to his surroundings for the very first time.
“Jenova” Hesue states calmly, the name he’s given his newest repeated by the seven with reverence and echoing within the Temple’s stone walls.
Sliding his hand out, the dark haired figure turns his palm upwards towards the opened sky above, iridescence snaking across the surface of his solid vision as small beads of a mercury like substance begin rising from a facsimile of pores. The metallic looking liquid twists and turns in mid air while the one beneath him continues to labor, a shape swiftly taking form. Each sword he’s gifted has been different, every new Guardian’s weapon tailored to their needs and for this One in particular, he’s created something special, for this One he’s created a weapon that is above every other -the shining crown for his intended King.
For only a second after it takes its shape does the sword remain suspended before it begins to tear apart again, his Chosen seven watching with awe as the long slightly curved blade that spans nearly the entire length of the newest Demon’s own body with delicate scrollwork wrapped around a pitch lacquer hilt that’s separated from the gleaming metal by a diamond shaped guard becomes a formless liquid mercury like substance once more. Twisting in mid air, it suddenly streams downward, seeking Jenova’s body with a hungry intent, as if it has a will and that will is to consume. The Demon cries out in pain when it makes contact with his flesh, his glass tipped fingers clawing blindly to remove it, desperate to rip it from him yet unable to do so. Writhing and twisting as it covers him, his cries soon become torturous screams as it begins to sink inward, beads of metal absorbing into his very pores.
Hesue simply smiles his pleased little smile while he watches the sword find its place within the Demon’s body and when all traces of it are gone save the stain of blood its blending has caused across pale skin, he speaks one final word that places a lock around his new Guardian’s mind, finally showing his prize a mercy by pulling him consciousness and placing him beneath a seal that will hold him until his time to play comes.
There will be ceremonies and celebrations to introduce Jenova to his people and Hesue has no plans to stick around for it while they play out their nonsense, finding this aspect of his playing pieces’ structured lives rather dull, so he issues his final commands to them -giving them the means to keep his prize in his place and to tame him now that he wears form before taking his leave. And as his tall frame dissipates from the Temple, he can’t help but find himself overly pleased and brimming with confidence that the Demon Jenova -his beautiful new King, will finally win him the victory he so rightly deserves…
It is everywhere.
He is saturated in it.
With every new stroke he takes, it seeps onto his skin, splashing up from wounds he creates and spilling from holes he tears –unstaunched in its flow.
It is sickening and he hates being defiled by it, though his hatred of them is greater.
The Demon tears through them so easily. His elongated blade cutting through their bodies as if they are made of nothing, their broken forms falling one by one. Their screams echo throughout the temple, their pitiful cries for mercy falling on deaf ears.
Another dies by his hand, the terror in those clear crimson eyes reflected in his crazed own. He laughs wildly as a head slides from its neck before he turns to the rest scrambling so desperately to get away.
This is what they wished for, was it not?
They wanted form. They wanted this solidity.
This is form. This pain is solidity.
He will make them see what he sees. He will make sure they feel what he feels. He will show them the true meaning of form and its true sacrifice. He will extract his pound of flesh and then he will take even more.
They run from him in terror, his own people fleeing from his harsh lessons and begging for a stay when he plans none. Their flight is futile. He has sealed the temple. The city is closed by his own new hands. There is no escape from what he desires to teach them and he will show them no mercy because they have shown him none in return.
He kills them one by one with the very sword they have forced upon him, that they bonded to his new flesh and tied to his soul. This sword that was meant to subdue and enslave has now become the tool of their destruction and he wields it expertly. He is judge, jury, and executioner, their sentence carried out with the swiftest of hands.
He will see them suffer. They deserve to suffer. For their crimes against him, not one of them deserves life.
They have forced him into this shell despite his protests, taken from him the freedom he has always known and caged him like an animal in a vessel of flesh. Every movement is painful, every step, every touch excruciating, maddening with its confines. He will show them the pain they have caused him. He will force it upon them in the same way they have forced it upon him. He will kill every last one of them for what they have done. They have taken his freedom so he will take theirs in retribution, then he will kill all the others who call themselves his own.
This sword he is bonded to, this vessel he now resides in is both their gift and his curse and he will ensure that with their last, dying breaths, they carry the unimaginable depths of his agony imprinted on their very souls.
Jenova stands still and statuesque at the edge of his city, his red clothed muscular body and snow white hair stained by gore and death. Crimson eyes as clear as unmarred crystal stare down at the fields far below, the divided borders between two separate lands visibly clear –an untamed sort of beauty warring with a tamed one and he can find no joy in its diversity at all. Behind him are the torn and broken bodies of his people, some whole, most in pieces, strewn over once pristine grounds and splashed upon walls now washed in blood while the stink of rot fills the air.
