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bloodofthepen · 9 days

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Lachesis Pt IV (Obey Me!)

Rating: T

Ship: Barbatos/MC

POV: Second Person

Chapters: 4/5 (Part I here)

[Read on AO3]

This has taken an extremely long time, but I am so grateful to everyone who is still interested in this story! I have actually been working on it for the last... wow, three years??? in between various life situations, and the draft as it stood, still incomplete as of this week, was about 45,000 words. I have decided that was much too long, as even I got fatigue rereading it, and split it into two parts. I think Part IV as it is now is a fairly satisfying ending, but not in the place I envisioned, so Part V will be an epilogue that takes us through Lesson 20 of the first season.

Anyway, without further ado, with many thanks to my readers--and especially to my betas, Hylla and Tan--I present to you: Part IV.

Warning in this chapter for: violence, grief, mild horror

Part IV: You

You are snuggled beneath familiar blankets. Take one, deep breath, then another, letting the air stretch your lungs comfortably, languidly—it feels like decadence. You become slowly aware of the vine-tangled ceiling of your room, and then, of Lucifer, sitting beside the bed. His eyes are dark with lack of sleep, but he offers a smile. Down by your feet, you can feel a weight, a soft, radiating warmth… ah, it's Mammon curled and snoring atop your coverlet.

“He refused to leave after I sent the rest of them to bed,” Lucifer rumbles, eyes crinkled in a fondness he would never let his brother see were he awake.

You smile. “He’s a good boy.” Gingerly, you try sitting up, moving slowly to your forearms, then sliding back against the rugged headboard. There appears to be no pain at all, which is… strange.

“Simeon healed you completely,” supplies Lucifer. “But such extended exposure to magic and that much trauma left you exhausted.”

You flex your fingers; the silvery bands of Mammon’s pact catch the low light. “I feel completely fine…” Take another deep breath, and search Lucifer’s face. “But what about Barbatos?”

“He was also exhausted by that evening’s efforts; right now he is resting in his own room at the castle.”

“May I speak with him?”

Lucifer’s brows pinch. “Barbatos is not conscious.”

“Is he all right?” Push the blankets down, struggling to untangle yourself from the sheets without jostling Mammon, heart racing against your ribs. “Please—”

“Stop.” Firm hands tug the blankets back up, arresting your wrists. “You may be healed, but you can’t go running off.” He frowns, glowering, but you meet his gaze with a sharp glare of your own. He huffs. “Yes, Barbatos will be fine. He used a tremendous amount of energy and overexerted himself, but it would take a great deal more than a bit of exhaustion to kill that demon.”

“Then…” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “He’ll be awake soon?”

Lucifer sighs, releasing your hands. “I don’t know.”

“May I see him?”

“We’ll discuss it with Diavolo in the morning.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly three.”

Ah… you draw your legs up, blankets wrinkling. Perhaps it would be silly to try running off to the castle at this hour, no matter how much your being calls for it. You bury your forehead against your knees.

A gentle hand touches your shoulder, and, begrudgingly, you tilt your face to look at Lucifer. “My brothers have become very fond of you. And—” His gaze shifts slightly away. “— they have been worried. I need to ask…”

Your brow furrows. “Yes?”

“How were you able to call Beelzebub? You didn’t summon him. You’ve never shown any magical ability that advanced; it should not have been possible.”

Oh. Yes, that’s… “You’re right—I never would have been able to do it without help.” You take a slow, deep breath. “Lilith—” The startled, reflexive pain in his eyes prompts you to rest your hand on his arm. “I had a vision. She’s been here, worrying for you since her mortal life ended.”

Hope, desperation. “Where? Is she—?”

“I… don’t know. I don’t know if even she does. She told me she can’t remember how to reach the Celestial Realm, and—I’m sorry.” You squeeze his wrist gently. “She lent me her power, called me her successor, though I don’t know what that means, exactly. I...” you wet your lips, chest tightening. “I don’t know if she’ll speak to me again.”

Lucifer presses a hand to his chest, squeezes his eyes shut. “Excuse me.” He remains that way for a moment, and when he opens his eyes again, they are clear and calm. “I should have—” He shakes his head. “It makes sense now; her power was always based in communication, in emotion. Given the choice, of course she would pick you; you’d be naturally receptive." He hesitates, brow creasing. "I wonder if it wasn’t an accident.”

“If what wasn’t?”

He takes a deep breath. “When I chose you for the exchange program… I was so sick of reading applications that, after a breeze scattered my paperwork over the floor, I just picked up the application that landed by my feet and decided that whomever it belonged to would be the second student… and it was you.” He looks at your hand on his sleeve. “I wonder now if it wasn’t chance at all. If Lilith...” Her name catches in his throat. “If that’s so…” He smiles. “She made a good choice.”

There’s a pang in your chest. You had always thought Lord Diavolo had made the decision, but after that night in the restaurant, you had thought it had been Lucifer’s. And now... Now, you find that all this time… have they considered you an accident? Not just Lucifer, but Diavolo and Barbatos? Your presence, mere chance? Then… in this moment… is it Fate? Or Lilith’s will? Does Lilith’s involvement make it different than if Lucifer had chosen you himself, on some kind of merit?

“Now, then—” he sits back, folds his arms across his chest. “I imagine you want to know what happened that night.”

Fingers curl tight into the blankets. It doesn’t matter how you came to be in the Devildom, really, not right now. What matters is this. “Yes.”

“After you left with Barbatos, my brothers were… encouraged to go into the garden to wait, while Diavolo and I spoke. Once that was concluded, we joined them, but it was only a few moments later that Beel—” Lucifer frowns, looks away. “He almost collapsed, started shouting, called for you, and—briefly, I believe the others were hit with some sensation or pain before everything stopped. Diavolo must have summoned Barbatos immediately, instantly, because I was only briefly aware of Barbatos’ power before it was over. The next thing I knew, Barbatos was gone, Diavolo was catching his breath on one of the benches as Time resumed, and his first order was for me to accompany him to the House of Lamentation.”

“Barbatos told me Diavolo was lending him energy.”

Lucifer’s brows arch. “You were awake, then?”

“Only briefly. He and Simeon were there, and… Barbatos didn’t seem well.”

A chuckle settles in his chest, a gloved hand pinching his brows. “ Barbatos didn’t seem well. You were dying .” His fingers ruffle his bangs, sharp and frustrated. “And all because—”

Silence.

“I cannot repay you.”

There’s a pang in your heart. “Lucifer, there’s no need to—”

“You didn’t have to do it.” He drops his hand, letting it clench into a fist in his lap. “There was nothing personal to be gained, yet you risked your relationships, your life, without thinking. Why? It makes no sense. You owe us nothing. In fact, your safety has been threatened numerous times as a result of my brothers’ actions; I have personally lost my temper with you on no fewer than three occasions. You should have abandoned Belphegor, should have left me to my punishment; why didn’t you?”

“Hmngh?”

Lucifer freezes. Mammon snuffles, rolls, his shirt riding over his ribs, but remains asleep. You release your breath, and slowly, lean back against the pillows.

“I might be a bit more selfish than you believe.” Close your eyes. “I’ve come to care very much for your family, and to think that they consider me any part of it is… far more than I would have thought to hope for. But when all of this started—” How to say it? “I thought… when I discovered Belphegor…” You wet your lips. “I thought I could sort it out. On my own, of course.” Stupid . “I’ve never been able to fix my own... familial issues, but for some reason I thought I had an opportunity with yours, that it was… that it was a chance for me to—to use what I had learned from my own mistakes. Maybe to pay for them. Maybe to heal them.” Bury your face in your knees again, feel your mouth turn in a wry smile. “It’s terrible being this self-aware. Makes confessing more embarrassing because you know where you went wrong… there’s no ‘I don’t know’.” Fingers curl, tight, into palms. “I know why I did it. I felt like I had learned enough, knew enough. But I still misjudged.” Take a deep breath, meet his stunned gaze. “And… I apologize. For the worry I’ve caused. For not speaking with you sooner.”

“You—” He bites his tongue, wrinkles his brows, looks at the floor.

And then you’re buried in dark silk, inhaling the sharp scent of ash and honey and warm, bitter myrrh.

“Don’t you have any sense at all?”

You chuckle, but it gets stuck behind the tears constricting your throat. “Didn’t I ask you that today?”

“Three days ago,” he rumbles. “I believe you also called me an idiot .”

“Is that next?” You sniffle, smiling against his vest.

“Yes.” You feel an amused huff against the top of your head. “You’re an idiot. This time, I’ll waive the punishment, but if you do something like that again, you’ll find yourself strung up in the stairwell with Mammon.”

“H—hmmn—h-hey! WHAT’S THE BIG IDEA, HUH?”

You can feel Lucifer’s sigh perfectly timed with your own, which peters off into a wet chuckle as Mammon paws at your and his brother’s shoulders.

“Mammon—” But Lucifer releases you just in time for you to be crushed against Mammon’s chest.

“I WAS SO WORRIED ABOUT YA, DON’T YOU DARE DO THAT TO ME AGAIN, YA HEAR?” He hides his face in your shoulder, and you gain enough balance to wrap your arms around his back.

“I’m sorry, Mammon.”

“You’d better be!” but his voice is muffled. “Why didn’t you call us sooner, huh? Why didn’t you call me?” His fingers dig into your shoulder blades. “We—we could feel it, you know? When you…” Under your hands, he heaves a shuddering breath. “It wasn’t okay.”

Hold him tighter. “I’m sorry, Mammon… it really wasn’t.” You run a soothing hand up and down his spine. “If it makes you feel better, now that I know how, I should be able to call you immediately if something happens.”

“You’d better.” He makes a sound suspiciously like a sniffle, and you let a couple more tears roll down your cheeks, just for good measure, before you have to compose yourself.

“Enough, Mammon.” Lucifer’s voice is terse, but Mammon just clings tighter. “I said enough. Are you really going to make them take care of you after everything that happened?”

He pops his head off your shoulder. “Wh—no! No, I’m takin’ care of them, ya see? You’re the one that made me their guardian, now let me do some guardin’!”

“They need rest. I’ve allowed you to stay until they woke. Now return to your room for the night; you’ll see Ambrose in the morning.”

“But—”

“Now, Mammon.”

You sit back just a little, and ruffle Mammon’s hair. “I’ll be all right for the night. I feel better—no pain at all, I promise.” He pouts, ready with another retort, but you embrace him again. “And I’ll call you right away if I need anything, okay?”

When you look him in the face again, his cheeks are flushed, and he won’t meet your eyes. “Okay. But I’m comin’ first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, Mammon.” You give his hand a brief squeeze.

He stops before climbing out of the bed. “And you’ll call me first? ”

“First, I promise.”

He beams. “Okay. And—”

“And I’m going to make sure Lucifer goes to sleep, too.”

“O—oh. I mean—good! Yeah! Okay. You should! ”

“Good night, Mammon.” Lucifer crosses his arms over his chest.

You smile. “Good night Mammon.”

“G’night, Ambrose! ...Lucifer.” And the door closes behind him.

You sigh, straightening out your blankets. “You know I really didn’t mind. He needs comfort, too… that was a bad night for everyone.”

“It was, he does, and I let him have it.” Lucifer leans back in his chair, folds one leg over the other. “But you shouldn’t be taking care of anyone this evening.”

“But—”

“I do believe it is my job.” He tilts his head with a mischievous half-smile. “I am the eldest here.”

Fondness and irritation are at war on your face, with neither quite winning out, so you huff and lean back against the pillows. “Then you should sort out your brothers—I’m sure Mammon needs a little more reassurance.”

“After I’m finished here; you are part of our number as well.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you’re stunned into silence even as your heart does a very impressive acrobatic routine, activating the tears still ready and waiting behind your eyes. You rub your face with your sleeves. “Lucifer—”

“I will be staying until you go back to sleep. Then, I will tend to the rest… so if you’d like me to get on with them, I suggest you lie down.”

You try for a disgruntled, defeated sigh as you snuggle into the blankets, but it comes out as a pitifully tearful wheeze. “Well-played.”

“Did you really expect anything less?” He brushes a gloved hand across your forehead. “Rest. I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunity to level the playing field tomorrow.”

You close your eyes, and find the bed is much more comfortable than usual.

“And Ambrose…”

“Hm?”

“Wait for Mammon to fetch you for breakfast in the morning.”

“Mm.”

You wake to the sound of clattering from the kitchen. Someone calls out, laughs brightly, and you find the hint of a smile on your lips before your eyes are even open. Another clatter, a shout. Loud, normal. The air smells of woodsmoke and eggs and bacon, and you’re up and on your feet in moments, pawing through the wardrobe before bothering to wonder what day it is, but—

Oh. You’re… probably exempt from classes no matter what day of the week this might be. Still, your DDD is lying on the table, and a quick look says it’s Tuesday. Tuesday, and no notifications. A lump rises in your throat.

You need to see Barbatos. Push your uniforms aside in favor of something appropriate for the palace, though not especially showy. Short, high waisted slacks, boots, and the loose-sleeved, purple garment that Asmo gifted you a few weeks ago are both comfortable and serviceable.

As you peel off your nightshirt, a series of dark, even marks catch your eye, scattered across the skin of your forearm. It’s a band of runes, a spiral beginning just below your elbow, stopping halfway to your wrist; they’re black, with a deep, green sheen that catches the light when you move… wrath is there, and fire, and—”mutual,” you think? And is that… protection? You recognize power, and… united against the Enemy? You’ll have to get your notes out for the rest, and maybe talk to Satan about the cohesive meaning of the piece. No one else’s has looked quite like this, not even in their most basic form… the pact seals that each of the others’ started from were simply the rune of their particular sin within a pentagram surrounded by a basic iteration of their promise.

You face the mirror to look at the other pacts, and it seems they’ve all morphed further after the… events . Beelzebub’s mark on your stomach is now a full sunburst, glittering in red and orange and yellow alongside the bold, black stripes that make up the geometric rays, its pattern grown more complex, doubling back on itself in detailed artistry. The seal on your hip has blossomed into a delicate, black and pink rosebud with drops of dew gathered upon the petals. Leviathan’s is more difficult to see, but twisting around and craning your neck reveals that the serpentine rune has transformed into a proper serpent with navy and orange scales, its tail winding in upon itself as it follows your spine. And Mammon…

You’re not sure why you didn’t notice last night, but one of the rings upon your hand has turned to gold. With a soft smile, you return to your task, and finish getting dressed.

For a moment, you hesitate in front of the mirror. There are a few graceful ruffles over one shoulder, and the material of your shirt is very fine (gargantuan spider-silk, you think Asmo said? Best not think too hard about the implications of that), with a good gradient of translucence and texture, fitted just enough at the bottom to tuck into the trousers. But… no cravat. Of course, any necktie would clash with the ruffling. In fact—perhaps—this might be too flamboyant. After all, you won’t be at the palace to take tea. You could change into—

“BEEL! Don’t you want there to be enough bacon for Ambrose?”

A mumbled response.

One nice thing about sharing a wall with the kitchen is always knowing what’s for breakfast—

Wait. Not hell-swine bacon, Erymanthian bacon, or gloson bacon? Just—bacon?

In your stomach, a roiling hunger makes itself known, perhaps one to rival Beelzebub’s, and the question of formality disappears completely from your mind. You snatch your DDD from the table, pocket it, and start toward the dining room. It does smell sweet and mild here in the hall, like human food—it must be!

You’re one step away from a full jog when you push the dining room doors open to find the table piled high with food, but only one face—

Dark hair streaked with white. Indigo eyes heavy with sleep, mouth twisted wryly.

Your feet refuse to move as surely as the blood freezes in your veins. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, stirs drowsily, squints across the room from his seat at the table. The seat that was always empty before. “Me? They told me I had time to eat. Weren’t you supposed to wait for Mammon?”

Wait for…?

Oh.

You do dimly recall Lucifer’s instructions before—and that means...

Lucifer was well aware this would happen.

A slow, bright burn creeps along your forearm, lighting the band of runes there. And Belphegor just. Sits. Leaning his elbow on the table like this is a perfectly ordinary morning, like absolutely nothing happened, like—

“I will ask again.” Nails dig into palms, your spine arrow-straight. “What are you—”

“Ambrose!” Satan darts out of the kitchen, a plate of eggs in one hand, Beelzebub hot on his heels. “Where’s Mamm—”

“You knew about this?” Your heart sinks, and the runes just glow brighter, hotter. “What is he doing here?”

“I live here.”

Blood on the blankets, a single tear gliding down your neck. We could feel it. Trembling breaths. It wasn’t okay. Lips, too pale; skin, too hot. I would do it a thousand more times.

White-hot rage settles in your chest, burning your stomach, your fingertips, humming along your skin.

You come face-to-chest with Beelzebub. Take a long, slow, breath. “Beel. Step aside.”

“Ambrose, maybe you should wait—”

“I just want to talk.” Your fingers flex at your sides. Curling, uncurling. It’s been a few months since your last bout, and you’ve never fought out of anger, and never with a sharpened blade, but you’re wishing, wishing for a familiar weight in your hand. The runes whisper on your skin like flames.

Beel’s brows wrinkle. “I don’t want you to get in trouble. You’re really angry right—”

“Oh, really?” Your shoulders pull tight, square, perfectly straight. “And what else am I supposed to be? Don’t you know what he did?”

He folds a hand over his wrist, shakes his head. “I know, and I’m… I know, but he’s—”

“He’s your brother, and that’s the only reason I’m willing to speak with that liar, now move.” Nails cut into palms. “Please.”

“I… no.” His shoulders hunch. “I can’t.”

Mouth curls, baring your teeth. “I don’t want to make you.”

Beelzebub shakes his head, eyes soft. “I won’t.” You can feel a ripple of sadness, of hesitation, a knot of conflict.

Tighten your jaw, release a slow breath. “Beelzebub, step aside, and don’t move.”

He obeys without resisting, eyes squeezed shut, head hanging low.

You approach the table.

“Ambrose—”

“Satan, stop.” From the corner of your eye, you can see his face twisted with anger, but he does not move, and you continue your steady pace.

Belphegor meets your gaze with alert interest, but hasn’t picked up his head from the palm of his hand, shoulders slumped unevenly, like he doesn’t consider you a threat at all.

The runes on your skin burn brighter. How dare he. Perhaps you hold little enough power on your own, but you could have commanded that his own brothers combat Belphegor for you.

Not that you would ever consider it. That would be cruel beyond compare, not simply to him, but to Beelzebub and Satan, and you care too much, always too much, even with wrath swimming through your veins.

But you could. And he should respect that.

“GUYS, WHERE’S—oh, Ambrose, hey! ...what’s goin’ on?”

“Don’t move, Mammon.”

“Wait, why—”

“Shhh.”

You stop before the table, staring across at the youngest of the demons. He says nothing, but his mouth curls up in a condescending smile. Slowly, you place your palms upon the polished wood, and lean forward, so that you’re nearly nose-to-nose, only the span of the table separating you from the Demon of Sloth. “Why are you here?”

“I suppose I should be thanking you for that,” he says, eyes glimmering.

There are several implements within reach, but none are quite what you want. “ Explain.”

“You went back in time to free me. Not just from the attic, but from Diavolo, too.” He chuckles, brightly, and a shiver dances down your spine, but you hold your breath, bite your cheek, keep steady, even as your lungs feel the phantom pang of lacerations, as your very bones begin to ache. “Awfully nice of you. It would’ve been perfect if the prince’s pet hadn’t interfered, but I understand he’s pretty bad-off himself.”

Your fingers twitch.

But Belphegor just smiles. “Maybe there is something to what you said. About being friends .” He yawns, makes a show of covering his mouth. “And if Barbatos doesn’t wake up for the next sixty years, it serves him right for defending a human.”

A black-gloved hand snatches the platter from the air before it can collide with Belphegor’s face. Your fists slam on the table, rattling silverware. “Lucifer—!”

“You have no power over me, so don’t waste your energy.” He narrows his eyes at his brother, ruby irises flashing. “And you —you ought to be begging this human’s forgiveness, not antagonizing them.”

Belphegor shrugs asymmetrically. “It’s not my fault they’re so stupid—aaaow! ”

Distantly, Lucifer examines the crack down the platter’s middle. “Ruined,” he tuts.

The youngest rubs his head, jaw tight. “What the f—”

This time, the hefty porcelain shatters.

“Lucifer, what is he doing here?”

A slow, weary sigh, as he meets your eyes. “He’s here because of the deal you made; you released him—as you saved me from serving my own sentence—through your actions. You fulfilled your end of the bargain made with Lord Dialvolo, and in return, Diavolo had to keep his.” He folds his arms tightly across his chest, looks down at the table. “No matter what Belphegor had done.”

Oh, this would be funny if it weren’t so very painful.

Squeeze your eyes shut. Draw a trembling breath. For the next sixty years. He could be winding you up. He’s probably winding you up, but—

You can still see the feverish shine of Barbatos’ eyes, the wan, sickly cast of his skin. The tremble of fingers uncomfortably hot against yours. The soft, gentle nuzzle along your jaw. Nykin , he called you nykin, and if you never find out what that means, you—

Swallow the lump in your throat.

There’s a gentle hand on your shoulder, and you open your eyes to find Asmodeus offering a handkerchief. You bury your face in its blush folds; it smells of lilac and roses and clove. Cheeks dry, you fix your attention on the arched windows, on the hazy, green day outside. The high, iron fence, crawling with ivy. “Beelzebub, Satan, Mammon… I release you from my previous commands.”

Another slow, shaking breath, swallowing back the thick remnants of tears. You cast a sidelong glance at Lucifer, but don’t linger too long. It’s time. Well past time. “I have a phone call to make. You needn’t wait on me for breakfast.”

Turn on your heel, head back the way you had come.

“H—hey, wait!” But you don’t hesitate, not even for Mammon.

The eldest steps into your path. “You must eat. I will have food brought to your room if—”

“No, thank you; I won’t have time.” You do not slow, simply stepping around the demon.

“Ambrose—”

“I said no.” Your blood quickens.

You can’t recall the last time you said that.

A demon you’ve never seen before opens the castle doors. She bows low when she sees you, low enough to give you a view of the crown of her head, wrapped tightly with a braid of silver hair from which tiny, graceful little mushrooms of various shapes and colors sprout. “Ser.”

“I—” Your ears are hot. “I’m sorry. You really don’t have to call me—”

She straightens. “You have my master’s respect.”

“Er… I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” You fuss with your sleeves, but the loose fit means there are no cuffs to adjust. “I don’t think I’ve ever met you before.”

