HALF WILD / HALF DIVINE

The firelight flickers and flares, shadows dancing across his face - soft edges becoming wickedly sharp, the dark depths of his pupils nearly indistinguishable from that of his irises. Yet, still, all she could see is the immortal man she had grown so fond of, who pulled laughter from her like a bard pulls tales from the air, like how they pluck notes from frayed strings. Still, she can taste the sun that had shined upon her face, the sweetness of the air with its gentle sting as they rode through the forest together, chasing one another as Baldur chases his wolves, and his wolves chase Baldur in turn - reveling in the freedom and giddiness that they were so sparingly allowed. And within those moments, kinship had been forged, a matchless understanding that only ever exists between two souls that Fate itself determines as destined. Weren’t they, though? Was it not the only explanation for why she clung to him as she did? Or, perhaps it was merely that she had yet to find any other whose loneliness harkened to her own so clearly. 

She knew, in the very marrow of her bones, what the answer was - to deny it would be to turn her face from the sun.

He says their name - and even if he had spat it like it was a rot upon his tongue, they would have considered such an utterance a gift. Then he reaches between them, fingers encircling her wrist carefully; had there ever been a touch so sweet as this? The leather of his gloves presses into her skin and though she is deprived of the press of his fingers, still she finds herself warming as surely as if flames themselves were biting at her rough skin. So enraptured is she with studying the planes of his face - determined to read him as faithfully as one reads holy tomes - that she forgets the sting of her palms until her nails relinquish their bite, the blood glinting from the light of the flames. They ought to pull their hand away, to be ashamed of such emotion on display, but any such remorse would have been a farce.  Had they not made a vow to themselves to give him nothing less than the unfettered truth? Romilda had broken this oath once, but never again. Never again. 

The silence sits between them, growing heavier with each moment, each breath that passes between them. Though immortal he may be, did his heart not beat within his chest? Did he not need to breathe as she did? Then, it is shattered - cruelly so - by his claim. It seems your own request has already been fulfilled, he says, as hurtful as a knife sliding against her skin, its point digging into the delicate nerves. “How entitled you are,” Romilda marvels, eyes searching his. “To think that you can claim my self-inflicted wounds  as your own.” A disbelieving scoff ushers past her lips, studiously ignoring how the loss of his touch caused far more of an ache than the words that were meant to scorn. 

As though possessed, their hand lifts to hold his face, to keep his eyes trained on her still, only to pause and carefully tuck it against her chest. To be denied by him once more was masochism that she did not care to indulge in, yet. 

The gentleness of his touch devastated her enough.

It would be far easier to bear the weight of her failures if he raised his hand against her - the only reparation that seemed comparable to the wounds that she had left him with. Slowly, she shook her head, lips pressing together determinedly. “No,” she says, her voice hard. “We are not done here because I -”  And, just like that, any explanation dies upon her tongue.

There was no other reason that she could offer, save for the fact that she refused to let him go - to relinquish him again. Their mouth opens and closes as they struggle to utter the words that sit within their mouth. Begging was never something that they had difficulty with - time and time again they had prostrated themselves before the feet of their father to beseech forgiveness for any shortcomings. But Damien deserved far more than even that. Nervously, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, readying herself for his rejection, for the lashing against her heart. She would have to endure a thousand more, would she not? If she were to truly make reparations. 

“Let me practice my abilities on you,” she blurts out, “I could heal you if ever the need arose.” Romilda holds a finger aloft before he can give voice to his protests. “And simply because nothing can hurt you now doesn’t mean it’s an impossibility I - I could be an asset to you. Let me help.”

Entitled, Damien echoes in his mind. Fate has placed much before him, from the dark, quiet forests of his youth to the yawning mouth of hell, to the blood of Lucifer himself, splashed scarlet across Damien’s skin and dripped down into the depths of hell in the very last moments of its existence. He is a being of blood and birthright, born to eat the world, to cloak it in his shadow. 

And here is Romilda Altier, brave-hearted and fire-lit before him, calling him entitled. 

