Chapter Text
“People all around you everywhere that you go
People all around you
They don't really know you
Everybody's watching like it's some kind of show
Everybody's watching
They don't really know you now”
Wake Up - Hilary Duff
Zelos Wilder hated his wings.
They were a gift, given to him on his sixteenth birthday. That's what the citizens of Tethe’alla told him at least.
In Tethe’alla, turning sixteen was a momentous occasion that warranted the most lavish of celebrations. It was supposed to be a time filled with family and friendship, joy and laughter, as it marked the gateway from childhood to adulthood. Except, for Zelos, it marked the gateway to hell.
Zelos woke up early on the morning of his sixteenth birthday. Sunlight was only just beginning to creep through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains. He rubbed the sleep from his bleary eyes and stared up at the canopy of his four-poster bed.
This is it, he thought to himself. This is officially the beginning of the end of my life.
Dragging himself from beneath the silk covers he padded over to the window and peered between the curtains. Despite the early hour, the streets of Meltokio were already a bustling hive of activity. Women hurried back and forth, arms full of brightly coloured, freshly laundered garments as men hung bunting between open windows or carried trays of freshly baked goods in the direction of the main plaza. There was a tangible excitement in the air.
Zelos tugged the curtains closed and stalked back towards the bed. Maybe he could just climb back under the covers and pretend to be sick. He could spend the day wallowing in his own misery, pretending to have forgotten what day it is. Before he could act, there was a soft knock at the door.
“Come in,” he sighed heavily.
“Master Zelos,” Sebastian, his long-time butler and guardian, addressed him with a small nod. He carried a solid silver tray that Zelos knew held his favourite breakfast foods: a plate of scrambled eggs, two slices of toast, a bowl of diced melon, and a steaming pot of green tea. Sebastian had a sixth sense for knowing when Zelos woke up each morning. Every day, for over ten years, Sebastian had served breakfast within fifteen minutes of him opening his eyes. He didn’t know how Sebastian did it, but Zelos took comfort in the security of the routine. It was one of the only stable things in his life.
“Happy sixteenth birthday, Sir,” Sebastian remarked as he set the tray down on the low coffee table.
“Thank you,” Zelos murmured, knowing it was the only sincere acknowledgment he would receive all day. He sank onto the couch across from the coffee table and poured himself a cup of piping hot tea.
Sebastian had added a rose to the tray for the occasion, cut less than an hour ago from one of the many bushes in the back garden. Zelos stroked the petals. They were smooth and silky, the colour of a sumptuous, full-bodied wine, and he was momentarily enraptured by the flower's simple beauty.
As he tucked into his eggs, Sebastian drew open the curtains and the soft morning glow flooded the room. He hovered a few feet away, halfway between the table and the door.
“Is everything okay?” Zelos asked, frowning a little. Sebastian never lingered longer than necessary.
“Yes, Sir. I just wanted to give you this.” He slipped a black box from an inner pocket of his jacket. It was decorated with a simple crimson ribbon that was a few shades lighter than the rose petals. Laying it across both palms, he presented it to Zelos with a deep bow.
Zelos took the box, noting it was heavier than he expected. He deftly untied the ribbon and slipped off the lid. His breath caught in his throat.
An ornate silver dagger winked at him from where it sat on a black, crushed velvet lining. The blade was engraved with a pattern of swirling vines and roses, so realistic that they appeared to shift and grow as he examined the blade in the morning light. The hilt was wrapped in a buttery-soft black leather, but the pommel was his favourite feature. It took the shape of an intricately carved silver rose with a large garnet set right in the centre. The whole weapon was beautiful and Zelos was mesmerised. He ran his thumb along the sharpened edge, nicking the soft skin of the pad. A bead of blood bloomed from the cut. He winced and quickly licked it away, the metallic tang mingling with the freshness of his tea.
“I hope you like it, Sir. I had it commissioned especially for today. It was made by the finest blacksmith in Tethe’alla.”
“It’s beautiful,” Zelos stated, feeling a little choked up at the thoughtfulness of the gift. “Thank you, Sebastian.” Zelos rose to give his butler an unexpected hug.
“You are most welcome. Happy birthday, Master Zelos.”
A few hours later, Zelos paced the hallway of his mansion. His new shoes squeaked against the tile as he waited impatiently for a carriage to arrive and deliver him to his fate. He felt trapped and the air in the hallway was stifling despite every window in the house being thrown wide open. The buzz from the city had only grown since breakfast, and the atmosphere was charged with anticipation.
After what felt like an eternity there was a sharp rap on the front door. Zelos froze mid step, turning his head in the direction of the noise as Sebastian swept both doors open in a wide arc.
On the doorstep stood the King’s personal chauffeur and he did a double take as he noticed the royal carriage waiting at the bottom of the steps.
Is today really that big a deal?
That wasn’t all that caught his attention. Hordes of people were packed into the street, held back by a line of Papal Knights. Their excited cheers reverberated through the entrance hall as they craned their necks, hoping to catch a glimpse of him leaving the house. The chauffeur gave a low bow before using his arm to gesture towards the waiting transport.
“If you will, Master Zelos.”
Zelos approached the grand front doors and reached out to grip Sebastian’s hand tightly with one of his own. He wanted to ask Sebastian to accompany him, wanted to know that there would be at least one person at the cathedral who gave a shit about him, but he knew it would be frowned upon. Sebastian’s free hand came up to cover his own.
