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Today is a fine day.
It is springtime, still early in itself too. The ruins reflect this, birds chirping to each other in the sunwashed verdant trees as a small stream trickles through the longest crack of lower marble floor, green moss and sprouts finding their way in the crevices where rainfall gathers. Sugilite remembers he used to crush them, just to be petty. Willingly killed something smaller than him in revenge for being unable to hurt those larger. The story of his every life, it seems.
But, in all fairness, that was before you. Sitting at the edge of the temple floor leading into the entrance stairs, he looks down again at the body resting beside him—and sighs.
You’re a foolish little thing, really. Wasting your brief time on earth with a god no one cares to visit. Sugilite has the feeling you come here often to run from something—to get out of its sights, to purge your mind of its thoughts, to hide somewhere it has yet to find you. His growing fondness of you surprises him, for at that he finds himself thinking, in that case, he would serve as your shelter in the storm for as long as he is able. In the past, the deity would not tolerate such unreasonable cowardice—but you are so you he cannot help but grow lax.
Despite himself, his hand eventually reaches down to brush a bit of your hair out of your face. The touch is more of a mistake than he thought it would be. As slight as the change is, it reveals more of your face, which wouldn’t be a problem if only it weren’t quite so…imperfect. Sugilite has seen too many faces to fully remember, but somehow yours still feels unique. There’s a faint curve to some surfaces and a sharpness to others, providing a sense of contrast that makes him want to look longer. Yes, Sugilite has seen your face before, yes, but not like this, rid of all sense of guard—eyes lidded, mouth slightly agape, every feature relaxed as can be. He will try not to ponder the resulting frown. The simple vulnerability of it is enough.
You had not intended to fall asleep, he believes. It had only been late, and cold, and dark, and he supposed your legs ached from all the running you did to get here. A more passive ability of his is ataraxia—which, naturally, translates to the temple’s more subtle effect on mortals that stumble upon it. Though it cannot work with what is not already there.
Time seems to slow, sitting beside you. For this moment, Sugilite feels he can pretend he is not what he is. That you are two mortals merely visiting the same place at the same time. That you are only someone that in a split second catches his eye, and maybe even his yours. You look at each other. You speak to each other. He does not know how, or why—he would have to know you to know that. But he remains confident it would happen. He has a blind faith in the fantasy that, were you two mortals side-by-side, you would remain with him—uncomplicated by lifespan. A futile thought, this all is; Sugilite knows. He knows he is making something out of nothing. But hasn’t flaw always been just that; wanting everything, even what he cannot have?
The sun overhead grows more prominent as minutes come and go, his time to observe you up close coming to a close. It takes all the willpower he has to finally avert his gaze and rise to his feet, let alone turn his back.
It’s with feigned thoughtlessness that he drops a small but semi-precious stone by your hand. A long time ago, this would have meant nothing to him. He would think it a joke of compensation in comparison to all he was capable of back in the day. It stings to know—feel—how much smaller his reserves are now. Sugilite is not lacking enough in intelligence to splurge it all on you, of course. This gift is but a fraction of what he is still capable of; a small kindness for the sake of kindness. He knows not exacts, but by now he is sure you are far enough from wealthy to benefit from a well-cut gem or two.
Were it up to him, he would gift you his personal favorite rather than this, chosen entirely for its value—high enough to feed you yet low enough to not attract unnecessary attention (or so he hopes). But life can be unpredictable, and Sugilite understands coin tends to dictate life and death more than any god nowadays. He almost feels sorry for it. A notable sentiment, considering it has been so long since he felt sorry for anyone’s misfortunes but his own. You have a strange way of weakening him like this.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but he feels a sense of genuine disappointment at having to take his leave already. He attempts to remind himself again this arrangement is fleeting, but his mind will not settle, will not recollect itself at that dull truth. The thing has grown so stubborn as of late.
If only to indulge it, the man allows himself one last long look at you. A narrow, unimpressed gaze softening into a slight slant and rare crease at the corners.
Today is a fine day.