Were this any of their other meetings in the woods, the strange, easy camaraderie flickering between them like the firelight, he might have smiled. Maybe even laughed. Instead, all he can do is swallow hard, watch the way their face changes, and do all he can to be sure that his does not. “And yet,” he asks, silently hoping he doesn’t sound as hollow to their ears as he does to his own, “would they be there if not for my presence?” 

Fate has placed her before him, as a joke or a misstep or another of its strange machinations. If a prophecy had been told at Romilda’s birth, it could only have been of brilliant light, perhaps even of vanquishing Damien’s own darkness. The chasm that has ripped open between them is only a natural consequence. Here, now, does she defy fate by attempting to reach across it for whatever purpose possesses her, or is this too, simply another falling domino? If destiny has wrapped its thousand arms around Romilda and whispered to her its machinations, it could only be to stand in his path. For a moment, they seem to reach for him, and then their hand withdraws. He thinks, for a moment, that it might be over then. 

But Romilda - as he ought to expect - refuses him once more. Another trick of fate, or perhaps in defiance of it, she says no. They seem to have no explanation, silence - save for the crackling of fire and wind in the trees - fills the air between them. Damien could still turn away, bring this conversation to an end and refuse any further, give them both as clean a wound as either could still hope for. He could, but for reasons he’s not sure he could name, he doesn’t. He doesn’t move a muscle. Whatever explanation Romilda has to offer, he waits for it. 

What comes next, however, catches him truly off guard. Romilda does not offer companionship, or a return to the hunt, or an appeal to the emotions he is failing to leave buried and forgotten. Instead, they offer a deal, one beneficial to them both. A chance to practice their abilities for them, another layer of defence for him. It might be foolish to accept... and yet the point is made. 

Perhaps a clean break was always too much to hope for. The wound is already jagged and messy. There will be no clean, neat stitches here. Perhaps all that is left to do is twist the knife, and see what happens next. 

on my black heart — and on yours. she thinks she could kiss him then, relenting to what distance is left between them to take up residence in his lap, press her red mouth against his like the joining of two halves of a severed pomegranate. it has less to do with that human concept of want and everything to do with the immortal instinct to swallow your own shadow, to twine the edges of themselves together in a moment of gnarled, bright peace.

then she gasps, a sound not unlike the tearing of a sharp thing through cotton. she lurches as the thorn of fear and awe lodges itself into the thicket of her heart, spurring it into a wild pace of a rabbit in the brush. the back of her spine and neck run chilled, a blooming cold not entirely unlike a flush of heat. how terrible and full was damien’s pull as she looks into his eyes, unable to distinguish the place where her willful desires end and the rope of his power begins. there is the urge to kiss, to surrender; to layer herself onto her knees like carefully folded silk and surrender to the shiver that pulsed through her. the antichrist inspired dread in cassiel, as all others: yet not only fright for what he was and could do, but also a greater fear that he would not allow her to witness it. 

“and yet i must wonder,” she slinks low in the high-backed chair like an impetuous creature upon a throne, a pose that she intends for damien recognize in — if not in its architectural structure, than for how it resembles the way he had taken to his birthright, precocious and unaffected. it is her wings, next, that come into their great change: from white feather crawls a seeping darkness, grey-black as the storm clouds that roll across a summer sky. they arch and stretch behind her, movement accompanied by a harsh flash of blue light, thin and sprawling like a spider’s web — lightning scratching through the tendons. “if that is to be truth, and it is you who triumphs tonight…” her hands curl into the material next to his ribs, tugging gently so as to encourage damien out of his seat, to take his place hovering above her. she holds him like that, palms warm on each side of his torso, because on rare occasion (far more scarce than one might be inclined to believe), conquest necessitates touch. it requires the taste of a serpent tail you have been chasing for centuries. she speaks directly to his ear because that is the place snakes and gods do the most damage: “what is it you will ask for? i have the ear of many, of course…” her lips drift across the expanse of his cheek, light as sea foam, until they inhabit the slim pieces of air between his. how easily we might fit together. “and the mouth of more. you could divine innumerable uses from a single favour of mine, damien, and yet —” she smiles, pearlescent and thin and suggestive. “what could you command… but me?”

cassiel cannot end his thrall, so instead she leans into it. she speaks of loss because she is unafraid, because she is the patron saint of delicate perversions. under the shadow of her black wings she is darkened, an immortal glow not lost but instead blunted — perhaps made more violent for the way it persists, half-mast, against the gloom. a reflection of himself, half-divine, half-else. her heart throbs: for him, for his power. for her own. in the dim candlelight much is the same, but she can still pick apart the threads that bind them together, finding her own and laying it on top.

