(no subject)

[monolike]

Being raised in the church isn't so bad.

Empyrean worship isn't as prevalent as before, even in the capital of Loegress, but the priests and attendants are all friendly and more importantly, it's safe. That's what they tell Sorey over and over, it's safe within the city, and he supposes it must be true. Sometimes he'll hear whispered stories when he's cleaning the pews, on his knees in the shadows as Brother Mathley and Brother Ferengard murmur, another village, did you hear, what a pity.

And though his heart longs for the outside world, as far back as he can remember, he's only seen the city walls. And the priests don't believe him when he tells them about the spirits; about the nice old kitty who tells him stories from when the mountains were still being born, about that man who could make the wind do as he wished. They were good spirits, Sorey could tell, but almost nobody could see them.

...nobody but Artorius.

He had only visited the capital once, with two other people. He was younger than the brothers but much older than Sorey, and he looked every inch the explorer Sorey wished he could be. Sorey had hidden behind the altar with the cat spirit as they spoke with High Priest Gideon, as he told them something about violence and nonsense before turning them away. Artorius (Sorey would learn his name much later) had seen him, looked at him and then, very deliberately, looked at the cat as well. Then he'd smiled and raised his finger to his lips before he and the others left.

"Don't associate with those types," Father Gideon had said to him, but Sorey knew, one day, he would join them.

The Scarlet Night happened, and now everyone could see monsters. And then it happened again, and everyone could see spirits. Artorius returned, Father Gideon welcomed him with open arms, and the moment Sorey turned seventeen he joined the Abbey's ranks. He'd practiced bowmanship and swordsmanship before at the church as a way to keep fit, but now his skills would be used to protect people, to kill daemons.

He would be given a malak, today, to use to those ends. And though it makes him feel a little deceitful, as Sorey pulls on and straightens his uniform for the ceremony, all he can think about is finally, finally leaving the city walls.

Comments

[nerdeology]

Over and over, again and again, Mikleo couldn't stop thinking to himself, I should have listened to Gramps.

His entire life he'd been warned not to leave the sanctuary of the mountains, not to venture past the domain of Lord Zenrus. At first it was merely due to age and lack of power; as a young malak, he'd had yet to properly develop his artes and grow into his abilities as the elders raising him had all done over the centuries of their long lives. During the last ten years or so, however, the warnings had changed, and the punishment for pushing his luck had grown more severe. Gone were the gentle scoldings and worried embraces of Mason or Natalie, gone were the exasperated lashing tongue of Melody when she caught him wandering the woods outside of the gate without permission. Now it was Prime Lord Zenrus who dealt with him more severely, with strict rules and supervision, with lightning and booming thunder in his voice, a genuine force of nature that Mikleo was afraid to cross more than he could get away with.

"I know you're lonely, Mikleo," he'd growl, his pipe snapping sharply against the edge of a fire pit, seated cross-legged under his favourite tree. "Your heart has always been drawn to adventure, and watching the world from above isn't your way. But these days the land below isn't safe for our kind. Wait a hundred years or so, and in time, things will change. You'll see."

They were eternal, if nothing killed them; he knew that just by looking at Zenrus's unchanging face. But waiting a few years was hard enough, nevermind hundreds. The world below called to him, and he ached to see it all. He wanted to explore the lake nearby, to follow the river and find the ocean, to see a human city, to sail on a ship.

He wasn't stupid, of course. He knew the risks, not only because of the countless warnings he'd been given but because of Kyme, who had left the safety of Elysia years ago on an errand and never returned. The others had tried searching for him, but Shiron had mentioned something about feeling "exorcists" in the wind, and Zenrus had called it off immediately. They hadn't tried to find Kyme again after that, and speaking his name was practically forbidden. Mikleo had tried to argue with Zenrus about it, demanding answers, and he'd gotten the thrashing of a lifetime and learned his lesson. Whatever the truth was, the implications were clear: whatever was keeping him in Elysia is what stole Kyme away from them, and "exorcists" were at the core of it. More dangerous than daemons, more frightening than anything else by which the land could threaten a malak.

