He Who Controls The Narrative

The chamber itself is an incredible width in all directions. The floor is smooth, polished stone; the wallpaper smells of cream and wax. Silken curtains, carved pillars, golden embellishments, divine ornaments — lavishly decorated yet tasteful, with a morose, crimson undertone that presses down on the shoulders with a uniquely unavoidable weight that is hard to ignore.

Just like the rest of this palace, every inch of every surface is decorated with such unimaginable patience and thought, taken to such impressive lengths in search of perfection, that to step inside and exist between these sculpted columns of excellence is to accept becoming a part of the decor itself. The warning is unspoken yet clear — perfection is all that is allowed here. Anything less will simply stick out, and the host certainly cannot allow such disrespect.

In another life, where evil wasn't so pervasive, and good intentions were something a demon may possess, and the expression of such intentions were even nearly as prevalent as the expression of impure intentions were — in a life where Auden wasn't about to be given away as a slave to some demonic overlord — he may have found it in himself to appreciate the impossible eye for detail the being reclining above him possessed. As things are, however, the angel’s stomach feels to have been flipped inside-out, and the taste of bile will not allow any words to press through, so his praises will have to be uttered at a later time. Fortunately, it isn't his place to speak anyway.

“So, she was not aware,” — the demon-thing muses aloud, drawing patterns unto the armrest of his seat with one finger. The form he takes is something human enough, although a little too slim, and a little too tall, with a few too many horns adorning his veiled head, and claws far too sharp to be considered nails. The dark robe he wears covers most of himself, only highlighting the cascading golden jewellery adorning his body. Bracelets, rings, chains, gemstones — Auden wonders if he picked each of them himself or if they are just part of this most recent form he chose to take. He chose to wear them either way, the angel supposes.

The Reaper sits not too far from Auden, having plopped down without a word as soon as it was clear that Auden wouldn't dare take a step out of sight without him. A couple velvet sofas are placed off to the sides with a round table in front. They look very comfortable, but despite how he lounges, the same cannot be said about Grim.

“And the maggots beneath the earth still writhe,” — he sighs in witty response to his god-friend, staring off towards the ceiling. — “Truly earth-shattering things we are learning today.”

“The sarcasm I could do without, Reaper.”

The two have been bickering for a while, though their words elude Auden. It's all so loud, and big, and confusing. Every syllable is another shard of ice melting into his brain, losing its shape and disappearing by the next flicker of that flame to his right. There is a candle that is nearly out, needs to be replaced, in the holder second from the left of that candelabra. The fire is blinding white; the wax is red, oozing.

Neither of the unholy deities are looking at him, but there are many eyes on him still, reflecting a thousand flickering flames in them. Even the ones in the corners of his vision glow like embers, and stare. Wide, weary, weathered, hooded, ashamed, glazed. So many of them. How can there be so many? Under one master?

Stone stairs lead to the throne, and upon those stairs are… so many of them. Slaves. Half of them bare, the other half wearing nothing but jewellery themselves. They lie about the vicinity of the their master's seat, tethered to it in one way or another. Some are chained by their ankles or necks, others are huddled up near the monster like they will burst into flames if they crawl too far. Abuse is clear on each of their flesh. The whole room stinks of honey and despair.

It's hard. It's so hard, just standing here, waiting, observing the utter inhumanity on display in front of him. He can count the ridges of that one’s spine from where he stands. He can see another one’s back hitching; they're quietly sobbing into the carpet, covering their face. One of them hasn't stopped looking at him since he entered, their eyes wide and filled with awe. They look at him like he is some sort of messiah, here to save them from this hell, and personally fly them off to Heaven. His knuckles are slowly turning blue.

Miss Thu’lin’s name has come up a few times. Auden perks up a little bit every time, noticing something familiar and blindly clutching at it like a mole in quicksand. The way the two deities talk about her seems mildly disrespectful. Apparently she did… something? Or she didn't do… something. Traitor, disrespect, punishment… All of it says very little to Auden, no matter how hard he tries to follow along. His attention floats about like a speck of dust — sticky, and inconsequential to everybody else.

More light shining on him from above — chandeliers assembled from bones and crystal. It's unbelievable how large they are. Tiny bones mended together; who has the time to craft something like this? How many people died to make it? How many more to make the rest? Who do the bones belong to? Hopefully they were corpses already, because otherwise they were fleshed alive. Picked apart, screaming, guts spilled onto the floor…

There are at least a dozen skulls that Auden can count on just one chandelier before he breaks out in a cold sweat. Oh. Oh, there are cages hung from the ceiling. Small ones, almost like bird cages, just large enough to force a person into. Auden realises with great horror that the bars are spiked, and that not all of them are empty. Let's look somewhere else.

Flowering bushes to the sides, not a single petal on them wilted. Surely the aspects of beauty this demon accepts only reach as far as his sadistic urges. Perhaps he delights in forcing his slaves to painstakingly water and replace every bouquet along every hall each day, punishing them harshly for the smallest failures. Maybe the flowers are poisonous. Evil.

As it fades back in, the demon’s voice feels like rocks piling on top of Auden's head; — “I presume her lack of direct involvement hadn't given you much trouble in your hunt then?”

There is a certain depth to that timbre that is hard to bear, almost inexplicably so. It permeates in such unfettered fashion as the very air that enters his lungs, tasting like sweet venom… Auden can't stop picking at his own wings curled about him. Wretched, disgusting, tainted, weak. It's starting to pile up under his nails.

The Reaper's voice is pleasant in comparison, if only since Auden is somewhat familiar with its unavoidable chill by now. Smooth, eerie, quieter since their altercation, but by no means easily ignored. — “Oh, just the opposite. She was wonderfully helpful.” — A layer of wit remains.

A short pause skitters across the floor. — “…She helped you?” — the demon asks, his brow raised. Auden can feel the whole room tense.

The Reaper picks at something under his nails absentmindedly. It looks like he won't reply. — “ She did,” — he hums in the end, and does not elaborate.

There it is again; that suffocation in Auden's lungs. Subtler than before, much subtler, but present all the same. A single wrong word, one dangerous moment of silence, and the demon’s presence opens its maw to poison the angel's sanctified body.

Nobody pays him any mind. The servants ignore him. The slaves shiver, but duck their heads and bear it soundlessly — Auden would have begun doubting his own sanity again if they had not reacted at all. The Reaper in particular seems to deliberately distance himself farther from his sacrificial lamb, and slides off the couch cushions, crossing the floor in a rather languid manner. Now Auden is left standing in the middle of the room by himself, since he doesn't dare follow along.

There are levels to the room, divided each by a few steps between them. The angel stands at a small distance from the first set of stairs, the longest, widest part of the chamber. There are massive pillars to the side, fire burning in braziers, and a single continuous deep crimson carpet leading from the busted down doors behind him all the way to the throne at the other end. A little higher up is the second platform, some tables, places to sit, plush chairs and sofas, and a large open middle section where the servants may scurry about, and visitors may kneel to greet their host. Nobody sits in any of the seats provided; Auden has a feeling they are for accommodating honoured guests only. Servants are stationed on each side, some of them busy, others standing like statues with their backs ramrod straight and their hands held behind them. Butlers, maids, tidy looking uniforms.

The third platform is quite a bit further up, and holds the throne itself, along with the demon overlord and about a dozen or two of his pets scattered about in various conditions. Most of them are awake, some just barely, but there are a couple who don't seem awake at all. All are leashed to their master. They are silent, not looking at each other, not saying a word — mere living decorations.

Chains clink and drag with Death's approach. Tortured bodies scramble and shrink. The slaves spread about the vicinity of the throne along the steps now crawl as far as they are allowed. Those busy with chores or awaiting orders who find themselves in the way of his approach part with the momentum of a canyon carved into being. They whisper amongst themselves — Auden can't make any of it out, but it is clear as day that the Reaper's presence unnerves them. He can't exactly blame them for such a reaction; the deity is prowling around with the demeanour of a restless predator.

Upon arriving at the table he chose, Grim reaches forward, causing a maid to drop the tray she was about to pick up like it burned her. It clatters loudly, summoning tremors to the pitcher of water on the table and her own hands both. With hunched shoulders and her head bowed, clasping her nubby fingers in front of her, she respectfully flees from the Reaper’s gaze, along with everybody else that was organising that table. Her Lord’s eyes narrow at her clumsiness, but she may as well have not existed with how little attention Grim paid her.

There are a hundred and one plates of all manner of delicacies in front of him and yet none if it appears to entice him very much. He reaches for a slice of cake, only to pluck the fruit off the top of it. Rolling it between his fingers, he stifles a yawn. — “Why do I sense your anger rising again, my Lord?”