The medal on her uniform, the crest marking her a member of Diavolo’s household, tinkles as she bows again. “You’ve never had a reason to; I am Arbianock, Barbatos’ second, and butler in his absence.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It isn’t.” You open your mouth, but nothing comes out, and the lamplight catches her lilac eyes, the plain expression on her face unchanging. “You have only met me because Barbatos is unable to perform his duties; you do not need to pretend the occasion is pleasurable.”

“Well, I—” There’s an ache in your chest.

“Ambrose!”

“Lord Diavolo.” Arbianock bows deeply in greeting, and steps aside.

You work up a smile for the prince, who approaches with open arms, beaming. He seizes your shoulders. “It’s wonderful to see you! And to see you so well…!” His brow creases. “We were very worried about you. In fact, I was almost afraid Barbatos wouldn’t make it in time, but—well, he would’ve done whatever was necessary. There was no real need to fret, and this was certainly a dramatic resolution, wasn’t it! May I embrace you? I’d like to embrace you.” You’ve barely nodded before you’re swept up in a crushing grip. “Oh! You are a lucky, lucky human, Ambrose! Our Barbatos would never have attempted something so complex for anyone else. And you…! You performed admirably!” Diavolo drops you back on your feet, and Arbianock catches your arm before you stagger. “I’m of a mind to name you Ambassador. But—!” He must see the dazed look of trepidation on your face, because he waves both hands in a dismissive manner. “That can wait. I know you want to see him. Come!” He offers his arm, and you take it, your brain too overtaxed at the moment to do anything else. “And, Arbia, please fetch us some tea and bring it to Barbatos’ quarters.”

She bows. “Yes, my lord.”

“I’ll take you the proper way, so that you can find your way back if you’d like,” says Diavolo, leading you swiftly through the entrance hall and into a familiar corridor. “I imagine you’ll be visiting with some frequency.”

You can feel your cheeks getting warm again. Maybe you could convince him to lay off just a little bit; you haven’t even discussed such matters with Barbatos… all the world standing absolutely still, yet there hadn’t been time.

“Lord Diavlolo—”

“Just ‘Diavolo’ while you’re here, please.”

Heave a deep sigh. “Diavolo. How is he?”

A long, musing hum as he sobers. “Barbatos is recovering; he hasn’t been responsive since he returned from the House of Lamentation three days ago. It’s really nothing to worry about, considering a demon’s regenerative capabilities—particularly Barbatos’—but… well, I haven’t seen him like this in a very long time, and… hmm... I understand that humans don’t really do this unless they’re near death.”

Your mouth is dry. “That’s correct.”

“Well, don’t worry!” The smile is back on his face as he leads you up a side-stairwell that curves into yet another lamp-lit hallway, the walls covered in plaster, dotted with paintings in gilded frames of all shapes and sizes. “It’s perfectly natural for demons, and Barbatos is nowhere near expiration.”

Strange how your mind supplies the words healing coma and you don't think twice about the science fiction flavor that clings to those words. It’s very easy to think of the demons as indestructible, and Barbatos, especially, as absolutely untouchable. Distant, apart from all things, ever observing, above petty squabbles, offering a solution, an act of service for every whim—ever-present upon the stage while the eye is trained to pass him over and find him invisible.

And yet—

A gentle touch upon your hand. Quilted jackets folded together in the crook of an elbow. The taste of tea upon your tongue, malty-sweet, warm like the pastries as fresh and light as an early-morning rain. Lips upon your skin.

Your heart is heavy, and it burns so, so much hotter than any sin.

A heavy hand pats your arm, bright and warm through your silk sleeve. “I think I’m not very good at this,” Diavolo confesses.

“Pardon me… at what?”

The prince hums, and rubs the back of his neck, glancing away. “The… comforting thing. Am I doing it wrong? Demons aren’t really known for being reassuring. Persuasive is easy, but, well… this really isn’t the same.”

Another stairwell, this one a spiral, its marble steps carpeted in wine velvet, lit with cool, blue-white orbs of light hovering at intervals along the plaster walls, divided every seven steps with a thin, doric column. The wisps of light seem to sing lowly, a melody that hums along your skin in the now-familiar pattern of magic, sustained, perhaps, by their own, soft resonance.

“You’ve made me feel a little bit better, but being unable to allay my fears entirely isn’t a failure on your part.” Gently, you nudge Diavolo’s side with the elbow tucked into his. “I’m too worried for anything anyone says to keep me from it. And… there’s so much more.”

He nods. “Yes—there’s always more, isn’t there?” The door at the top of the stairs swings open at your approach, with no signal at all from the prince. “But it does make me—well, saying ‘happy’ might be inappropriate, but!—it makes me happy to know that there’s someone aside from me that worries for Barbatos. Hell knows he doesn’t do it himself.”

You manage a chuckle alongside him; that bright laugh is truly infectious, sunshine in the darkness. It’s a wonder sometimes that Diavolo is a demon at all.

“And here we are.”

The hall goes on for several more feet, but there are no doors beyond this one, only a latticed window at the end of the corridor looking into the morning’s grey-green sky. The door that Diavolo indicates is a heavy, black slab of wood divided into six rectangular segments surrounded by a pattern of vines that, upon closer inspection, don’t seem to be plants at all, but… you squint, focus a little harder. Abstractions? Of clouds, perhaps, wind, almost… and stars? The tail of a great beast, winding—

The door swings open into a sitting room, nearly Georgian in appearance, wooden panels of the walls painted with alien landscapes, a high-backed chair, a corner desk, one loveseat patterned with purple and cream and green in scrolling patterns of foliage, and, above the empty fireplace, the portrait of three shrouded figures, each holding a tool of their trade: the golden spindle, the silver hourglass, and the bronze knife.

“I’ve been here before.”

Diavolo’s brows arch. “Oh?”

“We just didn’t come the normal way, I suppose. It was after the trial—Barbatos brought me here for tea.”

He’s grinning now, like he’s caught on to something and wants to share, practically nudging you with his eyes, but you’re certain you’ve missed the memo for whatever it is. “I didn’t think anyone knew what this room looked like.”

“No one…?”

“Nobody.” A devilish smile pulls at his lips, and you certainly can’t mistake him for anything else now. “This is Barbatos’ private drawing room.”

You have no idea what to do with this information beyond feel uncomfortably warm. “Oh.”

“And it’s the only entrance to his bedroom.” He leads you to the door opposite the fireplace, and pushes it open.

The rooms are perfectly matched; here, the dark panels are lit by the glow of the false day streaming through a wall of high, paned windows that overlook the garden, curtained with purple damask and velvet. Opposite is the bed, draped in maroon and turquoise, nestled in an alcove between large, ionic columns set into the wall, four-poster, with thick, wine curtains tied at each corner. Strangely, it begins somewhat narrowly at the head and tapers outward to the foot, almost like a paper fan. It becomes clear quickly why, as Barbatos himself rests in the center, lying on his side, pillows tucked carefully around his form, one in particular supporting his tail, which curls outward and down, taking up almost more space than the rest of him.

He is wrapped in simple, light clothing, loose around his arms and legs, cool and comfortable and—you avert your eyes automatically. He seems so… vulnerable. Underdressed. Inert.

“I do hate seeing him like this,” Diavolo murmurs, and you’re grateful for the excuse to look at him instead. His mouth is pulled in a solemn line, no trace of any earlier joviality, a heavy weight upon his shoulders. “He is well. I even had my own physicians in to make sure there weren’t any complications. But Barbatos is… he’s been with me for a very long time. Since I was a fledgling demon. And that was��well... I don’t think a human can imagine how long ago that was. He’s always there, always unflappable, reliable Barbatos. To have him removed…” Diavolo sighs. “I always notice. When I was young, that constant presence used to chafe, but—”

Three brisk knocks on the door.

“Enter.”

Arbianock does so with all the swift efficiency you have come to expect of the prince’s butler, pushing a low tea cart set with china you haven’t seen before. These dishes are glossy, the sheen faintly holographic over a black wash; swimming through that darkness are grey mists and flecks that look like stars, and each teacup sits tall and thin on wide feet. At a small table near the windows, already set with two chairs, Arbianock begins swiftly ordering the teapot, cups, saucers, and two plates piled high with dainty sandwiches and small, flaky pastries. Your stomach makes a most unsavory sound.

Diavolo chuckles, lightly. “You’ve been spending too much time with Beelzebub… or, maybe, you ran out of the house without eating, despite the breakfast waiting for you.”

Of course he’d heard. “Is that how Lucifer put it?”

He shrugs cavalierly in the wake of your irritable frown and moves to the table, where Arbianock waits silently. “Something like that.”

“So you both made sure there was food here for me.” You sigh, and take your place and his behest. “I—thank you. I’d… forgotten I was hungry.” The way your stomach is gnawing and roiling with a vengeance, you suspect you ate nothing of substance during your bout of unconsciousness.

“Think nothing of it! Barbatos would never forgive me if I let you go hungry. Ah—thank you, Arbia.”

The demoness bows her head and moves to fill your cup next, pouring the tea with grace; it whispers in the porcelain. “I have prepared a morning blend with nighttyme and citrus that should compliment both the cured meat in the sandwiches and the light sweetness of the puff pastries, which have been made with human-word apples.”

Your heart feels like it is held tight in a fist. You recognize the scent of the tea; it is the same Barbatos had first prepared for you in the RAD courtyard, months ago, and the comfort of human-world fruit— “Thank you.” If you move your eyes from the table, you won’t be able to maintain control.

She finishes pouring, serves you and Diavolo each a triangular sandwich and a flaky, cubed pastry. The plating is almost identical to what you’ve come to expect, but the aesthetics differ slightly; this palette is very muted, with an emphasis on shape, where Barbatos’ plates are accented by space and subtle flashes of color.

You hadn’t realized you knew that.

“Eat,” urges Diavolo, “and we can discuss something pleasant.”

One bite of the sandwich you’ve been served only makes you hungrier and you finish it before you’re able to even consider that the gesture is less than polite—certainly not fit for the prince’s table—but another finds its way onto your plate before you can even ask for it. Arbianock’s facial expression does not change when you thank her quietly, nor does she seem to mind that the second sandwich disappears as quickly as the first, despite your best efforts.

“I’m… hungrier than I thought.” You can’t raise your eyes from the plate as another sandwich takes its place. “Please excuse me.”

“Nonsense, eat as much as you like!” Diavolo laughs heartily. “There’s more than enough here for both of us.”

You might feel better if you could at least properly compliment the food, but even after the third sandwich, you realize that you have no idea what they even taste like beyond good and that you require more. Cured meat, she had said, and you trust that, but anything else? Not even a guess.

The conversation witters on as you eat your fill; what Diavolo talked about, much like the flavor and content of the sandwiches, you really could not say. What you spoke, when required, you cannot recall. But the warm, sharp flavor of the tea, with slightest lingering spice on your tongue to compliment the first crisp, sweet bite of an apple square—

“...but, of course, Arbia has been around at least that long, and—you’ve met Mephistopheles before, haven’t you?”

It tastes of sunshine and home and it brings you back to your mind, to your stomach, which has ceased its complaints, to the warning edge of a burn in the lines of Beelzebub’s pact upon your skin.

“Yes… Satan had taken me to the newspaper club meeting on a few occasions before Mephistopheles was removed as Chief Editor.”

“Ah, yes—a shame, that, but I couldn’t dissuade Lucifer. Don’t worry, though; he’ll have another opportunity next year.” Diavolo leans back slightly in his chair and pops a pastry thoughtfully into his mouth. “Do you suppose I could get Asmodeus to do another design? Those stickers were darling!”

Fondness stirs in your chest, but doesn’t quite make its way to your face. “I’m sure Asmo could be persuaded. We could have a whole collection of tiny demon lords.”

His eyes glitter. “Yes, exactly! Why we could—”

The hollow sound of a great bell reverberates through the air, hums through your bones.

A deep sigh, and Diavolo seizes his teacup. “Unfortunately, that means I am needed.” He tips it back in one go, and rises, but as you move to do the same, he lifts a hand. “No, please; you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I’m certain Barbatos could use a bit of company.”

There’s a lump in your throat again. “Thank you, Diavolo.”

He casts a glance back at his friend, and gives you a gentle smile. “I’ve left a comfortable chair near the bed; you’re more than welcome to make use of it. I don’t know how long my business will take, but if you wish, you can see yourself out at any time, and should you need anything…” The prince reaches into his jacket and draws out a small, silver bell that gleams in the low light. He sets it on the table amongst the tea setting. “Ringing this will summon help; if Arbianock is busy assisting me, someone else will answer your call. The staff have instructions to obey you as they would Lucifer, so please, don’t hesitate to ask for anything you desire.”

It sounds like entirely too much, but you nod as graciously as you can manage. “Thank you. I doubt I’ll need anything, but I’m grateful.”

“I’ll return when I’m finished to see how you’re doing, and you’ll be quite welcome to join me for dinner if you wish to stay. Now, don’t hesitate if you need more tea—or water! I think I recall humans need quite a lot of it.”

Arbianock stands stiffly at his side. “My lord…”

“Yes, of course! We can’t linger.” The bright, brilliant grin finds its way again to the prince’s face. “Good morning, Ambrose.”

It doesn’t feel right to remain seated, but you offer a small, half-bow from your chair. “Good morning, Diavolo.”

He and Arbianock file neatly through the door, and it clicks softly shut, leaving you in silence. Upon the bed, Barbatos has not shifted in the slightest, but, as Diavolo had said, there is an armchair within reach. It matches the rest of the room: dark, carved wood upholstered in teal and seafoam green, giving a bright spot of color to the alcove. You… you would like to sit with him.

Your hands are shaking.

Take a deep breath, and raise your teacup to your lips, tip back the full contents in an effort to steady your nerves. With another long, slow breath, you stand. Why are you nervous? There’s no one around to ask questions, and Barbatos—

Slowly, you approach the bed. He lies atop the comforter, but a blanket folded in an aesthetically haphazard triangle has been draped across his legs at the knee. It brings to mind the feverish heat of his skin when last you met; perhaps they’ve left the comforter off in an effort to lower his temperature. His forked tail curls around his form, over the folded throw, dull against the black and maroon and lavender, missing its usual, luminescent luster.

You settle into the waiting chair, perched on its edge so that your knees press close against the mattress. The expression Barbatos wears is gentle, peaceful repose; surely a blessing. Could you stand it if it seemed he was in pain? That he should be in any discomfort seems unbearable, especially if he must lie here for another—

Fingers curl against your thighs.

You can’t think about that. Watch instead the slow breath that moves his chest, lifts, subtly, the arm draped across over his side; consider the way his hair falls across his brow and upon the pillow, a gentle wave of emerald that fades to turquoise. The slight, spindly shadows that cross his forehead, beneath the winglike horns perched there. The absence of a knowing glance—though even in sleep, it seems, his mouth remains turned up at the edge, ever keeping a secret. Just beneath his chin, his other hand lies upon the comforter, open and bare. Your own is halfway to it before you realize what you’re doing.

You hover there, hand outstretched, fingertips almost, almost finding his. They tremble. The breath aches in your chest.

“You are free to touch me, if you so wish.”

“Barbatos!”

His eyes glitter and you—

Your fingers wrap around his, thread them together, palms kissing.

“How—” Too much, too much, not enough. Tug his hand a little closer, press your forehead to the back of his fingers. His skin is warm, but not feverish. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you entered the room.” Mischief in his voice, but you can’t find it in your heart to be irritated.

Your grip tightens. It doesn’t matter why he didn’t speak earlier, you just—”How are you?” Press your cheek fast to the back of his hand, open your eyes to find him watching, watching so tenderly that a lump forms in your throat.

“Seeing you well, I find my condition inconsequential.” Your cheeks heat, but before you can admonish his lack of proper answer, Barbatos’ thumb caresses the edge of your palm. He smiles. “I am tired. I feel like I could sleep for a decade, but I am simply too busy for such a diversion.”

Huff a soft laugh. Relief washes through your chest, and you nuzzle his skin. Soft—his hands are so soft…

“I trust Lucifer and the others have taken good care of you?”

Belphegor sitting at the table, lazily malicious, springs to your mind and knots your stomach, but you can’t… not now. “Yes. When I woke up, it was like nothing at all had happened; I’m perfectly healthy.”

Barbatos hums, closing his eyes. “I shall have to thank Simeon.” His thumb begins a slow pattern again, up and down, brushing your cheek along the way.

Press closer to his touch. “And I need to thank you. ”

"I am at your service; that you are here is thanks enough." His gaze is bright, a gentle viridian, ivy graced by the morning dew. "But... if you would stay for a while, until I sleep again, I would consider it a reciprocal gesture.” There is a strange weight in those words, a precision of diction and careful hesitation, like an offering, quiet and so hopeful—

“Of course I’ll stay.”

You wish to do nothing else.

He smiles, the soft crease of his eyes, the smallest flash of glassen teeth, and you can’t breathe for the flood of emotion behind your breast. Gently, Barbatos untangles his fingers from yours, cups your cheek, lets his fingertips run across your jaw and chin, carefully searching your face. “All of time, every possibility, and I never would have thought this…” The smile that graces his lips is wistful, coloring his voice. “I’m glad now that I never looked; it’s much better as a surprise.”

Your cheeks burn almost as bright as your heart. There’s nothing in your mind, nothing you know how to say, so you turn into his palm, and press a lingering kiss to his skin, earning the pleasure of a short, sharp gasp. You smile as his cheeks flush darker than you’ve seen before, painted a dusky rose, and, emboldened, kiss him softly again upon the heel of his hand.

Barbatos chuckles, brightly, and steals your hand to press his own kiss to your fingers, lips lingering, warm and soft. His breath huffs lightly over your skin as a giggle morphs into full laughter, and your heart stutters; you’ve never heard anything quite like it from him before. It’s contagious, light and rich and warm as steam curling from the teapot, drawing a chuckle from your chest, but all too soon he covers his mouth, stifling the sound to something more controlled.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Six of the most powerful demon lords vying for your attention. I know that was not your intention, but after what you’ve done, you could have had your choice.” His eyes scrunch in a dark sort of delight. “Six demon lords, and you’re lavishing your affection on the royal butler .” He’s giggling again, this time in that bubbling, caramel tone you’ve enjoyed before. “The Brothers are going to be exceptionally envious.”

You’d like to feel guilty, or at least sympathetic, if what Barbatos says is true. But after this morning… “I suppose they’ll just have to come to terms with that.” Gently, you squeeze the hand that still holds yours. Affection. Something light and sweet blossoms behind your ribs.

He returns the gesture, eyes drifting closed, though a devious smile still curls his mouth. “If that is what you wish.”

The fluttering of your heart goes straight to your head in a soft, gentle hum, and you smooth your thumb over the back of Barbatos’ hand. Slowly, contentedly, he returns the gesture.

You watch for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his every breath. “Do you need to sleep again?”

Barbatos sighs, tugging your hand close to his chest. “Soon. I will likely rest…” He considers, glancing off into space as though trying to recall some minute detail. “...four more days.”

Four days? “Then—why are you awake now?” Surely he should be sleeping, shouldn’t have woken at all...

“I wanted to see you,” he says, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, and you think the flush that has spread to the tips of your ears might just become permanent. “And I waited to do so until Diavolo departed as his… exuberance would have exhausted me faster.”

Yes, you can easily imagine Diavolo’s boisterous, high energy wearing you thin if he had been the one to greet you last night. A smile tugs at your lips. “Should I not mention that I’ve spoken with you?”

“There is no need to keep it secret; I suspect he understands the situation.” Ah, and there is the all-knowing, little smile.

“Diavolo did make some… insinuations,” you recall.

“Does that trouble you?”

“Well… not exactly. It did bother me that I hadn’t spoken with you yet, while he seemed to think—” Oh. Oh. You’d been distracted, but when the prince gave you that look after you admitted that you had been to Barbatos’ drawing room before...

“Yes?”

“I…” Clear your throat, which suddenly seems a little inadequate for the oxygen and words you’re looking for. “I think he’s under the impression that we’ve… been seeing each other.”

His brow creases for half a moment before softening with amusement. “ Ah.” He closes his eyes again. “My lord would think that was the natural progression of things; this has developed rather quickly, and out of order, from our perspective.” He draws a deep, slow breath, like the kind that appears halfway to sleep. “A demon’s perspective.”

You have at least four questions now, but you don’t want to keep him awake, so you squeeze his hand lightly. “You should rest.”

Barbatos makes a soft sound of affirmation. “You may join me, if you wish.” He looks at you just in time to witness what must be an impressive mess of shapes without sound as your mouth opens and closes, unable to find any words. Gently, he tugs at your wrist. “You must require more rest.”

He is not wrong; you find you’re more drained than normal, and you have only been up a few hours, but—is this not a bit fast? Then again… how many times have you fallen asleep in a pile of demons already? And, really, Barbatos is wearing more clothes than Mammon sometimes wears to sleep. Yet—you feel as though he is entirely naked.

You’re interrupted by a light, polite laugh. “You needn’t if you do not wish to.”

“I’m overthinking,” you confess. After all, you share a bed with your friends regularly. This isn’t different just because you feel so tenderly for him.

He relinquishes your hand with a soft smile, and closes his eyes again. “Take your time, nykin.”

Five questions. But you slip out of your boots, and take a deep breath, then, carefully, climb onto the bed, knees sinking almost immediately into the mattress, much softer than you’re accustomed. You think you see Barbatos’ mouth curve upward just a little more, but he doesn’t move otherwise, doesn’t peek, as you retrieve one of the unused pillows and settle on your side—but not too close.

There is a small shift in weight on the bed, and it's not until you feel fabric creeping over your legs that you realize it is his tail moving sluggishly to tug the blanket up and over your hips. But it doesn’t move back down the foot of the bed once that task is complete; instead, his tail settles heavily, gently across your thighs, rolls lightly up your spine, nestled against your back.

“Is that all right?” He’s watching your reaction intently.

You nod against the pillow, and reach for his hand again, which he relinquishes easily, folding into yours. “Sleep well, darling.”

The words are long gone before you realize what you’ve said, but Barbatos’ eyes are closed, and a smile lingers on his lips.

It is the scent, first, of ashes and ink, of early morning mist and winter’s clean edge. You don’t recognize it immediately, beyond demon, but when you open your eyes, well, it certainly couldn’t have been anyone else. The weight of Barbatos’ embrace still presses into the small of your back, his fingers still soft against yours; you hadn’t moved at all in your sleep, probably worried about disturbing him. There is still enough light from the windows to soften the edges of his face, to highlight the curve of his mouth, to smooth away the lines around his eyes. He looks… happier, now, than when you arrived, and you are inclined to believe you’re not imagining it. Absently, you let your fingers run across the skin of his palm, down to the wrist, and linger there a while under a silken sleeve.