Even then, even knowing all of that, he still let the temptation get the better of him, using the excuse of a particularly disgruntled prickleboar tearing through the woods to venture outside of Zenrus's protected domain. It would only be for a little while, he promised himself. Maybe he'd just sneak out to see the lake for a few hours. If he was careful, his disappearance would go unnoticed, and even if he was caught, surely it would be worth the trip.

He hadn't even made it to the lake. The prickleboar had been fleeing a pair of white-clad knights who'd been hunting it, and when Mikleo stopped to watch, he'd been ambushed and swiftly captured by an old man and, of all things, an empty-eyed malak child who fought by his side.

After that had been a blur; he'd been locked away somewhere dark and ethereal, and his body hadn't felt real. He'd tried to use artes, but his own element hadn't responded to his call. He floated in darkness for a long, long time, his voice swallowed by the emptiness into which he'd been thrown. Even calling for Zenrus didn't help, and it always, always had. He was outside of the domain, outside of that warm, safe bubble he'd always felt and loved.

I should have listened to Gramps, he thought, lonely and regretful and more frightened than he'd ever felt in his life.

Eventually there'd been a sudden thrum of power, a burst of light, stronger and more terrifying than even Zenrus's lightning, and he could do nothing but tremble as it washed over him, immediately longing for the cold dark again, because somehow this was even worse. It invaded his mind and pushed, pushed, pushed, as if attempting to force him out of his own body. He was shoved into a corner, beaten down, chained and locked up tight when he had no energy left with which to fight back. It was then that he heard a voice, and although it was quiet it carried the same unmistakably commanding presence of Lord Zenrus himself.

You will obey, it told him, and Mikleo knew he would. The thought had come unbidden and left him trembling, terrified. He would obey. He would obey every word, and he didn't even know who to obey but he would, he will, for the rest of his life. From that moment onward the thought has been driven irrevocably through his soul like a worm, wrapped around his mind and leaving him lost in a cloud, empty and unaware. He doesn't move when he's summoned to be examined, or when a mask is fitted on to make him nothing more than a faceless tool for the soldiers of the Abbey. He moves when he is told to demonstrate his powers, every gesture mechanical and practiced, and he stands still as a statue for a full three days until the old man in white is satisfied that he's been "properly sealed", whatever that means. He hasn't been ordered to think, nor to question it.

When he's summoned at last in front of a crowd of white knights, he stands still as ordered, facing the stranger to whom he's meant to be tethered. He stares, unmoving as a doll, and says nothing.

He hasn't been ordered to scream, so he does not scream.

[monolike]

This...isn't what he'd expected.

Sorey had seen malakhim around, but only from a distance and only sparingly. Malakhim were only used for battle, and even then only against daemons. Even praetors kept their malakhim tucked safely away. Sorey didn't see them wandering the grounds, and the few he'd attempted to speak to had been silent and unresponsive. Maybe they really were tools, just constructs or lesser spirits who didn't have wills of their own.

Something about that felt weird though.

When he'd gone to see Morgrim to ask her about it, she was nowhere to be found. He'd searched the entire church grounds, even the old addled retired priest who could see her, but he'd only cuddled with the other stray cats that gathered in the courtyard and murmured, "Gone, gone." Maybe she'd left when Sorey had joined the Abbey. Maybe she was hurt he hadn't been able to say goodbye.

The day comes when the most promising trainees receive their malakhim so here Sorey stands, number sixteen out of a hundred and forty trainees, ready to become a full-fledged exorcist. They bring before him a malak smaller than he, with beautiful silver hair tipped in blue. "This one is a water elemental," the praetor told him boredly, marking it down in his notes. "Give it a name and tether it."

Sorey peers at the malak curiously. The malak is stationary, passive, face hidden behind the standard gold dragon mask all the malakhim wear. Unless they simply don't have faces...?

"Trainee."

Sorey jumps. "Sorry, sorry- of course. A name." He knew this part of the ritual, naturally; he would give the malak a name and that would mark it as his, then recite the pact and tether the malakhim to himself so he could perform artes and use it as his own. It would live inside his soul unless he summoned it, and he would be ill for the next few days as his body accustomed to the malak's power. It's very cut and dry, well-documented and explained. Clinical. "Um, well..." He peers into the expressionless mask again, craning his neck to try and see past the edge. "What...do you feel like having as a name? Do you want something specific?"