The answer isn't immediate, but just as curt. — “She helped you,” — the demon repeats, no longer a question. — “Do you expect me to believe that? You made her.”

“I saved her,” — Grim corrects. The skin of the fruit wrinkles and splits where he squeezes it. — “Spared her from your wrath, your highness. Truly unlike me, I know.”

A tense beat. — “My wrath.”

Auden watches the Reaper lift the morsel closer to observe the juice of it bleeding out from the wounds he has created. Something in his gaze leaves the angel uneasy. — “Well, I figured it would have been such a shame if I had to rip out the Dragon Queen's spine for treason, conspiracy and her thousand insolences for which she should have been disciplined long ago, so I mercifully agreed to convince you that she had nothing to do with the rat, and that ‘she always has and always will be loyal to only you,’ — as she had requested.” — The claw of his thumb slips into the flesh slowly, rounding the pit. The sensation of scraping along it fascinates him in a sickly deep manner, so he only belatedly adds; — “she has paid in advance.”

Slowly, yet somewhat suddenly, the bizarre purr of the demon’s power lifts, and Auden breathes a little easier again. One of the slaves is pulled closer by their leash, the master's hand settling to rest upon their head. They make a sort of low whine that both breaks Auden's heart and tickles the Reaper's fangs, an involuntary sound of terror.

Their master’s hand is gentle on the pitiable creature’s scalp. They remain huddled close to the arm of his throne, motionless, their eyes closed to the humiliation and their brows furrowed in anxiety. During this short pause, the demon lord's lips curl into a chilling smile; one that is not returned by the Reaper. — “Ah. Now I am starting to understand. You just cannot help yourself, can you? I suppose it truly was my mistake, assuming you would not find a way to punish her irregardless of if she was wholly cooperative or not. You would not have agreed to see her otherwise.”

Whether humour or mockery, it isn't mirrored in the Reaper's demeanour, and he graces his friend with no reply, simply continuing to stare at the progressively less recognisable fruit between his fingers as if he hadn't even heard a word. In the ensuing silence which appears in lieu of any meaningful response, Auden watches his shepherd-god place the fruit back onto the edge of the plate, roll it around a little, and then finally squish it like a bug under his thumb.

Its insides are then used to draw a vicious streak along the rim of the plate, carelessly painting it red with its blood. It looks the part, but that's all. The way it sticks to his claws is not so similar; its smell could not be further from the warm sweetness Grim is used to. If he tasted it, his tongue would curl in disgust. Still, he cannot help imagining it.

From the temple, over the scalp, down to the nape of the neck. Such repetitions tend to untense, bringing a sense of warmth and safety to mortal souls. Under the demon’s guiding hand, the tormented one begins melting before long. Noting Grim’s absentmindedness and sour mood, he only smiles and takes it upon himself to change the subject, gracefully manoeuvring some softness into his tone as he curls a lock of hair around his finger. — ”By any chance, could that payment she provided be the stray Fallen you have brought to my home?”

Auden's breath stalls all at once again. He feels eyes on him, appraising him from afar. He can't help crossing his arms in front of himself to defend against the ruthless gaze.

Stray — like a dog. Down here that is all he is, after all. Some lost mutt.

“So you do see him. I was beginning to think I was only imagining the little bird,” — Grim mumbles, sounding apathetic, far away. His friend appreciates an answer nevertheless.

He tightens his hold over that lock of hair and pulls on it, forcing the slave to lean back and bare their throat. They make a noise, some muffled, staccato whine, and the Reaper's pierced ear twitches again, freezing his gaze on a particular point on the floor.

Now, there is quiet. The Reaper isn't moving. The demon is waiting. Something is happening.

It all goes deathly quiet, quieter still than before, every soul shrinking in on itself as the Reaper's presence seems to roar, a consistent, low growl hushing all nearby. His eyes float about the room like a storm cloud, shadowing the humble candlelight and sending the hairs on the servants’ arms standing with static.

As opposed to the gently-forceful oppression of the demon lord’s confusingly enticing power, all that Death’s presence brings is unimaginable, carnal terror. It sits on the precise edge of a cold blade, under the point of a wolf’s canines, the depths of the sea, the fog of the forests. Animalistic, instinctual, pure fear unsoured by twisted guidance; a mouthwatering delicacy for demonkin and all like them. Though not quite a demon, Grim's teeth itch all the same at its scent. It sweetens blood like nothing else — and oh, he cannot help himself.

The pulse quickens where his gaze locks onto. — “Pardon me,” — he says, and Auden only figures out the darkness beneath the deity's eyes a second too late.

“Nh-no, no, no please, please, mercy — !”

It takes no time at all. The way in which the Reaper takes hold of the servant is as nonchalant as it is to push down on a handle once one's hand is on it. The screeching muffles into a gurgle as soon as his teeth sink into the throat, and their body's struggles die down as soon as he tears it right out, splattering everything nearby with warm, sweet, delicious blood. He moves in greedily, his hunger perverse in the way he moans into the twitching flesh of the half-corpse he's latched onto. He pins them like they had any chance of fighting their way out from under him, bones cracking under his claws. What fight they had does not make it past his inhuman iron grip.

Auden looked away as soon as the splatter of red shot through the air, but the sound of the dying mortal choking on their own blood is all the more unbearable like this. Thankfully, the two deities are too focused on the pitiful last flail of a twitching corpse to notice the angel’s horrified gasping sob as he lurches to hide behind his wings from the gruesome scene. Plugging his ears makes him feel like a child, but it does help muffle the noise.

The servants look away, a numb discomfort between their brows. A couple of slaves flinch at the initial ripping of flesh, cower, crawl a little closer to their master, but they do not show much surprise besides that. A normal occurrence, then. Ordinary, how the Reaper mauls people nearby on a whim. A known thing, his preference for the blood of the living. The relief on their faces once its clear his hunger has been sated tells Auden all he needs to know.

“Any better, my Reaper?” — the demon inquires warmly, watching him feed like one would watch a small child play. Evidently, losing one of his waiters does not inspire any particular displeasure. On the contrary; it appears the show has lifted his mood quite a bit. Which part, Auden wonders. The gore? The lust? Perhaps the fact that he was the one to thirst the Reaper into this state.

Nevertheless, the restless beast pacing around inside Grim's guts appears satisfied for now.

“Mmh…” — Hair curtaining him, a well of satisfaction, Grim pulls away with a lazy momentum that sends his head hanging back, panting up towards the ceiling. His smile returns unhurriedly, and it's vicious, dripping gore. His breaths dance giddy; puffs of black cascade like waves over the corners of his mouth. The air cools on the angel’s skin where he almost feels Death's wet, vile breath on himself. The morose thought enters his mind unbidden — the Reaper could have latched onto him instead, if he so wished.

Between each column, his elation echoes, shamelessly permeating the air. Ecstatic, chilling laughter. The colour has returned to his voice, and his flesh appears to shimmer with the wetness of viscera, steaming crimson. — “Utterly detestable, your Majesty.”

The corpse — the mortal who was alive not two minutes ago — is discarded without care, left to fall to the side once he lets it, skull shattering as it slams into the floor, weeping what is left of its blood into the carpet underneath. — “Now then,” — the Reaper says, licking his fingers clean as he steps over his leftovers to allow the rest of the servants to take care of his mess, a new rush of energy putting a pep in his step. — “Auden, darling. Your master awaits. Why don't you come introduce yourself?”

The ground could open up and swallow him right now and he would take it as the most benevolent mercy he could ever receive. The two deities look to him, expecting him to walk forward, to move at all, but how could they expect such a thing from him? There is a streak of gore in-between him and the rest of the room; it's an uncrossable border before his sanity.

Ever smaller — that's what he is becoming. He knows they are staring at him, he knows he needs to move, his own mind is screaming at him to obey, but his feet are glued to the cold floor below him. Grim tilts his head, expectant. Far too cheerful, with all that blood tainting his cloak, his hands, his lips.

That demon watches still, leaning his head onto a fist. Dark, unreadable eyes pin Auden. He waits a few more seconds to see if the angel will come to him of his own volition; then, addressing the Reaper, he pouts. — “You have frightened the poor thing. Look at him. Barely standing."

The Reaper finds himself agreeing, his eyes ashine with amusement, and vibrantly red with fresh blood. A servant brings him a handkerchief to clean up with. He takes it from their trembling hands without looking. — “Easy to frighten, this one. But his fear; is it not just delectable? Taste it.”

Angel terror — an outstandingly rare delicacy. Few get to taste it in their lifetime. The Lord felt it before, of course, so he does not hesitate to indulge this time either. He inhales deep, savouring the aroma.