Your stomach rudely reminds you that it is time to eat again, but you’re not ready to move just yet, so you turn only a little, and take in the rest of the room properly. While the drawing room was fairly small, and sparsely furnished, this one hardly resembles the room of a servant—these are the quarters of a duke brought into the prince’s palace. Beyond the foot of the bed, amongst the paned, Georgian windows is a massive bay window with a soft perch nestled below for lounging, complete with pillows of myriad shapes and a small duvet.

On the far wall, beyond where Barbatos lies, there is a large armoire, countless shelves, and several chests. While it is apparent that everything has a place, there are strange devices and artifacts of all kinds scattered about—many appear to be some variety of time-keeping instrument. An interesting thought, that, since—

“I knew he would recognize you!” The voice does its best to be hushed, but there’s too much damned told-you-so sunshiny glee crammed into it to make such attempts effective.

You freeze, trying not to roll over abruptly, though you’re sure you couldn’t wake Barbatos now if you tried. You open your mouth to say something, but what? Please excuse me for getting into bed with your butler, I swear I can explain? “Lord Diavolo—”

“Sorry! Sorry…” He’s whisper-yelling now. “I was just hoping you’d join me for dinner.”

That had been the plan. “Yes, I’ll just…” You absolutely cannot look at him. “Give me a moment, please.”

“Of course, of course! I’ll wait in the drawing room; we have much to discuss.”

You don’t move until you hear the door shut, and even then, you do so slowly, gradually, giving first a light squeeze to Barbatos’ fingers before letting them go, inching your hands gently back to your sides, leveraging yourself up and out from under his tail. Your ears burn when you realize you’ll have to use your hands to help move the weight off your legs, as you’ve run out of mattress, and you try your best to be… clinical and prudent about it. But you can’t help noticing how smooth the skin of his tail is, like soft, supple leather; there is a light texture to it, not unlike that of silk, no scales to speak of, just…

You adjust the blanket carefully, try to make sure he’s still comfortable, and don’t consider it any further. But it makes no difference as you join Lord Diavolo in the sitting room, for your face is burning to the tips of your ears anyway.

The prince is half-lounging on the loveseat so he can see you over its back, smirking in a manner that is one raised brow from lascivious. “So, how is he?”

Perhaps one day you’ll learn a spell that will allow you to melt yourself into the floor. “Still tired. He only spoke to me for a few minutes and went back to sleep.”

Diavolo nods, and pushes himself off the seat with a stretch. “That’s to be expected. Did he mention how long he would need?”

“Four days.”

“Oh—that’s not long at all! Nothing to worry about, then.” He gestures toward the door, and you exit through it into a hall on the ground floor. “I’m glad you got the chance to talk with him. For dinner, I’m afraid we have more… unpleasant matters to discuss. If you wish to refresh yourself, please feel free to do so; I’ll be in the dining hall—we still have about fifteen minutes before dinner service.”

You are seated almost directly at Lord Diavolo’s right hand; there is one empty chair occupying that space, but you are next, and, while the table is set fully and formally, no one comes to take the seat, nor to take Lucifer’s on his left. Upon the banquet table lays a feast fit to feed ten, and, dimly, you wonder what will happen to the food that shall surely go uneaten. There’s roast wyvern and a grilled fish you don’t recognize that’s almost as big as you are, and Arbianock flits about the room like the shadow of a moth, refilling your glass, serving whatever you want before you even ask for it. Even if you can’t name every side dish, you’re sure you have tasted them all before, and accept portions gratefully… but you can’t seem to taste much of what is on your plate over the measured, grave pace of the prince’s voice:

“I avoided mentioning it this morning—” He fixes you beneath a golden gaze, cutting his food without even glancing at it. “—but I know you’re already aware that Belphegor has been released, as agreed, to his normal life in the House of Lamentation. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that these were the agreed terms for your successful mission.”

“You do not.”

“And it wasn’t all for nothing; this did clear up a great many questions for me, beyond who opened the door. Suspicions about your lineage are confirmed, and—”

“My lineage?”

“Hm? Yes, it seems Lilith not only shared her power with you, but you are a distant descendant of her human incarnation.”

Suspected lineage. The fork’s handle digs into your forefinger. “Did you know? Excuse me; I apologize for interrupting, but did you know when I was selected for the program that I was… somehow linked to Lilith?”

Diavolo shakes his head. “No. Your lineage wasn’t even a thought until you borrowed Solomon’s magic, and he commented on your ability to invoke more power than you had shown aptitude for previously—and I had no suspicions about you being Lilith’s descendant until Belphegor reappeared.”

Descendant. Is that really all you are? An accident of Fate? Lilith never used that word, never said…

“It was quite the surprise, but… these things do have a habit of coming back around.”

You had both been served a glass of water and a glass of demonus; it is the demonus he sips from now, as his words settle over the table like fog.

“What do you mean?”

“All things are made up of patterns.” He hums. “The universe exists in a state of raw discord—call that chaos , if you will—and Existence is the movement of this energy, this matter, into comprehensible patterns. For instance, a simple thing: fire. All its parts exist, latent, in the atmosphere, but when circumstances push them together in a set, predictable pattern—” He snaps, and a small flame dances between his fingers. “—it springs into being. People, animals, plants, thoughts, every element you can conceive, whole worlds… just like this.” Scarlet and saffron, it licks across his skin. “Patterns. We call it magic, angels call it order; humans, I think, are calling it ‘science’ nowadays.” With a careless wave, the flame winks out. “So, when I transformed Lilith’s Being into a human shape… of course the action would come back here, where it started. Like the tide, everything craves balance; a push, a pull, the elements fall back into disarray but find another pattern. Without it, there is nothing.” Thoughtfully, he examines the space where the flame once was. “And yet… we have the power to create patterns of our own. In a whirling existence of order and discord, we can decide what it all means. Call that… Destiny.”

You’re my successor, Ambrose, because you chose to try. You think you can almost touch the edge of what is known like this. A strange turn in the pit of your stomach, like you’ve contemplated what nonexistence would feel like for a little too long.

“Ah, but I don’t mean to lecture you! How dreadfully dull.” Diavolo chuckles. “Listen to me; I’m starting to sound like Barbatos—please don’t tell him!” His fork catches the light as it twists through his fingers. “Now, I started all this because… aha! Yes.” He sobers. “I cannot remove Belphegor from the House of Lamentation because of the deal you and I made. And frankly, I don’t want to. It would benefit him not at all to misbehave now, so I doubt he’ll try anything further; from his perspective, there’s no sense in jeopardizing his extraordinarily good fortune. However, if it would make you more comfortable, I can have you moved to Purgatory Hall either temporarily, or for the remainder of the year.” Here, the prince straightens, and leans slightly toward you over the table. “But I hope you don’t doubt that Lucifer and his brothers care for you.”

Your heart aches, protesting in your chest. “I don’t.” You know they care, but you know they are loyal to their brother, too. That, maybe, their loyalty should be to him first. And that you…

You…

You used the pacts against them without even thinking.

“Good! After all, half the Devildom would like to be you right now, if only for the benefits. And yet, you seem to be completely unaware of, or care not at all for, that kind of thing. Power? You ask for nothing. Riches, sex, unlimited knowledge? Not a single bargain, not one favor. Your complete lack of ambition is truly a marvel!” His smile is radiant. Your head is spinning. You’re not sure whether you’ve been insulted or praised or a bit of both, and just can’t bring yourself to bother untangling it.

You used the pacts to strip your friends of their will.

“Still... all the same, would you like me to have your quarters moved for a while?”

“N—” Tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. “No. Thank you. I… have to go back.”

Diavolo hums, the sound resonating in his chest. “I respect your decision, though you needn’t return to the House until you’re ready. After all, you are, of course, welcome to stay here for as long as you like during Barbatos’ recovery. You are free to come and go as you please.”

The temptation is very real. You need to—you want… you wish to confide in someone, to ask about what you’ve done, seek advice on the course of action, but Barbatos is not available. Reach for your water goblet, stomach heavy with knots.

“I can have someone fetch anything you need for this evening,” the prince suggests, slowly, and you realize with no small embarrassment that you haven’t responded to him at all.

“I’m sorry.” Concentrate on a long, warm sip of water, feel the way it restores your dry throat. “I am very grateful for the invitation, Lord Diavolo, but I… I’ll need to at least fetch my own things. I have to at least apologize.”

His brow arches. “Apologize? What for? The way I heard it, Belphegor antagonized you.”

Fingers curl tight around the goblet’s stem. “I won’t be apologizing to Belphegor.” There’s a whisper of sensation curling around your forearm.

“Ah, of course; I heard that your rage was quite something.”

It disappears without a trace, and you find your hand shaking, so you set the glass upon the table, and let your arm rest there, gaze fixed on the silk of your sleeve, contrasting sharply against the black tablecloth. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

Diavolo’s brow twists. “You’re… going to apologize for... being angry?”

Well, it looks like you’re confessing to the prince himself, and it’s too late to stop now. “I used the pacts to keep them all from interfering.” You avoid covering your face, though only just, by shoving your hands into your lap. Like a naughty child . But isn’t that what you are for letting your anger control you? “I was so angry, I… I just took away their ability to act. Made what I wanted more important.”

“Everyone?”

Struggle to think back. “All… except Asmodeus and Leviathan, because they weren’t there, or—I didn’t notice they were there. And Lucifer, of course, but…” Your heart seizes. “Only because I couldn’t.”

Diavolo is silent for a moment. “And you think that was... wrong?”

"Of course it was wrong!"

But Diavolo looks dumbfounded. "Then was it wrong to use your pact with Beelzebub to keep him from fighting me back in Purgatory Hall?"

"That's nowhere near the same thing. I was stopping a fight, not starting one."

"So the issue is that you wanted to fight, and decided to prevent anyone from stopping you?" He tilts his head. "Well, you didn't intend to try to kill Belphegor this morning, did you? If so, I would like to suggest that a porcelain serving platter is perhaps not the best method you could have chosen." He has the audacity to giggle. "Though I would have liked to see it."

"Of course I wouldn't try to kill him, and—" Your stomach rolls dangerously. "—certainly not while they watched. He's their brother."

"And yet, you would have been well within your rights to try. He tried to kill you , and is now beyond formal punishment from the crown for that action. Taking it into your own hands is not inappropriate."

"Diavolo, I prevented them from being able to stop me even if they wanted to more than anything. Is that not cruel? I enforced my will over theirs. Their bodies wouldn’t obey them, they couldn’t—couldn’t even speak—"

"Now stop that."

Your cheeks light with shame even as you balk at the command.

"They gave you that power in order to put you on more equal footing with them, and with other demons. Do you think they did it without expecting that you could use it as a tool of wrath or envy or greed? Tell me, how is utilizing your power different from any one of them restraining you physically to prevent your will from being enacted?"

When laid out that way—

Even so… "I shouldn't have done it out of anger."

"Ambrose, for a demon, your intentions matter. In Purgatory Hall, you invoked the pact to protect Beelzebub from himself. This morning, you used the pacts to protect your completely justified desire to confront Belphegor. I don’t believe you would ever intend to harm the brothers, and you certainly didn't today, if this guilt is any indication."

"No, I didn't." It eases some of the pain in your chest, until you recall the wrath that swam through your blood. "Well... except Belphegor.” Fingers curl into palms. “But now I'm just… tired. And I'm sorry I didn't even let them have the opportunity to stand up for him."

Diavolo leans back in his chair. "Then apologize. Humans seem so… tangled up in what they ‘should’ and ‘shouldn't’ be allowed to feel that they stop thinking about why they’re feeling. Nearly every one of the brothers has threatened your well-being in a moment of passion, and yet, you act like keeping them rooted to the floor for a moment is some grave injustice because you did it while you were angry." He folds his arms across his chest. "Sometimes, I wonder if you just believe you don't have the right to your own choices, your own Destiny."

Your nails are cutting into your palms. Lamplight glints, blood-red and bright through an untouched glass of demonus. “Do you… consider Destiny and Fate different things, Diavolo?”

“Yes. I believe Destiny is precisely what I told you: creation and change through will; it is your choice, your power over the shape of your life. Fate, on the other hand, is how you start. It is the circumstances you’re given and the world you live in, and it is where you will be at the end of all things. But Destiny is how you arrive there, how you’ll shape what that final Fate may be; nobody has a say in how they begin, but they do have a hand in how it ends.”

“That must be very easy for you to say.”

“It wasn’t always.”

When you look up, the half-smile on his lips has the character of a grimace, distant and self-deprecating, disarming in its sincerity. But then it’s gone, blown away on the faint breeze stirred by the opening of a door.

“Would you like to take dessert and tea in the parlor, my lord?”

You hadn’t even noticed Arbianock was gone.

Diavolo glances sidelong at you, but you find you have no opinion on the matter. With a sigh, the prince shakes his head. “No, I think we’ll both be tending to our own business this evening, but I’ll take some in my office. Ambrose… if you change your mind about moving your quarters or requesting assistance, please, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

When you left the House of Lamentation this morning, you had not even had time to consider that you were walking the streets unescorted for the first time since your arrival in the Devildom. Now, as the scant evening light begins to fade into night, you’re painfully aware of every shadow, each unfamiliar face that lingers on a street-corner. And…

They are studiously avoiding eye-contact. That seems rather backward, but you’re certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, nor slow your steps, as much as you dread arriving at the estate.

The house’s slouching gables seem more grievous than unusual beneath the silver moon, the spire painfully lonesome. Would anyone notice, do you suppose, if you just turned around and retraced your steps into town? There is not a single insect chirping tonight, no mournful breeze. The house sits, uncharacteristically silent. Perhaps no one is even home.

Your stomach turns. Is it because you fear you won’t have the opportunity to see them, or because you might?

The air has taken on a chill edge, and you are not dressed for it; you can’t stand on the street forever. So, with a miserably unfortifying breath, you try the door, and find it unlocked.

The entrance hall is dark, and silent, but the halls beyond are lit… someone must be home. You make your steps as light as possible. Should you stop by your room first? If you do, what next? What if no one wants to speak with you? What if—

“Good evening, Ambrose.” Lucifer’s hands rest on the balcony rail, at the top of the stairs.

There is no hiding the way you flinched. “Good evening.”

He makes no move toward the stairs. “How was your visit?”

“Good.” Anything else sticks in your throat.

“Mm.”

Silence.

Your heart sinks; you had rather thought you two were beyond this. Perhaps you returned too soon… or, too late.

“Are you… here to retrieve your things?” He’s not looking at you, not quite.

Take a deep breath, curl your fingers into your palms. “I wanted to talk to you. Everyone. But—I’m—well... I’m sorry.” You look at your feet. “For this morning.”

Lucifer sighs. “Let’s not stand in the hall.” He descends the stairs briskly, gloved fingers lingering lightly on the rail. “Come along.”

You follow close on his heels to the common room, where he lights a fire with a careless flick of his wrist. As you pass him to find a seat on the sofa, his brow quirks, nose wrinkled, but says only: “I trust you weren’t harassed in the streets on the way back?”

“No.” You sit on the edge of the leather cushion, not quite willing to be comfortable. “Actually, I noticed… they seemed to want to avoid me.”

“Yes; I didn’t worry this morning, as the wrath rolling off of you was potent enough to make any lesser demon think twice, to make no mention of your pacts.” He paces in front of the fire, blocking the heat for a moment, casting long, wavering shadows across carpet and wood. “I also suspect that the story of what happened—some version of it, anyway—has made its rounds. If anyone does touch you now that you can reach the power of your pacts, knowing what you are willing to risk… what we are willing to risk… I will be shocked.”

“What I’m willing to risk?”

Lucifer nods. “It would be plucking wings to get most demons to outright admit it, but humans are widely regarded as dangerous. Yes, you had no magic of your own when you came here, and required protection because you would have been eaten, and you know now—” He turns away, light from the flames flickering across his face until you see only his back. “You know how easily we can kill. But a human willing to risk their life for something is formidable, even without magic—such willingness is remarkable, a novelty to demons. A human willing to die for their cause is unpredictable, able to do things even a demon or an angel cannot, under normal circumstances, achieve.”

That just… doesn’t seem possible. “Surely a demon or an angel has to be even more dangerous than a human when they’re risking their lives for something they believe is right.”

He looks back at you, a small smirk drawing his lips. “Yes.” Then his brow furrows; he shakes his head. “But you don’t understand. We don’t risk our well-being lightly, and our lives… perhaps a single instance across the realms, once an eon, and rarely for another being.”

That doesn’t seem right at all. Didn’t every one of the brothers risk their lives for Lilith? Didn’t Barbatos sacrifice, not his life, but his health, to keep you alive?

“I know what you’re thinking, but my family shares an unusually strong bond; what we did, even as angels, was unprecedented. For a demon, even risking one’s well-being is tantamount to love. Risking one’s life, to a demon or angel, is… it’s an expression of utmost devotion, the purest gesture of love we know.” Finally, he settles in a high-backed chair. “And yet… humans, with their short lives, their little blink of existence… so many of them do it all the time.” Lucifer folds his arms, shakes his head. “You did it for a few demons you’ve known for even fewer months; that, I suspect, I will never understand. But it doesn’t mean that I am not… grateful.”

The fire crackles. He sighs deeply.

“I did intend to tell you about Belphegor this morning.”

That shatters your daze. You fold your hands tightly in your lap, study a scuff along side-table from what you suspect was a pair of Asmodeus’ heels. “Why didn’t you?”

“You were meant to wait for Mammon, who would escort you to breakfast once Belphegor had gotten his plate. I would have warned you once the rest of us sat down and had something to eat.”

“I didn’t follow the plan.”

A wry smile that quickly disappears. “You rarely do. I should have sent Mammon earlier. Or gone myself. Or made Belphegor wait for his breakfast until the rest of us had eaten.” He crosses his legs at the ankle. “Yes—you didn’t follow instructions, but by now I should be prepared for that.”

Wring your fingers together, cracking the joints. “I was hungry, and I completely forgot you had said it... I think I was nearly asleep when you told me to wait for Mammon; I didn’t intend to ignore you.”

“I won’t hold it against you.”

That's… unexpected. You look up to meet his eyes, but he can’t hold your gaze for more than a moment before tilting his head, glancing away.

“I… understand if you don’t wish to return, but we’ll have to break the news to my brothers carefully.” A heaviness in the air, like poorly masked despair.

All this time, he thought…? “Lucifer, I’m not leaving. Well—I am, tonight, but I’m not moving out. I’ll only be staying at the castle a couple days, until Barbatos is well.”

“Oh.” His brows arch. “I see. That’s good. I mean to say, I am glad that you won’t be leaving; it saves me the trouble of consoling my brothers.” But he’s smiling; you both know what he really means.

Your heart is lighter, but—“I still need to apologize to them.”

A nod. “Before I summon them… how was Barbatos when you saw him?”

“He was sleeping, but he woke briefly to talk with me; he said he would need to sleep for four more days.”

“And you’ll be staying at the castle during that time?”

“Yes.”

“With him?”

His eyes are scarlet, blood-red, black, and your throat sticks. “More or less.”

Lucifer holds your gaze for a moment. Two. Three. He rises from his seat by the fire. “You know this is… highly unusual.”

“Yes.”

He stops, rests his hand on the back of the chaise, halfway to the door, brows pinched thoughtfully. “Did Barbatos say anything else?”

You are free to touch me. If you would stay for a while, until I sleep again, I would consider it a reciprocal gesture. I’m glad now that I never looked; it’s much better as a surprise. The brothers are going to be exceptionally envious. You may join me, if you wish. Ineffectively adjust your cuff-less sleeves. “A few things… why?”

“Did he say why he did it?”

There is only one thing Lucifer could be talking about. “No, but I thanked him.”

He nods, drums his fingers on the polished wood, and turns away.

“But—” There is something that has been nagging at your mind. Lucifer returns his attention to you. “—Lord Diavolo did suggest… even though Barbatos was certainly acting in the Exchange Program’s interests… that he didn’t have to do things the way he did. What does that mean?”

Lucifer opens his mouth. Shuts it. “That is a question for Barbatos himself.” And he closes the distance to the door.

“Hey.” Beelzebub hovers awkwardly in your doorway, so you pause after tucking another set of socks into the duffel bag Leviathan had graciously loaned you (TSL-themed, with the pattern from Henry’s armor on it; he’d stuttered that he had another in pristine condition anyway, so there was no reason for you not to borrow it).

“You can come in, Beel.”

There is a nervous churn in your stomach that most definitely isn’t yours; you need to learn how to filter these things out when you don’t need them sooner rather than later. Some of the others appear to be able to shield their feelings, but Beelzebub…

He keeps looking at the table and the books you have placed there, at the bed where your clothes are laid out. After a moment, he settles on staring at the floor. "I wish you wouldn't go."

Your heart softens. "Beel… it's only for a few days."

"I know." He tucks his hands against his chest, fingers hugging one wrist. When you gently nudge his elbow, he meets your eyes. "I'm sorry."

But… he didn't do anything wrong. "For what?"

"Belphie." He looks at the floor again. "I should've known. I wish… I wish I'd pressed Lucifer harder about getting to talk to him or—I should've known . He's my brother. And now you're leaving because—" He swallows. "...I'm sorry."

“I’m not leaving forever.” There's a lump in your throat. "Beel… it's not your fault. It's not your fault you didn't know where Belphegor was, that you trusted Lucifer, and certainly not… not what Belphegor did."

“I’m trying to talk to him.” He draws a deep breath through his nose. “I wish I could say I didn’t get it. Why he did it.”

A sharp pain in your chest. “Beel, you would never—”

But he shakes his head, slowly. “Belphie doesn’t know you. He doesn’t care. It’s just like when you first came here… I didn’t care, either. Nobody did. You’re just—just a thing that reminds him of…” A deep crease settles between his brows, around the corners of his mouth. “Of everything… of when Lilith died.” His voice trembles like the hum of a bee. “And he hates it. And—I’m sorry.”

