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Richter, in a way rather unbefitting of an Agent of God, in a way that would have him unjustly fling a glass-light blade as a warning to any mortal who saw him, is laid limp at the base of an old tree.
He feels more ashamed than hurt. Angels don’t feel pain, after all. The first thing he observes is his arm, hacked off at the elbow and glittering light taking his forearm’s place. He is fairly certain part of his leg is missing, as well. He refuses to leave spiritualism. No one would see him, anyway. And he needs to recover.
The second thing he observes is the fact that he has felled a tree in the area, and that the corpses of what he had just defeated (he didn’t bother to remember, didn’t bother to remember any of the ones he killed. Besides, he is certain they were demons if nothing else, and demons deserve no memorial.) were already gone. Had he blacked out? It was unimportant.
Richter remembers he is in Feita, or at least the region somewhere near it. He remembers that there is someone he can call out to. Unfortunately.
He waits, thirty-five minutes and twenty-four seconds in humans’ terms. In Angels’ terms, too long.
Bluhen crouches down next to the fallen Angel. “You were beaten.” is the first thing to come from his mouth, after the smile.
“I was not.” Richter feels as if he is being insulted. “Ishmael’s Agents are not beaten.”
Bluhen’s eyes crease at the corners as he beams. “This one was.” Richter watches his Eids flicker to golden yellow, and feels the air become warm without any heat.
“You called me here to help you, yes?” Bluhen asks. Something about his tone irritates Richter.
“No. I called you here to report back to Ishmael.”
Bluhen tsks. “No, no, that won’t do. I’m gonna get you patched up, okay?”
What? “No, that is not ‘okay.’ It is imperative Ishmael knows that I haveー”
Bluhen mashes a finger against his lips. Richter is shocked into silence. “Goodness, look at you!” His fingers graze over the fragmented stump of Richter’s right arm, frowning. Has he forgotten that Angels have no bodies? “I’m taking you back to Feita. You’ll rest there.” Richter notes Bluhen’s wording.
He then notes Bluhen’s hands on his back, and the feeling of being lifted up off the ground.
“What are you doing?” Richter demands. He pounds on Bluhen’s shoulder with his remaining fist, tries to shove himself out of his arms, all to no avail. Bluhen is made of flesh and red blood, which proved fighting him to be very difficult.
“I’m carrying you.”
“You certainly do not intend to carry me all the way to Feita.”
“Oh, but I do!” Bluhen pushes off with one foot, and drifts over the fallen tree. “I told you my intentions, didn’t I?”
“I do not agree with them. Let me go.”
“Richter,” starts Bluhen, stopping still as if to emphasize it, “you’re a wreck. You need to rest. Ishmael can wait.”
Richter thinks, perhaps, this might be the most blasphemous thing he’s heard in recent memory.
He makes no move to wrestle out of Bluhen’s hold, anyway.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I am doing this because people help each other. It’s human nature.”
“Most do not. They argue and they kill, they plunder Her gifts for their own gain.”
Bluhen laughs like windchimes. It’s annoying. “Some people are good.”
Richter frowns. In any case, “We are not people.”
Bluhen puts on a pout that makes his cheeks puff up. “That’s rather hurtful, don’t you think?”
“You’re an Angel as well, Bluhen.”
“No, I’m more human than that, silly.”
Richter knows this isn’t true, couldn’t be, but the steady heartbeat thrumming against him is trying to convince him otherwise. He knows this is something an Angel could not have. And yet, regardless, there is something so intrinsically divine about him. An unknown variable, an incomprehensible in-between of corruption and purity. His eyes are drawn to the place around Bluhen’s eye that he knows holds a scar. Unsightly, even cleansed of Henir's color as it is. In a way, he is right.
Perhaps this is precisely what scares him about Bluhen.