The malak probably won't answer. They never do.

[nerdeology]

For a long moment, Mikleo offers up no response; the question doesn't click, drifting about in the fog of his mind. He hadn't really been listening to the specifics of the ritual, had rather been awaiting keywords for any order directed at him. That's the purpose of his existence, now, so what's the point in anything but that?

The praetor clears his throat meaningfully, more for Sorey than for him, but it still makes Mikleo stir slightly and lift his head, looking at the trainee in front of him instead of staring blankly at the ground. He looks so... earnest, expectant. Desiring an answer, but to what...? Mikleo struggles to think of what he might say in response if he were himself, but he can't remember anymore. Who was he? What was he like? And what does he "feel like", exactly?

He doesn't feel like anything. Isn't that the point?

He wonders, churning the words over in his head, but the answers don't come. "I don't... understand," he finally responds, for lack of anything better. It wasn't an order. He doesn't know what they want from him.

[monolike]

"Oh!" Sorey exclaims when the malak answered him. A deeper voice than he expected. A boy? Do malakhim even have genders? "I didn't know you all spoke!"

"The name," the praetor tells him warningly, though still with that bored tone.

"Y-yes, I'm getting to it!" Sorey glances back at the malak, intrigued. He (for now, he'll use 'he') said he didn't understand. Didn't understand the question, didn't understand speech? Maybe he doesn't understand what names are? "Well...how about a strong name! We're going to be partners from here on out, right? I'll be strong enough to be your vessel, and I'm sure you'd like to be strong too. Something like...Vahvuus Cryfder?" The Unwavering One. Maybe it's something more suited for a fire malak, but Sorey likes to think it suits the boy before him. Maybe it's a little bit of a joke, too; all the other malakhim had been steadfast and silent, but this one...he actually answered. Sorey feels a little giddy over it.

[nerdeology]

"...Vahvuus... Cryfder..."

The name feels alien on his lips, like an unknown flavour, like sounding out a language he can read but not understand. It doesn't... feel right. And it's his, he knows it's his because it's been given to him, and he's empty in every other way except that now he has a name. Has he been ordered to accept this name? He's being told that they're partners, and that he's expected to be strong. If the name will make him strong then he has to accept it.

...Right? Right...

That's not my name, a part of him wants to scream, the same part that wishes he could command an ocean to burst through the cathedral windows and drown the entire building, the same part that desperately wants to tear the mask off and shove this stupid boy aside for having the nerve to smile at him like that. How dare he. How dare he be happy to give him a new name, as if he's a dog to be ordered and trained. How dare he be excited for... for this.

That's not my name, he thinks, but that part of him is swiftly written over by the voice in his head (You will obey, and he will, he will), and he shuts his mouth, returning to the stoic, silent posture as the praetor carries on with the ritual. That's his name now. Whatever, whoever he was before, no longer exists.

[monolike]

The malak goes silent again as the praetor walks Sorey through the rest of the ritual and he blinks, disheartened. Maybe he doesn't like the name?

But does he even like or dislike things?

Sorey completes the pact chant, distracted and concerned, but all of that Comes to a screeching halt when he feels their souls connect, tied together by the bond. It feels- incredible, strong like rapids but calm like the still surface of a lake. It doesn't feel like buying a new sword, like mastering the bow. This feels like more.

[nerdeology]

He's never experienced a pact before, so he doesn't know what to expect. As the light filters between them and the tether takes hold, binding him to the soul of the exorcist, at first it's frightening- like that oppressive light, the one that came hand in hand with that voice, and a wave of dread passes over him. His body dissolves into blue light and he's pulled - dragged, more like - into the human. The might of the Empyrean forces him into his new prison and slams shut the cage door, those words echoing, echoing endlessly. Obey. Obey. He feels like he's dying, and he lacks even the smallest ability to be upset about it. This is his fate. His new existence. It should be awful, yet he can't feel anything.

But... suddenly, as the ritual comes to a close, that presence fades away, and all that's left is the exorcist whose soul is now connected to his own. The oppressive sensation is gone, and instead he's left with an impression of... safe, warm, vibrant. An energetic thrum passes between the two of them, and while he doesn't return it - is incapable of doing so - he can acknowledge its existence. It's so different from where he'd been trapped before that he's startled. Something about it is almost familiar, though he doesn't know why it would feel that way, or what it might remind him of.