You look at the floor, pull a chair out from the table, and sit heavily in it, stomach in knots that don’t belong to you. “Please don't keep apologizing.” Your head is starting to hurt. “I—” Sigh. Fold your hands together tightly. “I can’t pretend I know what it feels like. But… there is a difference between you and your brother: you gave me a chance. Belphegor also had the opportunity to get to know me a little; I visited him, stayed and talked. But I suppose… it just wasn’t enough. He doesn’t want to care, Beel, but you gave me a chance.” There is a slight tremble in your fingers, so you twine them further together. “And… yes; Belphegor and I will have to talk eventually if I’m going to be here—and I do want to be here. But… not today.”

Slowly, he nods. “Okay. ...okay.” He reaches for the other chair, hesitates—but you nod, and he folds himself into it.

You try giving him a small smile, but judging by the half-grimace he returns, it wasn’t a particularly successful effort. In the silence that follows, you take turns staring at the dark wood of the table, at the neatly stacked textbooks. Devildom History on the bottom. Introduction to Infernal next, with the supplemental workbook, Runes, Sigils, and Script. On top, a thin volume of Hex and Mutability: the Theoretical Groundwork.

“It hurt so much .”

There’s such a pain in your chest that it takes your breath away, and your hand finds his arm, grips it tightly over the table.

Beelzebub doesn’t look up, hair shadowing his face. “I haven’t told Belphie yet. He’s not ready. But it—it hurt so much when you called me. H e hurt you. You were going to die. ” His large hand covers yours, squeezing over his arm, a pressure you can latch onto. “I know why you were angry at him today, but I still couldn’t let you…” Finally, he meets your eyes, gaze burning, shining with unshed tears. “I don’t want anyone else to hurt.”

Damn it. You rest your other hand on top of Beel’s. Swallow the dampness in your throat, threatening your eyes. “I don’t, either. But—” A single tear that isn’t yours, lingering on your skin. “I can’t stay right now.”

He nods, slowly. “You’re worried about Barbatos.”

Oh.

“I… am, yes.”

Beelzebub squeezes your hand one more time, and lets it return to your lap.

“How do you know that?” Your unspoken communication isn’t going both directions when you don’t mean to, is it?

“You’re not going to Purgatory Hall.” He shrugs. “And before everything, he was giving you lots of sweets. I know, because you shared, and you’d go all pink when I asked how you got them, just like you are now.” He smiles—but then his stomach makes a terrible gurgle. “Oh, no… now I’m hungry.”

He’s right, but you’re smiling now, too. “Go get something to eat, and if you want… you can help me pack up. I might even have a sweet stashed away, though it’ll be a little old, I suppo—”

“You do. I can smell it.”

The giggle that draws is stuttering, but genuine. “Go get your snack, Beel.”

Arbianock absolutely insisted upon carrying the duffel bag to your temporary quarters, but you managed to hold on to your backpack. The room—can it be simply called a room , with arching windows and gossamer curtains?—to which she leads you is easily thrice the size of your bedroom at the House of Lamentation, with your own bathroom and… is that door open to a sitting room?

“This is extremely generous,” you manage, as the butler sets your borrowed bag on a chest at the foot of a king-sized, sleigh bed done in soft, dove grey and jewel tones of green and blue.

But she doesn’t crack even the slightest smile, her face resting in pleasant neutrality. “Lord Diavolo respects you a great deal, and he has no other guests.” Immediately, she sets about sorting your clothes into an elaborate chestnut dresser with scrolling embellishments along its edges, not hearing a single word of your protest. “And though you refused to stay with Master Barbatos, we would not consider giving you anything less than quarters of equal status.”

There goes the thought of possibly insisting that you don’t need such an extravagant set of rooms for three days. But the ceiling is frescoed. Frescoed! Your head is hurting again. You are quite sure you weren't even this stressed the first time someone tried to kill you.

The first time.

Oh, dear.

“I have also taken the liberty of drawing you a bath; I’m sure you’re ready to retire.”

Arbianock definitely has not left your side since you arrived... “How did you know when I would arrive and that I’d be staying in this room rather than with Barbatos as Lord Diavolo expected?”

“I had prepared two baths, just to be sure, perhaps an hour ago.”

“And they don’t get cold?” You really shouldn’t be surprised by magic bathtubs in the castle, but...

This time, she does let her mouth relax into the slightest smirk, lavender eyes glinting. “They wouldn’t dare.”

The tea won’t get cold if it knows what’s good for it. Clearly, Barbatos taught her everything she knows. You nod, slowly, and set your backpack beside the chest at the foot of the bed, and close your eyes. “Thank you.”

“Would you like me to assist you?”

“In the bath?”

“Yes.”

“No, thank you—that’s…” You fold your hands together and meet her eyes. “You’ve helped me a great deal; thank you. I’ll just bathe and get some sleep.”

She bows, giving you a full view of the ring of braids woven amongst the mushrooms at the crown of her head, orange and brown and purple and red-speckled. “There is a selection of soaps and salts at the edge of the tub, and should you require assistance, there is a bell within reach; if you require anything in the night, even if it’s simply a cup of tea, do ring. You are quite safe, but wandering about the castle at night, alone, is not advisable.”

“Thank you, Arbianock, for everything. I’ll call if I need something.” You won’t. But not because her offer doesn’t seem genuine.

“Good night, Ser.”

“You really don’t need to—”

But she is gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

You sigh. The carpet beneath your feet is cream and turquoise and you really feel like you shouldn’t be standing on it with shoes. A fire already flickering merrily in a hearth that opens into the sitting room means it is not too cold to strip and make your way to the bath without further thought, though you do tuck your boots and dirty clothes into the empty duffel bag that Arbianock had stored in the large chest at the foot of the bed.

The bathroom is… just as extravagant as the bedroom. A bathtub—plenty large enough to seat twelve—is set into the floor below another fireplace, this one shielded with fanciful wire mesh that allows light to play through a delicate depiction of climbing roses. The tub itself is marble, with several perches below the water’s surface, and, as promised, various soaps, salts, and other products sit lined on a marble shelf within easy reach. Dark tiles cross the floor, perhaps basalt, and the walls are the same cream-colored plaster as the bedroom, accented with subtle reliefs in the shape of arches, painted with bronze.

You try to ignore the opulence as you slip into the water, bypassing the salts and soaps… deciding what to add to the bath would be entirely too much effort. Water envelops your body, almost too hot to be comfortable; carefully, you settle on a perch that leaves you submerged to your neck, and close your eyes.

The air smells faintly spicy—of the fire above which casts dancing shadows behind your eyelids—and sweet—of subtle, floral notes probably drifting from the shelf of soap and salt. There’s… lilac in it, and roses, like Asmodeus’ perfumed handkerchief.

All of them forgave you, quickly, as Diavolo had predicted, but your cheeks still burn with shame: it should never have happened. You must hold yourself to a higher standard; you always have, always must. You can’t afford to lose your temper. The damage you do is greater than whatever petty relief you might feel from lashing out.

Take a slow, deep breath, and release it amid the heavy steam.

Look, nobody’s mad at ya for bein’ angry, you know?

We’re all angry.

And we told ya, you’re family now. That didn’t change.

An ache in your chest. They were so kind, more forgiving than most humans. And you left . And all because...

Plunge beneath the surface. The gentle, muffled sound of space folds over your ears, the slow hum of water drowning the phantom sensation of nerves alight with pain, of limbs that won’t move, of slicing breaths. Stay, enveloped in the warmth until your lungs begin to burn instead, and push yourself upright, where the air strikes your skin, pleasantly cool.

It’s not fair. The burn along the base of your spine blends with the bath.

You’re envious of… of what, all the things that could have been?

Everything had been going so well! Belphegor would have been free, the bond of the seven brothers strengthened after learning the truth about Lilith, the House of Lamentation pieced back together... and you would return to Barbatos, waiting for you on the other side of the Time-door, relieved, perfectly well, not too exhausted to lift his head, nor—

It’s not fair . You were happy . You were so, so happy before Belphegor left the attic, before you admitted what you had done for him, just attending classes and waking up to breakfast with your friends, going into town with Mammon and Asmo, trading books with Satan, settling in for a TSL marathon with Levi, making midnight kitchen runs with Beel, playing chess with Lucifer and Diavolo. Looking forward to stealing a glance in the hallway from Barbatos before tea, where you could savor his smile, to continue sitting slowly closer and closer together each week—

Is it such a sin—is it such a sin to just be happy? To be simple and happy for just a little while? Must it go awry? Must it be complicated? Must you be punished? Must you die for it?

It’s not fair. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

Your eyes are hot, wet, spilling tears in that easy, warm way that they do while you’re bathing, blending with the damp already on your cheeks until they’re so diluted you can’t tell your tears from the bathwater. And then you’re coughing, then choking out racking sobs that echo sharp, too sharp, off the stone and marble and plaster. Clap your hands over your mouth, but it does not stop the shake of your shoulders, the uncontrolled rock of your body in the water.

“...Ambrose?”

“Hm?” You glance up from the bone-china cup clasped between your fingers.

“You seem distracted.” Simeon’s brow creases. “And you look very tired; is everything all right?”

“Yes! I’m sorry.” Take another sip; it tastes like mint and something floral, with the bright flavor that accompanies most teas from the Celestial Realm which would, ordinarily, feel energizing. “I just… didn’t sleep very well last night. I apologize.” Actually, you’re not sure you slept at all in the plush, borrowed bed, visions of that day flickering through your mind, tangled up amongst yesterday’s guilt and turmoil.

“You don’t need to apologize for that. I can make a more restorative tea, if it’ll help, but it’s no replacement for real sleep.”

Smile. “No, thank you, that’s all right; I’m enjoying this one… I’ll just try to go to bed earlier tonight.” It seems you’re nothing but a disaster lately. “You’ve done quite enough to help me recently—I’m supposed to be here thanking you.”

“And I already told you that you don’t need to thank me.” The lamps in his room imitate the sun, and when he shakes his head, they light on his dark hair, glowing radiantly. “Do you really think I wouldn’t help you, knowing that I have the ability to do it?”

Your cheeks heat. “No.”

“Then don’t fret.” He chuckles lightly, musically. “I only did what you’d do if the roles were reversed. It was the right thing.”

“I—I’m glad you think so highly of me.” Take another drink of your tea, already growing cold. “Are you sure you’re all right? Lucifer mentioned that you were exhausted afterward, too.”

“Of course; I’m perfectly fine now. You were… well—there was quite a lot of damage. The Belphegor I knew...” He purses his lips, a shadow falling over his face. “The Belphegor I knew would never have done such a thing, and certainly not to a human.” He drinks from his own cup, frowns into it. “But even so, I didn’t have to do quite as much work as Barbatos did, and the healing process took more energy from you than it did of me.”

“When you say ‘not to a human’, you mean because he loved them so much?”

“Yes... I suppose his brothers already told you about that.”

“They did but it’s… somewhat difficult to imagine now. I can only assume he placed the blame on humanity because it was the only target he could reach, after…” Your fingers tighten in your lap. “Even so—doesn’t he hate the angels that sided against his brothers?” His inner iris seems to contract, blues and greens swirling tempestuously. Your stomach drops. “I—I’m sorry; I wouldn’t wish it on you. I know you cared very much about Lucifer before, and it couldn’t have been—”

Simeon smiles, waving his hand, but the lines around his eyes are terse, tense. “Don’t worry. I’m not offended. It is rather strange to think he doesn’t, but I suspect he hasn’t forgiven us, even if he does seem to hate humanity more than heaven.”

Fingers tighten around the delicate curves of your cup. “Even so, it wasn’t very considerate of me.”

“Things have been very hard for you,” he says firmly, a definite argument against your apology. “None of this is your fault, and it’s not fair that you were drawn into our ancient business.” The room is suddenly a little brighter, you think, a little warmer, like a bit of sunlight catching on your skin. “Give yourself more credit,” Simeon murmurs, warmly, and oh, no , you’re going to cry again.

“Ambrose!”

You don’t get the chance as a solid weight comes careening into the back of your chair, noisily sloshing the tea in your cup.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over!”

Swallow over the remaining lump in your throat. “Sorry, Luke. I didn’t know you wouldn’t be here, and when Simeon said you would be home soon, I thought it might be a good surprise.”

The angel slides around your chair and throws his arms about your neck, smooshing your head against his chest, where the brooch that holds his necktie in place sticks painfully into your cheek, but… the comfort radiating from the rest of his little being is well worth that small ache. “I’m so happy you’re okay!”

Simeon, thankfully, takes your tea so that you can return the embrace. “And I’m very happy to see you.” Hugs from Luke feel just like seeing a rainbow as it stretches through the sky on a summer afternoon, the breeze cool, and the air gold.

“I wanted to see you right away, but they said you still needed rest and then you wanted to see Barbatos, and is Barbatos okay? They wouldn’t let me see him, either! They told me he’s just resting, but is he really okay?”

You’re not going to tease him just now about worrying after the well-being of a demon but you do smile into his jacket when he refuses to release you, his cheek pressed against the top of your head. “He’s really okay, Luke; I talked to him for a short while yesterday and he said he just needed to sleep for a few more days. Three days, after this one.”

“But are you sure he wasn’t pretending to be okay? He’s really good at not letting people know how he feels. And Simeon said he had to be in his angelic form to heal you! Celestial magic is bad for demons. Divine Radiance like he has—”

Luke must feel you stiffen, because his hands move to your shoulders, pushing you back to look at your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

But you look at Simeon, whose gloved hand rubs the top of his shoulder. “What is he talking about, Simeon? I remember that you said you had to change forms that night, but… it was physically painful for Barbatos?”

Damn it; you should have put it together. Barbatos had flinched back from the golden light, just before—

“I’m sorry, I… didn’t realize you wouldn’t know. I would not have done it if it weren't necessary, but in order to utilize my full power, I had to shift to my angelic form, which… I’ve never used here, not at any of the parties when everyone else is in their demonic form, because our aura can be painful to look at. When using magic the way I was that night, I… we … have a Radiance that can pain or injure creatures from this realm. It’s defensive and involuntary. Even humans find it difficult to look upon an angel; they find themselves slow or unable to move, discover their wicked thoughts are confused and muddled, and… some go mad.”

You’re an idiot.

“He couldn’t even lift his head,” you mumble. It is probably a miracle he could move at all yesterday, let alone… “Does Diavolo know about this?”

“Yes, of course; I disclosed everything.”

Which means Diavolo lied.

“And he’s fine, right?” Luke demands.

You’re so sick of being lied to.

“If Barbatos said he’ll be up and about in three days, then yes. There’s no reason not to take his word.” Simeon’s brows draw in a curve. “But, Ambrose…” His eye is drawn to the troubled tremor of your knee, bouncing up and down; for how long, you don’t know. “Maybe you should rest.”

Force yourself to sit still. You thought you had gotten over that habit. “Simeon, I’ve already slept for three—”

Your stomach drops.

“Ambrose…” Simeon’s voice lilts, slow.

Luke squeezes your hand. “Hey, it’s okay. Simeon is right; maybe—”

“I was asleep for three days.” Try to wet your lips, but your mouth is dry. “Barbatos said four more, which means he’ll have been out for a week.”

“Yes…”

“A week! One of the most powerful beings in the Realms.” There is an ache starting up behind your eyes, but this is important . “I was mostly dead but I—”

Three soft taps on the open door. “Excuse me.” You turn to see Solomon hovering there, smiling in the most obtusely friendly fashion possible, shrugging out of his RAD jacket. “Is everything all right? It’s nice to see you up and about, Ambrose.”

You have never liked the feel of his words, insubstantial as smoke, and you find it grates on your already fraying nerves, despite the warmth Luke emits, half perched on the arm of your chair. “Thank you… it is nice to be up.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem pretty upset.”

“I—”

“About Barbatos, I presume?” His coat hangs in the crook of his arm, but he still curls a hand under his chin.

Luke’s brow wrinkles. “How did you know that?”

“It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know,” says Simeon mildly.

But Solomon chuckles, a soft little hiccup of laughter. “I didn’t have to… if someone raises their voice, I don’t think that really counts. Did I hear it right? Barbatos won’t be rejoining us for a week?”

You’d like to lie. “He said he’ll be up in three days.”

“Ahh, which makes a week, total.” He hums. “And you feel… guilty, I imagine?”

You feel cold. Don’t even open your mouth to reply.

“Well, you shouldn’t!” Solomon smiles brightly. “Barbatos resolved the situation in the way he saw fit. It’s not the play I would have made, but it wasn’t my decision.” The sorcerer tilts his head, that innocuous smile still on his face. “Now, I still haven’t actually heard it from him; did he happen to tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Oh.” With a frown, Solomon shakes out his jacket, resituates it over his elbow before folding his arms. “Well, I was hoping he explained what he was thinking. It was an unnecessarily risky maneuver, you know?”

“No, Solomon, I don’t know.” You can feel the tension creeping into your voice. You know it came off as more than a little irritable but, quite frankly, things are perplexing enough at the moment without a blasted sorcerer being cryptic on purpose.

He blinks. “Oh. Well, let’s start with… what do you know about Barbatos’ powers?”

Teachable moment, your mind supplies, and you huff a shallow sigh. “He can see both the past and future—as well as what might be and what could have been. Apparently, he can also stop the flow of Time temporarily, and manipulate how individuals experience Time to some degree. He can also create doors to other times and places.”

“Very good. That’s all?”

As though that isn’t enough power?

“That’s all I know.”

“Hm. I suppose I ought to let Barbatos handle telling you the rest.” His brow creases, mouth curving in a smile that feels… genuinely apologetic. “But you should know that he doesn’t do things on a whim. I don’t know why, but Barbatos gave you a gift, so don’t disrespect it with guilt or regret.”

A gift.

“What kind of gift?” Luke’s nose is wrinkled. “Life? Or is this like… a metaphor?”

He was giving you lots of sweets.

Solomon tilts his head. “Not a metaphor, no, but ‘life’ is certainly one way to put it.”

You risked your life for a few demons, Lucifer is saying in the back of your mind, as he had in the living room, in front of the fireplace. To a demon, even risking your well-being is tantamount to—

The room is suddenly too bright, the world tilting on its axis.

“You know, Simeon, I think… maybe I do need to get some rest.”

Barbatos’ room is just as it was yesterday, with the addition of a covered plate, a note in neat script from Arbianock, identifying the platter as lunch whenever you’re ready to eat it, and that same, silver bell weighing down the paper’s closing remark to “call for anything you require.” But you aren’t hungry, so you bypass the table for the armchair beside his bed, where Barbatos rests in precisely the same position he had before, moved not an inch.

This has developed rather quickly, and out of order, from a demon’s perspective.

Yes, now that you understand, you would say it rather has.

“I suppose you must have thought I knew what it meant,” you say softly, into the quiet of the room. Green-orange afternoon light filters through the many-paned windows, casting his fair skin in a gentle, bronze-silver glow. “Or were you being subtle and cryptic on purpose?” His hand remains outstretched on the maroon comforter, where you had so carefully let him go yesterday. You hesitate only half a moment before twining your fingers together again. After all... you do, you suppose, still have permission. “I know you enjoy a playful tête-à-tête, but something more straightforward wouldn’t have gone amiss. Now I have to wait three days to ask you a whole stream of questions.”

Trace your thumb over his knuckles, marvel at the cool, silk-softness of his skin.

“What made you decide? That’s what they all want to know. Diavolo, Solomon… even Lucifer. He didn’t say it, but I think he knew. Solomon is actually the reason I put it together, as much as I find him… untrustworthy. I won’t say unpleasant; he’s polite enough, even fun sometimes, especially with Asmodeus, but—as you said, he is one to watch for. And yet, he spoke directly enough for me to solve this… because he’s curious? Or is it because he respects you? You’re both so silent about your pact, and I understand it’s no one’s business, but—” You pillow your other arm, and rest your head, fingers lazily laced with his. “It’s silly, and rude, I know, but it... makes me jealous. That pact. The secrecy. Neither of you owe me that knowledge, yet, all the same…” Huff a shallow sigh. “I was refusing to think about it, but I know why.” Let your eyes drift closed a moment. Just for a moment. “I should be telling you all this when you’re awake. Well, maybe not the last bit. You don’t owe me that.”

The feel of his skin on yours is a marvel, warmed by your touch.

“But I want to tell you—I want to say… even though I still have to return home—“ The words stick in your throat, and you squeeze his fingers lightly. “I’d like you to know, even if you already do.”

“You know, lying in the bed is generally more comfortable.”

Sharp inhale. “Wasn’ ‘nvited.”

“I don’t know… you seemed quite comfortable yesterday.” There is a teasing smile in Diavolo’s voice.

You’re not even properly awake and you can feel your cheeks burning as you struggle to an upright position, hissing as several of your vertebrae pop, zipping up your spine like a xylophone. “Wasn’t invited today.”

That seems to give him pause as you carefully slide your hand out of Barbatos’.

“You don’t have a… standing invitation?”

Scrub at your face with your sleeve, blinking blearily. “Lord Diavolo—”

“Diavolo, please.”

“Diavolo, yesterday was the first time I’ve ever shared the same bed with him.”

“Oh.” He glances away, brow furrowed. “Then… you mean you haven’t—”

You meet his eyes, mildly perturbed, an ache settling in your shoulders. “Certainly not.”

“Oh.” He frowns, tilts his head, golden gaze cast somewhere in the distance. Folds his arms across his chest, nods a bit, side to side. “I see.”

You’re not sure that he does, and you wait, expectantly.

“Well—” he adds after several moments, “I do understand Barbatos doesn’t have much interest, but I would have thought a partner—a human partner, especially—would bring their own appetites to the table.”

You feel like you know where this is going, and you don’t like it. “...why a human partner?”

“Humans are very driven to reproduce. Or… have I understood that wrong? Demons are very emotional, and humans are similar, but they’re driven by corporeal need as well as passion.” You can see the moment he hears what he just said, golden eyes widening. “Of course, you are a very controlled individual! I don’t mean to imply that humans are driven only by need, but, well, maybe I’ve just been listening too much to Asmodeus’ escapades. Please excuse me. I don’t mean to offend.”

You honestly had never thought about it, with Barbatos. Your pact with the Avatar of Lust has yet to ever bother you with even the smallest twinge of warning; Asmodeus has complained many times that it is absolutely boring. The closest you have ever come is idly thinking, every once in a while, what it might be like to kiss the faithful steward, and your pacts have decided to mark that train of thought, when it gets out of hand, as Greed.

And Diavolo said Barbatos hasn’t much interest, either. It is a pleasant thought.

“I’m not offended… many, maybe even most humans are compelled by what, erm, Asmodeus might call carnal passions but they’re certainly not entirely driven by them, and some just don’t feel them at all, or very rarely.” You fold your arms over your chest, and try to get the rest out before the surrealism of this conversation can get the best of you. “I don’t have all that much interest in it myself. Not that I couldn’t… I just don’t feel the need.”