"But if that's how you want to be, then fine," Bluhen pipes up again, "I'm carrying you just to spite you. I know how much you hate to depend on anyone, being Minor God Richter, all-powerful and highest ranking of Ishmael’s Angels, and I heard your call and saw you beaten and bruised and came running, because I simply could not pass up this prime opportunity to piss you off."
Richter does not dignify this with a response.
Bluhen merely giggles at his silence. Instead of pressing him for a reply, he begins to hum. Richter doesn’t recognize the tune. Angels have no need for music, he committed none of the songs he encountered to memory.
“It’s human nature to be selfish, as well.” Bluhen says, seemingly apropos of nothing. “Maybe it’s selfish of me to take you to Feita.”
Richter doesn’t understand why he says this. Though, he supposes he agrees. Humans are selfish and want for themselves more than Richter finds palatable.
His Eids join in his songs, glimmering wind bells in the middle of the forest. After a few minutes of walking, birdsong lilts into the air from somewhere distant. It's mimicking his tune.
Bluhen grins warmly. “Isn't that wonderful? The world sings with me.”
He debates even giving it a response for a moment. "It is pointless.”
“But isn't it fun? There doesn't need to be a point. Sometimes, the point is simply that it makes you happy.”
“I have no need for this. It would do nothing but waste time and energy.”
Bluhen frowns. “You’re certainly not fun.”
Why does that matter? The other angel gets hung up on the most inconsequential things. He feels a surge of sharp energy through his arm. He does not know pain, but wonders briefly if this is similar to what ‘pain’ would be, and then promptly snuffs that wonder out like the light of a match. Just thinking about experiencing such failure in that small way revolts him.
Even just this was too much, too human, honestly. The fact this body looked like this, could be damaged like this, it was too much. It’s why he moved as far past such a body as he could, long ago by now– Humans are too weak. He cannot afford to be like them. (it’s times like now that he wants to return to nothing. he wants to be holy and pure, nothing but light again.)
Bluhen trips. Richter jostles in his arms as he yelps. He uses his good arm to thump his shoulder.
“Do not drop me. It’s humiliating enough that you’re carrying me already.”
Bluhen laughs, sparkling. “I would never!”
“When are we getting to Feita?”
“Hmmm, I don’t know. I don’t pay attention to the time it takes when I’m walking with everyone else.”
Richter frowns. “I have important matters to attend to. You are holding me up.”
“And yet, you called for me, didn’t you?” Bluhen beams. There’s something behind his smile besides the smug satisfaction. “Besides, I wouldn’t let you sit rotting in some forest until you recovered. By the way, isn’t your arm coming back already?”
Richter cuts off his retort to look to the space at the end of the nub of his arm. The light is shining brighter, now, soon to be solidified into something more concrete. (more human. he needs this form, he tells himself. it cannot be helped, he tells himself. he repeats it like a prayer.) He nods.
“There, then it’ll be better in no time! Does Rein help a little, Richter?”
Richter takes a moment to soak in the familiar buzz of Bluhen’s Eids. He knows this feeling. It feels like solace, though it doesn’t feel like Ishmael, which are two conflicting statements, to Richter. He disregards it.
He knows Bluhen doesn’t need an answer, and he knows he doesn’t need to give him one. He knows full well that it helps, he’s told him before. It wouldn’t change. Bluhen simply loves to talk, which is something he inherited from humans, which is something Richter doesn’t understand.
“Bluhen.”
Bluhen hums in confirmation, lilting at the end curiously.
“Do not bring me into Feita visible.”
Bluhen nods, understanding. He hops from one stone to another (a useless act, the path is fine the way it is) and lets out a soft breath when he lands. With it, his aura blooms out from him, feeling as if it lights up the air around them. Richter was always somewhat offput by, somewhat in awe of Bluhen’s wings. He is no kind of Ishmael’s, though not of Elria or Henir or anything else, for that matter. Entirely his own. Entirely impossible.
Everything about him is confusing. Namely, his humanity was the cause for most of it, but the fact that he shouldn’t have it as well. The fact that he wants for these things. That he would ever desire such a form and acts.
