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The first time He speaks to you, it's after your favourite hobby shop has been blown to smithereens by the unlikeliest of bombers. He was nowhere near you, but you could still hear His voice, a soft, convincing tone that you would kill to hear again.
Fortunately, you don't need blood on your hands to do so.
The first time you meet His eyes after the incident, a fragile thing bound in blankets in your arms left unattended, you understand.
You understand, finally, after years of being in the dark, and you fall in love all over again.
You understand that this child has importance to him, and you'll do everything you can to make sure He's in tip-top shape for whatever those plans are. The details don't matter, because He's depending on you, whispering promises to you when you sleep, and you intend to fulfill anything you can so He gets what He wants.
What He deserves.
--
The first time the child speaks, He's disappointed. He'd hope for a voice more like His, not one ripe with inexperience. Even for all your apologizing, it did nothing to help him, though He says He forgave you. He still expects many things from you, though, so you don't have the time to dwell on it for too long.
The child's first word was "Bo".
--
As he grows along with His excitement, you find yourself questioning him for the first time in your entire life. It feels wrong, growing such a small being, knowing that one day, when He was fully prepared and He was ready to take him, he would vanish forever, that flicker of life, and be replaced. You know to believe in him, but... You can't help the worry that you feel over the child. This is your first time having anyone to get attached to from the get-go, and your circle of close friends is very, very small, indeed.
He doesn't appreciate these thoughts.
He also reminds you He is one of those close friends and described how destroyed His trust in you would be if you went back on your word about this.
You understand again.
You can't get attached to this small creature, because if you do, it'll only lead to endanger your own emotional sanity, which, to be honest, isn't something to revel at.
Any further questions of doubt are erased along with your motherly attitude, and you continue as if nothing had happened.
--
The child is smarter than you could have hoped.
He knows you aren't going to let him complain or whine about little, unimportant things you couldn't care less about (perhaps in another life you would get the chance to make this up to him). By the time he can walk and talk on his own, the child has understood your purpose is only to guide him, not to be his friend. Not to be his saviour. (No, far from it, you're only dooming him.) Every knee scrape or slip on the bathroom tile is left unsaid with little amount of tears because he's learning.
He's adapting to the lifestyle you've set out for him, and doesn't know any better. How could he? You're all he's known all his life.
Everything from his shades to his fighting style has been carefully cultivated by you for His preparation.
As was explained to you, his sunglasses are to keep Him out until he's ready, to keep him safe and protected from the outside world and influences that would damage the layout he's been chosen for. It's so He isn't tempted to go ahead of schedule one day and claim what's his before he's done, because the bond lasts until the death of the vessel.
At this point, that's something you won't ever allow to happen, so you teach him fear.
You teach him through countless sneak attacks, booby traps, and horrid comics that He's something to be feared, to be apprehensive of as soon as he takes notice of His presence. And when he isn't, to guard himself, to be ready for that moment, because it will surely, and does, happen again, without delay.
The boy's only solace is in his sleep, which you allow him.
And quickly learn it isn't a favourable time for him, either. On more than one occasion you've busted in to his screaming, a sword clutched in your hand, prepared to face off with some unknown attacker only to find him spasming in his sheets, having twisted himself so far into them that without your help it would have taken him hours to remove.
Neither of you speak of these moments afterwards, him too prideful and you trying your best to distance yourself from the presence of a man you know will not see his twenties as himself.
--
It goes.
You won't say it goes well, because your relationship with him is only deteriorating by the day, and as much as you want to save it, to comfort him after his night terrors, you know you cannot. If you do, you'll only get attached, as the petty, clingy person you know yourself to be. (If you haven't already.)
It won't do you any good at all. He reassures you, tries to comfort you in your confliction, but words can only go so far. You decide that a week away from all of these pressures would do you good, so you decide to visit your other best friend, a drunkard who lives in New York, leaving Him and the boy together. Neither were happy to hear your decision, you could tell, but you assured Him it was for the best. After all, if His help couldn't keep it together, whenever the moment came for you to prove your true loyalty once and for all and you faltered, then He would be nowhere.
Your point sticks, though He's far from happy about it, and lets you know it.
You don't sleep soundly that night.
--
Not much longer, He tells you. The boy is almost complete. All he has left to do is hit puberty and then He can appreciate him in all his glory, decide what to do with him, plan.
Good, because you were becoming sick of this game.
Yes, you love Him. Yes, you would die for Him. Even with everything you've done and regretted in your life, though, you've never done anything like this. Never to this extent. The manipulating is taking its toll on you and your conscious, and you know He knows this. You think He doesn't care, but his words comfort you nonetheless.
It's hard not to trust Him, and it would be nonsensical not to.
After all, He's been there for you in all your darkest and brightest moments, and you couldn't be more thankful for Him. Through all the neglect, the disaster, and what followed, He was there for you, a silent figure in your life but a strong one. When you'd looked to puppets for comfort, for friendship, He was ever-present, and always your favourite.
The reminder only fuelled your resolve for good. He helped you keep your life, so why can't you return the favour and give Him His own? That's, at the least, what He deserves, for all He's done for you.
You tell Him you love Him.
He returns the sentiment.
--
You are at your lowest when it happens.
Even as you bow your head, your vision is blurred, and two pairs of sunglasses are cast out of sight and mind.
Dave asks what's wrong, and all you can respond with is hugging him around his waist, dampening the fabric where your cheek is pressed on his stomach. You can hear his confusion, uncertainty, and fear all at once, and the hand in your hair is doing nothing to comfort his passing. Dave begins to say something, but you know what's happening when he suddenly cuts off.
You apologize more than you have in your entire life as his life ends and another begins.
The hand that lifts your chin but not you from your kneeling is controlled by a different mind, one whom you love, though it does only so much to ease the loss of Dave.
You're terrified, but at the same time filled with relief and joy at His coming.
Dave's-- No, Cal's eyes are no longer a stark crimson, instead replaced by some sort of pulsating, intriguing purple-pink that captivates you immediately and intensely.
When He speaks, your mind blanks, and all you do is revel in it.
He's here, He's speaking to you, He's cupping your face and smiling gently down at you and your breathing hitches. You can feel yourself soaring inside, can feel all of your worries and doubt vanish the instant Cal speaks. You're grinning, you can tell, and you feel the relief flood over you and consume you.
"Hee hee. You did wonderful, Dirk. I'm so proud of you."