Men.

They’re all the same, from my experience. They see a nice looking woman and suddenly stars fill their eyes, a fire eats at their loins. I suppose it is the nature of all beings; we are alive. Our only purpose is to pass on that life to others, to teach what we have learned and continue the cycle.

I only wish he did not look at me so.

At least he is winged, and for this I will not rebuke his gaze or the way his eyes linger on my fine, Elysian lines; I let slaves do worse to me. This man is a free one, and he has never known chains. There is something bold about him, as if he is a streak of yellow and umber in a world of grey, and he knows it. If I wasn’t so corrupted as I am now, I might enjoy the way he seems to tease with his very presence, for he reminds me of the father of my first son in certain regards.

Instead, I remember only the bloody remains of the child he had given me.

A boy child, most distasteful to the women of the crown, and I had been young and inexperienced, unable to control the lust for its blood as soon as I realized it was imperfect and the venom sunk its fangs deep into my heart. I had lied to my maidens, and told them that it had been born dead, that the terror of knowing I had harbored decay within my womb had driven me into a frenzied panic.

Only half of it was true.

His chuckle draws me to the realization that we have been staring at each other for quite some time now.

I do not laugh, I don’t even grin; my memories have frozen my face in this mask of vague curiosity so he cannot see my soul shredding itself through the inward mirrors of my eyes.

Through some divine given strength of will, I manage not to roll my eyes at him in exasperated playfulness as he lays on a heavily lacquered line (perhaps my eye twitches, or my lip staggers from it’s perfectly straight alignment); I can smell the pheromones from here, practically see it rippling out from his body as he stands there smiling like the charming devil he is. I find that I am now struggling not to cordially return his smile, for it is so warm and inviting, the tender note of the harp swallowing the dismal bonging of the bell, and while he is irritating, it is not entirely unpleasant.

And then he bows, and I am helpless to its promise of a moment of serenity, a place where I may smile and laugh freely among others again, a three year old girl untouched by the evils of my foremothers. It is not true, even I know this, the one who dreams it, but it is such a sincere gesture that I have not seen in my time here.

I return his bow, lion’s tail curling up about my side and the peaks of my wings lifting while the tips remained low, the right hoof extended before me as the left curls up towards my lowered lips. Quilyan. I am still smiling despite the snarling of my veins when I return to a standing position and am asked for my own name. "Cealestis," I say, accent heavy, for I am sure he is also not of this land and I long to feel kinship again, even if it is with a man.

Helovians, thus far, have not had manners like this one, no matter how crude his initial lines might have been.

"The room itself is beautiful enough to prove such things are true."

I look upwards at the glowing strands, smile still soft and subtle on my lips as I let my broad eyes slip back down towards his face, slowly and with heavy lids. I will play his game, for a little while. Until I cannot bare the agony of my mind anymore, I will try to appease Quilyan of Unknown. "I only wish it was a sky above us, not stone. Small quarters make one such as myself quite restless."

Nonsense, really; I should be used to it. The castle had stone ceilings.

And broad, open doorways into Heaven.