He does not know how long he has been standing here, watching the lands below from up high on this cliff face within the confines of a city he sealed, nor does he care. The wind that tugs at his locks pains him, but he endures it, the sun that seeks to warm his skin only burns, but he pays it no mind, his thoughts are as they have been since he came here, both scattered and focused yet miles from where he stands.
He has tried… he has tried so many times to escape this vessel, to tear himself of this body and he has failed in every attempt. This body, his body… it taunts him, repairs his every attempt to mar it, keeping him caged like an animal caught in a hunter’s trap. There is no relief for him in this, there is no longer freedom. He has come to the slow realization that he is form, that not even the deaths of his people have undone the sins they have committed upon him.
He is now truly one with flesh.
Behind pursed lips, white teeth grit and for the first time in what has been days, Jenova finally moves. Pulling his clear crimson gaze from the borders, he turns to face what is behind him and while his every movement is agony, it is also graceful, taken as if he has always been as One.
Bare feet make almost no sound despite the pools of congealed browning red he steps through, the bodies he walks upon and the rotting flesh he make no attempt to avoid. One long winding stone pathway after another is navigated as if he’s always called the city his own and before long, his strides carry him back to the temple that lies at the center. With only the slightest rippling of the magic he placed just days prior, he steps through the barrier past the arching doorway and into the sun lit interior beyond. Nearly every corner of the building is tarnished by the blood of the Chosen Seven, their body parts strewn across the stone platform he moves towards, across the alter beyond it and some even indented in the very walls. Just as it had been with those outside, the Demon pays them no mind, simply walking through the carnage without feeling or emotion to ascend the rounded stairs and step onto the platform itself. Coming to a halt on the solid surface of the circular stone well that had only a short time prior, held the connection to his true home, the Demon stands.
Jenova stares blankly down at his feet, looking past his flesh to the stone beneath his toes, finding himself longing for a freedom that’s been stolen from him, wanting, willing, and failing yet again to regain something precious he has forever lost.
More days pass before he moves again and when he does, it’s simply to pull his eyes from the dried gore that paints his pale skin and shift them up towards the sky that shows through the open domed ceiling far above his head, his head falling back and his movements falling still once more.
In the city he’s sealed and the temple in which he stands statuesque and immobile, hidden from the view of those who inhabit those contrasting lands and kept secret, his people continue to rot all around him, their broken bodies slowly turning to dust and their existence forgotten to nearly all but him…
It’s all he ever does anymore. Walking along the vast Borders without aim or reason beyond his so-called Noble purpose; to keep their lands clear of the filth that lie on the other side, to keep their lands pure.
Fuan snorts to himself, the first movement he’s made in hours.
Purity. Is that what they are? Pure? Their people… created by a God they’ve never known for a single purpose understood by any one of them upon the very first day they open their eyes. They are above all those who reside below. They are the Chosen, each graced with a preternatural beauty reflected in their eyes, their majestic wings, even in their hair. Flawless skin and melodic voices, they were given the very skies as their reward for fulfilling their duties. For their obedience, for their blind loyalty.
Tilting his head back, the Angel’s light silver eyes trail from the vast green meadow that stretches out before him and up towards the blinding light shining down upon him from the mid day sun, and he frowns.
“You mock me, don’t you Father…” he whispers to the still air and in his even tone, bitterness swims just beneath the surface.
Four hundred years he has lived. For four hundred years he has studied, he has trained, he has fulfilled his duties without question as his Maker has asked and yet his rewards have been silence… unending and maddening, a silence he has begged his creator in secret to break. A silence he has grown to hate.
One word from his Father, even a breath and he would not question him as he does. One single word is all he has ever needed. He has given his life, his soul, his very being. He has done what has been asked of him and yet the Maker continues to deny him this one request. That denial has become a mark upon his soul. That silence has become little more than a bitter taste in his mouth. If the creator had not denied him, he would perhaps, not doubt him as he have come to, he would not hate him as he does.
And he does hate the Father. He hates him for the existence he has been burdened with. This endless existence where he does little more than walk these vast borders, protecting his sacred lands from those filth that seek to defile it, droning through this life where nothing beyond this exists. Eat, sleep, wake, train, fight, die… is there truly nothing more for his people? For him?
Fuan sighs and closes his eyes as a soft, warm breeze tugs at his clothing and long, silver layered locks of hair.
His brother doesn’t question the Maker as he does, but he already know this… doesn’t he?