Confused, unsure, suddenly wishing someone would order him how to feel or think, he settles quietly in a corner of the exorcist's mind and waits.

[monolike]

The malak disappears inside of him and Sorey presses a hand to his chest; he'd seen it with other exorcists before but experiencing it himself is completely different. He can actually feel the malak inside him, a steady presence that ebbs gently like a pulse.

"Report to quarantine," the praetor orders, voice far away, and it takes a second to coax his feet into moving. He has a malak tethered. He'll be expected to kill daemons with his new tool. He'll get to leave the city walls.

He's going to see the world.

By the time Sorey reaches the doctor he's already starting to shiver with fever. He's put to bed in a cot near the other recruits and when he closes his eyes he knows nothing more for three days.

He wakes weak and getting disgusting, but hungry and eager to see his new quarters. The gentle pulse of his malak is still there and Sorey glows with pride, smiling to himself as he checks the eastern wing of the Abbey training compound. Though the room is barely large enough for a bed and a small dresser, it's his and it has his things in it; the few books he'd acquired, his maps and the little orange feather earrings he'd been left with when the priests found him outside the church. He hadn't been allowed to wear them during training but now Sorey clips them on, feeling all the better for it.

Still, is his malak supposed to be so still and quiet? Has he been in there like that for the entire time Sorey was out? "Hey," Sorey calls softly, tapping his chest as if knocking on a door, "are you okay in there? You can come out if you want, y'know."

[nerdeology]

Mikleo ventures out a few times while the exorcist slept, during curfew hours, the recovery room deserted by all except for the feverish patients and the occasional staff wandering through to complete their checks. When all is quiet he lets himself out of the boy's body and stands at his bedside, staring down at the sleeping face. Experimentally he tries to will himself to reach a hand out- to touch, at first, or to bind his captor to the bed, perhaps. His body refuses to move. He tries to speak, but no words come.

He's been left with no orders. He doesn't know what to do when he has no orders.

The exorcist stirs on the bed, his skin flushed with fever, and his chin lifts, exposing a fragile, unprotected neck. Mikleo stares at it, hands twitching at his sides, watching a trickle of sweat slide down the arc of the boy's chin. It would only take a minute. The exorcist is so weak like this. Without the tether, he might be able to get away.

You will obey.

His body resists him, immobile for three hours until he surrenders. Quietly he withdraws back into the exorcist’s soul and does nothing for three days.

He's still drifting like that when he feels a tug at his consciousness, when they're elsewhere and alone. The words don't sound like a command - it's not phrased properly for that - but he manifests himself anyway, just in case. The human looks better today. Healthy again, comfortable in his own skin.

He's missed his chance.

“...Do you have orders for me?” he murmurs, quiet and unsure. This is unfamiliar territory. He's not conditioned on how to respond to what he wants or how he feels.

[monolike]

"Huh? No...no orders." Sorey scratches his cheek sheepishly. Do malakhim not like to be called out unless they have orders? Is that why Sorey hardly ever sees them walking around? "I just thought, y'know, the ceremony was kind of rushed. We're going to be traveling together from now on so since I pick up my assignment today, maybe we could walk together? Unless you're tired.]

[nerdeology]

Strange…The way he's phrasing it makes it sound almost like a request. Mikleo tilts his head slightly to one side, trying to comprehend the words, a puzzle left in scattered corners of his clouded mind. Is the exorcist's command that he walk at his side, rather than rest within? Is he expected to be combat-ready at all times?

It's confusing, trying to interpret the words without orders. After several moments of strangled thought he manages, “Malakhim don't require sleep. Command me to walk with you, and I will.”

[monolike]

"I don't really- I'm not ordering you to walk with me..." Sorey mumbles, but it looks like the stories are true. Malakhim really do prefer to take commands. "Do you really not have any preferences? You don't feel anything at all?"

It's hard to swallow, though that's what they've always been taught. It's just that malakhim look so human, Sorey always wondered if just maybe they had different ways of doing things, or different personalities. Maybe when they're made, they have to learn these sorts of things.

