Week 1, Thursday - Ion the Nicer

[melancoffeea]

[It's nearly time, and Sandalphon has long retired to the room he shares with Ion. His back to the door, he sits on the edge of the bed in a forward slouch. A small but noticeable number of beautiful white feathers line the floor here and there. When he hears the telltale sounds of someone's—Ion's—entering the room, he poses a question without looking up.]

Do you see anything?

Comments

[fragileprophet]

[Ion's gaze, of course, goes quickly from Sandalphon's form on the bed to the feathers on the floor. After a hesitation, he reaches down to pick up the closest one.]

Feathers? Where did these come from?

[melancoffeea]

[He swallows. Feathers.]

What do they look like?

[fragileprophet]

They're...white.

[And lovely, but he keeps that thought to himself as he carefully runs his fingers down it.]

...did something happen?

[melancoffeea]

[They're white. Just—white. Sandalphon sighs.]

Those feathers came from the wings of an archangel.

[fragileprophet]

[You're gonna have to help him out here, his religion is different enough that the terms are a bit of a struggle for him. He's doing his best to keep up, concern etched across his features as he slowly approaches.]

What wings?

[melancoffeea]

They're not here. I put them away.

[He straightens, feeling the lack of a weight against his back as he does so, and cranes his neck to lock eyes with Ion. His expression is, for the most part, blank.]

So you could say that nothing happened. Sorry about the feathers.

[fragileprophet]

[Ion takes only a moment, never turning his eyes away from Sandalphon's even as he feels sadness gnaw at his ribs.]

I could say that, but I wouldn't. And I won't.

[He keeps the feather cradled delicately in the palm of his hand, careful with it. He doesn't know how or why, but has the feeling that it's more important than Sandalphon wants to let on.]

You can talk to me--and if you'd like, I don't have to say a word. I'm here for you, whatever it is that might trouble you.

[melancoffeea]

[Sandalphon waits, as if he expects that offer to be taken back, before he starts in a soft voice.]

Do you know what archangels are? In my world, they're beings tasked with maintaining various facets of the realm. The archangel who oversees evolution, also oversees the other archangels.

[His gaze drops to the feather cradled in Ion's palm.]

He possesses six luminous wings. That feather belongs to one of them.

[Then he huffs.]

But that's not possible, right? What happens here can't possibly affect the worlds beyond.

[fragileprophet]

[Ion waits, patient as ever, as Sandalphon begins his explanation.]

In order for you to have those wings, does that suggest something would have had to happen?

[melancoffeea]

[His face falls.]

It means that he would have had to die . . . but that can't be. His powers are beyond the imagination of archangels like me.

[fragileprophet]

[The look on his face fills Ion’s heart with sorrow. He looks back down at the feather once more.]

Someone very important to you?

[melancoffeea]

He's our guiding light . . . Loved and looked upon by those he leads. And I . . .

[There's no way. The thought loops in his mind like a numbing mantra.]

Did I steal them . . . ? That wasn't my intention. Am I destined to be a deplorable wretch, no matter what I do?

[fragileprophet]

How could you have stolen anything, intentional or otherwise? It wasn't you. It couldn't have been.

[Whatever the wishing well did to him, or to anyone else...it's just playing tricks. Cruel, terrible tricks.]

And you're no such thing.

[melancoffeea]

[Oh, he is.]

You must be right. The well can't possibly possess the power to strip him of his wings. Then what I had received must be . . .

[He swallows the lump in his throat, then shakes his head and sighs.]

That was arrogant of me. Of course it was nothing.

[fragileprophet]

[Arrogant? Each negative word Sandalphon uses to describe himself causes Ion to feel more and more like a wretch, himself. Curse this empathy.]

Must be what? Please, you can tell me anything. I can't proclaim I'll understand, but I meant what I said: nothing you say will leave this room.

[He takes a breath, shaking his head.]

Won't you only feel worse burying it?

[melancoffeea]

[The distressed creases in his features have lifted, replaced by a look of impassivity. He didn't really have anything with which to finish that trailing sentence.]

I simply refuse to mock the supreme primarch or my kind by putting those fakes on display. That's all.

[He pauses, though, because he shouldn't return Ion's kindness with such callous avoidance. He should at least acknowledge the effort.]

Before this farce, my lack of restraint had dire consequences on the realm. I know now not to make rash statements or actions.

[fragileprophet]

...I see, I'm sorry.

[Carefully, he places the feather down on the nearest surface. He looks a bit put out as he does, but then his smile returns, brushing past his worries. Reminding himself not to be so intent. If someone doesn't want to talk, they don't want to talk, and it's not up to him what happens next.]

There's still so much I still don't know about you.

[melancoffeea]

[At that, he smiles wryly. His answer is less an act of evasion and more along the lines of sincerity.]

There isn't much to know.

Enough about me. How is everything?

[In other words, has Ion done anything of note since yesterday?]