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>>> She relates to him, the child.
As her wings cut through the wind, endless in their sweeping beauty as they undertake the winds that whirl past her body, smooth as gliding through like a heated knife to butter, yet with a careful control as to not get burned.
Her unfurled wings lay above the island, letting them rest above the sea, wailing past the cold seas as she managed to wisp past the residents mostly unnoticed.
Mainly, she entered the ground with a small *oomph* as she touched ground in the sand, she had mostly stayed a distance from the one she's visiting, as to not flaut her own freedom—one he cannot have—and, as a moment of solace to gauge the current mood of the boy, he had entered his teenage years of his life span after all.
Upon walking closer, she immediately noticed the little boy she was visiting, his legs scrunched up to his chest and his gaze distance to the sea. Longing and yearning for a life she wished she could give, yet she was not in the territory of rights nor her domain to premiere such a desire.
Not could she give him a freedom so wildly dangerous in his mental and physical state, a long gruesome scar right between his shoulder baldes, fierce and just barely healed. After all, he had a habit of scratching at the scar tissue of the wound, pulling himself into an infection and then fever, ones he wouldn't have had lived from without Alleia.
Her wistful face held wisdom like a sage as she approached the young lad, a ruffled one he appeared to most with such a travesty, yet she knew better than most to judge a tragedy so defined.
Instead, he decided to disobey expectations as she noticed a tiny, little egg shaped like a small white ball.
It was covered in sand, and looked a little miserable all alone in the sand. But the image of a sad little pitiful animal in the was quickly disregarded as the intense glare the boy was shooting the thing came into the frame.>>> He was staring quite oddly, as if the egg was the most important thing in his life, and for a moment she considered it just might be. He's a very distracted child, mostly having his attention swayed but just about anything that moved, and apparently very sentimental too.
She remembers the first time he told her about how a poorly dug grave reminded him of his disability, a funny thing she thought at first before realizing he was completely serious as he stared into her soul... Seemingly. It was a tad freaky, but mostly adorable.
At least his staring problem was probably because he was possessed, with how many graves he showed her.
Or, she hopes it is; or that adorable face will have to be his forever if he wants to make it through *any* conversation.
But, none of that concern now. It was time to focus on what, exactly, he was doing staring at the egg.
Well, she knew he was probably watching in fascination; his legs to his chest, his hands on his knees, and in the most uncomfortable squatting position possible. At least his little oddly wings and tail whipped behind him, hiding nothing from her sight and, and assumed there to keep the sand from shifting too much for the sake of the little creature.
He was certainly very careful, hovering over the thing and not moving an inch. For a moment she thought he was trying to find a way to eat it with how he looked ready to pounce; but instead, the egg started to hatch.
Now she found herself fascinated.
The little thing cracked and fought to find its way out and into freedom, and watching the little sea turtle make its way to freedom & she couldn't help but silently start cheering for its success.
And success was its future! It crawled and crawled, making its way out like nobody's busy before she knew it, it was a foot away from the boy.>>> Him however, seemed interested in something else entirely, his face turned towards the sky in a way so neutral she herself didn't pick up the one seagulls flying by; of course, looking for a meal for themselves with the hatchling.
She didn't mind the cycle of life, not at all. It was only fair; be eaten or get eaten, all in the name of survival and never for cruelty. How was she meant to hate animals for living how they're taught to? For wanting to live for that inept need to live? Never, no one's free form wanting to survive. However her heart ached for the pitiful sea turtle, just born and already will it die.
The boy seemed to disagree however, standing on wobbly legs that told her that he been there for a while, and staring at the seagulls above.
Differently, she saw as he gingerly walked forward, leaning over the frail animal, hesitant to pick the little hatchling up before deciding differently. He has some common sense, she noted, to not mess with nature and its works. Maybe he got that from Yūgen?
However, his protection escapade didn't stop, instead he lifted his oddly wings over the fragile cargo, covering it entirely from view above, and walked it down the beach; one step at a time, each time making sure he was fully covering the sea creature till they finally made it to sea with little intervention.
He watched silently as the little thing same to sea, further and further away from the coast and himself. She wondered if he felt saddened that it'll never know how he helped it survive, or if he was just relieved it stayed alive with his help.
However, she was taken out of speculation as he tilted his head back toward the skyline, his eyes lining the birds with thoughtful consideration before walking to a tree in the shade.