“perhaps i should yield deliberately.” one set of fingers climbs off his ribs to walk playfully back up his chest, to the place she has left exposed in the finding of his heart. do you see how much i want? enough to fail. 

now do it for me. 

How was any angel ever willing to kneel before God or Michael, Damien cannot help but wonder, when Cassiel walks among their ranks? She does not rise to meet his taunt - at least not in any direct way. She does not challenge him, merely leans back in her chair as if it were a throne, as if the world itself lay idle and scarce-remembered at her feet - 

And then she spreads her wings.

Were he anyone else, Damien might have gasped. The sight of her doesn’t knock the breath from his lungs, but he feels as if it may as well have. Still, she must see it, the way his breath stops and then quickens, the widening of his eyes.  If Cassiel’s hand were still hovering over his black heart, there is no doubt that she would feel its rhythm accelerate. She is a summer storm before him, electric and unstoppable. Some quiet voice at the edge of his consciousness tells him she knows him too well, to get this close, to shape her form into something so utterly enthralling - but then her slender fingers tug at the fabric of his shirt, and how could he do anything but fall forward into the danger? How delectable, that to stand above her is to fall further into her grasp. A position of power playing right into her game. That is the power of her honeyed touch, of those dark, wild eyes and dark, glorious wings. 

‘What is it you will ask for?’ she teases, lips ghost across his cheek. It is all Damien can do not to let his eyes flutter closed at the touch. Instead, he keeps his half-lidded gaze trained on her - and falls even deeper into her thrall for it. ‘What could you command, but me?’ It is a question he has no sufficient answer for - politics and power all fall away - so he provides none, half-knowing that his silence is all but as damning as a sweet, whispered, ‘nothing.’

A hand wanders to her his heart, and she speaks of yielding deliberately. This won’t do. Desire swirls inside him, for victory, for her, for this moment to stretch out into its own perfect piece of eternity, somewhere between heaven and hell, dark and divine as the place where Cassiel’s hand meets his heart. Damien reaches for the hand not on his heart, and pulls Cassiel to her feet before him. Whatever he reveals by showing he wants her on equal footing - not to hover above her but to stand before her - he cannot bring himself to care. His other hand snakes around her waist as if to waltz to music only they could hear, and leans in to whisper, “Don’t you dare.” 

Damien desires this moment - desires her - more than victory. Perhaps in that, he has already lost. He feels his control of his thrall slipping from his grasp - whether they fall over Cassiel or away he hardly knows, hardly cares - and he holds the angel close instead. “Not when the game is just getting exciting,” he pulls away just far enough to meet her eyes, to feel the sharp electric current in the air between them. 

Once upon a time, Nerissa could see the likeness that called herself to Damien. But as seasons passed and turned, she could barely recognise the being he had become. A once vicious and dangerous predator overturned to slowly resemble his father, she couldn’t deny the disappointment that arose every time her eyes caught sight of the other. Her fingers curled about her glass of wine, she began to finish the remaints of the liquid before fixating her attention upon Damien as her eyes set alight with amusement at his words.

“A celebration for the fallen. And what a pity it was to have the mortal succumb to his death.” She replied, her tone slightly mocking as she placed the chalice down with a slight ‘thunk’ as her lips curled to a cruel smirk at the thought of yet another human felling to their death. And yet, all these people were here to mourn his death despite their fact that their lives were finite. Death was a reality. Unlike for beings like herself. “It’s rather difficult to have fun when playing sycophant to mortals.” And wasn’t that the truth? What a pity she couldn’t indulge in her darker urges, embrace them to be able to carve out the ruination that she so yearned to have and delight in. “What do you have in mind?” She asked, leaning closer towards the other, as she wondered just what Damien had in mind. Perhaps the little Prince would have something in mind to pass the time — allowing for her boredom to finally subside.