Every being tastes a little different. Angels taste purer than spring water, and sweeter than any dessert. They are special creatures that do not feel much misfortune in their lives; and so when misery does befall them, it feels so much more exquisite than any mortal pain. This angel is no exception. Then again, it is not ideal to savour from so far away.

Leaning forward on his throne, the demon puts out an inviting hand, smiling at Auden encouragingly. — “Your feet have carried you this far, little one. There is no need to be shy.”

Seeing as Auden does not find it any easier to obey… He sighs. It cannot be helped. The order is spoken, not unkind.

“Come, let me see you.”

With that, Auden's mind goes silent. No thoughts, no will; they have been replaced by devotion and obedience. He has been replaced. Now he is a perfect subject, a willing sacrifice. His feet move before he could tell them to, rounding the pool of blood the Reaper had left without even looking where he steps. They bring him over, right over to where the two await him. His knees buckle at the bottom of the stairs where he looks up from below, where he feels an uncontrollable urge to fall to the ground. He crawls the rest of the way.

Step by step, he soon drags his trembling body up to that hand — outstretched to him like the Father's once was; gentle, kind, waiting. Must be soft, and warm. He wants to touch it, needs to lay his head onto it. Has to, has to. It feels like a choice, but it equally doesn't. He needs to obey, and he wants to. Disobedience is not a thing that exists, and why would he not do as he was asked anyway?

Those dark eyes scare him. Unholy, divine eyes that look right into him as if they are seeing his very soul, all of his darkest secrets, rendering him naked and defenceless. He feels at home caught in them. An unnatural golden glow in a sea of void — like the Reaper's; must be like the Reaper's. There is safety in that dangerous glint. Auden is so scared. Terrified and mesmerised in equal amounts. His lungs are about to crawl out of his chest. The need to vomit up his own heart and place it into that palm rises in him. If he knew how to, he would do it.

The demon’s palm catches him like a cradle. His thumb finds a tear, and then another; warm, shimmering drops of sorrow that quiver like Auden's body. The angel doesn't realise he is shedding them. He has fallen boneless in his Lord’s hold, having placed his chin onto his palm like a dog, not an ounce of defiance in him. Most angels are like this. — “There there,” — the demonic deity rumbles, clicking his tongue. — “All better already. You have no reason to weep, little one. You are safe here.”

His influence does not smother fear. Fear is an important tool. It is most useful when superseded by the urge to obey. It teaches wonderful obedience. Like this, despite the slight encouragement needed, as well as the angel’s natural, albeit a little exceptional affinity for obedience, his touch does not reach unfeared. Where his claws explore, the angel's body rejects him instinctually, flinching away without meaning to. It isn't the result of conscious thought, but it does amuse the one holding him.

The scent of divinity is still present on the Fallen's body. It has long left the demon’s own. The thorny nostalgia that it brings both elates and irritates.

“What a young little dove you have brought me, Grim.” — Slender. The skin soft, nearly unscarred. The flesh is healthy, untainted. Those eyes glimmer in a precious purplish hue. They shine with innocence. As he gets to know the little angel like this, the poor thing only stares at him frowning, not understanding why he feels the way he does — helpless. — “He could fall to pieces in my hand,” — he praises, — “delicate as crystal-glass.”

Where he is caressed, he burns. What he is, where he comes from, what he is used to — it all stands in unbearable opposition to the demon's very touch. Skin buzzing, stomach churning, breaths shallow; and yet he doesn't even think to pull away. Somewhere in his mind he comes to the conclusion that this is wrong, but that thought never evolves, never reaches his limbs. This unholy burn, the muck upon his soul, the cursed thoughts that do not sound like his own — none of it means anything. The Lord holds him now. There is nothing else that matters.

“Small, isn't he?” — comes the Reaper’s voice from somewhere behind Auden. It sends a shiver down his spine, this leering ogling from both sides. His throat lets a whine slip, but the demon’s gentle hush relaxes him right back into thoughtlessness.

“Indeed,” — he says. — “A Guardian?”

Grim only grins. — “No doubt about it.”

He must be. The shape of his wings is wide and thick; made to shield. Although his posture is of a weakling’s, there is great potential in those unused muscles and sturdy bones. The deity runs his palm over the angel’s chest, who physically recoils at his touch. That soul is alight with a sense of protection, mightily bright. Its shape is one easily recognisable.

Yet such a small, meek one. One must wonder why he was created so. — “How sweet. A vehement sense of duty you must have then, to have been chosen still despite your stature.”

Grim laughs a knowing, cruel hum. — “As I have said. No doubt.” — Auden can only stare with eyes swimming. The terror in his heart melts a drop of honey on the back of the demon’s tongue with every beat. Angel terror…. A sweetness unparalleled. Thoughts are already emerging. What sort of torments would bring out the shrillest cries and most delightful flavours, he wonders idly, playing with Auden's charred hair.

“Why have you brought him to me?” — he inquires instead.

“I thought he would flourish under your care.”

A none answer. Anybody would flourish under the Lord’s attentive care. — “You like him?”

“Very much so.” — Upon the delicate bones of the angel’s wing, Grim’s talons draw a fretful shudder. — “I find him hilarious.”

“Hm.”

At last, he lets Auden’s head fall and allows his influence to quieten. This clears the angel's mind somewhat, allowing him imperfect thoughts, but even then, he dares not move an inch from where he is. His breathing becomes a little louder, a little more erratic. The endless confusion and innocence in his eyes is endearing, the tremble to his lips enticing.

His claws draw a grating rhythm against his throne. — “The first Fallen in over a century…” — he ponders, — “Miss Thu'lin had finally managed to capture herself a Fallen — a dream of hers that she had kept since before Dawn — and you went and took him right out from under her nose, right after massacring half her castle’s staff. I fail to imagine a scenario where she gives it up so easily.”

Grim scoffs. — “Though I painted up a fair trade anybody else would not hesitate to accept as a mercy, you would be right in your assumption.” — The Reaper’s tone turns sinister now, though his lips still curl. — “She had tried to impale him as we were leaving. That I did not tear each limb out of its socket one by one should be commended in itself. You would not find a crumb of guilt for it in me.”

A low rumble deep within the demon's throat. The warmth in it should inspire safety, but all Auden feels is fearful puzzlement at what exactly he found so funny about what the Reaper said. — “Bold…” — he muses, sounding nearly impressed.

“Rat,” — Grim spits in return. The taste of the queen's disrespect still sullies his tongue. Auden flinches at the venomous hiss. It surprises him, this genuine distaste. Death had only ever been utterly unbothered since the angel met him; he almost thought the deity would be unshakable in his sinister joy no matter the circumstances. Dare he say, it seems nearly unbecoming of a being like him to have a filthy mouth — though Auden doesn't know why he expected this bringer of disease and destruction to be pure and void of hatred and spite.

Auden’s attention sticks to a particular detail near the bottom of the throne. Between the other two like this, he is frozen. Turning away to seek help from the Reaper seems utterly dangerous to do right now, so he turns his gaze downwards and tries to, as discreetly as possible, shuffle away to put some sort of distance between him and the monarch as they chat above him. A few careful inches should not warrant any sort of retribution.

A servant of some kind approaches from the side. It is hard to tell if they were always hiding in the shadows, or if they appeared out of a rift in space just now. They move in complete silence, head bowed, face concealed under a veil. A tail drags on the floor after them. Seeing their master busy, they move to kneel nearby and await his attention, but as if he had heard their very thoughts, he gestures for them to come closer. He lets them lean in and whisper their secrets to him — at the same time, his eyes never leave Grim. — “It does amuse me just how much a simple mortal can get under your skin.”

The Reaper grins back, a mischievous glint in his cutting eyes. — “Your mercies always end in bloodshed; I only wish to make certain that she is no exception to that rule.”

Over the burning of the braziers and the miscellaneous little noises the servants are making as they work, the veiled informant’s hushed murmurs come through easily. They speak in a way that makes Auden's skin crawl. Their voice lilts strangely, using a language he doesn't know. Once they finish, their demon lord hums, and they scurry back off to wherever they came from with haste. Just like that, they've already disappeared.

“But you have not hurt her,” — he says then, belatedly continuing their bickering conversation. — “As I have said. I only visited her,” — Grim replies.

“And slaughtered her entire castle staff,” — the demon adds.

“And had my guts emptied for it before I could even properly explain myself, with just the same level of frivolity,” — Grim retorts, utterly disinterested in this topic by now. His old friend surely knows that well; it's precisely why he keeps bringing it up. — “Cease boring me.”