She found herself floundering to his and watching his dedication from afar, careful to keep out of immediate notice."Greeting, little one. I see you are relaxing yourself today?"
She asked gingerly, her hands fiddling with each other in less of a comfort for herself but to seem more related to the other. She kept her behavior more human, if only to teach him mannerisms he may pick up to make him feel more like an actual child and not just an outline of one, even if that statement is harsh. It's more of anger, at what had to have transpired to him before she ever knew about his dilemma, and she could never stop the guilt that ring her dried when looking at the almost 9 year old.
He was, so, so young. An appearance that betrayed his youth was his downtrodden eyes and bags that sagged them deeper than any adult mortal he had known. Spectacularly, he managed a fire in his eyes she only wished to wind if only to see it blossom.
He cranked his neck to look up at her, his gaze glowing slightly at her appearance before dimming.
She felt bad, that seeing even that sparkle in his eyes dwindle gave her hope that she was making progress with him- even if it was inch by inch.
"'M doing fine, *Ma'am*."
He spoke curtly, cutting the silence and any small talk that could come smoothly after. She shifted her weight to the side, avoiding blocking his way to the sun as she stared lovingly- and albeit, desperate- at the boy.
"Why not tell me about what you've done in the past time while I was away?"
She asked kindly, a sense of patience in her role kept her from her deeper desire to write time and take out her anger on very people who did this to their youth, their young kin- it was unkind, injustice, cruel, *wrong* in every way that lined the questions of whether she should've take initiative sooner rather than later, she wonders if then she could've seen a happier version of the boy before her.
She kept her wits though, unable to bring herself to malice with a child near. If anything, she should give him a chance to have a childhood akin to others, one that's kind, one that's *fair*. If anything, she wanted to see no child suffer as something broken or wrong as she has, one of the many reasons she took on such a motherly role to most.
Yet seeing a product of a history she did not entirely know broke her heart, how many kids had to experience what he did? Was he the only one- was he the one only they scorned? Did he believe he was born to be destroyed, created without care like her? She could only hope not, for she did not wish problems of an immortal Goddess on children.
She wasn't cruel to those she knows can't fight back, she can't hate those who are so clearly less than her, they can't help that.
But she could've helped him.
Guilt squreamed in her gut as she looked at his wings- or what resembled them.
She thought, of course, that they were wings- now she knows otherwise, because if they were he would've escaped such a place by now.
She stills, she *could* take him away form such a place, such a suffocating home.
Yet, how could she take him away from the grounds he adores?
How can she whisk him away, when he is so clearly unfit for it?
How can she tell him how to grieve?
To want freedom, to escape, to run, to forget those who hurt them when he still needs to process his troubles, his sadness before he could ever get that closure?
Can he even get closure on this heaven forbidden island?
Why must she condemn him to this fate?
Why is she not allowed to protect him?
Ah, right.
It's because of the Enders, those born in the sea that fail to raise him like they claim they are burdened to do. No child is a burden, yet they insist the only reason they suffer here still is to see their purpose through and wait till he's old enough. Till they've reached their promise to a long dead queen.
She could only smell the distaste, taste the bile and virtual that rose in her throat as she tried to reason with the stubborn ones, yet they wouldn't let up- nor did the boy, either. He seemed entranced by them, and she could only fulfill his wishes even if they hurt to see how they made him suffer.
She could never take that agency away form him.
She could just hope, though her interest and coxing, that he would change his mind.
That mother wouldn't mind. She's sure she wouldn't, maybe she won't even know till he's an adult, but surely she understands how unjust this is to a child?
To leave a hybrid, hated and tore apart by vicious breeds of his own kind... It made her question her own mother, in her reasoning of trapping such a violent species on an island, including their offspring. Including, the innocent.
It was just so unfair for them to be born in such an environment!
"Nothing much..."
He mumbled again, taking his time to answer As he turned his way to the ocean and the sea far away from him. He seemed set on ignoring her to the best of his ability, even considering her divine aura that demanded attention.
Yet she took into consideration the position he is in; alone on an island containing all of the worst and most horribly traumatic memories to stir in hateful agenda that long since past. She knew she herself would've struggled to move on, even still she gets hung up on a past that raises it's ugly head every now and then. It's not all bad, she remembers a time with someone so incredibly special—it makes the remedies an overcaution for a great good thing.
She sighed however, she wished to be something, someone, akin to that like she had. Someone to remember because that someone held your love because they gave you some in return.