But now they are both in spiritualism, connected directly to what gives them 'life.' Now, he looks up briefly at Bluhen’s face, his diamond eyes, and it’s far enough from human that it’s comforting. He thinks of Bluhen’s heartbeat. He thinks of how that is something he lacks, and, though he chooses not to think about his playing into Bluhen’s idea, comes to the conclusion that if Bluhen is human, and they are so unalike, then he must not be very human at all. It soothes him. He lets his eyes fall closed.
“Oh, wait, Richter! Where are you wanting me to take you, if you want to go to Feita village, and don’t want humans to see you? Towns are typically full of them, you know.” He says, humor in his voice. Richter doesn’t see the point in it. He stares hard and cold back at him, and Bluhen seems to get the point.
“Alright, I’ll take you to the temple there. I hear they’ve cleaned it up since it was cleared out. It’d be nice if you talked to me, you know,” he adds.
Richter watches ahead of them from his place in Bluhen’s arms. He thinks Bluhen should be paying more attention to where he’s walking. He tells him this.
“Not like that…” Bluhen whines. (but he does lift his head up.)
“...Why should I?”
“Because it’s fun. I like talking to you. Well, I just like talking, really.” He hums. “But I like talking to you, specifically, because you understand me better than most. Or perhaps anyone at all.”
This is certainly news to Richter. The other angel feels like an enigma to him. (or, maybe, it’s not the angel himself who is an enigma to him, but rather the parts of him that make up ‘bluhen.’ his humanity, his compassion, his desire to live and not to survive. so much of him is foreign to richter, and some of it he wants to stay that way.)
He wonders, for a moment, if this means Bluhen is understood much at all.
It would be so much simpler if they could just be of light, and nothing more.
Bluhen steps over a tree root, the lift never really coming back down, and Richter feels no more footsteps. They are in a more vivid sunlight now, a sign of having finally exited the woods they were in before.
Bluhen is quiet now. Which is not something that happens often. It’s cause enough for Richter to look up at him again, and it’s then that he notices Bluhen is looking all around, and not forward. He does so as well, mirroring his motion. The air around them is somewhat heavyーhad it been raining? Telltale droplets hang from the foliage around them. ...Why is Bluhen so fascinated by things like this?
...Though he supposes, in a way, he understands. Richter appreciates what the Goddess enables. He attributes the rain to Her, and the way the area brims with life in its vibrant greens. It was all a sign of Her love. Of Her power.
But this is not the way Bluhen views it, nor why he appreciates it. Richter can’t say he understands what his reasoning really is. But he doesn’t care, nor is he going to try to find out.
What is more important to him now, is the fact that with their emergence from the dense woods, the structures of Feita come into view. Bluhen moves faster now that he is no longer restricted by human movement. They should arrive soon enough. He feels what may be something akin to ‘relief’ upon thinking that. He will be glad to be within the Goddess’ presence again. To be able to restore his form, to be able to leave the other angel and the disconcerting smile he carries behind.
This is what he thinks, at least, but Bluhen drifts into the temple and deposits him there, helping Richter out of his arms and to stand up straight again, and then doesn’t leave.
He doesn’t say anything, either, however. He stays quiet, simply watching Richter– or watching the entire still room. There is nothing to watch, and yet he still observes like an attentive cat, staring at ghosts on the wall.
Richter settles down and bows his head in prayer. Truly, doing this is not necessary. He can commune with Her without it, but… Lately She has been quiet. He finds this kind of ritual comforting. He supposes this is human of him.
Bluhen remains quiet, only speaking up a while later when it’s clear Richter is thoroughly settled and plans to remain here for some time. “I’m proud of the progress they’ve made with this place.”
Richter does not look up. He wonders if he should even give it a response.
He remembers Bluhen saying he likes talking, and makes a sort of internal sigh. It would do no harm, if not any good, either.