‘Rather difficult to have fun while playing sycophant to mortals.’ There are few truer words. Here they are - beings once said to bring about the end of all things - pretending to mourn. At times, Damien delights in the quieter sort of chaos of politics, wielding a word or a gesture like a weapon.  Even so, there are moments when peace wears on him, the power of his touch muzzled beneath his gloves, the meetings and the strategies blurring together, the flow of chaos swirling idly behind a dam that refuses to break.  If it is a weight upon Damien’s shoulders, it must be near excruciating for Nerissa, war itself brought to life in brilliant, bloody glory. 

Celebration brings joy and hopefulness, that cannot be argued. The light and pleasure that thrums through the mortals around them is palpable. Flowers start to bloom, and each bud bends ever so slightly so they might catch a glimpse of this human crafted sunlight. It is that simplicity that catches them off guard, that enthralls them so.  But celebrations have their darker corners — a less than hidden hint of unsavoriness. The baser, hedonistic side that feeds into something sinister. Behind every curtain of beauty, is something that hinges almost on wicked. Michael had been too quick to forget that their allies are few, and their joy must be fleeting.

The Anti-Christ helps them remember. Damien comes to stand beside them as if he has a place here. If depravity interested them more, Michael might have laughed. This puppet who dares to look them in the eye and act like an equal.  Does he even understand the game he is playing?

They drink to the thought. A tongue travels over their lips as they shift slowly into a wry smile. “It is not the dullness of my kingdom that allows me to appreciate this show of beauty,” they turn to Damien, gesturing to a passing waiter to bring the pair more wine. If it is a game of wits the child was looking for, might as well even the odds for him. “But rather the intelligence Caelum asks from its people.”

Michael thinks their dear Caelum a kingdom of cleverness. Damien could laugh aloud at the notion, but instead he simply offers Michael a skeptical look and takes a chalice of wine from the waiter Michael has summoned. The Antichrist and the Archangel, side-by-side, as close to polite with one another as the eyes of history have ever seen them. What a thing, for this utterly forgettable mortal to come into contact with. Damien wonders if they even know it, “Well at least you admit to it’s dullness,” he says, his sly smile unwavering, tongue ripe and dripping with false amiability, and turns back to the dancers Michael seemed to find such pleasure in. “Though I’m afraid we’re in disagreement on the intelligence of its citizenry.” 

Caelum was a place of hollow peace and sameness, boredom calling itself serenity stretching out into infinity, turning its nose up at anyone who dared toss a stone into its stagnant waters. Infernum was a place of change, of stimulus, of challenge and excitement and chaos. Only one required its inhabitants to think on their feet, to welcome strangers and embrace its ever changing nature, to learn how to live in extremes. But Michael, under their heavenly crown claiming himself a king of wisdom, may not see that, but Damien - always the sharper of the two - does. 

three choices ask meme

rob a bank with - azazel

hide a body with - abbadon

three choices ask meme

protect - abbadon

attack - azazel

three choices ask meme

summon - romilda

banish - revna

three choices ask meme

make love to - cassiel

have a quickie with - arianne

three choices ask meme

vote for - azazel

vote against - abbadon

three choices ask meme

handcuff - michael

tie up - cassiel

three choices ask meme

make love to - romilda

have a quickie with - arianne

three choices ask meme

protect - abbadon

attack - judas 

three choices ask meme

make cookies for - raum

make a five-course meal for - salome

how inevitable, cassiel thinks, that she and damien find themselves together at the near tail-end of cador’s funeral events — they were, after all, tied together at the far extremities, a little gold thread knotted to each of their extended fingers, making it easy to obsess repetitively over the places one ended and the other began. and she’s terribly playful like this, drunk as she and reclined in the darkly lush quarters of hell’s king, which is either a benefit or a liability — excitable creatures often draw blood without meaning to. her head cants to the side languidly as he leans in, lips splitting open to show teeth at the rich purr of his tone. it is a show of her fondness for him until the edges of her mouth halt, a near-undetectable falter made more recognizable by the sudden expansion of her pupils, a swelling caused by primal urge to witness what frightens. the sensation breathing over her is the same that enthrals the bird in the sights of its hunter: rendering them immobile in their gaze, capable only of panting and twitching in display of an errant heart.

what an awful, terrible, perfect feeling. how much more handsome he is for it. 

