Millions Knives, the Plant, the Angel, sat sprawled comfortably at his sandy, dune-coloured windowsill, contemplating the flawed alabaster form of his telepath. His creature.
Who was, ironically, doing some contemplating of his own, staring in a manner that would be rapt if his cold, seemingly pure countenance ever warmed to the idea of a rapture anymore, at the equally cold and seemingly pure night sky. The stars stared down, haughty and celestial, upon the two men. One who had fallen from their grasp, and been twisted by the fall, the other who had never experienced them and wilted as a result.
Yes, Legato was a strange man. The plant smiled, perfect lips curving delicately upward over perfect, dangerous incisors. Legato, first and foremost, had been, and perhaps still was, a spider. But unlike most of his kind, he acknowledged and reviled this fact. He recognized the fatal flaw in himself; but he was, as spiders are wont to be, resourceful. Oh, very resourceful. Through either some base instinct for glory (likely) or part of his realization of his nature (also likely, but he wondered, how much did that play in to his loyalties?) drove him to ally himself with the butterfly. It was supplication.
Knives guessed that he had known of human (he spat at the word) nature from a young age- he'd seen spiders at work many times before. Knives had been a dazzling god-creature, something different, something... Something he needed. The master had been surprised at the servant's willingness to rid himself so utterly of the detestable human traits. And yet, he'd failed, the failure had encompassing his damnation and salvation, intertwined. It had crushed what was left of the spider inside him, but through leaving him empty, insured he could never, ever, be more.
The sharp lonely longing inside him honed itself into the quick, deadly telekinetic ability. It had damaged him further, driving his sanity out with his humanity. The maddening want, his last impurity beyond his inability, fueling one another in a cycle.
The plant stretched out a tendril of his mind to the lone silhouette. It was met with a great, all-consuming dark void.
He smiled again, chill at the feeling of this soul who damned itself for wanting to be better. The ultimate proof of the evil of their nature, he supposed.