She's determined, to be.
"Really? Were you just sitting here on the beach then, all days long?"
She smiled sweetly, however she was too soon to reveal what she had brought for the young lad.
"Would you rather do something else?"
She lowered her tone, coxing him with her voice to look in her direct and consider her proposal.
Perhaps they could do an activity together, maybe she could read to him, or maybe they could just talk to each like one of them wasn't recovering and the other, struggling to get to that point in life.
She considered a many possibilities that could have volition. More and more ideas flooded her head of bonding activities, even where she would have him on her shoulders and strive around, with the air flying past them as he got a taste for the air that winded them.
It was mournful moment, to realize all of the opportunities that she'll never get with the other. At least, not now. She recognized quickly, that in some future she could very well have a deeper, more rich relationship with the boy if she made her affection and support a consistent. It was a wonder however, if she could manage that with her large kingdom and even larger responsibilities.
Still, she kept her composure, if not for the sake of future she hopes, but then for the sake of the child.
Even if he's next response is as callous as always.
"What even is there to do here?"
He bite back, irritated if nothing else based on the sarcasm. But Alleia looked deeper, searching for a clue to spur the conversation further.
*There*, she found it, *boredom.*
It was so obvious! His tone, although one an angsty teenager would hold towards their parental figure, even if he wasn't a teen, lead to a clear if not aggressive observation about the lonely island.
Of course; he needed simulation. Something to take his mind off of the massacre; give himself reason, a hobby, a pasttime!
And if that person was so be Alleia, Goddess of Impartially, to offer him that foot forward, whose to say he won't gain some affection of himself for her?
She smiled, slightly as to not let up her plan, at her ingenious plan.
Sitting down next to the boy, she hushed her voice and answered with all the sincerity her excitment couldn't quell and hoped with all her might that her mouth would ran the words better then her mind ever could, even as he thought miles fast and complex.
"There is something we could do!"[{0&R (╥∆╥) $♡8}]
> He tugged himself a bit closer to the tall, mysterious women whom visited him sporadically, her warmth a welcome to the coldness of the night. Of course, he had other ways to fight off the night chills; he's not stupid, he's had a warm hold to keep him at night. But another body to lean against was more than a welcomed changed.
> He felt his own eyes dropping at the heat that radiated between them like penguins huddling together for heat. It was so welcoming he forget his own trepidation for a beat or more, his body slowing it's functions as his adrenaline high wore off. Gently, he set the gift to the side. He's already grown attached, the gift itself felt incredibly kind and out of pocket in the first place, never having gotten them before, even more so that it was something of entrainment that... Intrigued a sense of founding, as it was not something hailed against nor worshiped by his previous kin, if not just apathetic towards such a thing.
> It was overall, a bright happy day for him. The growing warmth that pool in his chest felt overwhelming as he repaid today's events, eyes wondering to who he assumed was sleeping to his side. Quiet and humming with life, a gently raise and fall of her chest and he could not see anything other resting site to sleep for the night.
> He did not know whether she planned to stay with him or leave, nor did he find he cared. Not in a way that he didn't want her near, but the mere present wormed its way into his heart and made it impossible for him to be anything other than grateful to be anger if she left. It burned at his throat that the thought of being anything other than appreciative; after all, his mother had taught him manners even before he was taken in by the tribes and their lack of.
> It helped that she even looked like his mom sometimes. Bright, caring eyes with a sharp mouth, full of smiles he could never be afraid of, dimples that frown with her the rare moments she did and long wonderous white to yellow hair, circling her face as her eyes shown out in the crowd of hair strands with salmon shaped lashes and downturned, sharp and bushy eyes with a cold passion behind them. Ones that threatened a care so deeply amied at him he could only stand in shook every moment he remembered such an expression.
> It ached, now that he looked more deeply at her face. It really did bite at something he assumed was his emotional heart, seeing the women wearing the face of someone he wished he knew. Memories of her blossomed to bliss in the back of his eyes. Yet he knew better than anyone could understand that those eyes would never be his to hold for someone else like that, he isn't sure if it's because he doesn't have it in him to love someone with so much fever it looked like it made her ill, or if it's because no one would love him with that much passion, giddiness in their eyes.