His brother, who wears his face as if he were a mirror, who’s temperament is so different than his despite their outward likeness to one another. His brother who has no doubt in his head of who he is and what he’s been created to be. His brother who relishes in the gifts that have been bestowed upon them.
His brother, who is as the rest of their people, willfully blind to the Maker’s sadistic game.
There have been times that he’s envied Fanuel for it. Times that he’s envied his surety, his belief, his stupidity. There was once a time long ago that they were the same, that they viewed the creator through the same rose colored eyes, that their thoughts were nearly as identical as their faces. But the Maker knows, doesn’t he, just how long ago that was… He knows, he is sure, that his brother remains in his grace while he has fallen from it because he questions. He has questioned for so long. He no longer believes what he once did, he no longer believes at all.
Frowning, the tall figure reopens his eyes and finally allowing his head to drop down; he scans the area before him once more before turning from the beautiful scenery to face the trickle of poisoned ground behind him. Stretched out before the white clad Angel is more meadow, the lush green grass intermingled with brown, dead blades and clumps of ground both broken and dry. Forest rises up before him, overgrown and unruly, the heavy foliage sickly and dying, yet so thick and obstructive that it veils what land lies beyond. Staring at it for only a moment longer, Fuan turns from it yet again, resuming a path he abandoned hours prior, resuming his near silent steps along the Northern Borders under his command with no more glee than any time that had come before…
Clear crimson eyes survey the territory he commands with a cold disinterest, the lone leather clad figure standing still on a small high rise that overlooks his snow dusted encampment while the cold winter breeze washes through his loose, pure white hair. At his back in the distance are tents upon tents scattered across uneven terrain, their inhabitants busy and bustling as they go about their small lives, not one in the understanding that their very existence is as useless as the games in which they play. Unlike those across the Borders far to his north, they are rugged and unrefined, dark where the others are light, different where the others are the same. Flawed eyes, some so tainted they no longer carry any of the red in which he sees graces them and pitch black hair contrasts his snow tinged white. They are beautiful in their own right, even if in comparison to what they fight against and what was once the norm of his own people, they are as rough and as murky as coal. They are also new and yet they do not know it. Created through careless magic by a being none of them know to exist, what he has become sure was the so-called consolation race made to fill in a handicap he established with his own two hands a very long time ago.
This land upon which he stands is so very different from the previous land he held dominion over. Or perhaps, it is exactly the same, he is not sure but nor does he care. The days have begun to merge, the hours and seconds no different than the decades or years. He no longer cares to remember when it was he came to be as he is or why he felt himself in need of a breakage to the monotony that has become his existence enough for him to immerse into their world and designate himself their leader –fighting, as they do, in pointless wars for the origins of reasons of which only he truly knows.
Years ago, or perhaps it had been eons, things were not as such. There was a time he had freedom and there was not much that mattered beyond it, a time when he had not been caged by the confines of the flesh that surrounds him now. It was a time when he simply existed –pure conscious thought where he did not know what it was to breathe, what it is to feel, what it is to be trapped.
It was a time when he did not know what it was to be bored.
It was that time so very long ago when he was betrayed by his kind and ripped from his existence to be enslaved into a new one. It was at that moment that he learned pain, that he learned hatred, that he learned what it is to be flesh.
Was it then, that he was given his name? Was it then, that it subjected him? Was it then that he was locked to this form and had the only thing he held dear ripped from his metaphorical hands?
He is no longer sure.
It has begun to feel… as everything has felt, as if it happened before he came to be. As if it happened after he came to be. It has long since felt as if it were always as such.
It has become difficult to remember and yet it is always within perfect clarity so he chooses at times to dwell on neither lest he be driven insane by its circular tedium.
But then, when even that boredom gets the better of him, he allows his mind to regress and to remember it as it was.
It happened so very long ago, that time when he took from his people what they took from him, that time when he repaid their cruelty with his new found own. It happened so very long ago, that time when he broke from the bonds they shackled him with and he used the weapon forced upon him to take what they’d treasured more than their freedom and more than his own. He tore them to pieces and he allowed them to rot, and yet when it was over, he found that it brought him no relief to the pain or the anguish he could for the first time in his existence, feel. It has not alleviated his anger or his hatred since and for that, he has become as he was; cold. That coldness has done nothing to help him nor has it hurt him. It is as it has been with his existence, simply One.
He no longer cares to recall how many years had passed after his people’s bodies had become dust. Or perhaps, he recalls it with perfect clarity –that passage of time where he stood in the Temple, his eyes cast upwards while the flesh rotted from their bones and decay overtook them. It does not matter. It hasn’t mattered from the beginning. When he did find it in him to move again, to pull his eyes from the sky, step through what had become ruins in his stillness and emerge from his city, he found the land that he’d last left changed and yet exactly as it always had been. It was different, and yet exactly the same. In his and that of his people’s place, there was new life. In the place opposite, the same old.