[nerdeology]

Slowly, as the words sink in one by one, Mikleo's expression shifts. It's subtle at first, behind the mask- his eyes waver, drifting between the exorcist and the door behind him, tension crossing his cheekbones, and his lips begin to purse. It still doesn't make sense. Why is he being asked questions like this? Why is he being called out with no purpose, no fighting or training to do? What's he here for, if not that?

What does he want from me?

"...I don't... know," he finally murmurs, his gaze drifting downwards, watching his hands clench and unclench, as if the proper response could be found between his fingers. "I-I don't... remember...?"

Did he like things before now? Before... wait, what happened before...?

[monolike]

Some time from now, Sorey will look back on this conversation as the moment when he began to suspect something was wrong. He'll agonize over it, think back to the way the malak's fists curl tight, the way his head bows, beautiful hair brushing the sides of the mask. He'll try desperately to recall the way his voice had tripped over the words, halted and unsure, but still somehow desperate.

Today, all he feels is a twinge of confusion, a hint of something not quite right. If this malak was made just for him, he wouldn't have anything to remember. Right?

"...okay," Sorey says finally, before smiling down at him and resting a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. We'll take things slow, and maybe we can figure it out together. So...would you please walk with me?"

[nerdeology]

Those words are a double-edged sword, one that Mikleo can't quite comprehend or dismantle in his mind just yet, but distantly he's aware of something... unexpected, not wrong but not quite right, either. It's the way that the exorcist touches him - he's not prepared to deal with physical contact, there's nothing in his mental programming that tells him what that means - or the way his lips curve upwards to show an expression the tethered malak can't identify. It's the sound of his voice, gentle, patient, carrying with it a kindness he can't fully recognize.

The hand on his shoulder reminds him of something, an image flickering across his subconscious- of a smiling old man, a weathered hand gently patting his hair, smoke from a pipe tickling his ears. He remembers feeling something. Feeling... happy...?

It's gone in a matter of seconds, and he tries to chase it but he's left empty-handed once more. Still, he feels somehow... lighter. His posture relaxes, and hesitantly he nods his head. "Please walk with me" is unexpectedly polite, but he can interpret it as an order enough to understand it. He'll do as he's ordered.

...He'll- he'll do as he's asked.

[monolike]

It's hard to tell with that mask in the way, but Vahvuus looks a little more contemplative instead of just empty so Sorey will mark that down as a victory. Maybe all he needs is some time and space to think; which Sorey can gladly provide. They'll have lots of opportunity to explore what their partnership means during their assignments, after all.

The walk is largely quiet, with the occasionally one-sided conversation as Sorey points out various landmarks and offers up trivia about them. He knows just about everything there is to know regarding the capital's history, and though he's studied various other cities and towns, there's something different about knowing it and seeing it. "I'm really excited to get out of the capital," Sorey gushes, nudging the malak gently with his elbow. "I don't know about you, but I've been cooped up here my whole life on account of the daemons. But now we'll have the power to exorcise them! We can help people and explore the world! Isn't that neat?"

[nerdeology]

Mikleo - Vahvuus, now, supposedly - glances down, thoroughly confused by the nudging gesture; he's been confused for most of the walk, actually. A malak is meant to be submissive and obedient, so he keeps trying to walk behind his exorcist, but every time he falls back Sorey slows down enough to walk at his side, instead. It's genuinely baffling. He listens intently as Sorey goes on and on about the city, absorbing the information without much in the way of commentary, but it never deters the other from striking up another line of conversation, switching from one landmark or point of interest to the next. The church, the housing near abbey headquarters, the local taverns and restaurants, the fountain. They'd spent a while there, actually- Sorey had gotten excited when he actually mustered up some interest in it while he watched the water flow, endless and crystal clean.

It's so different from what he'd expected, but he doesn't know why he'd expected anything. It isn't as if he's done any of this before.

He mulls over the question for a moment - Sorey asks so many questions, leaving him so frequently at a loss for how to answer - and finally, tentatively, responds, "What's... neat?"

Is cleanliness a part of an exorcist's duties? Or is it a reference to how the world outside will be cleansed by their efforts? No, that doesn't sound right...

