Mask
I wrote this right after watching X-Japan's Rusty Nail PV, so it should have an influence. Except that that entire thing is on crack, and I'm incapable of writing crackfics. Which makes this whole note pointless. Er… anyways, this is dedicated to Soly and her friends, who have informed me that I'm not allowed to stop writing fics about Sevy. Although if I'm good I get a break. . Mild OOCness. Possibly. I don't think so, but some might. Also, AS is not mine.
The water garden is silent, and empty save for one person, who could hardly be called such. Not anymore. The stillness is broken by the sound of running feet, barely audible on the soft grass. A young boy bursts out of the bushes, exclaiming cheerfully "Jibrille!" Immediately behind him is a tall, silent figure, entirely in white and blending in with the still scenery. Metatron babbles happily to the unresponding water angel, a picture perfect image of innocence. Sevothtarte allows these meeting because they do no harm. Jibrille is his prisoner, and unable to corrupt the Great Seraphim with her words.
Metatron returns to his guardian shortly, looking downcast. "She still won't wake up. Why doesn't she speak like before?" Sevothtarte feigns ignorance to the cause of this problem, choosing instead to take Metatron's hand in an offer of silent comfort. "Come," he says. "It is time for your nap, and you must take your medicine first." Metatron follows obediently. His small hand only fits around Sevy's index finger, but he grips it with all his strength. Even through the gloves, the white angel's hands are warm and comforting.
Once Sevothtarte is certain that Metatron is asleep, he stands to leave. Very gently, he pats the child-like angel on the head once, then sweeps out of the room. The sister there is more than capable of looking after him while he sleeps. If Sevothtarte is truly needed, it will not take long for him to know. With elegant swiftness Sevothtarte makes his way to his quarters. They are the only place where he can literally remove his mask, safe from prying eyes and unwanted guests.
Normally, Laila's eyes are like two chips of ice, but a small warmth is in them now, a lingering affection for her charge. Zaphkiel's words from earlier echo in her head, I knew you liked little boys like Metatron-sama, but..., and the warmth is banished. Such crudeness should not be associated with Metatron. Laila considers him her son, and he very nearly is. After all, she was head of the project which created Metatron and Sandalphon. With effort, Laila pushes the Great Thrones out of her mind. He is as corrupted now as he was then. Something should be done about him. But no matter now; her rule was absolute, and the task should not be difficult.
It is even harder to force herself to look at her reflection. Her current status does not erase the sins visited on her in the past. Usually, her thoughts would turn to the men who attacked her, and the satisfaction their fates give her. At the moment however, she wonders about the innocent one who went with them. Laila is in a gentler mood then usual, but she still feels neither guilt nor remorse. If he had not committed the unpardonable sin of loving her, or at least kept silent about it, she would not have felt the need to destroy him.
No, she is merely curious about what he is like now. Laila doubts he has forgotten her, but his feelings would have changed decidedly. Either way, it is nothing to her. That weak, fallen woman is long dead. A child's wail splits the air, and Laila quickly replaces the mask, striding out of her rooms with purposeful urgency. Quietly affectionate Laila is less dead then Sevothtarte will let himself admit, but she is far from his thoughts now anyways, as he soothes Metatron out of the fears Sandalphon instils in him though his nightmares.