> She did so much for him. Effort he did not earn, care he needed yet should've refused. She was gently in a way that knew what they held was fragile, and he almost felt anger at her for not smashing that weakness in him sooner. Yet how could he himself call that determination that laden her very soul a clutch for the lesser if it made her the most powerful person he's ever known? Her will sting enough to rivel rivers and squash mountains, her kindness making even the most strong headed man bend their heads and pray on their knees.
> If he was her heir, then he disappointed her memory.
> And it did make him... sad, to know a truth that blinds him. She was long gone, before he could ever really know her, and if not for anything else he at least knows her love was truer than his.
> *Truer than this*, he laughs bitterly. He knows this is not his mother. Not his family. Not his person to claim a safety to, to cling onto for care and a welcoming embrace. Her absence is more than painful, it's a reminder that she is not someone for him to hope for, not someone permanent. Neglectful, as it reminded him, remains of his tribes sung in the back of his head like a parasite.
> Her actions more merciful to the lesser being he is deserves, yet he knows if he were another child he would wish all the hell they could get to come their way. For him, he knew better to believe it true, or want to believe, that her love was something warm and overwhelming because it was forever.
> His own laid dead, cold to the touch and non existent at this point.
> He knew, knew his steadiness by the beach to mourn for their losses as he should have become a waiting game for he own appearance at his side. Readily, steadily, awaiting with a patience that grinded his own, one he felt was wasted on someone who'd never open up. Yet her spontaneous entries became more and more welcomed, reminding him a permanence that left before coming back. Breaks, moments to breathe before appreciatimg the next time they saw each other.
> He gobbled the attention like no other, always with a cold, stiff greeting but with a hand he reached out to those he knew wouldn't bite, as he always was the first to bare his teeth in a battle for a relationship that never truly existed.
> If it did, she would've won.
> Because his next course of action consistented of climbing onto her lap and offering the grandness of hugs. Not a peace offering, but an acceptance of what was already on the table.
> Going through with it, was a different idea entirely.
> His more than stumpy legs barely made it possible for him to lift his leg over and onto her thigh, using for leverage yet making sure he didn't dig his legs into her skin, he pulled his other leg aboard and landed swiftly on tow legs. He made it a mission at this point, as he opened his arms wide and proud as he reached on his tip toes for a hug.
> He was more than clumsy however, he's not doubt awoken her with his stumbling. Moreover, he finds himself barely caring if he did. If she so happened to be awake for his bout of love, than so be it. He even welcomes the notion, wanting for her to not only feel but see his readiness to accept her company from now and then on.
> *But did he really deserve it?*
> Has he not pushed her away? Punished her for her consistency in trying to love him? Did he not demand her efforts only to void his eyes when she met his- although admittedly low- standards? Had she not compromised with him, giving him time, listening to his voice that said so little and so much? Had she not given him a tangible, viable possibility for further entrainment, would he even be considering initiating an affirmative of his silence endearment for her in this current moment if not for it?
> What is... What is he, *doing? Using* her...?
> Is he using her? Is this not yet what using is? Is he not giving something that was always there win hopes that she will return with what he wants? Is he not using her for personal gain? For a *book?* Was that all it took for him to start seeing value, seeing something he could gain?
> He blanched. *Why would he do that...? How could he...?*
> He looked away, still, however he kept his hug at the ready. If he stopped now, she'll know something a missed. Maybe she's already caught onto his crime, maybe that's why she taken a moment to hug him back. Because she knows.
> She knows he's doing this to get something from her.
> She knows he's *incapable of loving someone*. She knows she's but someone for him to gain, to take advantage of.
> She knows he's depending on her. That's he's dependent on her.
> She knows he's weak. She knows, he's a runt, knows he's the worst type of coward.
> She's not accepting this hug, this attempt to manipulate her into his will, give her a taste of the little love he can give only to rip it away when whatever he gets is unsatisfactory. She sees past his little unknowable scheme, she sees him for what he is. She sees it, knows this isn't him opening up to her but his greed leeking into a gesture meant for love.
> She knows, doesn't she?
> He doesn't, *isn't*, supposed to know what a hug is. Understand it's purpose or even replicate it for those he could call dear, no she knows this is a poly. She sees past him, sees his coxing for a vulnerable emotional outburst so he could claw his teeth and bite hard into the open wound to take hold and poke and prod at it with his will. Twisting till they twist too. Seething so they can feel the burn. Lick and gap in gently offerings of his love for them to feel the cold warmth and beg for more of that relief.
> He isn't meant to understand a hugs emotional toll, the messages it carries with it.
