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fallingheron · 6 years

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verbiscruenta:

@twiinmasks

The Lallie from today was not the same as the one from fifty years before. She had tried going by Larisa, for one; the older, shorter name felt too detached and just plain wrong whenever spoken by anyone if not him. In those fifty years, too, the angel had gotten his name dropped. Again, it felt like a violation– one more way to damn him; one more jab driving the knife further inside.

Even if Bastien hadn’t let her bury her own name forgotten, he played a good enough game at pretending Heron hadn’t ever existed. That was what he’d wanted in the first place, was it not? An angel to fall. And he did. And Lallie was the reason for it and that was good enough; lying to a demon and saying Of course I did it on purpose, was what she was good at. It’s actually offensive you’d think I’d willingly be with an angel. With that, he got the Christmas gifts of a lifetime: an angel gone, countless points with the boss down-under, and a shiny new assistant to call his own.

Talk about two birds, one stone.

In any other case, Shadow would have protested– claim her back as his because Hell forbid he doesn’t actually meet his numbers. But if anyone beside Heron to punish her for this, it would be him. Not that she’d hung around enough to know. As soon as it happened, survival kicked in. It was a familiar feeling, that of which carried Lallie all throughout her life– and the sole reason she still had one to live (or as much as a vampire could, anyway). She went to Bastien first, claimed her prize. Have I proven my loyalty now? Made him promise, If he ever comes back– you’ll have my back, yeah?

To which Bastien smiled and said, Of course.

But how do you know when a demon is lying?

Bastien’s newly earned brownie points got him to a far better city, the souls so bright and full of life you could spot them all the way above the clouds from a plane, the light peeking through like stars. First it was Stockholm. Thirty-two years later, it was New York– where they stayed until now.

It was a fine enough life. Lallie was respected– both by Bastien and lower immortals; there was a warm body on the bed she came home to (she had to forget him somehow); and she’d finally reached the type of normalcy she hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. As an immortal; Lallie would know.

But how foolish of her to think it would stay that way. Manhattan was a popular borough (and Bastien’s pride and joy), but it had one too many dark corners. For a vampire, that hardly sounded like a disadvantage– and so Lallie often took the dimmer paths around the city. The sole of her boots rocked hard against the concrete, but her senses were still sharp enough that she could tell her presence was the only one there. Until–

The signature hits her hard. The warm – no, hot; unbearably hot – sensation rises up at the nape of her neck and Lallie had the sudden urge to scream, but doesn’t. It was unmistakably demon, but anything beyond that was guesswork.

Call it instinct, or familiarity, or just a worst case scenario– but even before Lallie turns around to face the source of it, she knows just who will be standing there. A version if him, anyways. And that is more terrifying than a stranger could ever be.

Lallie coats herself in faux nonchalance, trying hard to hide the fear that had settled. She’s thankful her heart no longer beats, then, or else it could be certainly heard beyond the flesh and bone of her chest.

She turns and the view shakes her cold. Along with the held back scream, she wants to cry– because God, that was not the man she’d loved before. Heron had always been stoic, borderline uncaring– but the sheer emptiness behind his eyes was the same kind she saw in nightmares.

Involuntarily, she takes a step back. “Are you…” Lallie begins, though her voice cracks, betraying her act. “…You?”

For immortals, fifty years was just another passing day. A blink of their long lives. Before, fifty years was of no consequence of Heron.

These past fifty years, however, were the slowest they’d ever been for Heron. The slowest, most agonizing, torturous ones, because for forty-nine of them, he had been chained in Hell, burned and skinned and staked and what have you. It had been a while, after all, that the demons had had another angelic brother fall into their midst. They were sure to give him a warm welcome.

Not that it broke Heron -- no, he could deal with pain. He’d been through pain before. But what didn’t stand up was his pride. His pride of being an angel, something holy, had disappeared in an instant, and he was never getting it back. It was ripped from him -- stolen, taken -- and the person that did that was...!

Honestly, Heron wasn’t sure why he sought her out. Sometimes he didn’t want to. Sometimes he really did. He thought about what he would do if he saw her. Some days, he wanted to grab her and hug her and never let go. Other days he wanted to grab her and break her instead. Both options made Heron want to fall to his knees and scream at the sky.

He had been in New York for some time, actually, before he chose to reveal himself to her. Whether it was from some great distance, or up close with his signature off, however, he kept an eye on her. He observed her in the day by day, going about her business, and it infuriated him, because from what he could see, she was unaffected by everything. She ran to Bastien because Shadow would not let her act stand in his presence, and since then, they have become a great force in the city.

And she? She woke up each night, got her coffee, went to work, went home in the day (sometimes with some other random body, which stung Heron more than he cared to admit), and did it all over again without so much as a pause. While he had been in Hell, she had been walking around, free and unburdened and arguably more successful than she had been before.

If someone asked Heron later why he chose to reveal himself that night, he would not have an answer for them. It was a spur of the moment sort of decision, something made entirely on instinct, and before he knew it, he was standing a few feet from her with his signature on in all its -- well, not glory. Never glory. Not anymore.

Lallie was never expressive, but Heron could still see the sharp, subtle changes in her expression and the way corners of her face puckered and twitched. It satisfied him and frustrated him. Satisfied him because he got such a reaction from her, and frustrated because she should be screaming, crying!

Yet, his first knee-jerk reaction to her question was to snort, smile, and reply in a monotone, “No”. A comfortable sarcasm that she always understood.

But he stopped himself because he swore he would never fall into this comfort with Lallie ever again.

Instead, he tilted his head a little to observe her, unsure, in the moment, what to say. He felt that he should say something with great gravity, but he also did not feel like uttering a word to her at all.

At last, after some time, he replied, “Are you?”

DAMNED

#this is all over hte place sorry omg

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fallingheron · 6 years

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Fugitives of Heaven

@verbiscruenta

Day five, and Heron could still hardly believe he was waking up next to Lallie every evening. Every time he opened his eyes, he would find her lying next to him, asleep and curled around his side. For once, her smug mouth was relaxed, and her sharply intelligent eyes were closed and at peace. In the quiet darkness of their small room they had squirreled away in for that night, apart from the rest of the world, it was almost everything Heron had dared dream before -- and vehemently denied, at times.

Yet, he could not be happy, and this perturbed him. This was a situation he believed many individuals would envy: being in bed with their loved one, finding them at their side every day as they traveled the world.

But, of course, it was not so simple. Lallie was a vampire, and Heron was an angel -- for now. Until heaven caught up to them at last and tore his wings from his back. And until then, Lallie and Heron were fugitives. Not exactly the life he wanted for them.

As at loathe as he was to do so, Heron brushed stray hairs out of Lallie’s face and murmured, “We have to go, Lallie.” They could not afford to stay in one place for so long. When he made sure she was awake, he got out of bed and began to dress.

“Is there anything you need before we leave?” he asked as he pulled on his shirt. “Or a particular place you would like to go?”

#verbiscruenta

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