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When Zelos’ wings come in, it hurts. They burn like fire – his back feels tender and sore for days after, even though there are no marks to speak of. None of Zelos’ contacts mention any pain when the Chosen gains their wings so this, Zelos must assume, is just and fair punishment for what he is. For what he’s going to do. Besides, the pain of his wings is nothing compared to all the rest- but then, Zelos has lived a blessed life. Rich and handsome, favoured by the Royal family and with every eligible bachelorette in Meltokio – and further – hanging off his every word....
It’s not nearly enough when Seles glares at him like he’s everything wrong with the world. Or when he recalls Mother – her blood had been so, so bright on the snow, and her voice- he can only remember the sound of her voice from that day. She sang him lullabies once, when he was small, and he knows he used to love it, but the sound of her voice eludes him. Instead he remembers it harsh, and rasping. Her lips were stained with blood, and when she saw him staring at her, horrified, her eyes had gone hard and-
The burning wings are just another sign of how wrong he is.
Sweet little Colette can call hers on a whim, fly into battle on pink and purple wings, and she never says they hurt at all. They simply are; an extrusion of the mana naturally occurring within Colette’s body, given form and substance by the controlling influence of the Cruxis Crystal around her neck. And hers were rightly won, given freely by Cruxis – they allowed Colette her wings, allowed her to take the form that was hers. But for Zelos – the angels came while all the others were sleeping, chaperoned by Pronyma, and they hurried the Cruxis Crystal along just far enough and then they left.
He wants to think they didn’t know, but Zelos isn’t that naïve. Pronyma knew. Her face when they’d done it – it had galled her something fierce that Zelos, yet another failed Chosen, should bear the wings of her glorious Yggdrasill when she could not.
Zelos wishes he could tear the damn things off, rip away each shining mana-feather and throw it aside. He hates the golden things that adorn his back, the way they’re so beautiful and pure – they shine the same colour as Mother’s hair, and they’re warm like she was until she was cold and dead and broken on the snow outside, and Zelos’ heart was cold and dead and broken too.
They’re warm like Lloyd is, like Colette is, like Sheena can be. Like Seles was when she was tiny, and when she loved Zelos like she doesn’t anymore. They’re warm like the women Zelos surrounded himself with (he never ever chooses a blonde, he lets them come to him, lets them surround him, but never anything more, he can’t). It just makes Zelos hate them more.
When he looks at his wings of fire, all Zelos can see is blood on snow.