“Oh.” He settles back into deep thought for a moment, then brightens. “So, you’re like Barbatos, then!”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation with the prince in the unconscious presence of your—your something with whom you haven’t even had this discussion yet!

“We haven’t talked about it.”

Diavolo’s face scrunches, and he ruffles the hair on the back of his head with a hum. “This is… very strange.”

“I quite agree.”

“I hope I haven’t overstepped any boundaries, Ambrose, it’s just—” His eyes settle on Barbatos, still at rest. “You make him so happy. Ever since you started spending time here, he’s happier than I’ve seen him in… well, I can’t remember when. It’s not that he’s been un happy these last millenia—no, he’s usually quite content, but… that isn’t the same thing.” His golden gaze shifts to you. ”Do you know what I mean?”

Your heart stutters. I’m so happy here, you had told Barbatos one night. It isn’t that you were never happy at home, that you don’t have happy moments, but before coming here, when was the last time you woke up each morning, cheerful, ready and wanting to see what the day will bring? The last time you sat down and felt the bright, gentle glow of happiness—not contentment, not peaceful acceptance, not calm as you rise to carry out your responsibilities, but genuine happiness?

And to think… to think you may have been able to give Barbatos this brilliant, selfsame simple feeling…?

“Yes… yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

After midnight, the fresco on the ceiling begins to make sense.

You have stared at it off and on for hours, last night and again tonight when it became clear that your mind was not going to shut itself off long enough to rest. The scene, for a while, seemed incomprehensible, as though you lacked the correct context to interpret the dark figures. Had it depicted a story similar to those in the human world, you could draw on knowledge of mythology or archetypal characters to find a narrative about kings and gods, or perhaps a legend about soldiers and lovers, but the painted shapes had refused to yield any familiar symbolism.

Yet now, one overlooked wreath of greenery gives you something. The longer you stare, the more certain you become that the white, trifold blossoms topping a tangle of spidery tendrils are a plant you'm have seen depicted before—one carved into a cabinet door in the castle’s tea room. And now that you're looking for it… the strange flower appears in every segment of the ceiling, its vine-like roots or leaves weaving an interconnected web. Perhaps… it shows the order in which the images should be read?

Roll over, and fetch your DDD from where it sits, charging in the silvery moonlight. With a steady hand, you zoom in on the plant above your head—the one that seems to crown a vaguely humanoid figure, its face veiled—and snap a picture. You send it to Satan, with the accompanying message: “What flower is this?”

The response is almost immediate:

Satan: Shouldn’t you be asleep? You: I’m an adult who took a nap this afternoon. Satan: You’re a human who had a harrowing experience and, according to every book I’ve consulted on the subject, needs rest in order to remain functional.

You huff. He isn’t wrong, per se, but you are plenty old enough to know when your sleep schedule has gotten out of hand. Besides, you will be back to a normal routine in… two more days.

You: Should I ask someone else my question? Satan: No. Satan: It’s a Bloodtide Laris. Culturally significant for demons, as I’m sure you guessed. You: Does it have any special symbolism, particularly in storytelling or historical record? Satan: What exactly are you looking at? You: There’s a fresco on the ceiling in this guest room. Can you tell me what it means? Satan: Show me.

You turn on the lamp with a touch of your hand this time, so you can get a proper series of pictures, starting above your bed and moving to each corner of the room, bare feet padding on plush carpet. You send them one at a time, and settle back into bed. The air has gotten a little chilly since you let the fire go out a couple hours ago.

Your DDD pings.

Satan: It isn’t a pleasant story. You: That doesn’t change my request.

Indeed, it only increases your curiosity, sparks a need to know, fluttering like butterflies.

Satan: You’ll get into a lot of trouble one day. You: Already done. Satan: ...yes. Sorry. Satan: But I see it didn’t make you any more cautious.

You’re ready to ask again when the ellipsis appears to let you know he is typing. So, you try to wait patiently, eyes roving over the ceiling again, the veiled figures, the painstakingly detailed trees and mountain-sides.

Satan : It’s a story about a powerful artefact forged in a shaky alliance between human and demon. The first section, there, with two Bloodtide Laris shows its creation—the Demon King from that time is present, crowned with the flower and veiled in the presence of the human, who made a pact for knowledge and the power to enchant the blade. The dagger is between them, but it probably doesn’t look like one to you. It’s represented by the second Laris with a star nestled in its roots. You: That’s a strange way to depict a knife. Satan: The important thing about the knife isn’t the blade—it’s the enchantment. The Bloodtide Laris grasps a star—a popular symbol for the soul—in its carnivorous root system.

You select an appropriately alarmed demoji.

You: Maybe you could tell me more about the flower before we continue? Satan: Right. Satan: It was given the name “Bloodtide” because it first grew on the banks of the Styx, which were always awash with the blood of the damned. You: I don’t remember reading that in the Inferno. Satan: Dante was never physically here. You: I’ll ask about that at a later time, I suppose. Satan: The flowers drank the blood and purified the river. They keep it clean to this day, drinking the blood of humans and demons alike, not discriminating. An early king ordered the collection of some of the flowers for study and found that they will break down any flesh given to them. They say he even stole the spilled blood of an angel from battle and the flower drank it up just the same. You: That’s… eerie, but the flowers don’t go searching for blood. They just eat what’s available, like other plants? Absorbing nutrients from the soil. Satan: Indeed, though some reports have been made that people who settle among the flowers or go wading in the Styx never return. You: And they started being associated with the royal line because of their bloody inclinations? Satan: Initially, yes. But Diavolo started a campaign some time ago to change people’s perception of the flower. He wants to be associated with its purifying properties. As you said, the flowers aren’t weapons or murderers; they’re a necessary part of our ecosystem. They’re white, not blood-red. He’s had limited success changing the minds of the old nobility, but younger demons are more receptive. Either way, the Bloodtide Laris is used less and less in heraldry. Satan: So, to understand why the blade is depicted with a carnivorous flower, you have to know that the blade was designed to be so sharp that its edge would rend a soul. It drinks the essence and power of whomever it kills. Legend says that it can destroy any being—human, demon, or even angel.

You’re almost afraid to ask.

You: Is it real? Satan: Yes, and it is the single most dangerous weapon known to the three realms. And yet, why a human and demon would collaborate to create such a thing has been lost. Satan: Fortunately, the dagger never saw battle on a celestial scale. The Demon King was deposed due to infighting in the Devildom, and in the fourth picture, you can see a sorcerer trick the dagger out of the first human’s possession… but not before they use it to slaughter countless of their own kind.

The roots of the flower, indeed, spread far across the scene, its web holding a veritable constellation of souls.

Satan: Time passes and the sorcerer, with nowhere to turn, his enemies seeking the dagger’s power, summons a demon—the effort almost killing him. The demon agrees to a pact and the dagger is returned to the Devildom, where, in the last scene, it rests, hidden, under the demon’s guard. A pact between demon and human created the blade, but another sealed it away. You: Is the demon anyone we know? Satan: Quite probably. There are few demons powerful enough to secret away such an artefact and keep it hidden. But the affiliated symbols of this demon aren’t known to me. You: Thank you, Satan. Satan: You’re quite welcome. But now you should get some rest. You: You, too. I kept you up past the midnight reading hour. Satan: Anyone else and I’d have their head. You: I know. Thank you… I’ll owe you a coffee. Satan: A double espresso seems fair.

A winking demoji arrives.

Satan: Good night, Ambrose.

But you do not go to sleep. Instead, you spend some indefinable amount of time staring at the ceiling as the moonlight creeps further and further down your comforter. Just below the first painted scene is the last, joining up the story like a great cycle, beginning to end to beginning. The dagger, represented as before with a Bloodtide Laris, a star ensnared in its roots, is shrouded by dark mist in some forgotten place of stone and water. The artist took great pains to represent minute, green refractions of light and shadow amongst the blue waters flowing up toward what you assume is the ceiling of the cavern, each brushstroke a meditation on a thousand impeccable textures of stone and liquid.

Off to the side, almost removed from his own scene, ready to fade into the background, stands the demon, gesturing with clawed fingers to seal the dagger away. His four-fold gossamer wings are spread wide, and unlike the Demon King, his features are hidden only because he does not face the viewer. Indeed—nowhere does he appear that his wings are not in view, and nowhere is his face revealed. And, while he appears before the sorcerer robed in bronze and black, girded with an emerald sash, he seems to wear nothing at all in the final scene.

Yet… the demon never registered as naked in your mind, perhaps because he does not appear naked in the fashion that a human would represent himself. There is, instead, a sense of formlessness to the body through some method of painting that, you believe, must be achieved by magic. The longer you stare, the less the blended shapes and fine brushstrokes seem inclined to sort themselves into a recognizable picture. The demon is aquatic, you think, and yet, human-shaped—but somehow as insectoid as his wings, which are the only features that stay stable, glimmering in the moonlight. But, perhaps… perhaps you see something death-like, too, bones stripped bare of flesh, obsidian and white. Then the feeling is gone again, and the figure is simply an inconstant wisp of paint, no more substantial than smoke.

There is something familiar about it that pulls at your gut.

And then, by morning, it has retreated to the back of your mind, where all lost things go, with only the faded imprint of realization, like a dream forgotten upon waking.

When you touch Barbatos’ hand, it is pleasantly cool. His hair falls on the pillow in a gentle wave, and his chest rises and falls slowly. The mid-morning’s golden-green light is good to him, highlighting the planes of his face, the soft slope of his nose, the curve of pale lips, slightly parted. He looks gentle, harmless.

But soft cheeks and a tepid smile hide teeth like a nightmare from the ocean’s crushing depths... and that is why you must decide what to do with Belphegor. Soon. Before Barbatos wakes and realizes you have chosen to continue living in the House with your would-be murderer. Based on what he would have done to Namurta…

You can’t be sure he will listen to you again, and you are not sure it would be fair to dissuade him from vengeance without a plan of your own.

“Tea?”

You flinch, and Arbianock catches the silver bell as it leaps from the side-table, folds it in a long-fingered hand. “Please excuse me. I knocked, but you did not answer.”

“I’m sorry; I was just… startled. Lost in thought.”

She hums, a creaking sound like branches disturbed by the wind, and replaces the bell. “Shall I serve tea here or in the drawing room?”

You don’t want to leave. “Here, please; thank you.”

Arbianock bows slightly and moves back to the table beneath the window, and with a brisk and efficient pace, begins setting one place for you from a cart near the door. The teaset is another you have not seen before, with a geometric motif, triangles painted in thick, broad strokes and delicate, spidery lines. The mouth of the teacup and the spout of the pot have a sort of crimped effect that plays into the angular pattern painted across the porcelain.

“My lord has sent you some Human Realm tea this afternoon,” she says, sparing only the barest glance, pupils flashing just slightly as light from the window falls through the lens of her eye, bright white and orange, not unlike a wild cat or bear. “He requested a blend to keep your energy up for the day, and fruit paired with the sandwiches and pastries—as he has been reading that humans require a carefully balanced diet to function well.”

You think you can feel the beginnings of a tension headache starting at the base of your skull. “Why?”

“He is concerned that you aren’t sleeping.” Her tone is flat and frank, a startling enough change from the formal and measured pace you have become accustomed to that you blink dumbly for a moment.

A bowl of diced fruit, all from the Devildom, sits upon the table, and the demoness removes the cover from an artfully arranged triple tier of sandwiches and small, fluffy cakes. Your stomach needles you, like it has been ignored for too long.

“I slept last night.”

“Which implies you haven’t slept every night during your stay.”

Arbianock stands back from the table expectantly as you sit with your mouth slightly agape, which isn’t helping your case at all. She holds your stare levelly until you figure out that you are meant to get up and take your seat at the table so she can serve.

That tension headache is full-blown now.

“It’ll work itself out,” you mumble as you sit, and the demoness sets briskly to work. “But I’ll have to thank him; I appreciate the thought.”

Tea whispers in your cup and the hearty, warm scent of it ought to have your shoulders relaxing but your mind is overfull.

“Arbianock… may I ask you a question?”

She sets the teapot aside, serves a small sandwich from the tiered dish onto your plate. “You will be given whatever you ask.” With a silver spoon, she adds a small serving of fruit alongside the triangular sandwich.

You’re not sure how to react to that. “Well… if you are not comfortable with my questions, you don’t have to answer them.”

Her amethyst eyes shift to glance at you sidelong, but she says nothing, only replaces the spoon and stands at attention, folding her hands over her soft waist. She doesn’t wear a cummerbund as Barbatos does for his uniform, but a strange, suede apron a little darker in tone than her skin. Her thumb brushes over one of its pockets.

You stop staring and busy yourself with a three-tined fork and select a piece of lavafruit, juicy and refreshing despite the name. It is a variety you ask for every time Lucifer places an order from the market, and you wonder if the castle staff knows.

Take a slow, steadying breath. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you known Barbatos?”

“I have been serving Master Barbatos almost my entire life.”

“Oh—” You wish you had made an effort to sound less surprised but—“You serve Barbatos, not just Lord Diavolo?”

Her expression remains passionless, attentive but aloof. She must have learned that from him, but her mask is not a smiling one; it is cold, distantly polite. “Barbatos is my master, but Lord Diavolo is our Prince, and master of my master. I serve Lord Diavolo because he does.”

“And… you’re that much younger than Barbatos? I hope I don’t sound rude. I have trouble telling demons' age, and you live so much longer than humans that the exact number seems almost… insignificant. Lucifer and his brothers can’t even give me a number. Not that I need it, I just…” You trail off, but when she doesn’t take her level gaze off you, does not prepare to speak, you struggle to finish the thought. “I just... wonder.”

Her eyes linger for another moment, then Arbianock moves at last, fingers lacing together. “Barbatos is older than everyone. And younger.” She bows slightly, almost leveling your gaze, head tilted, silver brows lowered. “He walks halls that haven’t been tread in millennia and he knows all the secret spaces that haven’t yet been carved. He was born ages before our time, and never at all. He saw your heavens when they were black and he shall see them fall again into the darkness behind the stars, and what do you think we are, human and ephemeral Ambrose?" A warning thrum hums along your skin, but it's too late. You can’t move. "What do you think he is? ”

You can’t move an inch, though every fiber in your body is screaming to run, screaming danger, like being alone in the dark, like a spider on your skin, like the sound you do not know and cannot see. The demon has not transformed, has not touched her magic at all, but it’s like you suddenly know: a sharp, sick-sweet scent reaching your nose that you hadn’t noticed before, clinging to her skin.

“We aren’t creatures of love, human; we are the stuff that spawned your nightmares. You cannot wholly perceive us without losing everything you are.” The shadows seem deeper, taller, the cloying stench stronger, but she never moves, never blinks, the mushrooms that crown her head gleaming like blackened stars. “Even angels are your foil, so terrible your mind would snap if you glimpsed one as it truly is. We are not gentle. We are not forgiving.”

The seconds slip by, silent, unwavering.

Arbianock straightens, slowly, tucks her hands behind her back. The scant afternoon light again glints on silver, and the scent fades away, making room for the comforting warmth of the tea. “And so, you have a choice to make.”

What kind of choice? Is the obvious question, but don’t you already know? You came here with one decision in mind and stayed because there is another that you know, in your heart, you have already made.

You take the teacup into your hand, and you draw a long, slow sip. It clears your mind, warms your throat, thaws the icy fear that had settled in your chest.

“Yes.” The porcelain handle cuts into the edge of your fingers, into the tip of your thumb. “I have a decision to make, but you’re wrong about yourselves. Everything that I’ve seen the Seven do, everything of consequence since I’ve come here, they’ve done because they love. They still love Lilith—they never stopped, and it’s the pain that drives them to foolish things. And they love one another, so much that they let it blind them.” Something bright races with your blood, feeds your words, brings them to your lips. “Simeon loves those he used to call his brothers even now, even when they do their best to avoid him. Even Lord Diavolo, wanting what he does for the Realms, doesn’t hold hope and confidence and drive without a love for his people. And Barbatos didn’t save my life because he was ordered to do it.” Your stomach is in knots, but your hand is steady as it sets the cup back into the saucer. “What do you believe you are, Arbianock, reeking of decay? Does knowing, intimately, that I will die, put your people in stark relief when you stand next to me? Are we so different that I couldn’t possibly understand their loyalties, their despair?” Fingers curl into palms, and you draw yourself up straight in the chair. “I will reconcile with Belphegor. I will reconcile with his brothers. I will do what I set out to do before; I may have freed Belphegor, but I’m not finished yet.”

The corner of Arbianock’s mouth sneaks up in an uneven smile, one eye creased, the other open and glittering. “Lord Diavolo was quite right about you.” She bows. “Please, eat. Now that you have decided, you will need the energy.”

“I—” Whatever bolstered you moments ago suddenly fizzles out, lacking a proper target. You sit, blinking at the teaset. “Excuse me.” Usually there’s much more to facing down a demon’s challenge… at least, in your previous experience. They don’t normally act so blasé about the whole thing—there is some humiliation or biting back or a concession. Something. But the demoness goes about her business like nothing at all happened, refilling your cup, straightening a tea towel on the cart.

No, this wasn’t a fight. What happened here is quite simple: you've been had.

"Did Diavolo send you here to antagonize me into making a decision?"

She tilts her head but continues with her business, exuding an air of amusement that has your fingers curling into your palms. “It has been noted that you work well under pressure. Your marks tend to go up during exams. The only times you’ve spoken strongly or acted in support of what you want are when there are things greater than yourself at stake, and time is of the essence.” She reaches, graceful and practiced, across the table to resituate your plate, as though to remind you of your untouched food, but you have no interest, and refuse to give it a second glance. “We are not the only ones to notice; word gets around quickly. Every citizen of the Devildom is interested in the exchange students and how they will fare; many are constantly listening for any sign of weakness, any opportunity to snap you up and claim victory against Lord Diavolo’s efforts, to get the credit and the reward that is a shining, human soul. But others find it in their best interest to make sure they know instead the circumstances that can bring you, bring this program, success.”

Your stomach turns, a bitter taste on the tip of your tongue. “Like you?”

“I, personally, have no interest.” Arbianock smiles, distantly. “I am only looking after my master.”

A background radiation of wrath and frustration stirs your steps, shames you as your thoughts become muddled. You know the decision you made early this afternoon was not rash, though spurred by a backlash of emotions you’re not ready to sort out, not to mention Arbianock’s dubious motives and methods. If you never have to think about politics again, it’ll be too soon.

You pass the twins’ room for the sixth time.

You have already thought about what you’re going to say, analyzed it from every angle, but each time you think you’ll knock on the door, your mind goes completely blank.

And so you pace the hallway again.

You have to do it. Once you do it, it’ll be done. But your stomach turns, and your jaw trembles, and your limbs feel like they’re going to seize up and drift away. Adrenaline is not doing you any favors today.

Satan’s room across the hall. Asmo’s room. The shared bathroom. The door to the twins’ room that you had always thought of as Beel’s.

“Oh.” You hadn’t even raised your hand to knock before the door swung open, leaving you blinking just as wide-eyed at Beelzebub as he is at you right now. “...are you looking for me?”

“Yes. Well, no.” Tuck your hands into your pockets and fist them there, trying to stop your jaw from jittering. “I’m actually looking for Belphegor, but I thought you would know where he is.” It doesn’t help. The moment you stop talking, the muscles continue to twitch.

“Oh…” A crease appears between Beelzebub’s eyes. “He’s here. Do you want to talk to him?”

No. “Yes. I think I should.”

He nods, slowly, but his worry does not smooth. “I was going to get some food… Do you want me to stay? I’ll be right back, and we can go in together.”

Tempting. Very tempting. “Thank you, Beel, but… I think I should try to talk to him alone first. If I need you, I’ll call you, okay?”

Beelzebub steps completely into the hall, and pulls the door shut behind him, leveling you with a careful stare. “I want you to call me before you need me. I don’t think Belphie will hurt you, but…” He glances away, down the hall, and then at the floor. “I don’t want you there alone if he gets angry.”

You tug your hand from your pocket and reach out to squeeze his arm, and, thankfully, your fingers don’t shake. “I promise I’ll call. I don’t want a fight, either; I’m trying to do this… peacefully.”

Strong arms tug you into a warm chest, squeezing without hesitation. “Thank you. He hasn’t been himself since… everything.”

That is what you’re counting on. You are counting on the truth of the little brother all alone in the attic, trying not to cry even as he rails against everything Lucifer stands for. The child who still loves his family. “I know.”

When Beelzebub releases you at last, he pokes his head back into the room. “Ambrose is here to see you.”

A muffled reply.

“Yeah. Please, Belphie—be nice.”

He leaves the door cracked, and squeezing your shoulder, softly says: “I know you can do it.”

And then he is gone, leaving you in front of the door, an ache in your chest, and a small swell of pride. You hope he is right.

“Well, come in if you’re going to come in!” grumbles Belphegor’s voice, and you’re suddenly reminded of every time you have spoken through a door before. A time when you thought you might like him. A time you came armed with confidence.

Not today.

But you push through. Belphegor is lounging on his bed in a mess of pillows, hair sticking up every which-way, looking bored. The resemblance to Namurta’s lackadaisical demeanor is startling. Guilt settles in your stomach.

“Good afternoon.” Your hands are trembling again, so you fold them behind your back.

“Cut to the chase.”

A deep breath. “I’m here to talk to you; I don’t want us to have any problems while I’m living here.”

His mouth twitches. “So it’s true. You really decided to stay? Guess you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.” Slowly, Belphegor sits up, one shoulder leading the other like his body is on the axis of a thread, the lazy slump of a rag doll pulled taut. “So. What should I do now? What’s gonna make you change your mind? Maybe I killed you too nicely last time by letting you sleep. Should’ve just finished the job, but…” He yawns, jaw stretching wide enough to show off his broad teeth, each overlarge molar topped with jagged points. “It seemed like more trouble than you were worth. Humans are fragile—you were already bleeding inside. You remember that, don’t you?”

Long, slow breaths, even as your stomach turns and a phantom burn flickers in your lungs. Not now. You can’t think about it now. He’s trying to upset you. You can do this. Turn your mind to another memory: the taste of devilmint, cooled by cream and a sprinkle of sugar. The moon was silver and Barbatos smiled like the distant glimmer of a star. “I don’t regret letting you out of the attic.”

“What?” His expression melts into confusion, almost comical, if not for your heart still hammering in your chest, starkly aware of the delicacy of this conversation.