> He's small. Pathetic. Weak. A runt. He has the perfect appearance of a prey, someone to be hunted and tormented. His hug would incite a vulnerable he himself could prey upon for his own twisted desires—for his own benefit, he could turn and rile the festering scars on his prey's body to make them squirm how he wants them to. He'll be depending on their dependenance on him. He'll be depending on her independence without him.
> He's a parasite. A growing, anger, cold, cowardly one.
> He hates it. Why is he like this? Did he make himself into such a monstry? Did *they* make him into this? Was he born like this? Was this who was supposed to be?
> He couldn't have been born like this. Cause then that would mean that his mother loved someone like this. He doesn't want to taint, to believe she would put effort into loving something that isn't meant for it, shouldn't be given any of it. It would be unforgiving, to have someone like him be loved for who he is with what he is.
> What effort he's using to use her.
> No, no, he doesn't want to believe someone live his Mama would love some criminal; he doesn't want the only person he's ever known to truly love him, have been loving something not truly made for it, meant for it.
> He was made into this way; is his conclusion.
> His now actions reflect those after *them*, he is who *they* made him to. Isn't that disgusting? Isn't that cowardly? To take not only *their* flesh but their skin, hon their hatred, obey their crimes? Doesn't thatake him cowardly? Prove his status as a *runt*?
> He should.. he needs to... He. He has to do something. He *needs* to do something. Something they wouldn't. If not to prove to himself that he's not them, that he'll never be them, to reassure himself that he could be who he was before, who he knew himself as.
> Who he was proud of.
> Then it could all be okay.
> He just needs to atone. Atone for using her. Beginning to. It didn't matter. He needed to fine a way to make it okay.
> He needs to... He needs to... Give her something in return? What could he give her that she wants? He has no money; no entertainment; no skills; no crafts; no strategies; no tangible value to his name but the island *they* gave *him*.
> The only thing he has to give is intangible; love. Feelings. Empathy. Compassion. Care.
> How does he do that? Without trying to take advantage? Give it to her willy nilly? What if she rejects? What if she hates him? What if it's wrong? What if she's disgusted? What if she sees that it not true? *That it's for him?*
> His mom... She loved him truly. He just has to replicate that for her. Yes, he needs to love her like she loved him. How?... Effort. She loved him with *effort*. It was consistent, moments upon moments she worked tirelessly to prove that invisible yet so visible feeling, teaching him life skills he would've died without, kissing him on the head, hugging him, offering food, giving shelter, being their when he cried and wiping away those tears not because they made him a runt but because they made him stronger.
> She said that didn't she? Say his tears gave him understandimf of his own feelings, giving him the ability to relate, to empathize, to communicate? To gain an emotional value? To reach further ahead others? To life a good life with whoever he chose to love, and pour effort into that chose till it became more than that?
> To be someone to rely on.
> That's what she was to him. That's what she wanted him to be. He was already reliable; he took care of himself for years did he not? He tried to care for his kin, was that effort not his fruition? He willed that himself, her words only egg him on. A quiet voice so gentle he never materialized it as comprehendable till he had a moment to relax against the storming fear and adrenaline that pounded into his head?
> He always relied on a time before even her, to know who he is. He was reliable then. She wanted him to be reliable still, and he will continue to work with what he was *born* with.
> Yes. That's *it*. He'll be someone for her to be comfortable with. Be safe, be secure, to *relied* on. Because he will love her. Truly. Utterly. And unfathomably so. His love for her will be *amable*.
> He's decided on it, and if he isn't a stubborn bastard, then he's nothing at all. He beckons himself forward, he's stood their long enough in his mindless mindful escapade. His arms stretched as far and as wide as he possibly could push them. And they barely made their way around her abdomen as he shuffled closer. Her robes were quite nice to the touch, soft and kind to his cold, scared ridden skin. They were waving, as if they floated upon the seas and not on the body of a person.
> His tail seemed to agree with his sentiment as it swished across her lap, it's thin scales and a tad slimy texture reveled in the gentle whisp of calm soothes the fabric elicited. Just cottony and silky enough to be enjoyed by a wide range of people, no doubt would those who made such a welcoming embrace for clothing are worth of immortality, if only to make many more of such a masterpiece.
> *Was she a God*? He almost he wished she was, so he could bring himself to worship her like a Savior for how kind even the clothes off her back was, and he almost does. Yet someone like her does not need divinity to be worth reverance.
