When he looks at him, he sees hope.
And he begins to hope, too, terror rooting itself in his chest.
He knows he's bound, caught, like the fly squirming in the silky threads of the spider's trap. He claims that it's the reason why he comes, why he moves to save him.
But he knows that's not entirely true. He spends his time in isolation, cursing himself. He sees hope in that boy, that angel with wings of stars. He hates to say it, bites his lip with his teeth and tastes crimson on his tongue. It's searing and it burns like the gold that digs in his shoulders.
He's nothing like him and yet he does not even recognize himself. He closes his eyes, his eyes like vermilion reflections and he asks, Who am I?
There is no answer- There usually isn't and he was not even sure. His memories, like the space between land and heavens, is filled with the thought of battle. War, rage, power. It was his embodiment, it was the pure reason as to why he was here in the first place.
As a weapon. As a tool. And he knows then that he was not even a person, but a weapon.
Even then, after the battle has been done and his hands unclean, the boy, the boy with wings of freedom, places his hand on his shoulders. He does not look and he does not say anything, staring ahead into the endless expanse of sky.
You're you, Is all he says, before he stands up and walks away, the warmth fading from his shoulders.
He does not mind, this time, that he has placed his faith in that angel.
Even then as the sun rose in the sky, annular light spreading from its core, he takes a breath of the air, cool and stinging, and feels free.
Hope, he thinks, and he knows.