Hester woke up the next morning feeling, disheveled at best. Not daring to go anywhere upstairs or downstairs at all, just trying to keep the small fictional peace he can pretend is around. Wilbur not noticing Hester's lack of movement from the tiny front room they sleep in. Hester not even realizing Alexander was still gone when.

"Wilbur?" Hester said quietly asking a question while looking through one of the long rectangle windows looking past the snowy field and over to the forest of pine trees a little ways away.

"Is that Alexander?" Hester deadpans very much thinking he must be seeing things as Wilbur bounces over to the window Hester watching Alexander seemingly relaxing against a tall tree, it looking like a smaller less defined weeping willow. It took every single fiber of Hester's being not to do anything—or say anything, to just ignore him, like he wasn't there. Or like he didn't know him, Hester felt he didn't need to pretend when on the latter.

Alexander didn't move, even after Hester went out to look after the crops, both men didn't look each other's way they simply existed in a different world on a different plain one where the other was not, Wilbur didn't seem to understand the tension and happily ran throw the field picking at the weeds and flowers that poked out from it. Folding them on to one another since Wilbur couldn't use Alexander's long apple red hair anymore.

The day crept by slowly, leaving a bitter taste in Hester's mouth the longer the sun lingered in the open sky. Why wasn't Alexander moving? Was he hurt? Or did he just do this to tick Hester off? Either way it was working flawlessly. After a few long dream-like hours of mulling about, Alexander did show up, but mostly to get away from the cold. He stayed silent downstairs—though not without responding to the noises in his head—whatever that may be.

Hester put Wilbur to bed with only a few minor fussing and pouting, but—like a true hypocrite—didn't sleep at all, he sat down cross legged beside the small rapidly dying fire reading a book, one that Alexander gave him a few weeks prior from him constantly saying he was bored—it was about the stars—Hester was never one for rhyming and poetry reading then re-reading the book trying to remember every detail and section by heart—after all of he could memorize the Angel's stories then why not this?

Hester never had time to read when he was younger—there was always some new war to fight and people plotting to have his head and stick it on a pike. It was nice to have some sense of normal, of something not too far away from what other people are doing, like this was how the world should work.

-Other then it isn't-

Hester though, forgetting all about the stars and words on the page.

-It's missing something-

Hester knows what it was—who it was, but that didn't make the fact of the matter any less painful then it was yesterday, Gods maybe it would always be painful like a weight on his shoulder of shame he'll carry with him. A weight that he'll look for somewhere to place but be lost in his arms until it becomes too heavy to hold any longer.

Hester's eyes linger on the ground trying to see through it. Almost like he could try and force Alexander to forgive him. No one—not even Hester himself—saw the tears well up in his eyes, so for all he knew they weren't there at all. He scrambled up to his feet like the long-dead fire had burnt him and opened the door to the porch. The metal door handle was cold. Hester knows it could only be colder outside—but emotions are a stupid thing. One where logic is the last thing people think of—one where humans seem more like wild animals with the way they act then ones with great advice over the others.

He walked out keeping his wing tightly folded behind him, never once looking at the stars or sky—instead just focusing on the scars on his hands that the wind carves over and the frost that lingers on his golden hair like it's stuck there.

Friend.

Such a small word for such a big thing.

An unbearable weight that Hester wears like a cloak, one that is perpetually draped in a mask of fatigue, only once you realize you're falling is when the ground meets you halfway through letting you shatter and burst from the impact.

And oh-does Hester shattered that night, he thought he would die from the impact—as he lay on the ground bits of his soul crushed into small unrecognizable pieces that Hester wouldn't know where to begin to pick up. He thought he shattered when Alexander originally left, ran away after the argument they had—or realizing that he was right to leave all along—but what did he really know? He only broke, fractured maybe, splintered from the seams, if only slightly.

But this was different, in so many ways.

He didn't silently let the tears begin or fall on his face by any means easily—him biting the inside of his mouth trying not to tell the world of his own personal failure. He still whimpered and sniffled like a child—except unlike Alexander and Wilbur—he wasn't, he shouldn't cry, crying was childish stupid—a waste of time when he could try and fix the problem to begin with.

Crying was akin throwing up, while it's happening Hester's throat felt like it was on fire his breath hitching ever other attempt and his hands and feet feeling numb and frozen to the ground his wings digging into the wood of the floorboards as the railing creaks as Hester let's his knees buckle and him sinking to the floor. It was pathetic he felt pitiful and looked like a mess.

He could hear it all.

He could hear them all.

«»«»«»«»«»

"Angel? Are you alright?" The Goddess asked not covering the clear and true concern in her voice, kneeling down slightly to be almost eye-to-eye with the boy who silently nodded even as a small pool of tears welled up, he blinked trying to stop them before they fell.

"Angel," Death said gently this time—her voice changing into something smooth but heavy all at once. The boy had never heard her sound like it before, confused as he looked up.

He regretted it, so very much.

Because just like that, he cracked.