> Did she make them herself? Was she the one to wove the clear divinity that radiated a warmth so imperceptibly emotional that it clamed his thoughts and soothe his mind? His panic felt almost miniscule by how much the touch calmed his racing mind. Or was it herself that made that cathartic ecstasy real? Was it her that made his wary wan? Was it her presence that made everything that came in touch with her so much more brighter? Was it her who light the sun and kissed the moon? Who sprinkled the stars in the sky and puffed the clouds to fluffy, whismical specialty it was now?
> It had to be. It must be. For not then for who mistifed the lands and gave life to roots beneath them? It is not a simple belief he recognizes, not one but, for it is merely a fact that he feels so compelled by her visage that he must assume the world bended to her will and bleed to her kindness for they knew mercy was her gift and compassion her trait, yet they still for her path as they respect the one who dare give to all with the same.
> Is it the halo behind her head? Was that just a sign of her angel hood? A proof to mortals how kind this own was? Was she dead, is she dead? *Is she his mom?* Is he all but still in the sight of his Mama because he cannot fathom that she is who raised him? A beautiful face full of warmth a friendless he was so unable to recognize; it made him fearful of what it wasn't, paranoid that it was somehow worse than anger and hatred, vicious vitriol that only soothes the abusive hostility.
> That face was so utterly unseen by his eyes that he assumed it to be only a look alike to who he knew his kind mom to be? What if she is his mama, just different, just *dead*?
> What if she isn't? What if she a mimic, meant to lure him in with false promises of safety and trust and the allure of his mom's welcoming, familial face only to ravish him like *they* did?
> Was he just Odysseus, plagued by the memory of a mother long dead that he starts to imagine her, starts to see her in the dead and assume her presence for he misses her all too dearly? Twenty long tears- more like thousands for himself- spent away from her, and he's here, stuck to imagine a ghostly figure imbued with divine, higher standards that he conjures so attachment to what will desppear?
> Or is he Telemachus, awaiting for his parent to come home one day, awaiting with patience for someone who may not even be alive at all but *hoping*, seeing them in someone whose not because the person they could be, are now, is all he could hope for. Having wanting, wishing for someone who was there, but wasn't. Wanting to be someone bigger to fill that hole, wanting to match their expectations, their beat for beat, rhythm and hum, emotional moments just so they could be *there*.
> He's looking so deeply. Holding on so dearly because he needs this. Needs to know, to hold, to be loved by this presence he once assumed to be falsified because that's the only way he could move forward; if it's a dream. If it's wrong. False. Not true. Because then he doesn't have to love her truly, Downs have to be what he wants to be for a moment, let himself disappoint the only person who still believes in himself for just a moment longer because it's easier. Because if he fails again, and again, and again, then how many times can he forgive himself before acknowledging his efforts to be capable of love, fruitless, to see his failings and know it's not a lack of trying; but because it's a bowl of water that holds more to it then a shot of something better.
> A shots short, lasts a few minutes and the ecstasy, the knowing he successed at loving her before it ultimately wore off and he was back to drinking the bowl. Not made to hold water but still could, not shaped for it but was forced to anyway, holding an ugly truth, one that would forever be necessary and forever be their to formated and haunt it's inhabitants, knowing they'll be crawling back if they so try to change for something else. Maybe he could substitute it for milk, but he'll have to bare the transition wouldn't he?
> Besides, what's a bowl of water compared to a sea of it? At least he wouldn't be drowning, at least he wouldn't be diluted to the point of no longer being himself anymore. But if he's the same as everyone else, what makes him incapable of love if their are water cups like her in it? Like his mom in it? Whose to say they aren't milk, aren't special compared to the vast oceans, whose to say they aren't at the bottom, whose to say they don't layer at the top he doesn't see because he's not looking for it?
> Was he not once milk? Can he not go back to what he was? Is the water not diluting him now?
> Maybe he once was able to love. Yet now it's locked away by some walls, by some icy cold fear, paranoia, something or another that keeps him from *showing* he's capable of it.
> *Cowardice*, is it not?
> Is he not scared of what he'll be if he does, and if he doesn't? Is he not scared of what hand will still be open to him? Is he not scared of what love could make out of him? What it might not?
> He starts to cry. Frustration, fear, anxiety, love, happiness, worry, everything coils in his gut and he knows for a moment too large for himself that he, in some time, will love her. He just needs to put in the effort. He just needs to be with her. Just needs to work for it, without stop, he won't let it be a shot but a ocean of milk.