“It has changed.” …Alright. That’s not very conversational, now is it, but it’s something.
“Mhm.” Ah, but maybe it still works. “It used to be so ugly in its corruption. Do you remember? All but ruined. Isn’t it impressive how much they’ve managed to clean it up? I wonder if they’ll be able to restore it to its former glory, someday.”
Of course Richter remembers. An Angel doesn’t forget. An Angel especially does not forget the hatred, the vitriolic disgust that had run through him at the sight of the defilement of such a holy place.
He nods. “In a way. It would be better had they not allowed it to become infested in the first place.”
Bluhen hums, a noncommittal sound the tone of which Richter cannot place. “Sure, but humans are only capable of so much. They work with what they have, and recover and react when it is not enough.”
Richter hums in acknowledgement. “It will never truly be enough.”
He is not looking, but he can hear the smile in Bluhen’s voice. It always changes in this way, when he really is pleased, as opposed to the plastered-on smile sometimes offered to strangers. “No, it will not. But they continue on regardless. Perhaps together, it is close enough.” There is a pause, and Richter doesn’t look up. “It’s out of their faith and determination that they don’t just give up on this place. I think that’s admirable. Don’t you? That they try so hard, despite the fact they’ll never reach our level.”
Richter keeps his eyes closed. …Perhaps. There’s a measure of truth in his words, though some of it he can’t bring himself to agree with. Admirable, not exactly. He does not admire them, and he’s not sure if he ever will. But he can acknowledge that it’s still a good thing.
There is this, and the core of the Goddess that sits weighing heavy and weightless in his chest, that tempts him with a feeling perhaps like affection. She loves humanity, so naturally, he would too. This fact can, surely, coexist with that he has no wish to be like them, even if he can hold a love for them in the way a parent would their children, or, perhaps more accurately, a gardener their flowers. That is not him. They are ‘other,’ they are separate, and it is a sin to be anything else.
Thinking about it in this way, perhaps he can understand why Bluhen is the way he is. To love humanity so dearly you wish to join them… That is something he can understand– though not sympathize with. He understands it in the way one understands the earth moves around the sun; knowing it but not being able to put himself in the angel’s shoes.
Bluhen seems perfectly content to let them remain in silence. He supposes he’s gotten used to Richter’s lack of responses, his quiet listening to Bluhen’s idle chatter. They stay like this for a while; Richter does not care to count the time. He only notes that his body is almost fully restored by now, not least of all owing to Bluhen’s healing. It’s still somewhat baffling to him, but somewhat not, that Bluhen is able to heal their forms in this way. His magic is, after all, still in part Her gifts. With this in mind, it makes sense, considering. It’s another thing he doesn’t deem important enough to think long on.
Richter notices something in the light change. They both leave no footsteps, but he feels the distinct aura that Bluhen has moving, and opens his eyes enough to see him properly.
He watches as he walks, slowly, to the statue of the Goddess underneath the bright stained glass window. He doesn’t get close, nor does he do anything. Simply stands by the steps leading up to the altar before it and stares.
Richter gives it a moment longer, and then sighs. He’s not going to be able to contact Her this time, either. He knows by now that after a certain point, it’s futile to continue the current attempt. Not to try at all– but if he can’t get a response in this much time, he’s likely not getting one at all. And if She does respond, then he certainly won’t need to commune with Her to hear it. All of his will would be directed to Her, and he wouldn’t have to think of it at all.
He instead shifts his focus to flexing his newly formed hand. Yes, everything is in order. It fits comfortably, as if nothing even changed in the first place. Once he’s sure nothing is out of place… He looks up at Bluhen, who still has not moved.
He takes a few steps towards him. “What is it?” That’s not exactly… well, it works.
Bluhen seems to snap out of a haze, and turns his head to face Richter with a smile. “Oh, nothing really. I was just thinking.”
“Of?”
