'Attachment' AU (Maya And The Three)

Part 2

Soar's eyes never left Mictlan's, even as the weight of the silence stretched between them. Her expression remained calm, unflinching, as if she had infinite patience. When she finally spoke again, her words were measured, deliberate, as though she was choosing each one with care.

"I don't expect you to understand everything I’m saying right now," Soar began, her voice soft but steady. "And that's okay. It's not about understanding everything all at once. It's about finding a way forward, even if that path looks different for each of us."

Mictlan blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What are you saying?"

Soar took a deep breath, her gaze shifting slightly as if she were organizing her thoughts in a methodical, careful manner. "I guess… what I’m trying to say is that I notice patterns, connections that others might miss. Sometimes it makes things clearer, other times it’s overwhelming." She paused, her eyes flickering with a hint of vulnerability before she composed herself again. "But it helps me understand you. Even when you don’t think I can."

Mictlan watched her, something about her tone—her way of thinking—unsettling him, but not in a bad way. "You talk like…" he hesitated, unsure how to put it. "Like you don’t fit in."

Soar gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I’ve never really fit into heaven the way others did. I’ve always felt like I was outside looking in. When I see people, I don’t just see their actions—I see why they do what they do, even if they don’t realize it themselves." Her gaze met his again, piercing but gentle. "And that’s why I’m here. I see what’s driving you, Mictlan. The hurt, the rage, the isolation. It’s so loud I can’t ignore it."

Mictlan stiffened at her words, the rawness of them hitting too close to home. "And what makes you think that means anything? You seeing things differently doesn’t change what I am."

"It’s not about changing what you are," Soar said, her tone unwavering. "It’s about acknowledging that there’s more to you than the role you’ve forced yourself into. I don’t need you to fit into any neat category, Mictlan. You’re allowed to be complicated. You’re allowed to be contradictory."

There was a pause, and Soar’s gaze shifted again, as if she was analyzing her own thoughts with the same careful precision she applied to everything else. "I know I see the world in a way that’s hard for others to understand. I notice details, I read between the lines, and sometimes… it’s too much. But when it comes to you," her voice softened, "it’s what allows me to see past the war and the violence. To see the person underneath."

Mictlan’s fists unclenched slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he absorbed her words. There was something disarming about how candid she was—how she laid her own struggles bare without hesitation, as if that was just part of who she was.

"I don’t know how to deal with that," Mictlan admitted quietly, almost to himself.

Soar’s lips twitched into a faint smile, not of amusement, but understanding. "You don’t have to figure it all out right now. You don’t have to be perfect or even know where to start. Just... let yourself be. No masks, no walls. Just you."

The simplicity of her statement, the lack of expectation, stirred something in Mictlan—something almost like relief. He had spent so long pretending, hiding behind the persona of the God of War, that he had forgotten what it felt like to simply exist without the weight of that identity.

He looked at Soar, his voice rough but quieter than before. "You’re… Wierd."

Soar gave a slight nod. "I’ve been told that before." There was no hint of apology in her tone, only acceptance. "But being different doesn’t mean wrong. It just means I see things from a unique angle. And that’s why I’m still here, Mictlan. Because I see you, not just the warlord everyone else sees."

Her words lingered in the air, a strange comfort settling between them. For once, Mictlan didn’t feel the need to push her away, to reject her words. Maybe, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to.

Soar’s eyes lingered on Ike's unconscious form. her breath escaping in a soft sigh as she walked over and crouched down to pick up the once—delirious demon. Her muscles strained slightly as she hoisted him up into a princess carry. Her expression, however, remained unreadable—neutral, perhaps, with a trace of weariness.

Behind her, Mictlan stood, watching with crossed arms, his battle-worn face a mask of satisfaction. The remnants of a victorious sneer played across his lips, Wondering if Ike was actually dead or not. But Soar’s gaze, sharp and calculating, suddenly shifted to his belt.

“Mictlan,” she said, her voice laced with suspicion, “is that one of my feathers around your belt?”

The warlord stiffened, every muscle in his body going taut as his eyes flicked downward. There, dangling from the leather strap around his waist, was a single cream-colored feather—Soar’s feather. It swayed gently in the faint breeze, as if mocking his attempt to conceal it.

Mictlan's usually fierce, commanding eyes widened slightly in panic, betraying a moment of vulnerability he rarely showed. He felt his pulse quicken as his fingers instinctively curled around the feather, his hand moving in one fluid motion to snatch it from sight. He hid it behind his back with an exaggerated flourish, as if that alone would erase the evidence of his act.

“What!? Don’t be foolish!” he barked, his tone a bit too sharp, too defensive. His voice cracked under the weight of his hastily spun lie, and for a second, he appeared more like a child caught in a mischievous act than the hardened warlord he was known to be.

Soar’s narrowed eyes told him she wasn’t buying it.