“I stand by what I said before. You shouldn’t have been locked in there; it was a mistake.” Belphegor’s eyes are wide and bright, mouth halfway to an expression like fascinated disgust. “I may have changed the way I went about it, but I would do it again. I’d free you again.”

“Why.”

“Because it wasn’t fair. You were suffering, and your brothers were suffering without you—especially Beel. And I know that nothing would ever get better if you’d been left up there; it would all remain the same.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Furrows his brow. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Set your jaw. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Ugh.” The demon throws himself back on the bed. “Why don’t you go hang out with the angels? Nobody wants that shit here.” His voice is muffled by the comforter: “Self-righteous prick.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Your hands untwine and one rakes itself through your hair. Yes, of course that route wouldn’t work, though true... you have something else. “It’s not the right thing to do in an abstract, moral sense. It’s because you’re owed an explanation.”

Belphegor turns his head just enough to free his mouth. “...you owe me an explanation? That’s a good one. Has anybody told you that you’re really fucking weird?”

You can feel an involuntary half-smile tug at your lips, melancholy. “You haven’t stopped saying it since I offered to help you.” And then, a realization: “It’s almost like you wanted me to know that helping you was dangerous.”

He scoffs. “I was just surprised how stupid you were. Dumber than most humans. I think you’re potentially the most gullible I’ve ever met.”

“Gullible, maybe,” you muse. “Guileless, almost certainly, if only because I always hope people are telling me the truth. That they always want to be the best of themselves.” A bitter taste reaches your tongue. “But that’s not what I’m here to tell you. I came to tell you that I’m alive because of Lilith—”

“Don’t you dare say her name—”

“—and I’m here because she still believes in you.”

Belphegor rises to his knees, snarling, teeth bared.

Your pulse quickens, a phantom pain in your chest. Fingers curl into palms, slow your breaths. You must continue. “Believe it or not, I know what it’s like to believe in your brother when he’s lost all faith in himself.”

A deep, violet energy crawls along his skin.

“If you do anything to threaten me, I’ll call Beel.”

“I can kill you before you can say a word, human.”

“That’s the thing, Belphegor; I don’t have to say anything. Can you kill me more quickly than I can feel fear? Because that’s what it’ll take.” All the same, your fingers move to your pocket. Inside that pocket is a silver bell.

“Nobody can summon a demon without an incantation, and you can’t even do that. I already know they found a human too useless to do real magic. You can’t bluff; I’ve been listening.”

“Not closely enough.”

“Even if you’re still borrowing Solomon’s power, you can’t call anybody before I snap your pathetic neck. Even with all of us in the same house, you still won’t be able to shout a name fast enough.”

Irritation crawls along your skin, an itch, and you set your jaw. “What, exactly, do you think happened that night? How did they know where to find me?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out! They sent you back in time to the attic, and you didn’t come back. It doesn’t take a detective. Barbatos wouldn’t even have to use his powers for that one.”

You set your shoulders. This is it. “They would have found me too late; they were still waiting for me to return when I called. And before I did, Belphegor, while I was unconscious, I had a vision—and in that vision, your sister spoke to me.”

“Shut up!” He makes a lunge, eyes glittering, flaring black and venomous indigo, and you stumble back, knocking yourself off-balance—

Solidly, into a broad chest and arms tight around your shoulders. “Belphie, no!”

The mark over your stomach prickles like pins and needles. One flicker of thought toward Beelzebub had been enough.

Belphegor snarls, overlarge teeth glinting. “They started it!” But he must not like what he sees on his brother’s face and shifts seamlessly to wide, doe-eyes, genuinely hurt, perhaps, but the growl does not leave his voice. “You’re really going to side with a human, Beel, a human over me?”

“Not over you, Belphie,” he replies, softly. "Never over you.”

“Then give them to me.”

A deep hum thrums against your back. “No. You need to listen. Please. Ambrose has to tell you—”

“No, you listen— humans lie. You’re protecting nothing but a miserable sack of lies. They tell you exactly what you want to hear, and then—”

You can feel Beelzebub’s breath, but the voice that speaks is not his: “Belphegor, that’s enough.”

“No, not you—not you, it’s none of your business,” he hisses, as every eye turns toward the bedroom door.

Lucifer looks from Belphegor to you, still firmly clasped to Beelzebub’s chest.

“Belphie—” his twin tries again.

“It’s not my fault!” he insists, with the edge of a whine that sets your teeth grinding. “They keep telling me they’ve seen Lilith. It’s impossible.” He wheels on you now, that dangerous light, black and sugilite, the edge of a nightmare, dancing in his eyes. “She can’t speak to you—she’s gone!”

You draw yourself up, pressing gently against Beelzebub’s hold until he slowly lets you stand on your own. “Have you spoken with your brothers since you left the attic? With Lucifer? With Beel?” Belphegor bares his teeth, looks away. “What did they tell you?”

He says nothing.

“They told you she lived a happy, human life with her lover, didn’t they?”

“That doesn’t change anything!”

“Nothing at all? Doesn’t it matter that her life was saved?”

“She still died. She died a mortal, and she died without us. So no. It didn’t change anything, and it definitely means she didn’t visit you.”

A deep sigh drags its way out of your chest. You had hoped—well, it doesn’t matter now. “Belphegor, do you remember a time in the Celestial Realm when you played hide and seek, and you weren’t able to find Lilith? For whatever reason, that day, it distressed you. You searched and searched—and when you did finally find Lilith, hiding in her room, you were so sad... but she didn’t know why; you wouldn’t say. But it didn’t matter why; to cheer you up, she invited you to sneak over to the observatory—you, Beel, and Lilith, all together.”

As a human might turn white as a sheet, Belphegor’s skin fades to grey. “H—how did you—”

“I had a vision about that, too, just before she visited me in the attic. She asked me to help all of you in any way I could.” You approach, carefully, and settle on the edge of Beelzebub’s bed. “She called you out by name, Belphegor, even though you’d... done what you did already. You almost toppled everything, and she still believed you’re worth the effort, with forgiving, or at least worth trying.” Something catches in your throat, something familiar. Who would you be, to tell someone else that their brother isn’t worth forgiving? “So here I am, and I’m willing to at least try. Are you?”

Belphegor’s face is blank. For several long moments, he is completely, hauntingly still, his eyes shining.

He speaks only two words: “Go away.”

“I—”

“ I said go away; I won’t hurt you again now GO AWAY!” The bed creaks under his weight as he buries himself in the comforter, bent in an awful, unnatural curve, fingers curled in his hair. “Go away go away go away go away go away—” The words are muffled, but clear enough to feel their intent. Beel goes to Belphegor’s side and sits on the floor, doesn’t take his eyes off him, and as for you—

You glance at Lucifer, who nods, face carefully impassive save for the furrow of his brow. Quietly as you can, you climb off the bed to make your exit, and you can hear Belphegor continue:

“It’s my fault.”

The invisible shudder of pain from his brothers is enough to put a tremor in the air, piercing your chest, but this isn’t your place now. It is best to give them some privacy.

“In the bed.”

You know the words but they don’t… make sense...

“Ambrose.”

Tired.

“Then get into the bed.”

Bed? Right, somebody said…

There is a warm, firm pressure on your shoulder, and your body jerks to one side, head popping off the… pillow? No, not a pillow, that’s a comforter, and…

A deep, sharp inhale. Yawn. “Hm?”

The rumbling chuckle could only belong to Diavolo, and, yes, this is Barbatos’ bedroom, where you had fallen asleep in the armchair again. “You didn’t come to dinner.”

Your brain is full of cottonseed and humidity. “I apologize.” Is that the right thing to say?

Diavolo pats your shoulder. “Think nothing of it! Are you hungry?”

“No.” You rub your hand across your forehead and cheeks. “No, thank you.” That bit is important. The polite bit.

“Just tired, then.” He is smiling, but things are a little blurry.

Your eyes don’t want to focus, so you’ll just rest them a moment, clear them up… “Yeah.”

“Arbianock delivered your nightclothes, right here.” Indeed, they are on the end of the bed—a set of cotton drawers and long-sleeved shirt, ideal for whatever the Devildom’s weather. Very considerate. But…

“This isn’t my room.” Things are swimming into focus. Your body is still sleep-heavy, but another deep breath keeps your gaze steady on the demon prince. “I can go to my quarters.”

“You can if you’re feeling up to it, of course.” Diavolo folds his arms, mouth curled halfway to a smile.

You are just awake enough to feel a prickle of suspicion. He says it too lightly, too casually. “You’re not going to argue with me.”

He feigns a look of hurt. “Why should I? You’re obviously very tired, and you can sleep wherever you want.”

“Including here,” you observe, dryly.

“Including here.” He smiles, devilishly.

Rub your face with the heel of your hand, and draw a deep, slow breath that stretches your ribs.

“You’ve been so busy getting things sorted… it really is admirable, you know, but you need a proper sleep, and I don’t think you’re going to get it slumped over in a chair or in that grand, empty room in the other wing, do you?”

You would like to bury your face in the comforter and stop thinking, let the sand-weight of your extremities pull you back under. There’s a sort of nebulous headache in the cotton-fog of your skull, but even so—“You’re being very transparent.”

Diavolo gives a hearty chuckle. “Only because you don’t seem inclined to consider it on your own. Is it nightmares?” Your expression must change because he shakes his head. “Even I have nightmares sometimes, you know? If you can’t sleep, and you don’t want company, at least call for help; you don’t have to solve all your problems alone. Arbia can prepare a draught that will keep you in bed all night.”

“I’ll… think about it.”

“Good.” He rests a heavy hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry I missed tea this afternoon; I had planned to talk to you over dinner, but once you have some rest, we will discuss things over breakfast. Lucifer told me what you did. It’s really remarkable… you could have done anything and you chose to try to work with Belphegor— and he’s agreed. Only a human could be so devoted to a better way. A new way. I’ve never seen a people so willing to practice forgiveness! You’re a credit to your species, Ambrose... I couldn’t ask for a better candidate.”

Distantly, your mind is spinning, buzzing uncomfortably, but warmth floods your chest. “I… thank you.”

He smiles brightly, pats your shoulder lightly. “Now, have a good night, and get some sleep! Sleep promotes healing!”

You are quite sure he’s parroting that phrase directly from a text about human health, but you don’t get the chance to call him on it, as Diavolo dismisses himself swiftly while your mind is still working to catch up. Candidate for what? The exchange program? You suppose that does not matter right now.

Belphegor agreed. He must have said something else after you had gone, after he spoke with Lucifer and Beel. He had only told you he would not harm you—and you had thought that was enough, inclined to believe him, supposing he probably wouldn’t even want to look at you for the rest of the semester, knowing you know what you do. You were willing to settle for just that. But now? Now, you’ll just have to wait until morning to understand what happened.

A weary sigh escapes your lips. How did you get here?

Your eyes fall on him at last, Barbatos, still more peaceful than you have ever seen him, supported by dark pillows, nestled among silken blankets in loose, layered clothing, and you envy that undisturbed sleep. A sleep that you need. A sleep you won’t get unless you—

There is heat rising in your cheeks, with no one to witness it. You can’t pretend it would be like sharing the bed with Mammon or Beel. If you stay tonight, it is like asserting that you belong.

And… you want to. Hells, you want to. You want it so desperately that your heart constricts your throat, as though it could crawl right up and out of your chest and settle down with him.

Your gaze falls upon the clothes on the end of the bed. You can still scoop them up and make your way down the hall… down the hall to that huge, empty room that certainly isn’t your own. Would you stare at the ceiling again, with its masterful brushstrokes and foreign storytelling while your heart yearns? Would you lie awake as your mind refuses to settle down, reliving one sensation after another, would you feel the blankets heavy on your skin, a thousand textures so, so loud in the night?

Or will you stay, where you have been invited, where you are wanted? Have you only been avoiding it because you are afraid?

Afraid that you’ll grow accustomed to the sensation?

The nightclothes find your fingers, but you make no move to leave. Your body decides without you, limbs heavily slouching in and out of place in practiced motion, shirt, boots, pants, socks, pants and shirt again. Dressing is easy. The difficult thing will be getting into the bed, and too quickly that is what you must do.

You stand for a moment, just staring, despite the protest of unsteady legs, feeling the fine, soft fibers of the carpet on bare feet. Warm, unnaturally so, unless the floor is somehow being heated... Your eyes rake the perimeter to find what looks almost like a wrought iron radiator system winding about the nook, slender and a bit green like oxidized copper, passing behind the headboard against the dark wainscoting. Does Barbatos have trouble keeping warm, you wonder? You know his skin to be cool to the touch, but you had assumed that he would not have different needs from a human or even other demons. No one in the House of Lamentation has—

You’re letting your mind wander. You’re stalling, overthinking.

Take a deep breath.

Slowly, you inch toward the mattress. Slowly, you brace one knee on the bed, shifting your weight with careful control, hardly disturbing his side at all. The pillow that you had used before is still in place, and the blanket is within reach to share. Snuggling hesitantly into the mattress, over the duvet, you reach for the blanket’s corner—a whole extra length folded there alongside his body like it has been waiting for you—avoiding brushing Barbatos’ tail as you tug the blanket up and over your middle.

You are facing him. Your cheeks still burn as you watch the rise and fall of his chest, the serene expression on his lips. Smooth skin, catching the silver glow of the moon through the window-panes in fine contours, uninterrupted by lines of age, supple and soft as something just-born, almost aglow himself. Even your hand, where it rests between you, ceases at the wrist in lateral lines. There is a thin, white scar under your thumb where you nearly fell out of a tree, many years ago, and there, a small pockmark over the main artery where an IV had slipped beneath the skin, much later. The veins show blue-green and purple, curling up toward your knuckles, branching like a tree, and one day, this skin, already creased, already scarred, will be paper-thin and wrinkled and stained with age.

How ephemeral you are, indeed, beside something ancient and so new.

You close your eyes. Your heart still beats.

The complete lack of sun when you awake is no longer a surprise, but it remains disorienting as you blink your eyes into focus. Your mind does not know what to expect anymore between your room at the House of Lamentation, the guest room with its frescoed ceiling, and… you inhale the scent of ash and ink and mist clinging to grass as the first rays of sun pierce the chill air of morning. Barbatos’ bedroom. A deep, slow, hot huff of breath sounds against the pillow as you roll your shoulders and snuggle further into the plush mattress. You are not ready to get up, though you really should. This is the best sleep you’ve had in days.

Faced with the empty armchair and its teal velvet, you know you need to rise for breakfast and figure out what you are going to say to Lord Diavolo. What you are going to do. You cannot stay here in the castle as much as it feels like this is exactly the place you’re meant to be right now, surrounded by Barbatos’ sharp scent, his slow, steady breaths at your back—

“Good afternoon.” Your body stiffens all at once, violently, at the thought of being caught by the prince again, but melts into the sheets as soon as you hear the soft, honey chuckle that accompanies the words.

“Barbatos.” You roll quickly over, and, faced with the fathomless verdance of his eyes, the open softness in his smile, your heart can’t decide whether to stop entirely or break record speed.

“You stayed,” he observes, his hand finding yours, fingers tangling together on the comforter.

“I did,” is all that finds voice, everything else too heavy to leave your mouth.

“I am glad.” Gently, he presses your palms together. “But you must have been exhausted to sleep so late into the day… or did you return after breakfast?”

You shake your head; you will figure out what you’re going to do about the fact that you missed breakfast with Lord Diavolo later. "I was more tired than usual."

“That won’t do,” Barbatos murmurs. “You must eat.” But his hand traces your arm, cool fingers skating across your elbow, down to your wrist. Beneath the blankets, something else slides smoothly over your thigh, unfurling along your spine just as it did four days ago. “Is this all right?”

“Yes… thank you.” You lace his fingers tightly with yours, as you did four days ago. “How are you feeling?”

“Well.” He hums, and a faint flush dusts his cheeks. “Quite well. Certainly well enough to resume my duties, but I find myself unwilling to end this moment.”

“I’m sure you shouldn’t go directly back to your duties today no matter how well you feel.” Your hand tightens around his. “I seem to recall you saying that you wanted to sleep for a decade.”

“I did. And you’re right; Lord Diavolo would almost certainly object if I returned to my duties before tomorrow.” Then, his mouth curls ever so slightly, his head tilting against the pillow. “But fetching breakfast would be no burden.”

“I’d be happy to—”

“Nonsense.” His thumb begins tracing a soft pattern from your wrist to fingertip, skin tingling at the attention. “I will fetch us refreshment; just first allow me to look at you.”

If your face wasn’t hot before, it certainly is now, flushing as though it could make you invisible. The way he looks at you—the gentle turn of his mouth, lips parted just so, as though he isn’t aware of what he’s doing, the lively crease of his eyes, the light that dances in them the way a candle cheers a room. You had thought it was the formality missing from his clothing that had made him seem naked, but you realize it is really this: the role he plays removed entirely from his countenance.

You're not sure you have ever seen anything quite so beautiful.

His thumb brushes the top of your hand, the air charged with something like mischief. “I have a request, if you’re amenable.”

Oh, you would agree to just about anything right now, his face framed by dark wisps of hair, hand clasping yours, held in a half-embrace by the weight of his tail, comfortable, safe—

Happy.

Barbatos smiles, and it crinkles his eyes, flashes his glassen teeth in the afternoon light. “Please refrain from finding yourself in life-threatening situations from now on, cynamome, if you would.”

The heat on your cheeks shifts from bashfulness to shame. “I—I really didn’t intend—”

“I know.” He pulls your hand closer, presses a kiss beneath your thumb at the hollow of the wrist. “Forgive me; I should not have implied otherwise.” When the sinking feeling in your chest does not subside, he meets your gaze seriously, all traces of mirth gone. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Reflexively, in time with the stutter of your heart, you squeeze his fingers, but no words leave your mouth. You cannot hold his gaze, so you drop it to where your hands are intertwined, pillowed on the satiny blankets.

You can feel the shift as he raises himself slightly off the mattress, and his tail traces its way up your back, a shiver dancing across your skin. One of its tips glides along your jaw, guides your chin up, leather-smooth and warm—warmed, you realize, by your own body heat—to meet his eyes again. The open softness is there in the curve of his mouth, the apple rounding of his cheeks. “You’ve done your best with the hand Fate has dealt you, Ambrose, and what you have done is admirable.” In his eyes… moonlight through water, green with lilies and grasses that know no mark of hours, no seasons, only the heat of night reflected through rain, ceaseless, like the promise of the heart’s steady drum.

“I only did what I thought anyone should,” leaves your lips in honesty before any thought can overtake it.

Barbatos smiles; the moonlight dances. “And that is what makes it remarkable. You are remarkable, Ambrose; do not forget it. You have brought sunlight to this world, to your friends, to my master, and, indeed—” His cheeks flush a dusky rose. “—to me. I do not regret what has transpired… perhaps you’ll forgive me for that, too.”

“What is there to forgive?” you ask, and his tail, still cradling your face, moves in time to each word.

“You were nearly lost, forever, to everyone. You were caused great pain, yet… I do not find myself wishing that it never happened; I only find myself grateful that it brought you here.”

There is no remorse in his gaze, either, only that tangible gentleness as your jaw trembles, and you are overwhelmed with the desire to sit up, face him properly, so you do, and he lets you, relinquishing your hand, mirroring your movements, letting his tail settle down upon your shoulder and across your lap, loathe, perhaps, to let go entirely. That is a feeling you can well appreciate.

Barbatos waits upon your judgment, patient, but there is a flicker of apprehension, too, like a spark of electricity in the air.

“Why should I forgive something that requires none?” You find his hand again and clasp it tightly. “I don’t regret what happened to me. I only wish…” The words die in your throat, knowing how foolish they sound. How real they are. How shameful.

His thumb traces a circle across the top of your hand. “If it is within my power, I can grant it.”

A hot coil of shame seizes your neck and chest. “You’ve done too much for me already, Barbatos. And… it isn’t something you can change. I just—wish I’d done better.” The words sound even worse than they had in your head. You know how childish they are, how silly it is to wish for something like that; what’s done is done and the outcome isn’t bad, not by far, not at all. You have accomplished almost everything you had set out to do. It just… wasn’t to plan. It was a mess. It—

A hum, low in Barbatos’ chest, interrupts your thoughts. “Do you remember,” he asks, when he has your attention again, his thumb still tracing that comforting pattern on your skin, “during the first term, I invited you to tea—with apricot jam, muffins, diomese leaves—and I asked you a question. I asked if there was anything from your past that you would, given the chance, go back and change. Do you remember what you said?”

Of course you do. That day is as treasured a memory as those before and after. “That I wouldn’t change anything.”

“Because you feared a single change would have diverted your path from the destination, from being here, and now.” Barbatos lifts your hand, presses his lips to where he had traced circles before, but does not avert his eyes from yours. “Why not this time?” he whispers against your skin.

Your heart flutters, trembles. If he isn’t sorry for the choices he made, why should you be? “I don’t like to see you suffer for me.” Before he can open his mouth to voice the protest you can read in the crease of his brow, you continue: “You don’t regret it, but I…” A lump settles in your throat. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

He straightens up, slowly, mouth pulling into an expression you have seen only once before, something like shame, something like guilt, eyes soft, his frame struggling against some great, invisible weight. “What else could I have done?” he asks. “Selected another course of events, another reality, while you die in this one? It would have been easy, yes, certainly easier than manipulating individual timelines.” Barbatos must see the lack of comprehension on your face, because he continues: “Perhaps my greatest power is the ability to choose which sequence of events, which timeline, becomes the true reality. I could have let you die there in the attic, cut the timeline, and moved another into its place like a weaver drawing together two lengths of thread; you would die, and yet live, because you were drawn from a series of events where you remained unharmed.” His gaze, fathomless, wretched, searches your features. “And every day after, I would look into the eyes of a stranger wearing your face. Though they’d be granted your memories as the timelines synchronized... I would know. I would always know.”

Heart aching, you pull him into an embrace, never mind that he does not respond immediately, a soft murmur of astonishment in his throat. But then, Barbatos buries his face against your neck, arms tugging you close, tail unwinding so quickly from your lap and shoulder that it runs like silk, only to loop around the small of your back, secure. You hold him tighter. And then tighter still until you think you can feel his heartbeat in your chest. His breath, warm on your skin. A soft nuzzle against the hollow between neck and shoulder.

Time stills in the gravity of relief and affection, quietly, unnoticed.