Bluhen’s smile falls, just for a moment. Replaced by something like surprise, and he blinks a few times before it returns and he speaks again. Richter doesn’t understand it. “Many things, I suppose. What do you think of these statues?”
That’s not an answer, is it. That’s a redirection. Richter puts that aside for now. He pauses for a moment, thinking of how to answer this. “…I haven’t given them much thought,” he settles on. “In a way, I suppose it is interesting to see how they envision Her. Or Us.”
Us. Us, naturally. Bluhen chuckles softly. “You think so? I do, too. I’m surprised you don’t have anything to say about their audacity.”
Audacity… yes, he sees it. “It is bold of them to think they know how We appear. Or perhaps they don’t claim as much. Perhaps they make it with an acknowledgement that they will never know.” He doesn’t know why he’s talking so much about it. “…Perhaps the appearance is more symbolic than literal.”
Bluhen is beaming in that confusing way again. “You see, this is why I like to hear you actually speak to me. Yes, I agree. Though some of them are more accurate than others.” He gestures to the ‘cloak’ of wings around the statue’s shoulders. “You used to have wings like this, didn’t you? They were pretty.”
…What a strange thing to note. Bluhen continues. “So, if it’s symbolic, what do you think they symbolize?” There’s a kind of glee in his voice that Richter can’t decipher. This is a trend, isn’t it? That Bluhen is beyond his comprehension.
Richter thinks on it for a few moments more. He’s not familiar enough with human culture to really know this kind of thing. Bluhen is the one who would know, so why is he asking? “…Heaven. They think of Heaven as in the skies, beyond their reach. To be able to travel between Heaven and the earth, one would need wings with which to fly. And… perhaps as well to signify them as one of Heaven's Envoys.” He’s sure there’s more, and a better answer he could give… but he’s still trying to consider it, and this is the only one that feels concrete enough to say out loud right now.
Bluhen looks pleased, at least. “Mhm? That’s one of the reasons, yes. That’s a good answer.” It is?
So now Richter can ask a question of his own. “Why are you asking me?”
Bluhen cocks his head a little, still smiling. “I told you. Because I like talking to you. And I want to hear your perspective. You’ll view it differently from me, after all.” This… is true.
This is another thing Richter has noticed about Bluhen. This insatiable curiosity. He insists upon stopping in any town he travels through to learn about it, its inhabitants, their cultures and their stories. He seems to be particularly fond of food, despite the fact neither of them have much need for it. Not in the way a human body would, at least.
This curiosity spreads to Richter, as well, to his chagrin. He doesn’t like when the angel looks at him in the way a cat would a mouse. But it doesn’t seem to matter how much he protests—Bluhen never listens. He’s never been much one for following orders.
Bluhen closes his eyes for a moment. "Every single person has a different perspective. I'm sure you could ask a thousand humans what they think She looks like, or what embodies Her, and get a thousand and one different answers. I think that’s so special."
Richter considers it for a moment. This is likely true. They could never truly understand Her, or Heaven, or anything Celestial, so it would only be natural that along with the established frames of belief, visions of the Celestial would vary wildly. Especially since the fall of Elrianode, and knowledge and belief itself becoming less unified and more scattered…
Bluhen speaks up again. "That reminds me—Did you know? Some of them believe that there's a reason the world remains this way—broken as it is now. They believe that this is intentional. That the Goddess, omnipotent as She is, doesn't just fix it all with a snap of Her fingers because She wants them to fix it on their own, without Her help. They believe She thinks it's a reason for them to come together, and that if She were to help them, make their lives peaceful and plentiful, they would only become complacent, kill and fight."
He smiles at Richter. It feels that way, specifically for him, this time. "Evidently, there is nothing quite like a crisis to make people come together to pick up the pieces of their broken world. They thought like this even before the explosion. They thought like this even in the time of the El Lady. It seems to be this one, careful consistency throughout generations." His smile is different now. If Richter had to try to place it, he would say solemn. The eyes match, but nothing else does.
