For as much as he hated getting wet, Saerno quite enjoyed the rain, thunderstorms specifically. Were he still with the Nhadro, they’d say it was because he was born under the Heavens’ fury, and were he gathered amongst the ‘brightest’ of Ishgard, they’d say his proclivity to such a thing was merely a product of his aetherial signature, but to him, regardless of if the previous statements were true or not, he enjoyed them purely for what they were. To think that the very thing that brings life to the land could also wash it away. It’s like aether, in a way; it may be the building blocks of life as we know it, but with a few manipulations, it could crumble to dust, as if it was never holding anything together to begin with. As ironic as it is, that fact scares him. Were he ready and willing, Saerno could snuff someone’s life completely, not with a blade of any sort, but through a subtle seed of a spell, one whose entire purpose was to alter the manner in which aether flowed within a being. They would suffer, but not know why. They would break down, day by day, and the Keeper could simply sit back and watch it happen. That’s kind of fucked up, right?
”It’s because we’re powerful, their fear is born of logic.”
But what if he didn’t want to be… That, like this, a wandering soul, one that was uprooted not because of any outside influence, but by virtue of its own existence. A handful of Summers ago, he was just a man, one who lost everything, but was still a man nonetheless. Now?... Ha, Saerno doesn’t even know how to describe himself. He’s caught between everything and nothing all at once. Is he dead, is he alive, is he loyal to his country, is he really Saerno, still? All of these questions are ones he’s firmly acquainted with, but they all come out the same:
He wishes he wasn’t different.
He can see it in their eyes, Hells, he saw it when walking from Aphelius’ quarters, that stiffening, that edge that is loosed upon the air the moment he walks past anyone. Everyone says to live your truth, to be your most authentic self, but Saerno thinks such a phrase is complete gobshite - at least before this, his own people didn’t think of him as more of a monster than the Garleans they keep in the basement. He heard it too, amongst the guards, ones who thought they were oh so quiet, but if only they knew how bestial their ‘boogeyman’ truly is. They wish they could lock him away like some fell creature, one they could feed raw meat and maybe appease with sacrifices, but they know better, they know to keep him on a tenuous leash of goodwill because it’s ‘what he so desperately wants’. He wants to tell them they’re wrong, but they’re right, oh so fucking right. Despite his cold blood and his unbeating heart, he’s still a kit, one that was left to die alone amongst the Wood he once called home.
Perhaps he wishes the rain could simply wash him away too as he stands here, alone, the sounds of the city rushing inside to find shelter.
”For as much as you try, remember that I am here as well.”
…But She would never condone such a thing. Sighing, he lifts his head up to the clouds above, letting the rain beat against cheeks and streak down his entire form; it’s the closest he’ll get to genuine tears at this point. Whatever is to come in the following days, hopefully he can take his own advice to Aphelius and truly get something from it, not in the service of others, but in service of himself.