"I killed someone today." He said numbly even with the burning warmth next to him all he could feel was cold, his wings stained with blood and dirt on his face sticking stubbornly to him drying but feeling more like it was freezing onto him instead. "Angel," Death said sympathetically "It's part of life, it always has been." The boy looked up, and frowned—if Death said it always has been then it has been since the beginning of time—which was what bothered him. "But I hurt people—lots of people."

He reiterated the multitude, the Goddess nodded grimly, a gruesome understanding, "I was there." She said calmly the boy nodded once, he saw her when he was fighting, watching patiently on the sidelines, everyone ignoring her like she wasn't there, but then again why would they see her?

He doesn't remember a lot from that morning, just not understanding what was happening, excitement bubbling in the air like a kettle then spilling over into the afternoon leaving the boy more confused then he started. Just being thrown into a fight with people watching, learning, critiquing him, like he was some animal that was there for entertainment.

The boy let out a sigh, dragging it out, feeling his chest lower as the air leaves him suddenly feeling very small and frail compared to the Goddess sitting beside him. "I'm sorry," the boy said embarrassed. "I just don't understand it, that's all." From the moment he received the title till right now, he's never known what it meant—today he finally got an answer, just not one he wanted to know.

"Do you understand what it means to be an Angel?" Death questioned looking to the never ending void, gazing contently.

"No."

The boy said simply.

"Would you like to?"

The boy thought for a moment maybe a little longer than what was necessary but eventually nodded his head.

"It means you are a hero,"

She said, sounding proud of him.

"You are the one who will save the others and never be forgotten, you will have the world and do whatever you choose of it."

A beat of silence rang out, letting the words sit comfortably in it as the two looked out across the abyss. The boy didn't know what to think, didn't know what to feel, but a small weight in his shoulders lightened and he felt better, the Goddess continued as the boy smiled warmly.

"You are a hero,"

She reiterated then said something the boy wouldn't have ever expected in his lifetime.

"Angel, you are my hero."

The boy didn't know what to say, what was there to say? It didn't matter—she knew everything and he could never put into words this feeling of love, smiling so wide he knows his ears will hurt by the end.

A feeling of all-consuming affection overwhelmed him—for nothing in particular, for the life he somehow became good enough to live—to have someone so loving perpetually with him, the sword at his hip even if he had to use it today he was lucky enough to learn how to use it and to continue to learn and grow.

He felt so light he might float away and be ok with it, like—

He was free.

He is the Angel of Death.

«»«»«»«»«»

He was the Angel of Death.

What a stupid idea, he was a Goddess's hero, it was laughable—she probably never even cared, did she? Even though it was Hester's own thought it still made him question it, like he shouldn't have thought of it at all but it felt so true like that was how the world works, will work and never differ from it.

She should not care.

She did not care.

He looked up out at the night sky, letting envy and jealousy fester like a disease, one that has plagued him for a very, very long time. His wings ached from digging into the floorboards and feathers were pushed out of place, he dug his nails into the palm of his hands until they drew blood, an accidental penance he's been trying to stop for years.

He staggered to his feet, unsteady and clumsy like a deer learning to walk for the first time, he held onto the railings less looking for balance and more like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground from just floating away—maybe it was. As he rested uncomfortably with the cold wind an ach in his chest like a stone on his heart his fingers freezing, just staying there, like if he leaves he'll die inside the house so he stays. He has no idea for how long, but during that time.

He never noticed Alexander's window was open.

Or Alexander sitting next to it.

He's too focused on the memory, the past and the cruelty of it, and Alexander watches, Hester's face being shielded by a curtain of messy blonde hair, a cloud moves away no long obstructing the moons light and he sees Hester's teeth gritted and head bowed like he was about to throw up, the light letting Alexander see tears stream down Hester's face like liquid silver. Hester lips move whispering something to no one, Alexander couldn't catch it over the roar of the wind. It could be a prayer—it could be a curse, it didn't really matter to Alexander because in the next moment Hester's face contorts into something horrible—pain, frustration and anguish.

He lets out a scream.

And for one painful moment Alexander thinks he might fly away but instead, his hand comes crashing down on the railing, his whole body folding in on itself burying his face in his hands and letting out a muffled sob. Something in Alexander shatters.

He wants to go to him, he wants to ask him to spar let his anger run dry, or let him weave some tale from his adventures, sit down on a rock and feel Wilbur and Hester next to him putting flowers in his hair or go out for a walk to learn and tease one another.

He wants to go and pull him into his arms and spill apology after apology to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness for the bitter poison and burning anger he caused and left behind.

It would be so easy—just a few steps and a greeting, anything to start a conversation the two so desperately need.

But he's a coward.

He's a coward and he's bitter with anger and so he watches, he watches Hester break and does nothing to help him rebuild he lingers long enough to see him sink back on his knees again his breath hitched and sputtered. Alexander quietly closes the window and latches it shut.

He didn't sleep that night.

Neither of them do.

But that was nothing new.

[[]][[]][[]][[]][[]]
Art by lolasshol on Tumblr
I think this chapter has a little too much happening, maybe just me, but I cramed a lot of different ideas here with Lady Death, Alexander and Hester's point of views all being in one chapter, I like some of the lines though so that's good, I guess. ¯⁠⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯
© Unavailable
[[]][[]][[]][[]][[]]