“I love you.” It’s a confession, made nestled in the sharp scent of him, to the breath you feel leaving his chest when he hears it, for the heart racing against your ribs. “I don’t know if that’s the proper response, but it’s a human one.”

There is a hesitant smile on your lips as Barbatos draws back just enough to look you in the face, and there is a smile on his, too, soft with solemn, tortured delight. “I would ask for nothing else. But please—don’t say it again. Once said, it cannot be undone.”

You open your mouth but he stops it with a hand on your cheek, thumb across your lips. “Please—consider that before deciding to say it again, in your own time. I will never ask, nor expect that sentiment from you; only… take the time to think on it before speaking it again.” There is something in his eyes, a flicker akin to flame—not the tame dance of candlelight but the reckless abandon of wildfire. “When you do, you won’t be able to take it back.”

Something sticks in your throat. “...I understand.” And you do, intuitively, that it means something more to a demon, that such a thing would not be easy for Barbatos, and, indeed, it cannot be so easy for you. The feelings are true, yes. The words are from your heart, words that have been present in each affection for some time now, and—perhaps they were always there? But still, you must return home. And still, Barbatos is beholden to his master.

The rings around your fingers burn as you draw him close again.

He settles his chin atop your head, letting you bury your face against his throat in the wintry-crisp, ash-and-ink scent of him, and the sound of contentment he makes leaves you giddy in spite of the sullen mood that had gripped your heart.

“Thank you, nykin.” His voice hums against your cheek, its thrum buzzing in your chest.

You close your eyes. “Will you tell me what that means?”

“The endearment?” Thoughtfully, he traces your arm over your long shirtsleeves, with, you think, his fingertips, until you realize his hands are still settled upon your back. “Has it already fallen out of fashion in your realm?”

“For quite some time, I suspect.”

“A pity,” Barbatos murmurs, tilting his head so that his cheek rests on the crown of your head. “I believe it’s the only one that appropriately conveys a concept that otherwise remains only in our language. Kin, the suffix: akin , ‘related,’ ‘close’—and nigh: ’near,’ as in both space and time.” He nuzzles into your hair and, distinctly, you feel the lingering press of his lips. “You are with me, you are now, you are the space between this breath and the next. Near to me, my present, my impending moment. Nykin.”

You are not sure when the tears started. You just know by the time you feel them, hot on your cheeks, cool, gentle kisses follow in their wake, catching them where they fall. Barbatos does so silently, cradling your head, never shushing, never asking for your calm, and the tears come faster, and you’re laughing, and you are not quite sure why, heart full to bursting. Your fingers tangle in his hair, at last, as they wanted to before, weaving through silken strands, and when you find his cheeks to kiss them, when you find his mouth, you are not sure whose salt-sweet tears have settled upon your tongue.

The hope that he will not notice your stomach growling over the gentle, rhythmic sound of fingers rustling the fabric at the small of his back and along your spine disappears when he hums in answer: “I believe I have kept you from a meal for quite long enough.”

“I haven’t been in any hurry.” You make no move to untangle yourself from his embrace, your head on his shoulder, his tail still twined around your waist.

“You require regular sustenance; I have been negligent.” He relinquishes his grip. “I should have seen to it immediately.”

You catch his hands, and find that his expression is already closed, brows drawn tight, a sharp crease at the corner of his mouth. Squeeze his fingers, your heart clenching. “This was important, too. More important, in fact.”

"Perhaps… but physical needs must be met. You are still rebuilding your strength."

You want to argue, point out that if anyone needs to rebuild strength it is him, but the kiss he presses to your hands melts your resolve with its tenderness. “Are your clothes in the wardrobe?” he asks, returning your hands to your lap, shifting off the mattress with a grace no one should possess given the plushness of its surface.

“No, I… was in another room originally.”

Surprise overtakes the professional expression that he had slid back into place. “Oh? Why is that? I seem to recall inviting you to stay.”

There is almost no doubt that he remembers quite well what he said, despite his exhaustion and invisible injury that day. “I was… unsure you’d meant that invitation to last longer than the afternoon.” You can feel your cheeks heat. “I didn’t think it polite, though Lord Diavolo and Arbianock tried to convince me otherwise.”

“You are quite stubborn when it suits you.” But there is the shadow of a smile in his voice. “Where were you staying?”

“In a much larger suite than I needed, with classical accents and a frescoed ceiling.”

Barbatos makes a sound of interest. “Do you recall what the fresco depicted?”

You almost confess that you asked Satan to tell you the story depicted on the high ceiling, but something stays your tongue. “There were both demons and humans depicted in the story, with patterns of the Laris spread throughout.”

“The Bloodtide Room.” The words ring eerily. “I am sure you noticed that this was a deliberate choice.”

“Arbianock insisted that Lord Diavolo said I should have quarters of equal status. I suspect he was trying to get me to reject his generosity and return here.”

This time, the smile shows on his face, prints little crows’ feet at the edge of his eyes. “You certainly have developed a knack for seeing through my lord’s schemes. That is undoubtedly what he hoped, but I assume things did not go as planned.”

“No, I—” Would it be hurtful to admit that your stay last night was not a decision completely of your own will? “I fell asleep here, in the chair, and Lord Diavolo decided to convince me that it was perfectly acceptable not to return to the guest quarters.”

But Barbatos’ face doesn’t fall; in fact, he seems even more amused. “He took advantage of your weakened state.”

“I wouldn’t have said it like that, but yes.”

“Letting your guard down around demons is very unwise, you know.”

“What about around you?” A note of flirtation slips into your voice, returning the casual tête-à-tête you had missed so much this week—and now you have more freedom to be direct. “Shall I keep my guard up?”

The change is gradual, but you feel it immediately. The light air becomes heavy, ponderous, and Barbatos fixes his gaze on something else. “Perhaps you should.”

“Barbatos…” Guilt; it is the same weight you heard in his voice during the trial. You do not understand. “Why?”

“I am just as dangerous as any demon you have met before—perhaps more.” He tilts his head, the crease of his smile bitter. “This is not conceit; it is fact.”

“I’ve never doubted it; Guardian of Time and Space is quite enough to distinguish you from the others. In fact, it makes one wonder what Diavolo must hold dominion over to be more feared and respected than even you—but you’ve never given me reason to fear you, Barbatos.”

He does not reply for a moment, only traces his gaze over your features, slowly, lingering. “Don’t you think that is a rather fanciful title for a demon?” he asks. “Almost no one remembers any epithet before it, certainly no human, and any other title is buried so deeply in the minds of demons that if you asked, they would not be able to place my original name. That is evidence of the power Lord Diavolo possesses; he helped me take control of my nature, and once I chose to serve him, even the ‘Guardian of Time and Space’ faded away until I became, simply, his butler.”

His hands fold one over the other, fingers lacing, unlacing; behind him, his tail twitches in a similar rhythm. “If you had the power to correct any mistake you make, you would set to it immediately, would you not?” His head tilts, eyes drawn away, to the window-panes, to his bare hands. “You do this every day, in your way—you try, without knowing whether you can truly change the outcome of your errors; that is human. Instead… imagine you could change your mistakes with only a thought. Now, imagine that not only could you correct any error you make, but erase it as though it never happened.” Delicate horns cast spindly shadows across his brow. “Would you not stop caring about whether you were truly the best of yourself when you could rewrite Time to suit your pride and desires? Wouldn’t you stop trying?” Barbatos raises his head to look at you, studying your face, searching for something, a verdant play of light and shadow drawing you below the surface, to the space between breaths, to the sound a clock makes once it has recorded its last second. “Perhaps you wouldn’t, so used to constant struggle,” he says, softly. “But then again, you make yourself content wherever you are, telling yourself it is always enough; it must always be enough.”

The words crawl along your skin, sink barbed claws into your heart. When was the last time you felt truly happy? Not contentment, but true happiness? Can you really go home, having tasted it?

You cannot meet his eyes any longer, and it is your turn to focus on the shadows cast across the sheets.

“Contentment in my power: security in the knowledge that I would be right, always, no matter how grave an error I committed. Confidence that, as a humble butler, I no longer needed to fear my sin. Tea, unattended in the garden without a thought for danger.” Your heart clenches, and in his voice, grinding like a millstone, there is resignation. “That is what I am.”

It all snaps into place. The shame with which Barbatos expressed his regret at the trial. Solomon’s finger tracing the rune in your notebook. The tea called the Eighth Sin.

Complacency.

“Now you know. And now,” he says, softly, “you will not forget. I swore myself to Lord Diavolo’s service after he showed me that I could be something more than the Avatar of Complacency. But… it seems I cannot completely escape my nature. The potential cost is much too high for you to be unguarded.” A trembling breath. “I can protect you, yes, from a great many things. But I cannot protect you from my own failings.”

“Barbatos…” You shuffle from the bed, and he waits, expression perfectly neutral; however, it does not have the same effect that it would were he crisply dressed, attired as the royal steward. A resigned air hangs about his shoulders, the sleep-rumpled tunic and drawers making him seem smaller, softer. Vulnerable even with the distant mask in place. You stand so close that his shoulder almost touches yours. “I don’t believe words can express how much I have long admired your dedication, your service, and now that I know… I—my respect for you has only deepened. Overcoming yourself is…” Your voice catches. “It’s a rare thing. Yes, you’ve made mistakes, and you’ll continue to make them, but that is—natural. You learn from each one, you grow, you do better. In fact, Barbatos…” You reach, slowly, for his hand, allowing him time to refuse, but he accepts your touch. “You have never failed me; in the garden, you had a fail-safe that protected me from any real threat. You like to forget that.” Squeeze his fingers, gently. “I do not flatter myself to think the words of a human matter in this case,” you catch his eyes with a smile, hearkening back to the comfort he gave you what seems so long ago, “but the pride you have in your work, in your power, in the progress you’ve made, is warranted; you have earned that satisfaction. I can safely say, Barbatos, that you are, perhaps, the least complacent person I have ever met.”

Barbatos looks away, cheeks flushed all the way to his ears, slightly pointed tips showing pink through sleep-mussed hair, and your heart soars. “That is… perhaps the greatest compliment I have ever received, and my years are not few.” His fingers wrap tightly around yours. “I do not promise that I can take your word entirely to mind, but—I thank you.”

“You are most welcome, but you needn’t thank me for honesty.” His fingers squeeze perhaps too tightly, but you smile, cherishing the nearness, the gentle heat from his blushing cheeks. “May I kiss you again?”

He grins, full and genuine, glassen teeth on unabashed display, and you cannot imagine a greater endearment. “Please.”

“Just look at the two of you!” booms Lord Diavolo, leaping up from his chair when you join him on the terrace. “Arbia, have you ever seen two people so happy?”

Barbatos, his smile polite and indeed genuine, relinquishes your arm only to bow, something you notice the demoness observing keenly, without surprise.

“Indeed not, my lord.”

Diavolo chuckles and moves around the small luncheon table, arms spread wide in welcome. “I’m so pleased to see you both—especially you, Barbatos, back to yourself.”

“As I am pleased to—”

Without warning, you find yourself scooped into the prince’s right arm and crushed against his chest with Barbatos likewise in the left, feet dangling above the marble floor.

“My lord, please!” The protest is muffled and you can’t help but giggle. “This is quite indecorous.” But there is no bite to his words.

“I know, but I find myself overwhelmed with joy! Everything is coming together so favorably.” Gently, your feet touch the floor again and Diavolo’s grin has lost none of its luster. “Come—let’s have lunch to celebrate, and then tea, I think; there is much to discuss.”

His hands, one heavy on your shoulder and one on Barbatos’, give a firm squeeze before he returns to his seat. Barbatos mirrors the gesture with his fingers twined in yours, and leads you to the empty chair on the prince’s right, giving you a lovely view over the balcony of a mountain range far in the distance, of black forests covering the land at their foot. He tugs the chair out for you to sit, and makes sure you’re settled comfortably before taking the seat opposite.

Arbianock, silent as ever, taps her fingers on the edge of the table, and the ceramic dishes upon it fill with rice, light meats, and thick stew made with the Devildom’s equivalent of legumes, not dissimilar to lentils. Heavily spiced, savory fragrances make your mouth water, your stomach turn over hungrily, reminded full-force of the fact that you have not eaten since yesterday. Before you can make a decision, a full dish is pressed into your hand, the empty one at your place drawn away from the table’s edge. Barbatos’ eyes crinkle with merry amusement as you look from him to the shallow bowl in your hand, and he begins filling the empty dish that had been yours as he sees fit. The one you are holding is arranged neatly with exactly what you want—rice, stew in an elegant swirl, and long slices of golden-yellow sashimi.

“Thank you.” Warmth settles in your chest as you rest the bowl on the table’s glossy surface.

“It is my pleasure.”

“I told you, didn’t I, Arbia, that you’d be all but superfluous as soon as Barbatos was on his feet?” Diavolo takes a carafe of stew and generously pours it into his own bowl.

She flicks a dark nail against his goblet so that it rings, and water rises from the bottom as though seeping up from a natural spring. “Nearly,” she agrees, her low, resonant voice absolutely neutral. “But it is Master Barbatos’ right to dote on whomever he likes.”

Your face heats, but Barbatos’ methodical movements do not slow, and his voice is perfectly measured when he replies: “Perhaps if you were more attentive to our guest, I would not feel the need to remain attendant.”

It is very difficult to gauge whether Arbianock approves of the arrangement, but the corner of her mouth does quirk at the jab, and there is a curl of amusement in the air; you, meanwhile, don’t have the capacity to ignore your lunch any longer.

The first bite is dark and savory and finishes with a sharp, peppery spice related distantly to the anise of your world. Heat prickles behind your eyes with the second bite, and it has nothing to do with the spices—this simply seems the most exquisite thing you’ve ever tasted after nearly a day’s fast. But you’ve already had a good cry today and suspect that Arbianock would appreciate a happy tear about as much as she would appreciate spontaneous humming at the table, from which you also refrain. You reach for the fish next—cocytus perch—and it is just as clean and sweet as the first time you had tasted it, chasing the lingering feel of pepper on your tongue with a soothing wash of brightness.

Something nudges your foot with two firm taps, and you glance up to find Barbatos observing with no small amount of amusement, head tilted slightly… the expression reminds you of the time he had caught you—

Ah. You had thought about the humming but neglected to make sure you weren’t doing the Happy Food Dance.

He nods when he sees the realization dawn, and you try to cover up the embarrassment with another bite of rice. He had told you before that he found the gesture flattering, but lunch with the prince is perhaps not the best time to show your appreciation in such a fashion… and a glance at Arbianock confirms that she is indeed of a less forgiving opinion.

For his part, Lord Diavolo either notices not at all, or pretends not to. “The news continues to be good,” he begins over a sip from his goblet, “from the House of Lamentation, to Purgatory Hall, to RAD. Those who haven’t already resumed their scholarly activities will do so with the beginning of the new week, including you, of course, Ambrose. I do truly appreciate everything that you’ve done in the interest of the exchange program so far, and hope that we can continue to have such a fruitful relationship.”

“Of course, Lord Diavolo; it would be my pleasure.”

“I am glad to hear it.” The prince doesn’t seem nearly as interested in lunch as you nor even Barbatos, who is taking his meal much more freely than you have ever seen before, the smallest wink of his spear-tip teeth visible from time to time. “In fact, your performance has been so exemplary, so integral to our success so far this year, that I would like to extend an offer—I may have broached the subject once before.”

You stop mid-chew, scrambling mind searching for what he could possibly be—

“There will be room for an official ambassador between humans and demons once the exchange program ends; we would be quite honored and lucky to have you serve in that capacity. I can’t think of a better choice than such a bright example of the human species, and your understanding of demons and willingness to learn and cooperate in such a short period of time make you an outstanding—dare I say perfect—candidate.”

The meal does not taste nearly as delicious as it did a moment ago. You swallow, slowly, on a suddenly dry throat, and reach for your water goblet. You have to say something. Anything.

“Please, take your time; you don’t need to have an answer now. This is, of course, not the official offer— that would take place under more formal circumstances, and I wanted you to have the opportunity to really think it over and ask any questions you would like.”

The lukewarm water does little by way of comfort. Barbatos’ placid mask is in place, which tells you that he is very interested in your reply but does not wish to influence the events.

In all honesty, if Diavolo had asked this of you only a week ago, you would have said no without further preamble. You have to go home; your family is waiting for you, your neglected duties standing by for your return. But after the events—after this morning—temptation positively burns: the rings on your fingers, the serpent, the sunburst, the runes spiraling along your arm, and for the first time, the rose settled on your hip.

“What… kind of responsibilities would that entail? How much travel?”

Lord Diavolo visibly brightens, as though in asking, you have agreed. “Typical ambassadorial duties. At first, you’d mainly serve as a consultant, as our existence isn’t widely known in the Human Realm, and such a revelation will take years and care. You’d serve as a consultant on human affairs and relations, you would help develop any necessary legislation that would affect humans visiting the Devildom, and, of course, future treaties would require your presence and input, in addition to…”

Ambassador. Yes, right, proper ambassador, the kind that prevents the outbreak of war and helps regulate trade and protects their people within a foreign land, that kind of ambassador. You completely miss the next several items, and fold your hands neatly together on his lap as he finishes the list.

“Lord Diavolo…” Your voice scratches in your throat. “You must know that I’m not qualified to hold that position.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have no political background—”

“All the better! You’ll be honest.”

“I’m not educated in—”

“As I recall from your transcript, you already possess an undergraduate degree, and this year, RAD has started you on your journey through the equivalent of a graduate program, as requested. You are quite educated, Ambrose, and only grow more knowledgeable by the day!”

Resist the urge to puff out your cheeks in frustration. Resist also the urge to make a face at Barbatos, who is not bothering to hide his amusement over the goblet in his hand. “That does not change the fact that my education was neither political nor geared toward governmental structures, certainly not those outside the Human Realm—”

“You’ve been embroiled in the political process almost since your arrival, and things have only spiraled from there. Have you forgotten your experience in our court proceedings? In the nuances of the pacts you continue to collect? Even dealing with the Demon Prince himself—” His golden eyes glitter with amusement. “—to secure the freedom of a prisoner?”

There is little you can say to that.

The prince himself grins, sharp and broad; he knows he has you. “And you performed admirably in every situation. You even got what you wanted out of the trial without having your own voice—which, I must say, is extraordinary—and proved that you are willing to do whatever work is necessary yourself in securing the freedom of someone your pact-mates care about. You’ve proved not only to me, but the whole of the Devildom that you are willing to extend the compassion and understanding you have toward humanity to demonkind.” He laughs, boisterously: “Not qualified? I don’t believe there is anyone who could be more qualified.”

You don’t even try to argue this time, your cheeks burning from the praise. Perhaps—perhaps he is right. With some preparation and a little on-the-job training, you could probably do it. In fact… you recall the surge of pride when Diavolo had agreed to your terms to free Belphegor, the passion that gripped your blood and steadied your words in court, the exhilaration of defending your friends, in winning each argument. Indeed, you know that you could do it, given time, support, and practice. And, given Diavolo’s own passion for this project, given your courses and activities so far, you know you would be granted all of those things.

In fact…

In fact, you want it.

You want it so badly that the burn of your pacts creates a pleasant buzz, a background radiation of support, encouragement, a whisper of yes, yes, you can, anything, anything you wish, reach for it. Speak, and it will be yours. Simply grasp it. Something tugs, tugs, tugs at your heart like a golden thread.

You want it.

But a breeze stirs the air, whispers upon your cheek. From the garden far below, the cry of a cicada rises toward the day-moon, hanging sallow and silver-green in the sky. Back home, there is sunlight. Sunlight, and home, your parents, brothers of your own. Tasks left undone. Words left unsaid. Who are you if you can reconcile the cares and trials of strangers but not your own?

You have a duty.

When you meet Barbatos’ eyes, the smile that settles there is knowing. It is a smile that recognizes the look on your face, a look he knows only too well because he has worn it himself for centuries.

“Consider what it is you desire.”

#om! barbatos #barbatos x mc #om barbatos #obey me!#shall we date? obey me!#my fics #shall we date? obey me

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bloodofthepen · 1 year

Text

Lachesis Pt IV-1 (Obey Me!)

Rating: T

Ship: Barbatos/MC

POV: Second Person

Chapters: 3.5/4 (Part I here)

[Read on AO3; Chapter 4 not currently posted]

Since it has been two years now since I’ve updated, I decided to post the first half of chapter IV here on Tumblr until I’ve finished the whole thing. I’m in the final stretch, but there’s no telling how long it’ll be before I’ve finished (I have actually been working pretty consistently on this for two years) but I really wanted to get something posted; I’ll be waiting to update on AO3 until the whole thing is complete. My word count for the entirety of Part IV is 41k words so far, so you can see why it could potentially be split into two.

Warning in this chapter for: blood, graphic description of injury

Part IV (1/2): You

You’re snuggled beneath familiar blankets. Take one, deep breath, then another, letting the air stretch your lungs comfortably, languidly—it feels like decadence. You become slowly aware of the vine-tangled ceiling of your room, and then, of Lucifer, sitting beside the bed. His eyes are dark with lack of sleep, but he offers a smile. Down by your feet, you can feel a weight, a soft, radiating warmth… ah, it's Mammon curled up and snoring atop your coverlet.

“He refused to leave after I sent the rest of them to bed,” Lucifer rumbles, eyes crinkled in a fondness he’d never let his brother see were he awake.

You smile. “He’s a good boy.” Gingerly, you try sitting up, moving slowly to your forearms, and then up, sliding back against the rugged headboard. There appears to be no pain at all, which is… strange.

“Simeon healed you completely,” supplies Lucifer. “But such extended exposure to magic and that much trauma left you exhausted.”

You flex your fingers; the silvery bands of Mammon’s pact catch the low light. “I feel completely fine…” Take another deep breath, and search Lucifer’s face. “But what about Barbatos?”

“He was also exhausted by that evening’s efforts; right now he is resting in his own room at the castle.”

“May I speak with him?”

Lucifer’s brows pinch. “Barbatos is not conscious.”

“Is he all right?” Push the blankets down, struggling to untangle yourself from the sheets without jostling Mammon, heart racing against your ribs. “Please—”

“Then…” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “He’ll be awake soon?”

Lucifer sighs, releasing your hands. “I don’t know.”

“May I see him?”

“We’ll discuss it with Diavolo in the morning.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly three.”

A gentle hand touches your shoulder, and, begrudgingly, you turn your face to look at Lucifer. “My brothers have become very fond of you. And—” His gaze shifts slightly away. “—so have I, of course. They have been worried, and I need to ask…”

Your brow furrows. “Yes?”