"I wonder,” he says softly, going quiet for a few moments. “This is their justification for why a Goddess they believe loves them so dearly would leave them to fend for themselves. I wonder how true that is."
Richter’s first response is defensiveness, but he quickly reigns it in. Bluhen’s tone is not accusatory, but rather the genuine kind of contemplation he has often. It would be easy to misconstrue his words—it certainly does sound rather like an accusation.
'I wonder if She truly does love them like She says.' Perhaps it lies underneath the words, but that in itself raises a good question. It would depend on your definition of 'love.'
If one considers leaving them to their own devices the best course of action, She is protecting them. If one believes She should be helping them, She is neglectful.
In this way, they are both the same as humans. They will never understand Her—Richter is an embodiment of Her will, of course, but he cannot know Her thoughts, Her feelings, motivations. None of them can.
For this reason, Richter considers it himself. It's something he's thought of before. But just as easily as Bluhen’s words can be twisted, so too can this line of thought quickly lead to betrayal and doubt. He often quickly casts it aside, only trusting in that She knows best.
After all, if She doesn't, then who?
In any case, he knows that as he chooses to live now, believing in Her is all that matters.
Bluhen giggles softly. "Well, I guess that's a pretty solemn subject, huh." His eyes fall closed in a smile. They don't crease in the way they usually do. "I won't ask you to tell me what you think for that one. It’s a big question, and I know you don’t know the answer either."
Richter merely hums in acknowledgement. There are a few things he could ask. Perhaps important questions, but would they have a point—?
“I wonder why you ask them.” Bluhen likes conversation, though.
Bluhen’s smile changes. “You know the answer to that, don’t you? The corruption of humanity has made me oh-so prone to asking questions.” Yes, Richter did already know that. Which means asking is pointless, but…
But his smile did change. Ah, he doesn’t really understand it, himself.
This little excursion– detour, rather– has drawn on far too long, in his opinion. They’ve long overstayed their welcome. Richter sighs, performs superficial little motions to straighten himself out—he knows he’s already pristine as can be, but it’s an almost obsessive ritual that soothes him.
He pauses, when he should be leaving. He looks to Bluhen, who is now staring at the stained glass window above the statue. There’s something odd in his eyes. The multicolored light reflects in them. There is something so different about Bluhen’s eyes than they used to be, years ago. They shine like a child’s.
He speaks up, for some reason. “Bluhen.”
It takes him a moment to respond. He doesn’t tear his gaze away. “Yes?” It’s said softly. He’s distracted.
“Come. We’re leaving.”
That draws his attention, and he turns his head. “Do we have to?”
Richter furrows his brow. “What more is there?”
Bluhen smiles, but his expression feels more pitying than anything. “Look, here. Isn’t it pretty?”
He means the stained glass window. Richter doesn’t have opinions on things. Not really. There’s no point in it, just distractions, so it’s always been irrelevant to him. As such, Richter doesn’t really understand how to decipher if it’s ‘pretty’ or not. Of course Bluhen would, though. That only makes sense. Bluhen has opinions on everything.
He decides to think about the craftsmanship involved in the making of it. He understands the creation of a piece such as this to be an incredibly complex and careful process. He thinks of artisans carefully and deliberately crafting the design for it, mixing potash and powders and hard work into something perfect and pristine to adorn their place of worship. No less than perfect would do, after all, for something so important.
He looks at the old, old lines of gold shooting through the rainbow of colors. The reflections and refractions of light, dyeing and decorating the archway covering the altar with its design. It reminds him, vaguely, of Bluhen’s Eids. This feels weighted in ways he can’t understand.
He supposes, yes, this is good enough to be a satisfactory answer. “Yes. They must have worked hard on it.”
