Re: The Icarus/The Fallen
"Your wings?" he asked. There was no true skepticism in the query, which came accompanied by a lift of a brow that was already somewhat steeply inclined upward in its natural positioning. "I've no wings, nor have I ever been in possession of them, but I have fallen and been cast out. I know adrift," he reminded Nathaniel. It was not of the same ilk, but it was a kindred cousin. "Once, I soared above the clouds and thought myself untouchable and born to rain my brand of terror upon the world, and now here I am. But here is not so bad. Is it much worse than where you were?" he asked. "Your name is a fine beginning as a worldly possession. In the mornings I am rife with money, but in the evenings I find I have none." He glanced down at the tourniquet that closed around his wrist and over the sensitive scars there, but he did not draw away.
Enlil had only served as an anchor when it was dead weight. A grip to the ankle that pulled downward into murky depths and allowed no buoy. He had been no angel. He'd held no one firm and safely in place to avoid slippage or floating away. If Nathaniel sought this from him then he sought salvation in the wrong man. In the mornings, Enlil was nothing worth trusting. In the evenings, he was destruction. In short, in the evenings he was this new self, this charming man with a Glasgow smile that did not entirely surface onto unmarred skin.
He glanced down onto the thumb that traced the tributaries of mauve upon his skin. He did not mind the touch. He was fond of touch. One would perhaps think that he would not care for it, given the superb sensitivity of his scars, but he liked the hiss of it. "You're a fool," he said of being trusted, but his smile remained in discordance. It sounded like an endearment or caress, the chastisement. He was not one to be trusted, and he did not trust himself. But this thing Nathaniel requested was something he was capable of doing.