Chapter Text
Seros flies into battle with an uncommon confidence, Aubin notes, duly.
“Uncommon”, used politely by Alain and his cultured companions, seemed to be a fancier way of saying “extra”. Aubin does not mean it the same way.
“Uncommon” in how his choice of sidearm is a utilitarian hatchet, rather than the slim swords his angelic brethren seem to favor. Though Aubin has never seen him draw human blood with it, he’s seen the calm assuredness with which he uses it to split firewood and skin his quarry.
“Survival” he offered as explanation when Scarlett balked at how swiftly he could slit a rabbit’s throat for supper. “The Father blessed the earth with creations that could provide for others, and replenish themselves when they were done providing.”
There’s a brusque edge to his reply that Scarlett turns her nose up at, and it makes Aubin wonder if there’s something in the Father’s teachings that Seros missed in angel training. Or maybe it’s just him.
“Uncommon” like how he’s seen the angel stalk through the forest in the dead of night, where the daylight-thriving angels tend to not tread, bow drawn, trained on what would be that evening’s supper.
“Angels are not known for their night vision” he initiated. The larger man had scarcely begun to open his mouth to ask, before Seros loosed his arrow, striking true through the boar’s eye despite his concession.
“What about answerin’ questions before I ask ‘em?” Aubin scoffed. For all the night vision he supposedly lacked, Seros possessed uncanny aim in the dark despite it.
“No, such feats would be more ascribable to the Turenos or perhaps the Father in all His wisdom.” Seros looked to Aubin, gold eyes searching Aubin’s grey ones, before he crouched to retrieve his arrow. The smaller man let out a soft sound that could have been mistaken for a chuckle, as Aubin raised an eyebrow.
“Patience and perception were essential skills for me to develop. Evidently, it is as much an asset in socialization as it is in the hunt.” When the larger man knelt to help him carry his hunt back to camp, his gaze lingered, again, before he nodded curtly, and wordlessly began walking behind him the rest of the way. Aubin realized, halfway, that that was Seros’s attempt at a joke.
“Uncommon” describes his sense of humor too, Aubin muses as he pulls his axe from the gouge he tore through a Zenoiran spearman’s chainmail. He flicks the blood from its blade and catches a glimpse of the angelic archer as he stows it. Seros kneels before the fallen in prayer. His hands clasped and head bowed.
Aubin has found himself partnered with the angel more and more frequently lately, as his keen golden eyes were uncannily adroit at picking out the openings that Aubin’s powerful axe swings opened in the enemy’s defenses. Led by Ochlys, whose nimble frontlining would force the enemy into awkward, overcommitted positions that were easy for Aubin to exploit and counter, the three fell into a rhythm of goading the cockiest, or perhaps most careless, of their foes into charging, before swiftly making them regret their hubris.
“Why do you do that after every fight?” he chances. He is greeted with silence for long enough to make him wonder if he’s being ignored, before Seros rises and responds, speaking to him over his shoulder.
“I lack the Father’s omniscience. I cannot tell if these were conscripts barely trained and barely wanting to fight, or if they were monsters who leapt up for the cause, and only had their own cruelty to blame for their demise. All the same, their souls must be respected in death. All lives are valuable, however long they last.”
He leaves him with questions. How someone could respect souls in death enough to pray for them but not enough in life to spare them.
Aubin looks down at the cleric Seros was kneeling over, clad in Zenoiran red, habit staining further with the blood from her neck wound. He wonders how an angel could strike down a cleric, if they pray to the same divinities. He wonders what divinity would let them take arms against one another. He thinks of the rabbit as he looks over the slain woman; cold and still. And as he watches Seros fly away, he wonders if Seros thinks himself uncommon too, as he marches, alone.