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Oh how he wished he was above these sorts of things, to hang in the air as unbothered as the moon while the world burned beneath him.
The Puppet leaned on one of the divine tree’s roots and watched his captor cavort with the mortals. The dancer, the fox, the subject, the mercenary and the jackal clustered around that golden light like moths to a lantern. (They had names, but they weren’t important enough to remember. The Puppet was a thing and Kusanali said he was no better than them. Therefore, they were also things.)
They hung onto his warden’s every word, his clothing, his hair, daring to meet the eyes of divinity rather than prostrate themselves at his feet. How could they risk touching something so holy? Didn’t they know it was dangerous, for themselves and for him? It made him sick, but more than that, it confused him.
How could Aether be touched by the impure and not become soiled himself, like he had?
Fragments of conversation drifted up to him and his chest ached at the love in their voices. Was this jealousy, or yet more bitterness at his own weakness? His followers had never shown him such adoration. He wouldn’t permit it even if they had tried, too afraid of them corrupting the fragile loftiness he’d crafted.
Maybe it was because he was empty and Aether was not.
He watched the ants clustered around his captor and methodically ripped a leaf to shreds. Maybe he was so fragile because there was no ‘him’. He simply reflected whatever someone else put in his shell. He’d been Puppet, then Brother, then Balladeer. The closest thing to his own identity was Not-Raiden, but that hardly counted.
Five hundred years. Five hundred years and he still hadn’t found what most humans found by age forty.
Kusanali had said that humans were shaped by their experiences. Was that any different than him trying and failing to carve a personality out of a single event? His thoughts were interrupted as Aether looked away from his congregation and caught his eye, flashing him a radiant smile.
He hated him.
No matter how he clawed and hollowed himself, no matter what cleansing inferno he threw himself into, he’d never match that divine light. His captor was a real god of love and life and he didn’t even have to try. Only that which was truly holy could play in polluted water and leave it pure.
And him? His dark not-heart poisoned his every attempt at ascension. No matter his growth, his freedom, his piety , he’d always be eclipsed by this living sun. He glared back down at his captor with fire in his eyes and ice in his chest.
He hated him because he couldn’t be him.
To be a god meant to be feared. That’s what his mother had taught him.
He watched Aether surge forward with starfire and stone, monsters falling like leaves at his feet. This was more what he expected, and yet, the common people did not fear him.
They should. Clipped wings or no, he was an angel of death, capable of unseating gods and undoing the world. Was it because they knew he wouldn’t hurt them without reason? Without a good reason?
The Wanderer had many reasons for hurting people, as did his mother and the ones above. Their reasons were simple - they felt like it. It made them feel strong. It set them apart, and they had to be apart if they wanted to retain their divinity. That’s how it worked, wasn’t it?
He joined the fight with his own flair, smiting the monsters like his mother smote her own people. With fear came love, supposedly. Was it not fear of the storm that brought the humans out to watch the lightning? Was it not the fear of the dark that had the insects scurrying to the light?
The Wanderer, distracted by his thoughts, was struck from the sky and fell into a graceless heap. Aether finished the fight before he could rise, jogging over to fill his vision with that sunshine smile and a helping hand. Once again, a gentle god pulled him to his feet.
He glared at the back of his head when he turned to lead the way to their next objective. Aether never raised his voice against the mortals, much less his hand. No matter how much they baited him, lied to him, hurt him, he stayed true to himself.
Gods were supposed to stay Above in their heavenly thrones, lest they be reclaimed by the filth they crawled out of. Yet here was Aether, mired in the thick of mortal concerns, looking no worse for wear than a tired smile or a growling stomach.
He was a slap in the face to everything he’d ever believed, and yet, he was the most stable thing in his life. He was more than a mortal and more than a god, some bizarre union of both and stronger than either, and he insisted on calling the broken Wanderer ‘friend.’
He decided to trust him.
He named him Noor. Supposedly it meant ‘Light’ in Sumeru’s language.
He’d been outraged. How dare he name him for what he wanted him to be and not what he was? Aether was the dawn, the sun, the only holy thing in this impure world, or so he thought as he glared down at his savior’s sleeping body.
What did it even mean to be holy? Was it to be heartless, like his mother had wanted? Was it to be cold, like the Heavenly Principles dictated? He’d accepted that as truth, but here slept a real god who was warm and kind and… heartbreakingly human.
What gave him the strength to shine so brilliantly, wading through mortal strife as he did? At first he thought he simply didn’t feel anger, but he’d proven that wrong with a gentle scolding. Then he thought, perhaps he never felt sadness, but then he’d seen him cry. How could a god feel like a human and not fall from grace? How did he not drown?
Aether had the strongest will he’d ever seen and yet his body was so, so fragile. All he’d have to do is reach out right now, a single strike, and that divine light would be snuffed like an ordinary candle.
Noor knelt by the side of the bed and took Aether’s arm. He cradled his palm to his face and focused on the alien pulse of his heartbeat, wondering why he named him something so beautiful and wrong.
Could he consume Aether’s light? Could he kill him here and take his divinity?
A few months ago, he would’ve been certain of it and slain him without a second thought, digging through his chest to claim his bloody prize, praying that it would fill the void of his heart.
Now? Now he watched over his god in his sleep.
The rain couldn’t put out the sun. Aether’s body could die, yes, but his soul was stronger than death. He was the undying light. He was spitefully gentle. He just was, in a greater and purer way than he could ever hope to match.
Noor nuzzled deeper into the hand and sighed, flinching back when those golden eyes cracked open. It took Aether a moment to blink the sleep away, but when he did, he smiled and brushed his thumb against his cheek.
“Hey.”
Noor swallowed. He pressed his head harder into the hand, then let himself be pulled onto the bed and into Aether’s arms. He tucked around him protectively, like he wasn’t the one with the fragile body, and mumbled something sweet into his hair.
Maybe his god could show him how to be himself, if there was anything inside worth being.
Noor relaxed, puppet joints digging into the soft flesh just like his personality clashed with the kindness blanketing him. He pulled Aether’s hand to his empty chest and held it there, closing his eyes to keep the tears inside.
If there was really nothing worth showing inside, well, at least he could reflect the light that he was starting to love.