> He curls his fins around her. This is the best he could do for now; opening himself up. Literally, letting his one defense that's protected him from fatality be used as something other, used not as armor but an appendage, one to show an emotional other than fear as he lets his vitals go unprotected. He's sure she won't hurt him, confident in his decision even, stubborn to stand by it.
> This is his first step in loving her; and he's proud of himself for it. [{*＊✿❀»»——(*´︶`*)——>❀✿＊*}]
>>> She awoke to a slight pressure on her legs, and soon after a tight seemingly odd pair of tiny arms that wrapped themselves around her middle, before another albeit it much cold pair joined the first, although much wider and not anything like arms or hands at all. But by a slimy, smooth limb braided across her robes, it joltes her more than she thought it would, being that she's visited him time and time again.
Straighting out, she noticed almost fearfully the slight wetness against her flesh and took note of the placement. Two dots that where around eye shape appeared on her clothing and she knew he had been crying into her.
For whatever reason, she did not know, for how she did not hear him, she could only assume her giddiness to be getting a hug at all has been what blinded her to the new texture. She gently wrapped her own hands around him, keeping count to be slow and deliberate in her soft, gentleness.
Her wings followed suit; careful and kind, yet they stood like a shield against the world that seemed too cold, too fragile for who they are to let them be. Her angelic wings may have left her crippled, maybe even feasted upon more than a few terrible moment—still, extraordinary so, they kept her happen. A symbol of safety, of freedom. It kept the young ones curious and the older comfortable.
"What has you crying, my Pigeon?"
She cooed, her words measured in a quietness that could be imagined as a voic ein ones head, instead of her direct confrontation for answers in feeling he may not be able to describe.
Did he see her face? Did he see someone else?
Alleia knew, at the very least, that in seeing anyone she once held firm again on the body of a divinely angelic stranger, that she would've been more than unable to bear it. Maybe breakdown, cry, weep for them again as if she hasn't before, and maybe then after she could accept them back into a life that had rejected them once before.
She knows if she saw Phosphoros again, that she believe it a dream before her sobs broke the sound barrier and the ear drums close enough to know her cries. She knows for certain that her tears would flood the grounds of her estate, but she also knows they are ones full of everything; not just a deep saddness nor regret, maybe both, but it would also have joy in its over flooding.
Sure, it'll never happen, but she could always wish for a future like that anyways, because her Heosphoros was everything to her, stood by her and lived for her. They were their for each other and that's what made their conflicts easier; love may have been there, but it was each other that kept them together.
Even when they were falling apart, even when the world they had built with others broke, even when they couldn't always be together physically, they could always reply on each other. They always knew, in the back of their mind to the fore front of their life's that they had each other, that they lived and cherished not because they were the last to be able to do so but because of a feeling so deep it manifestes the effort, created the system, offered a relationship too good to let go.
Ones they mourned together gave away for another that exeled in everything lost, because it was them. Together, forever welcomed in each other's arms they held firm because that was what they knew and what they knew became what they taught for they had learned and would learn all there ever could be about love in every moment with each other. It meant everything, it meant the world.
Alleia loves Cittial, but he could never be Helen.
And Alleia could never be who Saskia sees her to be, and she's awfully okay with that. She doesn't need to be; she just needs to be here with him.
And she brought him closer; for he was but a child, be would have no experience in the pain she felt through heart break and she hoped he never will, nor would he understand why she looks of who he sees, nor could he understand what he felt to it's full extent. He wouldn't understand those emotions like she does, not unless she teaches him like she meant to.
"I'm going to love you."
He said, with a sturdiness in his voice no child should ever have. Yet here, a proof of her own failure to protect the youth of the world, yet here he was. Saying, proclaiming a love for her she doubts she ever even earned form him. It's a process, she wanted to say. It'll take time. Don't rush yourself. Be careful with your words. Made their way to her tongue and for a moment she would've said them- but then it dawned in her.
Saskia- Saskia was saying he would love her. Saying he would love her like she does him—as if it was a statement of the future. It talked about it like he knew Síoraí himself and knew for a fact he would, as Alleia couldn't help the bubbly laugh that rocked her body.
