PSL: Faith and the Fallen (for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quiteafew)
It wasn't that he had nowhere else to be, really; he could have chosen to be anywhere, and there he would have been in less than the space of a blink. But he liked being, plainly put, in the middle of goddamn nowhere, because there he might actually find some small measure of peace, the calm of not having a raging headache.
Being all but entirely incommunicado with the deity that created you was a mild pain in the ass--if by mild you meant enormous. Still, Ani had gotten increasingly used to the new baseline sensation, and though he rather liked the world around him, being in things and seeing for himself the practical paradise humans had. Even if the difficulties of having wings the appropriate size to carry your ass in flight outweighed some of the small pleasures, nothing would ever top bathing. The experience, the ritual, was oddly glorious, even if he did need to go about it half like a human and half like a bird, shaking himself all over and laying out in the sun to let the feathered appendages dry. He could get used to this. Had already gotten used to it, if he really was honest with himself: he was settled on a flat-ish rock, worn jeans pulled on to cover his legs and his wings unfurled, making a sort of shade umbrella over his head so he could read. (Books were awesome, he'd summarily decided after reading the first one.)
Being all but entirely incommunicado with the deity that created you was a mild pain in the ass--if by mild you meant enormous. Still, Ani had gotten increasingly used to the new baseline sensation, and though he rather liked the world around him, being in things and seeing for himself the practical paradise humans had. Even if the difficulties of having wings the appropriate size to carry your ass in flight outweighed some of the small pleasures, nothing would ever top bathing. The experience, the ritual, was oddly glorious, even if he did need to go about it half like a human and half like a bird, shaking himself all over and laying out in the sun to let the feathered appendages dry. He could get used to this. Had already gotten used to it, if he really was honest with himself: he was settled on a flat-ish rock, worn jeans pulled on to cover his legs and his wings unfurled, making a sort of shade umbrella over his head so he could read. (Books were awesome, he'd summarily decided after reading the first one.)
no subject
"I'm sorry." What else can he say, really? Beyond a vague horror at the sort of pain he imagines the.. being? Is going through, he really has no basis for comparison. That's assuming the man is telling the truth, of which Kurt isn't quite convinced. Demons can be magnificent liars. "No one should discover how duplicious men can be in that sort of way."
no subject
"Angels act like idiots all the time--I'd know. But some of us manage to take that a little far and bet our Grace, for lack of a better term, that someone who doesn't want to be redeemed can be. For the record, I was wrong. Also for the record, demons can't withstand holy symbols if there is genuinely belief behind them, and unless I'm much mistaken there is definitely belief in those scars you've put on your skin."
Beat. "Which yes, I can read, because I was there when they made it up."
no subject
"Because I cannot imagine how much that hurt, and I don't like the idea of anyone in pain."
His eyebrow quirks up at that last part. "Ja, this I know. Also I know that the human body acts to dull the effect, and if a man who looks like me can be born, then why not one with wings like an angel?"
no subject
"They can be. But I'm not one."
no subject
Kurt grimaces, his light eyes softening even as he maintains his doubts as to how truthful the tale is.
"Then again I am sorry," he mumurs, following with an expansive shrug. "And how am I to know that you are telling the truth? I am a man of faith, ja, but not a naive one."
no subject
"I have no way to prove to you that I am what I say I am, short of the fact that a scar like this is rather impossible for a human, however gifted, to survive," he says, uncrossing his arms to show a ragged scar that looks like a hatchet might have bee taken to the middle of his chest over his heart. There's a matching one on his back that he turns to show.