Auden flinches at a sharp cry. He only sees animal legs scraping against the floor in the corner of his eye. The one the demon was petting; a horned, hoofed, meek looking creature hangs from Grim’s claws, holding its own steel collar so as to leave some space for jolting gasps to wrangle out of its throat.

The demon’s neutral expression quickly turns displeased. — “Not that one,” — he begins to warn, but Grim cuts in. — “Sh-sh-sh-shhhh… let them choose.”

Auden turns to look, and it puts ice into his bones to see the slave essentially hanging by their leash, legs barely scraping the floor. Its body is covered in sickening bruises, its hands are missing fingers. The Reaper stretches it backwards by the throat and its legs can't help buckling, growing limp as he leans down to investigate the slave’s scent.

Grim has already snapped the leash snug around its throat, forbidding the slave from breathing entirely. The husk of his voice scrapes against its eardrum. — “Nod, and I will let you go.”

It's looking at its master with pleading, watering eyes, visibly shaking hard enough for Auden to see. A frown makes its way onto its master’s lips, but he doesn't seem too concerned, and only watches, awaiting its answer. The angel switches between looking at the two deities, feeling his sanity slipping with every second spent in the silence filled with nothing but the aborted gurgles of the innocent creature in front of him. In the end, barely a moment before Auden could begin begging in its place, the choice is made; though it wasn't a fair one. Between agreeing to entertain the Reaper or allowing him to suffocate them unconscious but remain leashed to its master, it nods, instinct winning over loyalty, and the Reaper severs the chain with one rapid swing, letting the slave fall back to the floor to splutter up a lung. — “A splendid choice,” — he exclaims, grinning wide.

The demon growls something low in his throat, but says nothing, disappointment more than clear in his eyes alone — if only to the poor thing trying to look sorry enough to be forgiven. To Auden, and perhaps to most who aren't well-acquainted with the demonic overlord’s mannerisms yet, his expression seems neutral enough. It is notable however, that wearing an expression like that in a situation where one is witness to such casual cruelty is anything but natural, and in fact scares Auden nearly as much as the Reaper’s obvious, glowing, sadistic glee.

As Grim collects his prize, he fixes the demon with a sly smirk. — “Oh, don't look so disappointed,” — he tuts, — “plenty of opportunities to make up for our shortcomings later. Isn’t that right, little one?”

The creature in his hold doesn't dare look into its master's eyes, but it nods, then does so again with a bit more vigour when Grim shakes it a little, and with an apology that can only scrape its way out of its abused throat, it turns to follow the Reaper, hobbling towards a plush sofa waiting to be bled on. The slave’s pulse is drumming under Grim’s fingers, ready to be spilt; it's singing to him with its terror. Those velvet cushions will make a perfect surface to pin it to.

If his Lord thought he would keep his hands to himself with such a delectable little critter in his presence, — after having been bled famished at that! — he really has nobody to blame but himself. Not to mention, he knows better than anyone that there are no accidents when it comes to His Majesty. It is likely a punishment for the little slave, or a learning opportunity, or a test that it failed. He would have stopped him if he really wanted to. Grim doesn't really care. He thought to do this only to entertain himself.

“Apropos little ones.”

At his god-friend’s words, the Reaper pauses. — “Hm?”

“Where is your little deerling?” — his Lord asks curiously. — “They were with you not long ago. You made them cry; I could hear from the other side of the courtyard.”

Auden's blood turns to ice. Mori, Mori, Mori. He meant Mori, didn't he? If there was any doubt, it is squashed with the Reaper's chilling laughter. His eyes find Auden; those sharp, knowing rubies pin him like an insect. His brows lift, the very picture of mocking pity, talking to Auden as he answers. — “Ask your new Fallen, your Majesty. He spoke to them last.”

The lump in Auden's throat only grows with the ensuing silence. Without another word, the Reaper saunters over to his chosen sofa with the unfortunate slave where he callously pushes it forward so it falls onto it, then climbs on himself, effectively leaving the conversation and fully focusing on the quivering bundle of limbs under him instead.

He spares not a glance more for Auden. The angel feels all alone once again.

“You are being outstandingly well-behaved.”

Soul-crushing fear is all that is left. Abandoned, kneeling, scared, judged — it all feels utterly familiar. Even the timbre of the demon's voice sounds just as sharp as the Council’s. Aimed at him alone, it feels like a ray of swelteringly hot light illuminating only him, while allowing everybody else to remain invisible in shadow.

‘Nowhere to hide now,’ — the voice hiding between his thoughts supplies unhelpfully.

“I see blending into the background is something you have practised a fair bit.” — He's smiling, a flawless, spotless thing that Auden is certain only hides evil. — “You are so unassuming it would not surprise me if the mirror omitted your reflection when you looked in it. The candlelight itself could forget you're here.”

Auden doesn't say anything. He can't. If he opened his mouth, his soul would leave his body. Some hidden, ocean-deep part of him wants to feel proud of himself for remaining quiet — to believe there is a drop of defiance left in him, some bravery, some dignity. However, he knows that in reality it is none of those things. It's all just cowardice. It has only ever been cowardice.

The demon tilts his head at him, slides a finger over the armrest. Back and forth, slow and smooth. Auden's eyes can't help following those horns. Not just a pair; a crown of them surround his head. They grow straight outwards, and then curl up towards the sky. They remind the angel of a lonely circle of trees in the middle of a burnt-down forest. Some sort of witches’ circle. The entrance to another world.

Another world… What a thought. Auden wishes he could have been sent to another world. Any other world.

The air is becoming heavy again, waning along with the demon's patience. His cursed power swells. It seeps into Auden, weighs on his clammy skin. When the unholy deity shifts, Auden cannot help the panic coursing through his heart. — “I know you are not mute, angel, “ — he says, leaning forward. — “And while I do love a fun game of pretend, I feel obliged to warn you…”

In front of him, right in front of him, with no warning, the demon changes in such a way that is indescribable. His very form shifts, the shape of his body twisting wrong, infinite, unnatural, like something unfit to exist. His eyes are a thousand different colours, his face resembles every person Auden has ever and has never met, he becomes unquantifiable in size — from a stranger to a horror, all in a split second.

“You will never beat me at it.” — And all the while, his voice remains the exact same formless thing that worms its way into the angel's mind in a way only the Father's ever has, demanding attention, yet always underlined with the shadow of sympathy.

The harmless face of a mortal smiles down at him now, eyes crooked, but so pleasantly flawed. No claws, nor tail, nor crown of horns. An immaculate disguise — or perhaps not a disguise at all. Just one shape, fished out from as many as there are stars in the sky. The form of a kind young man, with tousled hair and a mole on the side of his neck, a dusting of freckles across his shoulders. His canines grew sharp, but not in the way beasts’ do, only in the way some humans’ do, where they are only sharp enough to cut their own lips and look a little silly.

Imperfect, but perfect all the same. There is nothing human about the glint in those eyes however. Such a form feels manufactured worn by this creature.

“Auden, was it?” — asks the cordial-looking man. Auden hesitantly nods. — “What a sweet name. Are you aware of its meaning?”

Auden thinks for a moment, seeing if he could guess it, but he gives up on it quickly enough when not a single thought finds the space to materialise beside the screeching terror in him, so he slowly shakes his head. The man’s eyes crinkle with the lifting of the corners of his lips. — “‘Old friend’, if I recall correctly. Trustworthy and loyal. Beloved. It fits you well.”

A small flicker of disagreement peeks out from behind Auden's frozen stiff features, ruffling his brows. There is nothing trustworthy about him, and loyalty is not something he excels in either, as he came to find out recently. Most certain of all, he is nobody's beloved. It is possibly the least fitting name he could have been given —

Unless the man is just calling him a dog. Again.

It's hard to tell if the mirthful hum is in response to Auden's troubled look or the tormented wail crackling out from under Grim’s hands. The unmistakable sound of a sudden obstruction in the throat cuts it off soon enough, but it still echoes around inside the angel's skull. Distress growing, he moves to shield his ears, then his entire head. Pitiful sounds escape him, his eyes shut tight, and the single most childish instinct takes hold of him, urging him to hide.

He can't do this… Angels aren't made for this, Auden wasn't made for this! For a while it was okay, if only because he had no business around danger, but stuck in this pit, all that ever occurs is danger. There is no seraph to guide him, no light to ward him, no wings to fly him away. Just a voice to mock him, Death to lead him, and a couple useless feathered weights hanging off his back. Among all this, how is he expected to bear it?

He isn't. He is expected to die here. Perhaps the best option then would be to curl up and speed up the process. Surely this demon thing won't hesitate to end him for such consistent refusal to entertain him. A drop of dignity may remain in him before the end this way.

