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]

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?]