Life that had thrived. Life that no longer knew what they were or what they’d been created to be. Life that does not know why they even exist.
He found it, even if only for a moment… amusing. Perhaps it was that fleeting feeling of amusement that led him where he stands now. Perhaps it was in that moment that he decided to finally begin playing the game they do not know they even participate in, a game that it appears, has long since been abandoned by its designers.
What else could it have been? What had he to do beyond immerse himself in it? What was there for him than to pass his time with what amusements he could find?
That creature, who has abandoned his toys and left them to their evolving fates, who extends them no more care than one could for the dirt beneath their boots… he is sure that were it to find him now it would be pleased to see him finally utilizing what he has been given, pleased to see him finally utilizing what it once called its gifts.
And he would not care about that either.
There is so little he can muster emotion for now, almost nothing that holds his attentions beyond the passing, almost nothing that keeps him anchored to the now. Not those behind him whom he now commands, not the one amongst them who has vied for his attentions, not those who have come before or those who will come after, not the blood he takes or the blood given, whether by sacrifice and his will. Yet he remains because they have become, as the rest, another passage of the time that like they, he is a slave of. An alleviation, even if momentary, to the boredom that he feels, and while there are times it has gotten the better of him, that boredom, he has managed to find passing pleasures in death, in cruelty, in hatred, in the sins of the flesh he is tied to, passing pleasures in it all.
What else has he to do beyond search for it? What else has he to do, beyond wait for this new life to become as the bodies of his people have become – little more than dust?
What else… has he to do?
One man’s training sword swings up and clashes with the twin blades of the other, a simple twist of the silver haired figure’s wrists and a light hearted yet merciless shove sends the aggressor stumbling a few paces back.
“I can’t!” the younger Angel huffs angrily as his unsteady steps come to a halt, his dark silver eyes catching those of his brother’s and his training sword left on the marbled tile where it had fallen and already forgotten.
“You can, you simply need to control your temper and focus your energy on the task” Fuan sighs, sliding his own blades downward and offering his sibling a small shake of his head. “Pick up your sword and we will try again. We will continue trying until you get it right.”
Fanuel frowns as his brother takes a graceful step back to re-position himself, the look of disappointment that had flashed momentarily through his eyes more than enough to send a tinge of guilt streaking through his slender frame. He always does this doesn’t he? Disappoints Fuan in one form or another… No matter how hard he tries or how much he endeavors to prove himself to the other Angel, it seems like he always comes up just a little short. It’s been this way since the very day they were born, where Fuan has the Grace and Light of their Maker, he’s been missing it. He knows the others see it as well, that while they don’t dare speak of it in the open, they whisper behind their backs.
One day though, he’ll prove them wrong, show them that he too can stand by his twin’s side and hold his own, that he too possesses the same Light gifted to his brother. He’ll make them eat their words, shove their doubts down their damn throats. He’ll prove them all wrong. He’ll earn his place by Fuan’s side. He’ll make sure he becomes something worthy of the other man’s love.
Without another word of protest, Fanuel leans down and swipes his practice sword from the floor and returns the offensive stance and he swears that just for a moment before the two Angels clash again, the disappointment swimming in his brother’s eyes over his earlier transgression is overshadowed briefly by what he can only hope is a trace of pride.
“You… are not one of them…” the tall Demon smiles only in the slightest, his crystal clear gaze locked with the flawed gaze of the other.
“You think so, do you?” the mock Demon grins.
Jenova can only offer a small amused laugh in response. He has not met one of such in a very long time. Not since his own people, not since the very beginning of his existence in form all those years ago.
This one is not at all what its shape presents it to be.
The dark haired figure steps in closer, reaching out to run his long fingers through silken white plaits playfully before pulling a weft up to his nose to take a deep breath in.
You… are not what you appear to be either, are you my white haired beauty?
The smile painting his pale lips fades, a frown forming in its stead and a single brow arching in distaste.
“Keep yourself… out of my head” Jenova states flatly.
The Demon narrows false flawed eyes before he suddenly twists his fingers in the taller man’s hair, yanking his built body back hard. The movement is swift, far faster than even he is able to follow or stop and so he falls, his head soon contacting with a strong forearm to break his decent and a simple smirk shot down at him from above.
“Only if you keep yourself out of mine” the black haired creature practically purrs as he leans down to touch full lips against his captive’s own.
“I make… no promises…” Jenova smirks, his every word brushing pale velvet against the mouth above.