Puzzlingly, it appears the walls are beginning to fade. Auden blinks, confused. The furniture melts out of focus, the servants disappear. It doesn't take long for the noise to muffle, then fade completely, replaced by heavenly silence that is much different from the silence he has become used to since he fell. This silence doesn't fill him with anticipation, doesn't echo between cold walls and corridors, doesn't hold evil intentions for him inside it. This silence is peaceful.

He uncurls from his fearful little ball to search for the source of this sudden peace, and sees only the man remaining, alone himself in the dark, still that same perfect-imperfect smile on his lips and imposing throne behind him. He stands. A morsel of a word finally manages to slip through the angel’s locked up throat, breathless. — “Wh-, what, what is —”

“You were cast out,” — the Lord states, cutting in. He stares into Auden's eyes like he can see behind them, his gaze intense, but unreadable. The distance between them has become much too short, just far enough to fit a couple breaths, but not much else. — ”Just a couple or so days ago. They saw no use in you, so they felled you.”

His voice doesn't echo like how Auden thinks it's ought to in this massive chamber. It reaches him, and only him, settling onto his skin like a layer of snow. There is nothing else to see, nothing else to hear. Auden watches, silent, as the demon before him becomes the only thing that exists.

His head tilts, that kind smile quickly turning pitying. — “Soft-hearted and weak. Lonely, desperately so. You are small, sensitive, unfit to guard, but your soul was made with purpose, so you cannot help your sense of duty flaring up.”

It hurts to listen. It hurts to believe it. His fingers curl into the slave gown where it pools in his lap. It doesn't stop there. The demon keeps going; his pace rather unhurried.

It begins sounding much too exact. The demon says; — “you saw your Dependant, a mere mortal, as your only friend — how heartbreaking.” — He clicks his tongue, the very image of ruth, watching Auden’s cheeks glow pink with shame. — “They didn't even know of your existence; not until the end —is there anything more pitiful than that?"

That's… impossible. How does he know about that? Some sort of dark magic. Possession? Auden rubs at his arms, searching for a way out of his own skin, lurching when the man reaches forward towards him. He lays his palm to cover Auden's eyes until he sees nothing at all. There is nothing else but the demon's touch. Strangely enough, the pressure makes breathing a little easier. The violation resumes.

“When your human turned out to be as sinful as any other, you thought you knew better. You disobeyed divine order.” — He says this almost surprised, some glee finding its way into his voice. — “Your seraph was disappointed in you. Your kin never understood you. They turned their backs to you without hesitation.”

A pause… then he chuckles, as if coming across a particularly humorous paragraph in the written story of Auden's life he's reading aloud. — “Right before you fell, you were despairing over the fact the one you call Father wouldn't even wish you farewell.”

Auden's breaths shimmer fragile against his lips. Whatever sort of cursed magic allowed for the world to disappear and subjugate him seems to flicker with his rising distress. So it isn't a forceful spell; it allows for resistance just like water allows for air to rise to the surface, opening up, then consuming him again. Just as merciful as needed, but cruel all the same.

Blind, but the thought of raising his own hands to remove the demon’s does not even come to exist in his mind. It's safe to say that to run, to fight, to resist in any way is outside of the angel’s purview at the moment. The demon's voice turns yet quieter, accusatory, fond in a way that makes Auden's skin crawl with nausea. — “You are a mistake. Unfit for the purpose you were assigned, sent down here to reside beside the rest of the world’s imperfections, branded, exiled and left to be consumed alive. This sentence is especially severe, is it not? Utter humiliation, for a sin that is innate.”

Every word drills into his heart, taking root, growing into pulsing, festering pustules that sear and poison. The skin on the man’s palm must be getting clammy now, catching Auden's sorrows. It's tiring, feeling like this. Another mortal experience he hasn't felt before — wishing for a final breath.

“There is no need to weep now…”

From under the shade of melancholy, Auden feels the demon take his hand. The touch is warm. It grounds him, demands attention. For a moment, he forgets that he is under the preying eyes of a hellbeast. That moment keeps stretching farther, farther still, and forgets to end. Behind the wet haze of misery, those eyes may as well be pebbles glimmering in the rain.

“What fortune it is that Grim chose to bring you to me,” — the pebbles murmur, and smooth a tear across Auden's cheek. — “Your kin may not have seen your value, but I do. I could mould you into something magnificent. I could do what nobody else would.”

He takes hold of the angel’s chin now, clawless, human fingers settled against him. Those dangerous eyes pin him. It could only be the wetness of his reddened own, but some of that kindness fades as the man observes him. — “I could help you become perfect,” — he promises, a dark whisper, a cold appraisal.

The smell of wax and despair. Braziers, columns, plush sofas. A dozen tortured bodies. It all echoes once more. The spell ends, and it feels like Auden is pulled out of the depths of the ocean all too suddenly. His quiet sniffling isn't so quiet anymore, and his frozen limbs awaken with momentum, sending him — away, away, away! Away from this unholy creature!

Trembling fingers give little hold, the carpet slippery beneath the angel's hands. He can't believe he let the thing touch him like that. He can't believe he is so rotten. There was pressure, or a vacuum maybe — it's hard to tell, but it is no excuse either way, because it was something he wanted, if only briefly: he wanted to he held. Auden wanted this demonic monster to mean the things he said about him; about how he could fix him, about how he is perfect…

Despite how vehemently Auden tore away, the demon does not stop him, nor does he retreat him or subdue him. In fact, it appears as if he never even moved, his monstrous body still reclining on his throne, still smiling that uncanny smile of his. Both his and Death's smiles are unnerving, Auden finds, but for different reasons. The Reaper's grin scares him because it is filled with sharp teeth, blood-lust and a palpable excitement. His cruelty is honest and clear. The demon's, however — it shows nothing at all. It's just a mask. There is no telling what hides under it.

Now, the monster is waiting. He must be expecting a torrential wave of questions, or maybe some real defiance. Some yelling or disrespect. Auden has none of that. Oh, if the Father’s divine touch reached so far down here just to smite him, he would welcome it.

The demon watches one more moment before he lets a thoughtful hum shake the angel’s lungs. — “Curiosity oozes off of you like warm pudding,” — he coos, amused. Reaching for another chain, he pulls closer another slave, beckons it none-too-kindly, and watches it scramble to him. His attention remains on Auden as he continues. — “Yet you won't say a word. No need to be shy. Grim may bite, but you needn't worry about me. I have already fed.”

The pet prisoner kneels, forehead touching the floor. Its face is lifted, cradled, and then the chain anchoring it to its master’s throne is severed in a flash where the rest of the cold steel melts into the air like a puff of smoke. — “Go,” — he breathes, and the servant runs off. It limps down the stairs, disappears off to somewhere where it won't be in the way anymore, and only once far enough away where it thinks its master won't hear does it let the sigh of relief leave its lungs.

“Yh… Y-You…”

It starts off broken and wan, and it ends prematurely where it seems like the angel really won't be able to wrangle a single word out of his own throat. Hearing his own pitiful, quivering voice is enough to make him never want to open his mouth again. The back of his neck burns with shame, but… The demon is listening. There's no backing out now; he already went for it. Once again, Auden steels himself, scrapes a little more bravery out of his bones, and tries again.

“H-How did you-u do that?” — comes the breathless whisper, just barely peeking out from behind Auden's teeth.

The demon's brows raise, certainly entertained by what could only be described as barely a frightened squeak of a most innocent question; the first words of a lamb still finding its footing. — “What in particular, my dear?”

“You, you said… Y-You knew about my…“ — Words fail him. There are so many things he wants to know, so many things that have happened recently. His mind is a whirlwind, an imponderable mess leaking through his eyes. — “H-How, do you-u, know… me? How do you know all of those things, about me?”

Humour is clear in the deity's tone. — “It's written all over your face,” — he remarks drolly, — “I'm just a good judge of character.”

This answers nothing. Auden has never met a single person who could read somebody's entire history, down to their innermost thoughts, just from looking long enough into their eyes. Who could pin the Grim Reaper against a wall in half a millisecond. Who could make him feel any way he wants — scare him, calm him, make him revere on command. The way he bends Auden's very spirit in any way he desires, with as little as a spoken word or a wave of his hand — but not just that! Auden’s entire reality, and even the demon’s own form only seem like playthings in his hand, and aside from it stealing the breath from his lungs and chilling him to his bones, it's also frustrating.

It's frustrating because Auden cannot help the sickly familiarity that vexes him. The demon’s presence, his touch, even his voice all seem so twistedly reminiscent of something he knows; and surely it's a trick, a way to help him lose his mind that much quicker, because there is no way this thing would share even the smallest fraction of anything like the supreme divinity of the Father.

