Samael blinked. "Excuse me?"
"There is only one thing I hate more than narrators who drag things out," the Lord of Stories spat, "and it's an unreliable narrator!"
The golden-haired man knitted his brows. "Wait, wha— unreliable?"
"Yes!" the boy jabbed a finger at him. "Ye talk about fond memories and happy moments, but the pages tell a different tale. Ye are altering the essence of the story. I asked for yer autobiography, and yer giving me nostalgia."
Samael took yet another slow sip of scotch before replying. "That's because… it is nostalgia."
The Lord of Stories grunted. "You are completely impossible."
"Thank you?" Samael said unsurely.
The boy-god made a gesture like he wanted to strangle something. "I am serious! Ye gloss over the important parts. Ye smooth the edges. And ye wrap tragedy in jokes and sentiment!"
Samael rolled the glass between his palms, the faint clink of ice the only sound for a moment. "Sure. Maybe."
"Maybe?" the child repeated, incredulous.