[monolike]

Any time Vahvuus expresses anything other than blank acceptance, Sorey latches onto it. It makes sense that he'd show interest in the fountain considering he's a water malak, but he gives him this lingering look whenever he slows down to walk by his side, and even if he's not engaged in the running commentary he's at least not hating it. ...maybe. It's really hard to tell with that mask.

But then! A question!

"Neat? Oh! Umm, it's like cool." ...nope, that won't do it. "It's like, when you find something of interest, or something you like! You can say 'that's neat' or even just 'neat' or 'cool.' Like that!"

[nerdeology]

"Neat... cool..." Vahvuus's voice is quiet as he echoes the words, rolling them around in his mind and letting the definition properly sink in. There's another strange sensation of familiarity, as if it should mean something to him, but just like always it's gone again. Chasing after it never seems to get him anywhere, so he surrenders and focuses back on the now. "Then... yes, it is neat."

He hadn't been allowed to think about it before being tethered, and the weight of that voice continues to push down on him, stifling his ability to do much aside from follow Sorey and respond to his words, but the conversation has forced him outside of the restraints of normal tethered malak behaviour. If he's been commanded to do as the exorcist wishes, then he can't very well ignore questions or a desire for his input, can he?

Well, maybe he can, but he doesn't... want to...? Little by little, the pressure in his head, the clouds around his thoughts, has started to lift.

[monolike]

"Really?" It's the first time Vahvuus has shown any kind of positive association with working with Sorey so yeah, heck yeah, he's excited. "That's...that's really good. That's great!" Sorey stops in his tracks, hopping a couple steps and turning to stand in front of Vahvuus before sticking his hand out. "Here; we didn't actually get to formally meet before, so. Let's do something a little less official! I'm Sorey."

[nerdeology]

Sorey. He didn't know that exorcists were to be called anything but their rank and title. Is he supposed to use that name, now...?

Vahvuus scrutinizes the offered hand for a lengthy moment, and his mouth opens to ask, but then- ah. Something clicks, like a mechanism falling into place. He's seen this before. He's not certain of when, but... he knows this. Knowledge remembered, not given to him at the tethering.

How strange.

He reaches out, hesitates, then glances up at Sorey, his lips pursed into a tight line. "Malakhim are... assigned tools. Are you permitted to act so informally?"

The purpose of his existence is to protect this man. It means he can't allow his own comfort to create problems, surely.

[monolike]

Sorey falters, hand dipping for a moment before he squares his shoulders and lifts it again. "Maybe that's the attitude, but you're speaking to me, aren't you? And you have things you like, and things you don't like. You're not just a-a knife or a sword, so if it's okay...I'd rather think of us as partners." Which is definitely not typical Abbey protocol, but it's not as if he'll get punished for being a weirdo who cares too much about his tools, right? Nobody will care.

[nerdeology]

That's such a casually logical answer that Vahvuus finds it very, very easy to swallow, so after a moment he at last manages to close the distance between them and accept Sorey's offered hand. It's warm, he notices. He's used to the cool consistency of his element, but every time Sorey touches him, those casual pats to his shoulder, or gentle proddings, and now this- warm, every time.

He's not so sure about partners yet, but the idea of not just being a weapon? He likes it. And if he's allowed to like things, then...

"Then... we will be partners."

[monolike]

Vahvuus's fingers are cool, like a deep pond on a summer day; Sorey's smile grows as he clasps them, gently at first (his hand feels almost delicate, so much smaller than his own) then grasping firmly. Partners. Equals. Whatever Vahvuus doesn't understand or still has to learn, Sorey can help him with it, and together they can experience what the world outside the capital has to offer.

"I very much look forward to working with you," Sorey beams, squeezing his hand. "I'm sure we'll be great partners, for many years to come!"

[nerdeology]

The fingers wound around Sorey's twitch slightly at that; the malak's expression doesn't change, but the way his own grip tightens lacks the enthusiasm the other is feeling. He hesitates, those words falling over them like a thick blanket, suddenly suffocating.

Vahvuus doesn't pull away, but there's a slight tug against Sorey's grasp, almost imperceptible.

"Many years...?" is his reply, soft and uncertain. Because it doesn't matter, it shouldn't matter, what he wants or needs is irrelevant and he has no reason for rejecting the idea, but he feels a sudden rush of something heavy and he doesn't want it, not even a little bit.