“…I can see you are overwhelmed,” — the wicked thing says after another unpleasant pause. His body shifts, and his captives shudder at once, surely expecting him to call on them at any moment. — “Perhaps a treat would help ease your mind.”

At the casual wave of a hand, a golden shelf of desserts floats gently over to his left, narrowly avoiding hitting one of his pets’ head as they perk up one by one. They watch with curious eyes as he sets it aside and flips through the rotating variety. — “Partial to chocolate or fruit? I myself prefer fruit, but our head pâtissier makes some darling petite fours. I'm certain you will find something you fancy, though if you have something particular in mind, I am certain she will be delighted to make it.”

If it is because it hasn’t been so long since he last ate, or because terror has filled up his stomach with its voidless acid, the angel isn't sure, but really, the cakes are not what interest him. In the bend of the demon's long fingers, in the easy rest of his shoulders, in the unique angle at which his lids veil his dark eyes, all the angel sees is someone he knows, yet has never seen before.

In reality, there is only one question in Auden's mind: just what sort of ungodly being is he supposed to call his master from now on?

He finds the words to form the question he wants — needs answered. — “Who are you?”

As it has become a bit of a habit between the two of them, his words are followed by an ensuing silence. In that silence, there is a strange sound that emerges from somewhere behind Auden, emerging from dripping red cushions. It's a little muffled noise, like a strangled groan that’s gone in an instant, except it happens again, a little louder, and rather quickly it becomes obvious what it is when the Reaper lifts his head from the writhing pleasures beneath him and begins cackling to himself with great mirth.

He is far enough, but the silent air allows for his laughter to reach Auden's ears nevertheless. His blood covered claws come up to hide his fangs, not out of embarrassment, more so out of some twisted, meaningless decency. He provides no explanation for his joyful outburst, so once the angel grows anxious listening, he turns back around to the demon, expecting to see him watching the strange display with some sort of puzzlement or displeasure — only to find that the deity doesn't seem concerned with the Reaper in the least, and in fact only stares at Auden, an absolutely unreadable look on his face. — “Pardon?”

Auden blinks. The tone aimed at him and the Reaper's reaction both signal that he may have said something insulting or out of place again; shockingly so, but he not only did not intend for that, he couldn't even begin to guess what was so insulting about what he had asked. It is hard to concentrate like this — between the Reaper watching from afar, excitedly waiting for Auden to speak again, and the demon’s pointed, expectant silence and relentless gaze, it is no wonder his throat locks itself up tight once more, refusing to let a single breath pass. — “I-, I mean… S…sir…?” — he attempts. The Reaper's snickering he muffles into his knuckles. Maybe the problem wasn't impoliteness after all.

“Who am I,” — repeats the demon, leaving space for Auden to reconsider his question. It would be wise to, and yet it seems the angel is not in any hurry to fix his misstep. Stranger still, the Lord looks at him, searches his terror-stricken face, and finds nothing he was looking for.

Those horns tip to the side again, haloed by candlelight in such a way where they cast claw-like shadows over Auden. The angel shrinks at the demon's measured words; — “You truly do not know?”

Mouth dry, all Auden can offer is a shake of his head. Such arrogance could only be found here. It should not be much of a surprise to anyone down here that an angel would not know of them, no matter how powerful. Yet this one seems almost taken aback, near sceptical as he ruminates on this fact. His eyes say nothing, but his silence unnerves just as well. Auden finally begins thinking of a way to apologise his way out of this act of disrespect, reminded that it doesn't matter what he finds appropriate. Whether here or back upstairs, when it came to how he felt about something, he was never on the correct side. — “Ah, I-I —”

He gets cut right off, and perhaps that is for the better. — “I realise you are merely a fledgling, but is this not a bit much?” — The rhythmic clacking of his claws quickens, then it stops and he sits up, an intense curiosity overtaking him. — “Do you not possess even the most basic knowledge? Look at me.”

Shame wells again. Auden wants so badly to scream at the world that he knows, he knows he is useless and pathetic and stupid, but it isn't his fault he is like this. He doesn't know many things, and he isn't very strong, and he is a sinner, a Fallen, a failure, and he deserves it all, he knows, he knows, he knows, but it hurts, and he doesn't know how to fix it —

The floor slides out from under him, his throat suddenly locked under the cold grip of bruising chains, and for a couple seconds all thoughts are suffocated out of him. His elbows catch him; his hand flies to the leash that was not there a moment ago. He follows the rigid links up, up to a gaze focused solely on him, petrifying him. The pull has scraped open his knees, but aside from the slaves who are emaciated enough to drool at even the scent of fresh blood, nobody dares to even think too loudly, lest their master hear them.

“You would do well to learn sooner rather than later: I do not enjoy repeating myself,” — the demon growls. There is no mistaking the warning laid out on his tongue.

Once more, the candles flicker quieter. The world turns hazy, but doesn't disappear fully. It is so easy to become lost in the kaleidoscope of the demon's eyes. There is an unspeakable warmth in them, but it is merely a matter of perspective. Frost burns just the same as fire. Fire is loud and bright and honest and wild. Nobody expects it to behave. The cold, however — it is deceptively peaceful. The stillness of it hides blades, and could roar into a storm at the drop of a hat. Auden cannot tell which it is — a tamed flame, or boiling ice. Inhuman. Impossible.

The fierce hold on his chains loosens, allowing Auden an inch of give he is too scared to take, and the demon sits back a bit. — “No wonder you are so clueless. You were taught nothing at all.”

Something simmers under his skin, clearly bothered by the prospect of the Heavens not teaching ones like Auden about hellish beasts like him. It makes no sense to Auden — why should they? They barely mentioned the Reaper. Then, his eyes drift to the monster's palm where those chains emerge like sentient ink to wrap him and force him to obey so suddenly, and he starts wondering along with the other on why exactly he was never told about a creature so wicked. This thing is a friend of Death, and holds power that smells just like a twisted version of Heaven's Will.

The demon huffs a sigh, now considering Auden again. There must be just enough genuine fear in the angel's expression, because the deity allows a chuckle for himself in the end, and releases Auden. In just the same manner as before, once Auden finds the rhythm of his breaths, he smiles that empty smile and pretends to know what kindness is. — “Allow me to brighten your view then,” — he hums, a cheerful, innocent tone, and stands.

“I am called many names,” — he says as he approaches, his form towering. — “I go by many titles. You need not remember but one, however.”

Auden twists to jump to his feet and flee, no longer shackled by demonic power, but roughened hands keep him still. The slaves, they are holding him down, and no matter how much he struggles, there are more hands, more weight at his limbs. He begs them to let go, but they just stare, eyes lifeless, their bodies living restraints around him in place of chains. They do not need to hold him long — as their master approaches, the angel feels the unbidden urge to kneel rise in him like the ocean, cold and suffocating, beckoning him deeper. The monster only places a hand onto Auden's head, and introduces himself as he hasn’t needed to in millennia; —

“I am god, of Hell and Earth. ‘My Lord’ will suffice.

Welcome Home, Auden.”

<3

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“Ungrateful.” 

“No– no, master- no, sir!” 

The ground rumbled beneath her, cracks forming in the filthy concrete. Iron poles erupted like daisies, up, and up and blistering through the stone, forming a prison around Alyse. She spun, desperately, clinging to each pole, trying to find a way out but they just kept coming. An onslaught until she was entirely confined. 

It was a space she knew, of course she knew it. She had spent her life within in. The tiny little cage that she’s merely survived in at the pet shop. The filthy and the flies and the odor… Oh god, she was going to vomit. Truly, she was going to! 

“Master? You’ve never called me that before, mutt.” 

A face flashed up against the bars, skin squelching and spilling through like melted butter. Alyse recoiled in an instant, landing on her behind, suddenly dressed not in her silk nightgown but in the pitiful potato sack garb of her past. 

It was not Valerius as she had thought at first, not as the voice had been. Instead there, spilling over like bile was the shopkeeper. His fat squealed, popping as if it were placed on a castiron skillet, bubbling and oozing and– oh! She couldn’t look. She couldn’t! 

“Look at me! Look at me, you worthless fucking lamb!” 

No– no… No- she couldn’t. Please! She couldn’t! 

A hand grabbed her, she expected a sloosh of grease, the awful little stubby fingers of the shopkeeper but that did not come. They were slender fingers, gloved in silk, rough and firm and pulling her head up. “Does my lamb have something in her ears?” 

Master- Valerius but— It had just been the shopkeeper, hadn’t it? If only she was smart enough to know this was a dream, but alas, that was expecting too much from her. 