That makes Bluhen’s smile change again. His eyes crease at the corners this time. It’s a warm expression. Richter doesn’t know how to imitate it, but feels somewhat like he should be. “I’m glad you think so.” He laughs, a small, short thing. “Sorry. I know we have places to be. You have work to do, and you want me to accompany you, right?” What he doesn’t say is something he surely must be aware of already; that Richter disproves of how much time he wastes on things irrelevant to his mission. Since he has so much time to spend elsewhere, he surely must be able to put some work in, the same as him.
He also knows Bluhen always hates to leave his human friends behind. In the grand scheme of things, however, it’s an incredibly inconsequential grievance. He would live.
Richter nods confirmation. Bluhen makes an odd face. “Right… I guess it has been a while. I don’t suppose you’ve had much luck reaching Her?”
The remark makes Richter scowl. But it’s not like the question is out of line. He shakes his head, slowly, after a moment.
“I see,” says Bluhen, as if he had expected any other answer. “We’ll make progress soon. Don’t you think? We’re both strong. You especially. You would be the first to make a stride.”
The words don’t mean much to him, but he knows they’re meant to be encouragement. He knows this is objectively true, as well. He would be the first—so to go so long without progress is…
…This is not the point. He needs only to have faith.
He nods again. Maybe he should count himself lucky that Bluhen doesn’t mind his quiet. It’s troublesome enough to try to make conversation with humans already.
“Right. Let’s go then. You lead the way.” Richter doesn’t mind this, either; that of a leader is only a natural role for an Angel of higher rank.
And yet, he never seems to take such a guiding role with Bluhen in particular. Always stubborn, never listening to orders, insistently and incessantly doing things his own way, on his own time—but always getting them done.
He looks all around them as they walk, this time, not float—having abandoned their ethereal forms, seeing as Richter no longer has to worry about his pride or illusion of humanity being shattered—and though the halls remain quiet save for their footsteps, he knows Bluhen’s mind must be racing, again. Full of thoughts and questions and opinions on anything and everything.
It’s admittedly hard to resist in a place like this. A dilapidated relic of a time long-lost to anyone but an Angel. Bluhen lingers on the largest statue, clearly that of an angel, though missing its head, among other things. He can only wonder what goes through his head at the sight.
“Bluhen,” he calls again.
“Right.” And he returns to following after Richter. There’s another long stretch of silence, filled only by the click of their shoes on the crumbling stone.
“I have a name, you know.” Bluhen says, suddenly.
Richter doesn’t respond. He doesn’t see what he’s supposed to say to this. They will always refer to each other by title.
Bluhen seems to take that as a cue to keep going. “It’s Ain. I like it. It’s a little different from my Given name, but not much. It is what the others call me. I’ve come to grow very fond of it.”
Another few moments of silence. He speaks softly. “Maybe you could use it as well. I think I would like that.”
Richter doesn’t stop walking. It’s still a cool, calm pace as it has been this whole time. This is a silly request, honestly. Very much so. He sees no reason to entertain this one. “You know Angels have only titles, not names.”
There’s a slightly longer pause this time. “Right. Of course.” If there’s a tone to it, Richter can’t place it. It’s not like it matters much.
It’s not long after that they reach sunlight once again. From here, the path should be simple. Richter looks behind him once he stops to make sure Bluhen is keeping pace. When their eyes meet, Bluhen gives him a gentle smile.
It feels closer to normal, but still not right. It can’t be helped, can it.
He wants to leave this place behind. Rather—he wants, once they step away from this place, to leave the events and feelings from it behind. Bluhen always seems to do this kind of thing—bring about uncomfortable and uncertain feelings and thoughts. At least while they work, he doesn’t do anything like that; too focused on the task at hand, and always a helpful ally.
On that note– Bluhen listens quietly as Richter recounts his– their– task to him, nodding along when appropriate. He has the serious face he dons sometimes on. It’s a welcome sight, and yet… Odd, somehow, when compared to how he looked just prior, inside the chapel.
Ah, well. No time to think about it. They have places to be, after all.