“I will be right here when you return, Sir,” he encouraged warmly. The corner of Zelos’ mouth turned upwards in an almost smile. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he slipped his hand from Sebastian’s with one final squeeze.
The wall of noise deafened him as soon as he stepped outside. Hundreds of people yelled his name, hoping he would look in their direction or stop to exchange pleasantries. Some dared reach their hands across the barrier formed by the knights in the hope of touching him as he walked by. The thought made him shudder.
He kept his eyes down and hurried towards to open carriage door. Flowers landed at his feet with each step he took: roses, tulips, carnations, chrysanthemums. Vivid splashes of colour breaking into his monochrome world.
The carriage door clicked shut behind him and he let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Almost immediately, the carriage began gliding forwards. He perched on the edge of the plush red bench and tugged the sleeves of his jacket over his hands. As the carriage rolled out of his street, he dared to sneak a peek out of the window and quickly wished he hadn’t.
It looked like the entire population of Tethe’alla had crammed itself into the narrow streets of Meltokio. The whole city was decked out in its finest regalia; everybody had made an effort, even the commoners and those who lived in the city slums. Many held flags, bearing the symbol of the Church of Martel, which were waved in his direction as the carriage trundled by. Small tents at the side of the road sold all kinds of commemorative merchandise and memorabilia: pennants, jewellery, pottery, and other trinkets he couldn’t quite make out. One stall seemed to be selling cookies decorated to look like his face, although he couldn’t be sure from this distance. Everybody wanted a piece of history, something that they could hold to remember his special day, that was, everybody except him. All he wanted was for this nightmare to be over.
His name echoed through the streets. Closing his eyes he tried to drown out the noise from the crowd. He was starting to get a headache, and the day hadn’t even really begun, but was no escaping the sea of chaos that surrounded him.
Mercifully, the journey to the cathedral was short, even though they had had to go the long way around. The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the open cathedral doors. Beyond, he could make out the congregation stand and turn to look expectantly in his direction. The door swung wide, and he braced himself for what was about to come. Stepping down from the transport he plastered the fakest, brightest smile he could muster across his face. He turned to acknowledge the crowd and raised his hand, causing a roar of excitement to roll across the sea of people.
He tugged at his collar. He was too hot, and his clothing felt too restrictive, despite the low-cut neckline of his shirt. He fiddled with the sleeve of his tailor-made jacket, so much so that the golden stitching of the hem started to unravel. He knew how it felt.
Smile still in place he entered the cathedral, walking slowly down the aisle to where the Pope and a literal angel waited for him. He could barely hold back his disbelief. He’d heard all about angels from the legends he had been taught over the first sixteen years of his life, but he’d never actually seen one. He wasn’t sure if he even truly believed they existed until this moment.
Every eye in the ornate building was on him as he ascended the steps to the alter. The Pope eyed him suspiciously but said nothing.
“Welcome, Chosen One.” the angel spoke, although the voice emanated in Zelos’ bones, rather than being heard with his ears. He wondered if he was the only person in the room who could hear it.
“The time has come for you to embrace the path of your lineage.”
His insides crumpled in on themselves and dropped to his knees. He’d spent almost his entire life hoping this day would never arrive. He'd hoped he’d be dead, buried, and forgotten by now.
On the floor, behind where the lectern usually stood, was a circular depression that glowed and fizzled with a strange red mist. It began emitting a transcendent sound as a dazzling orb rose from the centre. He knew what it was instantly. It was his Cruxis crystal. The one he had been born holding.
It floated towards him and, on contact with his skin, fused itself to the centre of his chest along with a golden key crest. The second it touched him he felt unimaginable power crash over him in tidal waves, immediately followed by excruciating pain. He felt like he was bathing in electricity as mana crackled through his veins and singed every nerve it touched. It was all he could do to focus on staying upright and impassive. He raised his hand to cover the crystal in an attempt to smother the agony pulsating through his body.
“From this moment, Zelos Wilder becomes the Chosen of Mana. With your guidance, this world will continue to prosper. Now kneel and offer your prayers at the altar.”
Zelos did as he was told, dropping ungracefully to his knees. His body refused to fully cooperate, and he jarred his wrist as he stuck it out to break his fall. He focused on the centre of the red mist and recited the prayer feebly through gritted teeth. Zelos had been practicing the prayer for years in preparation for this moment, if by some misfortune he survived long enough to make it here. When finished, he stood clumsily as another torrent of mana surged through him. He clutched again at the crystal set into his chest.
Through blurred vision he saw, rather than heard, the gasps of awe and looks of admiration that rippled around the room. Excited whispers quickly followed. People stared at him wide eyed with their mouths hanging open or nudged their friends and pointed in his direction. He felt incredibly self-conscious as an abnormal golden glow settled over the room.
There was an uncomfortable sensation between his shoulder blades and, in an attempt to identify the source of the discomfort, he turned his head to look over his shoulder. There, fanning out behind him, were a collection of ethereal, golden-orange shards.
Wings.
He had wings.
He knew that the legends told of the Chosen being blessed with the power of angels but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that he would grow motherfucking wings.
He’d never felt like a caged animal more than he did at that precise moment in time.