The cage was closing in. The iron bars, slick with something she didn't want to name, pressed against her shoulders, her back, her ribs. The smell was the worst part—old straw, old fear, old sweat, and beneath it all, the sweet, cloying rot of something forgotten. Alyse's breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest too tight, the air too thick.

The shopkeeper's face had melted back into the shadows, his voice still echoing, but the grip on her chin was new. Cold. Certain.

Valerius's eyes bored into hers, twin chips of amber in the gloom of the dream-cage. His gloved fingers were bruising on her jaw. "Have you found my orders disagreeable?"

She tried to shake her head, but the motion was trapped, stifled by the bars. Her lips wouldn't part. Her tongue was a dead weight.

"Am I not worthy of your eyes, my lamb?" His voice was soft, almost gentle, and that made it worse. The devil's tongue indeed—silk wrapped around a blade. "Have we grown a little big for our breeches?"

No. No, master, please. I was looking. I was trying to look. The shopkeeper was there—he was there and I couldn't—

But the words were stones in her throat. She could only stare, wide-eyed, as his grip tightened, as the cage shrank, as the familiar, hated stench of the pet shop wrapped around her like a shroud.

"You think you can leave?" he asked, his head tilting, his smile thin and cruel. "You think you can go back to the way things were? To the dirt and the chains and the hands that didn't know your worth?"

She was shaking her head now, frantic, desperate motions that made her teeth rattle. No. No, I don't. I don't want to go back. I don't—

"Then why do you dream of it?" His voice was a whisper, right against her ear, his breath cold. "Why do you return, in your sleep, to the place I rescued you from? Is my house not enough? Is my bed too soft? My hand too gentle?"

Gentle? The word was a foreign concept in the nightmare, bouncing off the iron bars. His hand was many things, but gentle was not the first that came to mind. And yet, compared to the shopkeeper's greasy, grasping fingers, compared to the cage and the flies and the endless, hopeless waiting—

"Master," she finally choked out, the word a broken, wet sound. "Master, please—"

"Please what, little lamb?" He released her chin, but the cage didn't expand. The bars held firm. He stepped back, just out of reach, his silhouette dark against the flickering, uncertain light. "Please save you? Please keep you? Please want you, when you are so eager to return to the gutter in your dreams?"

I'm not. I'm not eager. I hate it here. I hate it.

But the cage was familiar. The fear was familiar. The shopkeeper's voice, still echoing somewhere in the shadows, was a lullaby of misery she had known for years. And Valerius, standing outside the bars, watching her with those cold, assessing eyes—he was the stranger. The variable. The unknown.

“Alyse.”

His voice was different now, cutting through the fog and the grime and the fear. Alyse stilled, eyes wider than diner sauces. 

“Alyse.” She jolted forward. That was him. That was her master. Her real one–  “Wake up, lamb.” 

Valerius had heard his lamb stir from his own chambers. Every whisper and every drop in the manor went to his ears. He could hear Alyse’s soft breathing, deeply twisted in sleep and then heard as it hitched. 

Mercifully, he’d wake her if it got too much but for the moment he simply listened. 

It was subtle– a shift from the deep, even rhythm of sleep to something shallower, more rapid. Valerius stilled, relcined in his own chambers, having been pondering away the hours til dawn. 

A soft whimper. A rustle of sheets. Her breath caught, then released in a shaky exhale. There was something there, something in his lamb’s mind, crawling up from the very dark corners that she tried to keep hidden even from him. 

Dare he think this to be… cute in a way? 

The thought surfaced, unbidden and he examined it with cold amusement. A lamb, dreaming of wolves. Of course it was predictable. Of course it was, in its own way, pathetic and yet—

Through the slumbering halls, he heard her gasp again. A small choked sound, like someone trying to scream and failing. To anyone else, it would have been barely a brush of air but Valerius heard it so clear. His ears twitched. The sheets rustled again violently, a thrashing motion.

He should wake her. It was practical, merciful. A distressed lamb was a useless lamb. An inconvenient lamb. 

Still, he did not move. 

He listened to the symphony of her horror– the whimpers and the hitched breathing and the tiny broken little sounds that escaped through her clenched throat. He heard her mumble somethin, a word swallowed by sleep and then another, clearer this time. 

“Master…” 

It was not a call for rescue, she was still fitifully asleep. It instead sounded depserate, an unconscious reaching. 

It did something to him. Something he didn’t care to name. It tightened in his chest, a strange possessive ache. He caused her fear, intentionally, deliberately, with practiced movements. This was not that. This was a version of him that he did not control, that he did not yield. What was it doing to his lamb? In her dream, she was afraid. 

Of me? Valerius wondered. Or for me? 

What could her head be dreaming up? Alyse thought of such wonderfully stupid things sometimes that Valerius couldn’t even begin to crack open that strange head of her’s. 

He couldn’t figure it out. The distinction of fear of and fear for mattered, somehow, though he didn’t know why. 

Her breathing grew more ragged. A soft, broken sob escaped her, followed by a wordless, keening sound that raised the hair on his arms. 

Enough.

Alyse 

His voice carried through the halls, slithering beneath her door and whispering in her ears. He waited a second but she did not stir. 

Alyse. Wake up, lamb. 

Her eyes flew open.

The darkness of her room was a different darkness than the dream—softer, familiar, smelling of lavender and old wood rather than rot and iron. For a moment, Alyse was suspended between worlds, her heart a frantic drum, her breath caught in her throat. The cage was gone. The shopkeeper's melted face was gone. But the echo of his voice—her master's voice—still lingered, cold and sharp.

She was alone.

The realization crashed over her, cold and disorienting. She was in her bed, in her room, tangled in her own sheets. The fire had burned low, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The silence was absolute, save for the pounding of her own heart.

He woke me.

The thought surfaced slowly, pushing through the fog of terror. His voice had cut through the nightmare like a blade, pulling her from the depths. But he wasn't here. She could feel his absence like a physical thing—the empty space beside her, the cold sheets, the stillness of the room.

She sat up, her body trembling, her chemise soaked through with sweat. The nightmare clung to her like a second skin—the bars, the smell, his cold, assessing eyes. Why do you dream of it? the dream-him still asked. Is my house not enough?

A sob caught in her throat, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle it. She didn't know if he was still listening. He could hear everything—every whisper, every breath, every broken little sound. The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it was another cage, another set of bars.

It is enough. It is more than enough. She is grateful, so grateful. The most grateful lamb to ever be, didn’t he know that? Didn’t she make it clear? That was just a dream thought, not real, not ever real. 

Except if it wasn’t real why couldn’t she stop these awful tears? 

“Master?” She called out into the emptiness, praying that he was still listening. Her voice felt so small, swallowed up by the night air that cooled and stilled unlike her shivering form. “Please… Master, please…” 

She wanted him. No, needed. She needed him.

“I am not–” She hiccuped, dropping her head down in a shudder. “ –allowed to leave my chambers undressed but– please, please… I need you. I really really need you.”

There was nothing that could calm her like him, nothing that would quell her fears. She needed her master. A lost little lamb needed her shepherd, but he did not answer. Perhaps he was no longer listening. 

The thought was a blade, twisting in her chest. Of course he wasn’t. He had woken her, one his dutym returned to his own concerns. She was not his priority She was a pet, a possession, a creature to be managed, not coddled. She knew this. She had always known this. 

Then why did it hurt so much? 

Another sob escaped her, broken and raw. She pressed her fist to her mouth, bitind down on her knuckles, trying to stifle the sound. If he was listening. If he cared to listen. 

He doesn’t. He woke you. That’s all. That’s all you get.

Alyse uncurled from herself, her movements slow and sluggish and out of her control. She needed him. Needed. She couldn’t wait here, not in the dark, not where the nightmare still clung ot her skin. She stepped out into the hall, dressed in nothing but a thin silk nightgown. 

Stupid lamb. Rotten, spoiled, stupid lamb. He gave you a room and clothes and food and this is how you repay him? With tears? With nightmares? With pathetic, whimpering pleas in the dark?

She hated herself in that moment. Hated her weakness, her need, her endless, grasping hunger for his attention. She was supposed to be content. Happy, when he permitted. Grateful, always. That was her role. That was her purpose.

But she wasn't content. She was hollow and shaking and cold, and the dream was still there, lurking at the edges of her consciousness, waiting to drag her back under. And he wasn't here. He wasn't coming.

And just in those few moments, she found herself lost. The halls were not the same without the candle light. They were dark, wide, hopeless and endless. She wondered further, not sure how many times she had turned or if she had turned at all. Was she there yet? Or was she closer to stumbling down a flight of stairs? 