Leaning over, she clutched onto the little one in her grasp. Her hold tight as she lurched in delight, her breath hotly as she heavied. The little boy in her hands seemed shocked to a point of making a little peep when she started to lean over him. He seemed more confused if not worried, patting her on the back as far as his short stubby arms could reach.
"Oh little one, what brings you to say this?"
She asked kindly, her body leaning away with a quiet look of fulfillment and contentment on her face, shining like the sun because to her, she was just given the sun like a dying plant or an artist in the dark. She felt like she had the means now, the ability to just have it in her reach, mutual was the effort now—and for it, she now knows all of her work beforehand was well placed.
He however, shook his head in embarrassment as a little reddish blush over came his face and he turned away in this mock tantrum. Huffing and puffing all the way, a look of indignation covering his face as he seemed almost angered by her question.
Yet she knows much better, it was clear to be a play to throw her off of whatever reasoning she may have grabbed, as by his facial expression; he was at least a little ashamed of the actual reason and was trying to redirect her trail on him.
Rolling her eyes back in a playful manner, she gave him this look. One that said 'C'mon, I'm sure it's my not that bad!' open enough to still invite an answer from even the most closed off but serious enough to suggest anger or conquence to whatever he may say. It was a coxing she learned worked best for children like Saskia, and through trial and error with the little one she knew when to and when to not implement the method.
He sighed too, maybe even recognizing her cracking the code and his own weakness to it or some other dictation. She didn't mind however, as Saskia hide his hands behind his back and seemed to avoid her look no matter what, working his mouth in a desperate struggle to actually answer her.
"I've... Been unruly to you." He paused again, and she gave him an encouraging nod as she gave him all of her attention. "I've... Behaved, as if you should give your love without anything in return."
"And I'm sorry."
He leaned forward further, almost preparing to hug her again before hesitanting.
"It's okay." She whispered calmly; her own arms brought to her side and in a welcoming trance, offering that kind of physical affection she knows he's been denied more times than the years he's lived. And she feels this burning in her gut, like his pain, the pain he felt before was something she should've contained, should've stopped.
He was never in her jurisdiction, she's not even sure if he truly is hers—but she won't let him believe there was never once a time he was loved. Never, in her godhood, does she want those around her, children, men or women, to see themselves as unlovable. As inequality to those they see better than.
Alleia knows she's one of the few that recognizes that, recognizes how one could see themselves as lovable front eh day they were born, and knows before anyone else that that's a lie the wicked tell the innocent.
And as the Goddess of Impartially, and Fairness as her goal; she knows she's above that. Above such a belief and could help those around her grow above it aswell, she knows the ins and out of such logic better than any mother should, she knows he doesn't understand he how sibling love works and won't as much as she does.
She understands how he may view her effort as a transaction and not an need of her own.
She pities him because that's the biggest misfortune of all; she knows he will forever be alone if he continues his path. Perhaps, Amerie could be of use here. But whose to say he'll let her in? He already barely lets Alleia in herself.
Taking a deep breathe that resembled a sigh, she gently kissed the top of his head, peppering love and adoration on every one of her pecks. It was a short type of affection, but real all the same. She ment the intention in every one, and she knew he could feel that same admiration at his efforts.
Because really, how did this pitiful boy change so much?
He seems to understand, to a degree, his predicament. How he's trapped on this island, physically incapable of leaving. Alleia, every the empathetic, wanted to help him- carry him far, far away from this tormented land. But by so principal, she knew she couldn't. So she stayed.
She stayed despite everything, despite the mistrust and sheer walls he'd built for himself; she stayed. From a once mute and silent boy, one she knew to weep at her arrivals and exits, one to breathe with a hitch whenever she so looked mad, one that couldn't bring himself to finish a meal all at once for fear he might not have a meal tomorrow, no now; openly talking with him, willing to make contact, proud to be hugging her, affectionate and proud and happy and so, so lively.
That's what's so endearing, see; his compassion, one that grow and blossomed from the ground it's predecessor ashes laid rest, if only to give it space to grow something better. And better was for it; his kindness never needed her attention, to be praised and to be worshiped. He just was, and when given the time and space to grow he did, and he loved the sun so much more for it.
She loves him, she recognizes it now. He's grown, and she watched him sprout into someone she's proud to call brother.
He loves her, and he just needed to learn to be open to it. And he did. He learned how to adore her because she adored him, dotted on and cared for, she wraps her arms around him tighter and she knows for sure he's her little brother.
She loves him, he loves her, nothing could change their minds on that fact.