“don’t be so droll, you cheat.” cassiel pushes upward through the foggy sensation, forcing her head above it by braking their gaze, rolling her head to the side. “everyone abiding by your whims is making you complacent. let us add a more palpable prize.” her bare foot, once rested upon the arm of damien’s chair, falls to lay itself delicately upon his inner thigh as if only a thing of comfort and common readjustment. “whoever loses becomes indebted to the other — more than we already are, of course.” the angel laughs from in her throat, her plump bottom lip pulling below her teeth as she looks him over. he seems so in his element here as all other locales that have housed their strange, secret rendezvous, as if all in his surveillance was written under his name or owed by lineage itself. how it always made her want to steal something from him. “a favour. to be recalled at will, no restrictions, and no delaying in execution.”

reclined as she is in her matching seat, cassiel’s begins her slow alteration: like light on the sea, there is an indefinable difference to her with each passing moment, an image at once the same and elusively dissimilar. her hair grows longer, darker, tangling itself into curls that snarl in various places, as if she has run through the woods and been caught in their boughs. there seems, too, a greater sharpness to her features, as if they have been chiseled down by hand.

“do we have a bargain, princeling?” her foot slip downwards once more, one leg joining the other between damien’s own as she leans in a way to match his pose (always, always they must be as reflections to one another). “swear to it here.” one hand moves to rest on damien’s far knee, the other sliding past the open collar of his shirt to reach for the hearth below his ribs, where she places a warm palm. she too looks for the shift of something in his eyes, though her mind is heady and light with drink and the star-birth of fear, and her lips shape into something playful, amused. “on your black heart.”

Droll, she calls him. Droll and a cheat, though Damien would hardly object to the second accusation. Still, he can’t take offence, not when she looks at him like that, and proposes they raise the stakes of their game. He raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking down due her bare foot - now resting against his thigh - and back to meet hers. A favour, she proposes, a further debt. They circle each other eternally - hiding one another from Azazel and Michael - each harbouring one another’s secret with every furtive meeting. Adding something both so nebulous and concrete to their unspoken arrangement is entirely too enticing a proposal to so much as consider turning down. Maybe it is the alcohol, maybe it is simply Cassiel herself, but Damien feels nigh invincible. He nearly tells her as such, but then - then she begins to change - and whatever boast he may have made dies in his throat. 

It matters not, how many times Damien has watched her shift like the changing light, so entirely herself and yet undeniably different, each time. Her features sharpen, hair dark and windswept, somehow both perfect and untamed. She looks crueller, somehow, more dangerous, and yet all the more lovely for it, all the more intoxicating. 

It is the easiest spell in the world to fall for. Damien cannot help but be enraptured. Then, her foot slipping away, but he has no time to mourn the loss of contact before it returns, one hand on his leg and the other warm against his skin. ‘Do we have a bargain?’ She asks, as if he could ever say no. 

Damien’s smile spreads, teeth glinting in the low light. He covers her hand on his chest with his own, holding her there. “I swear it,” he promises. “On my black heart.” Just as she asked. Then, he brings her hand upward, pulling it from his chest to kiss the tips of her fingers. He turns her hand over in his, then leans forward further, to press it to her own chest, just above the swell of her breast, above the steady beat of her own angel’s heart. 

“And on yours.” 

He lingers a moment longer, before raising his hand to run a finger along her sharp new jawline, cut from glass. He tries to push his aura further, let that dark chill overcome her, even as he himself sinks into her thrall.