Is my house not enough? 

It is, she thought, the words a desperate silent prayer. It is enough. You are enough. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please–

She bumped into something, hard and warm. It took her a second to feel the shift in the air. A change in pressure, the subtle unmistakable presence of him. 

The candles flickered on, her head lifted, eyes wide, breath caught in her tiny throat. 

He stood there before her, a silhouette against the dim light of the corridor. His face was unreadable, shrouded in shadow but she knew the shape of him– even the smell of him. Those were his broad shoulders, not the shop keepers. That was his proud set, his quiet commanding stillness. 

“Master.” She breathed, watching to crash into him but instead only managing a broken, grateful whisper. 

He didn’t speak, not for a moment. Instead he ran his knuckles along the side of her face, brushing away some of the tears that glistened off the fire light. He was unreadable but steady. 

“You called for me,” He said. It wasn’t a question. 

She nodded, a jerky motion, her throat too tight for words. 

“And you left your chambers. Undressed.” His voice was flat, but there was something beneath it– something she couldn’t place. It did not sound like anger, but she rarely heard that on his tongue to begin with. “You broke a rule.” 

The words were a slap, cold and sharp. She flinched, her gaze dropping to her lap. "I know. I'm sorry. I just—I needed—"

"You needed." He cut her off, his voice soft but edged. "And your need supersedes my rules?"

"No!" The word burst out of her, desperate and raw. She looked up at him, her eyes swimming with fresh tears. "No, master. Never. I just—I couldn't—the dream was so real, and you weren't there, and I thought—I thought if I just called, if I just asked—"

She broke off, a sob catching in her throat. She was making a mess of this, a terrible, pathetic mess. He would be angry. He would punish her. And she deserved it, she deserved all of it, for being so weak, so needy, so—

His hand came up and cupped her face.

The touch was gentle—shockingly, impossibly gentle. His thumb brushed across her cheek, wiping away a tear. She froze, her breath hitching, her eyes wide.

"You are a trial," he said, his voice low. "A constant, exhausting, bewildering trial."

She nodded, because it was true. She was. She knew she was.

"You call for me in the dark. You break my rules. You weep into my sheets and beg for my presence as if I were the air you breathe." His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and deliberate. "And I find myself—inexplicably, annoyingly—unable to ignore you."

Her heart stuttered. "Master?"

"Do not mistake this for weakness," he said, his voice hardening slightly. "I am not here because you 'need' me. I am here because your distress is an inconvenience, and I prefer my property to be functional. A lamb that cannot sleep is a lamb that cannot serve."

It was cold. It was clinical. It was exactly the kind of thing he would say.

But his hand was still on her face, and his thumb was still brushing away her tears, and he had come. When she called, he had come.

"I understand," she whispered.

"Do you?" He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Do you understand that this—" he gestured vaguely between them, "—is not a precedent? That I will not come every time you cry, every time you dream, every time you feel the vast, empty space of your own inadequacy?"

She swallowed, her throat dry. "Yes, master."

"Good." He released her chin, but his hand remained on her face, warm and solid. His thumb stilled, resting against the curve of her cheekbone. "Then why are you still standing in my hallway, dressed like a ghost, reeking of tears and terror?"

Alyse blinked, the question pulling her from the haze of relief. She looked down at herself—the thin silk nightgown, the bare feet, the trembling hands. She had broken a rule. She had left her chambers undressed, wandering the dark halls like a lost, pathetic thing.

"I didn't mean—" she started, but the words died in her throat. She had meant. She had meant every step, every turn, every desperate, stumbling search for his presence. She had needed him, and her need had overridden everything else—her training, her fear, her understanding of her place.

"You didn't mean to break my rule," he finished for her, his voice dry. "You simply… did. Because your feelings were too big, and your head was too small, and the dark was too dark." He tilted his head, studying her. "Is that an accurate assessment?"

She nodded, a jerky, shameful motion.

"It is not an excuse." His thumb traced her cheekbone again, almost absently. "But it is an explanation. And explanations, while not excusing behavior, can inform its correction."

She flinched at the word. Correction. She knew what that meant. The switch, the hairbrush, the sharp, stinging lessons that painted her skin in stripes of fire. She deserved it. She knew she deserved it. But the thought, in her current state, was almost more than she could bear.

"Please," she whispered, not even sure what she was begging for. Mercy? Punishment? His arms around her? She didn't know. She only knew she needed him.

Valerius was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. The firelight from somewhere behind her caught the edges of his features, casting them in sharp, golden relief. He looked like a statue—cold, beautiful, untouchable.

Then, he sighed.

It was a soft sound, almost inaudible, but she heard it. She always heard him. "You are fortunate," he said, "that I find your distress more irritating than your disobedience. If you were merely disobedient, you would be over my knee by now."

A fresh wave of tears threatened, but she blinked them back. "I'm sorry."

“Do you want me to rethink my mercy?” He asked, sharp as a blade. “Are you truly sorry without my say so?” 

She didn't know how to respond to that. She was sorry. She was always, always sorry. For existing, for needing, for being too much and not enough all at once.

He seemed to read the thought on her face. His expression shifted, something flickering in his eyes—not anger, not quite. Something softer, though he would never admit it.

"Come," he said, and turned.

He didn't reach for her hand. He didn't guide her. He simply walked, expecting her to follow. And she did, her bare feet silent on the cold stone, her nightgown trailing behind her like a ghost's shroud.

He led her not to her room, but to his.

The door was open, the fire within crackling low. His chambers were larger than hers, warmer, smelling of him—sandalwood and old books and something cold, like winter air. She hesitated on the threshold, her eyes wide.

"You have already broken one rule tonight," he said, not looking back. "What is another?"

It wasn't permission, exactly. It was an observation. A test. She stepped inside.

He moved to the fireplace, stirring the embers with an iron poker. The flames leapt, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. She stood in the center of the room, shivering, her arms wrapped around herself.

He didn't look at her. "The bed. Get in."

She blinked. "Master?"

"You are cold. You are shaking. You are wearing a nightgown better suited to a summer evening than a winter night." He set the poker aside and turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "Get in the bed, Alyse. Before you catch a chill and become an even greater inconvenience."

She hesitated for only a moment, then crossed to the massive bed. The sheets were cool, but the blankets were thick, and the mattress seemed to swallow her as she crawled beneath them. She lay on her side, facing the fire, watching him as he moved about the room.

He poured himself a glass of water—not wine, not spirits, just water—and drank it slowly, his back to her. The fire crackled. The silence stretched.

Finally, he set the glass aside and crossed to the bed. He didn't get in. He sat on the edge, his weight dipping the mattress, and looked down at her.

"The nightmare," he said. "Tell me what you saw."

She swallowed, her throat dry. "The cage. The pet shop. The shopkeeper, but his face was… wrong. Melting. And then you were there, but you were angry, and you asked me—" Her voice broke. "You asked me why I dreamed of it. If your house wasn't enough."

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered. "And what did you answer?"

"I couldn't. I couldn't speak. The words were stuck." A tear slipped down her cheek, tracing a hot path to her ear. "But I wanted to say—I wanted to tell you—it is enough. You are enough. I'm not—I don't want to go back. I never want to go back. I'm grateful. I'm so grateful. I just—"

"You just dream," he finished. "Of cages and shopkeepers and the past you cannot escape. It is not ingratitude, Alyse. It is memory. And memory is not something you control."

She stared at him, surprised by the words. He rarely spoke of such things—of minds and memories and the things that lurked in the dark. He was a creature of action, of consequence, of cold, hard reality.

But here, in the firelight, with her trembling in his bed, he seemed almost… human.

"Tonight," he said, "you will sleep here. In my bed. Under my roof. And if you dream again, I will hear you. And I will wake you. And we will do this again, if necessary."

She blinked. "You… you want me to stay?"

"I want you to sleep," he corrected, his voice sharpening. "I want you to stop crying. I want you to be functional in the morning. What I want is irrelevant. What is necessary is that you rest."

It was the closest thing to care he had ever offered. She clutched it like a lifeline.

"Thank you, master," she whispered.

He didn't answer. He stood, crossed to the other side of the bed, and lay down on top of the blankets, his body a rigid line beside her. He didn't touch her. He didn't pull her close.

But he was there. He had come when she called. He had brought her to his room, his bed, his space. He had chosen to stay.

She closed her eyes, the warmth of the fire and the weight of his presence wrapping around her like a blanket. The nightmare was still there, lurking, but it seemed smaller now, farther away. He was here. He was here.

"Master?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for coming."

He was silent for a long moment. Then, so softly she almost missed it: "Sleep, lamb."

She did.

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