“How were you able to call Beelzebub? You shouldn’t have been able to communicate through the pact that way, no matter how close you may be. You didn’t summon him. You’ve never shown any magical ability that advanced; it should not have been possible.”

Hope, desperation. “Where? Is she—?”

Lucifer presses a hand to his chest, squeezes his eyes shut. “Excuse me.” He remains that way for a moment, and when he opens his eyes again, they are clear and calm. “I should have—” He shakes his head. “It makes sense now; her power was always based in communication, in emotion. Given a choice, of course she would pick you; you’d be naturally receptive. Do you suppose…?" He hesitates, brow creasing. "I wonder if it wasn’t an accident.”

“If what wasn’t?”

He takes a deep breath. “When I chose you for the exchange program… I was so sick of reading applications that, after a breeze scattered my paperwork over the floor, I just picked up the application that landed by my feet and decided that whomever it was would be the second student… and it was you.” He looks at your hand on his sleeve. “I wonder now if it wasn’t chance at all. If Lilith...” Her name catches in his throat. “If that’s so…” He smiles. “She made a good choice.”

There’s a pang in your chest. You had always thought Lord Diavolo had made the decision, but after that night in the restaurant, you had thought it had been Lucifer’s. And now... Now, you find—all this time… have they considered you an accident? Not just Lucifer, but Diavolo and Barbatos? Your presence, mere chance? But now, in this moment… is it Fate? Or Lilith’s will? Does Lilith’s involvement make it different than if Lucifer had chosen you himself, on some kind of merit?

“Now, then—” he sits back, folds his arms across his chest. “I imagine you want to know what happened that night.”

Fingers curl tight into the blankets. It doesn’t matter how you came to be in the Devildom, really, not right now. What matters is this. “Yes.”

“After you left with Barbatos, my brothers were… encouraged to go into the garden to wait, while Diavolo and I spoke. Once that was concluded, we joined them, but it was only a few moments later that Beel—” He frowns, looks away. “He almost collapsed, started shouting, called for you, and—briefly, I believe the others were hit with some sensation or pain before everything stopped. Diavolo must have summoned Barbatos immediately, instantly, because I was only briefly aware of Barbatos’ power before it was over. The next thing I knew, Diavolo was catching his breath on one of the benches as Time resumed, and his first order was for me to accompany him to the House of Lamentation.”

“Barbatos told me Diavolo was lending him energy.”

Lucifer’s brows arch. “You were awake, then?”

“Only briefly. He and Simeon were there, and… Barbatos didn’t seem well.”

A chuckle settles in his chest, a gloved hand pinching his brows. “Barbatos didn’t seem well. You were dying.” His fingers ruffle his bangs, sharp and frustrated. “And all because—”

Silence.

“I cannot repay you.”

There’s a pang in your heart. “Lucifer, there’s no need to—”

“You didn’t have to do it.” He drops his hand, letting it clench into a fist in his lap. “There was nothing personal to be gained, yet you risked your relationships, your life, without thinking. Why? It makes no sense. You owe us nothing. In fact, your safety has been threatened numerous times as a result of my brothers’ actions; I have personally lost my temper with you on no less than three occasions. You should have abandoned Belphegor, should have left me to my punishment; why didn’t you?”

“Hmngh?”

Lucifer freezes. Mammon snuffles, rolls, his shirt riding over his ribs, but remains asleep. You release your breath, and slowly, lean back against the pillows.

“I might be a bit more selfish than you believe.” Close your eyes. “I’ve come to care very much for your family, and to think that they consider me any part of it is… far more than I would have thought to hope for. But when all of this started—” How to say it? “I thought… when I discovered Belphegor…” You wet your lips. “I thought I could sort it out. On my own, of course.” Stupid. “I’ve never been able to fix my own... familial issues, but for some reason I thought I had an opportunity with yours, that it was… that it was a chance for me to—to use what I had learned from my own mistakes. Maybe to pay for them. Maybe to heal them.” Bury your face in your knees again, feel your mouth turn in a wry grin. “It’s terrible being this self-aware. Makes confessing more embarrassing because you know where you went wrong… there’s no ‘I don’t know’.” Fingers curl, tight, into palms. “I know why I did it. I felt like I had learned enough, knew enough. But I still misjudged.” Take a deep breath, meet his stunned gaze. “And… I apologize. For the worry I’ve caused. For not speaking with you sooner.”

“You—” He bites his tongue, wrinkles his brows, looks at the floor.

And then you’re buried in dark silk, inhaling the sharp scent of ash and honey and warm, bitter myrrh.

“Don’t you have any sense at all?”

You chuckle, but it gets stuck behind the tears constricting your throat. “Didn’t I ask you that today?”

“Three days ago,” he rumbles. “I believe you also called me an idiot.”

“Is that next?” You sniffle, smiling against his vest.

“H—hmmn—h-hey! WHAT’S THE BIG IDEA, HUH?”

You can feel Lucifer’s sigh perfectly timed with your own, which peters off into a wet chuckle as Mammon paws at both your and his brother’s shoulders.

“Mammon—” But Lucifer releases you just in time for you to be crushed against Mammon’s chest.

“I WAS SO WORRIED ABOUT YA, DON’T YOU DARE DO THAT TO ME AGAIN, YA HEAR?” He hides his face in your shoulder, and you gain enough balance to wrap your arms around his back.

“I’m sorry, Mammon.”

“You’d better.” He makes a sound suspiciously like a sniffle, and you let a couple more tears roll down your cheeks, just for good measure, before you have to compose yourself.

“Enough, Mammon.” Lucifer’s voice is terse, but Mammon just clings tighter. “I said enough. Are you really going to make them take care of you after everything that happened?”

He pops his head off your shoulder. “Wh—no! No, I’m takin’ care of them, ya see? You’re the one that made me their guardian, now let me do some guardin’!”

“They need rest. I’ve allowed you to stay until they woke. Now return to your room for the night; you’ll see Ambrose in the morning.”

“But—”

“Now, Mammon.”

When you look him in the face again, his cheeks are flushed, and he won’t meet your eyes. “Okay. But I’m comin’ first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, Mammon.” You give his hand a brief squeeze.

He stops before climbing out of the bed. “And you’ll call me first?”

“First, I promise.”

He beams. “Okay. And—”

“And I’m going to make sure Lucifer goes to sleep, too.”

“O—oh. I mean—good! Yeah! Okay. You should!”

“Good night, Mammon.” Lucifer crosses his arms over his chest.

You smile. “Good night Mammon.”

“G’night, Ambrose! ...Lucifer.” And the door closes behind him.

You sigh, straightening out your blankets. “You know I really didn’t mind. He needs comfort, too… that was a bad night for everyone.”

“It was, he does, and I let him have it.” Lucifer leans back in his chair, folds one leg over the other. “But you shouldn’t be taking care of anyone this evening.”

“But—”

“I do believe it is my job.” He tilts his head with a mischievous half-smile. “I am the eldest here.”

“After I’m finished here; you are part of our number as well.”

“I will be staying until you go back to sleep. Then, I will tend to the rest… so if you’d like me to get on with them, I suggest you lie down.”

You try for a disgruntled, defeated sigh as you snuggle into the blankets, but it comes out as a pitifully tearful wheeze. “Well-played.”

“Did you really expect anything less?” He brushes a gloved hand across your forehead. “Rest. I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunity to level the playing field tomorrow.”

You close your eyes, and find the bed is much more comfortable than usual.

“And Ambrose…”

“Hm?”

“Wait for Mammon to fetch you for breakfast in the morning.”

“Mm.”

----

Oh. You’re... probably exempt from classes no matter what day of the week this might be. Still, your DDD is lying on the table, and a quick look says it’s Tuesday. Tuesday, and no notifications. A lump rises in your throat.

As you peel off your nightshirt, a series of dark, even marks catch your eye, scattered across the skin of your forearm. It’s a band of runes, a spiral beginning just below your elbow, stopping halfway to your wrist; they’re black, with a deep, green sheen that catches the light when you move… wrath is there, and fire, and—”mutual,” you think? And is that… protection? You recognize power, and… “united against the Enemy?” You’ll have to get your notes out for the rest, and maybe talk to Satan about the cohesive meaning of the piece. No one else’s has looked quite like this, not even in their most basic form… the pact seals that each of the others’ started from were simply the rune of their particular sin within a pentagram surrounded by a basic iteration of their promise.

You face the mirror to look at the other pacts, and it seems they’ve all morphed further after the… events. Beelzebub’s mark on your stomach is now a full sunburst, glittering in red and orange and yellow alongside the bold, black stripes that make up the geometric rays, its pattern grown more complex, doubling back on itself in detailed artistry. The seal on your hip has blossomed into a delicate, black and pink rosebud with drops of dew gathered upon the petals. Leviathan’s is more difficult to see, but twisting around and craning your neck reveals that the serpentine rune has transformed into a proper serpent with navy and orange scales, its tail winding in upon itself as it follows your spine. And Mammon…

You’re not sure why you didn’t notice last night, but one of the rings upon your hand has turned to gold. With a soft smile, you return to your task, and finish getting dressed.

For a moment, you hesitate in front of the mirror. There are a few flamboyant ruffles over one shoulder, and the material of your shirt is very fine (gargantuan spider-silk, you think Asmo said? Best not think too hard about the implications of that), with a good gradient of translucence and texture, fitted just enough at the bottom to tuck into the trousers. But… no cravat. Of course, any necktie would clash with the ruffling. In fact—perhaps—this might be too flamboyant. After all, you won’t be at the palace to take tea. You could change into—

“BEEL! Don’t you want there to be enough bacon for Ambrose?”

A mumbled response.

One nice thing about sharing a wall with the kitchen is always knowing what’s for breakfast—

Wait. Not hell-swine bacon, Erymanthian bacon, or gloson bacon? Just—bacon?

You’re one step away from a full jog when you push the dining room doors open to find the table piled high with food, but only one face—

Dark hair streaked with white. Indigo eyes heavy with sleep, mouth twisted wryly.

Your feet refuse to move as surely as the blood freezes in your veins. “What are you doing here?”

Wait for…?

Oh.

You do dimly recall Lucifer’s instructions before—and that means...

Lucifer was well aware this would happen.

“I will ask again.” Nails dig into palms, your spine arrow-straight. “What are you—”

“Ambrose!” Satan darts out of the kitchen, a plate of eggs in one hand, Beelzebub hot on his heels. “Where’s Mamm—”

“You knew about this?” Your heart sinks, and the runes just glow brighter, hotter. “What is he doing here?”

“I live here.”

Blood on the blankets, a single tear gliding down your neck. We could feel it. Trembling breaths. It wasn’t okay. Lips, too pale; skin, too hot. I would do it a thousand more times.

White-hot rage settles in your chest, burning your stomach, your fingertips, humming along your skin.

You come face-to-chest with Beelzebub. Take a long, slow, breath. “Beel. Step aside.”

“Ambrose, maybe you should wait—”

Beel’s brows wrinkle. “I don’t want you to get in trouble. You’re really angry right—”

“Oh, really?” Your shoulders pull tight, square, perfectly straight. “And what else am I supposed to be? Don’t you know what he did?”

He folds a hand over his wrist, shakes his head. “I know, and I’m… I know, but he’s—”

“He’s your brother, and that’s the only reason I’m willing to speak with that liar, now move.” Nails cut into palms. “Please.”

“I… no.” His shoulders hunch. “I can’t.”

Mouth curls, baring your teeth. “I don’t want to make you.”

Beelzebub shakes his head, eyes soft. “I won’t.” You can feel a ripple of sadness, of hesitation, a knot of conflict.

Tighten your jaw, release a slow breath. “Beelzebub, step aside, and don’t move.”

He obeys without resisting, eyes squeezed shut, head hanging low.

You approach the table.

“Ambrose—”

“Satan, stop.” From the corner of your eye, you can see his face twisted with anger, but he does not move, and you continue your steady pace.

Belphegor meets your gaze with alert interest, but hasn’t picked up his head from the palm of his hand, shoulders slumped unevenly, like he doesn’t consider you a threat at all.

The runes on your skin burn brighter. How dare he. Perhaps you hold little enough power on your own, but you could have commanded that his own brothers combat Belphegor for you.

But you could. And he should respect that.

“GUYS, WHERE’S—oh, Ambrose, hey! ...what’s goin’ on?”

“Don’t move, Mammon.”

“Wait, why—”

“Shhh.”

“I suppose I should be thanking you for that,” he says, eyes glimmering.

There are several implements within reach, but none are quite what you want. “Explain.”

Your fingers twitch.

But Belphegor just smiles. “Maybe there is something to what you said. About being friends.” He yawns, makes a show of covering his mouth. “And if Barbatos doesn’t wake up for the next sixty years, it serves him right for defending a human.”

A black-gloved hand snatches the platter from the air before it can collide with Belphegor’s face. Your fists slam on the table, rattling silverware. “Lucifer—!”

“You have no power over me, so don’t waste your energy.” He narrows his eyes at his brother, ruby irises flashing. “And you—you ought to be begging this human’s forgiveness, not antagonizing them.”

Belphegor shrugs asymmetrically. “It’s not my fault they’re so stupid—aaaow!”

Distantly, Lucifer examines the crack down the platter’s middle. “Ruined,” he tuts.

The youngest rubs his head, jaw tight. “What the f—”

This time, the hefty porcelain shatters.

“Lucifer, what is he doing here?”

Oh, this would be funny if it weren’t so very painful.

Squeeze your eyes shut. Draw a trembling breath. For the next sixty years. He could be winding you up. He’s probably winding you up, but—

You can still see the feverish shine of Barbatos’ eyes, the wan, sickly cast of his skin. The tremble of fingers uncomfortably hot against yours. The soft, gentle nuzzle along your jaw. Nykin, he called you nykin, and if you never find out what that means, you—

Swallow the lump in your throat.

Turn on your heel, head back the way you had come.

“H—hey, wait!” But you don’t hesitate, not even for Mammon.

The eldest steps into your path. “You must eat. I will have food brought to your room if—”

“No, thank you; I won’t have time.” You do not slow, simply stepping around the demon.

“Ambrose—”

“I said no.” Your blood quickens.

You can’t recall the last time you said that.

----

“I—” Your ears are hot. “I’m sorry. You really don’t have to call me—”

She straightens. “You have my master’s respect.”

“Er… I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” You fuss with your sleeves, but the loose fit means there are no cuffs to adjust. “I don’t think I’ve ever met you before.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Well, I—” There’s an ache in your chest.

“Ambrose!”

Arbianock bows deeply in greeting, and steps aside. “Lord Diavolo.”

She bows. “Yes, my lord.”

“Lord Diavlolo—”

“Just ‘Diavolo’ while you’re here, please.”

Heave a deep sigh. “Diavolo. How is he?”

Your mouth is dry. “That’s correct.”

It’s very easy to think of the demons as indestructible, and Barbatos, especially, as absolutely untouchable. Distant, apart from all things, ever observing, above the petty squabbles, offering a solution, an act of service for every whim. Ever-present upon the stage while the eye is trained to pass him over and find him invisible.

And yet—

Your heart is heavy, and it burns so, so much hotter than any sin.

A heavy hand pats your arm, bright and warm through your silk sleeve. “I think I’m not very good at this,” Diavolo confesses.

“Pardon me… at what?”

Another stairwell, this one a spiral, its marble steps carpeted in wine velvet, lit with cool, blue-white orbs of light hovering at intervals along the plaster walls, divided every seven steps with a thin, doric column. The wisps of light seem to sing, lowly, a melody that hums along your skin in the now-familiar pattern of magic, sustained, perhaps, by their own, soft resonance.

You manage a chuckle alongside him; that bright laugh is truly infectious, sunshine in the darkness. It’s a wonder sometimes that Diavolo is a demon at all.

“And here we are.”

“I’ve been here before.”

Diavolo’s brows arch. “Oh?”

“We just didn’t come the normal way, I suppose. It was after the trial—Barbatos brought me here for tea.”

“No one…?”

“Nobody.” A devilish smile pulls at his lips, and you certainly can’t mistake him for anything else now. “This is Barbatos’ private drawing room.”

You have no idea what to do with this information beyond feel uncomfortably warm. “Oh.”

“And it’s the only entrance to his bedroom.” He leads you to the door opposite the fireplace, and pushes it open.

The rooms are perfectly matched; here, the dark panels are lit by the glow of the false sun streaming through a wall of high, paned windows that overlook the garden, curtained with purple damask and velvet. Opposite, is the bed, draped in maroon and turquoise, nestled in an alcove between large, ionic columns set into the wall, four-poster, with thick, wine curtains tied at each corner. Strangely, it begins somewhat narrowly at the head and tapers outward to the foot, almost like a paper fan. It becomes clear quickly why, as Barbatos himself rests in the center, lying on his side, pillows tucked carefully around his form, one in particular supporting his tail, which curls outward and down, taking up almost more space than the rest of him.

He is dressed in simple, light clothing, loose around his arms and legs, cool and comfortable and—you avert your eyes automatically. He seems so… vulnerable. Underdressed. Inert.

“I do hate seeing him like this,” Diavolo murmurs, and you’re grateful for the excuse to look at him instead. His mouth is pulled in a solemn line, no trace of any earlier joviality, a heavy weight upon his shoulders. “He is well. I even had my own physicians in to make sure there weren’t any complications. But Barbatos is… he’s been with me for a very long time. Since I was a fledgling demon. And that was—well... I don’t think a human can imagine how long ago that was. He’s always there, always unflappable, reliable Barbatos. To have him removed…” Diavolo sighs. “I always notice. When I was young, that constant presence used to chafe, but—”

Three brisk knocks on the door.

“Enter.”

Arbianock does so with all the swift efficiency you’ve come to expect of the prince’s butler, pushing a low tea cart set with china you haven’t seen before. These dishes are glossy, the sheen faintly holographic over a black wash; swimming through the darkness are grey mists and flecks that look like stars, and each teacup sits tall and thin on wide feet. At a small table near the windows, already set with two chairs, Arbianock begins swiftly ordering the teapot, cups, saucers, and two plates piled high with dainty sandwiches and small, flaky pastries. Your stomach makes a most unsavory sound.

Diavolo chuckles, lightly. “You’ve been spending too much time with Beelzebub… or, maybe, you ran out of the house without eating, despite the breakfast waiting for you.”

Of course he’d heard. “Is that how Lucifer put it?”

He shrugs in the wake of your irritable frown and moves to the table, where Arbianock waits silently. “Something like that.”

“Think nothing of it! Barbatos would never forgive me if I let you go hungry. Ah—thank you, Arbia.”

Your heart feels like it’s held tight in a fist. You recognize the scent of the tea; it is the same Barbatos had first prepared for you in the RAD courtyard, months ago. And the comfort of human-world fruit… “Thank you.” If you move your eyes from the table, you won’t be able to maintain control.

You hadn’t realized you knew that.

“Eat,” urges Diavolo, “and we can discuss something pleasant.”

One bite of the sandwich you’ve been served only makes you hungrier and you finish it before you’re able to even consider that the gesture is less than polite—certainly not fit for the prince’s table—but another finds its way onto your plate before you can even ask for another. Arbianock’s facial expression does not change when you thank her quietly, nor does she seem to mind that the second sandwich disappears as quickly as the first, despite your best efforts.

“I’m… hungrier than I thought.” You can’t raise your eyes from the plate as another sandwich takes its place. “Please excuse me.”

“Nonsense, eat as much as you like!” Diavolo laughs heartily. “There’s more than enough here for both of us.”

“...but, of course, Arbia has been around at least that long, and—you’ve met Mephistopheles before, haven’t you?”

It tastes of sunshine and home and it brings you back to your mind, to your stomach, which has ceased its complaints, to the warning edge of a burn in the lines of Beelzebub’s pact upon your skin.

“Yes… Satan had taken me to the newspaper club meeting on a few occasions before Mephistopheles was removed as Chief Editor.”

Fondness stirs in your chest, but doesn’t quite make its way to your face. “I’m sure Asmo could be persuaded. We would have a whole collection of tiny demon lords.”

His eyes glitter. “Yes, exactly! Why we could—”

The hollow sound of a great bell reverberates through the air, hums through your bones.

A deep sigh, and Diavolo seizes his teacup. “Unfortunately, that means I am needed.” He tips it back in one go, and rises, but as you move to do the same, he raises a hand. “No, please; you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I’m certain Barbatos could use a bit of company.”

There’s a lump in your throat again. “Thank you, Diavolo.”

It sounds like entirely too much, but you nod as graciously as you can manage. “Thank you. I doubt I’ll need anything, but I’m grateful.”

Arbianock stands stiffly at his side. “My lord…”

“Yes, of course! We can’t linger.” The bright, brilliant grin finds its way again to the prince’s face. “Good morning, Ambrose.”

It doesn’t feel right to remain seated, but you offer a small, half-bow from your chair. “Good morning, Diavolo.”

Your hands are shaking.

You settle into the waiting chair, perched on its edge so that your knees press close against the mattress. The expression Barbatos wears is gentle, peaceful repose; surely, a blessing. Could you stand it if it seemed he was in pain? That he should be in any discomfort seems unbearable, especially if he must lie here for another—

Fingers curl against your thighs.

You hover there, hand outstretched, fingertips almost, almost finding his. They tremble. The breath aches in your chest.

“You are free to touch me, if you so wish.”

“Barbatos!”

His eyes glitter and you—

Your fingers wrap around his, thread them together, palms kissing.

“How—” Too much, too much, not enough. Tug his hand a little closer, press your forehead to the back of his fingers. His skin is warm, but not feverish. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you entered the room.” Mischief in his voice, but you can’t find it in your heart to be irritated.

Huff a soft laugh. Relief washes through your chest, and you nuzzle his skin. Soft—his hands are so soft…

“I trust Lucifer and the others have taken good care of you?”

Barbatos hums, closing his eyes. “I shall have to thank Simeon.” His thumb begins a slow pattern again, up and down, brushing your cheek along the way.

Press closer to his touch. “And I need to thank you.”

“Of course I’ll stay.”

You wish to do nothing else.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Six of the most powerful demon lords vying for your attention. I know that was not your intention, but after what you’ve done, you could have had your choice.” His eyes scrunch in a dark sort of delight. “Six demon lords, and you’re lavishing your affection on the royal butler.” He’s giggling again, this time in that bubbling, caramel tone you’ve enjoyed before. “The Brothers are going to be exceptionally envious.”

He returns the gesture, eyes drifting closed, though a devious smile still curls his mouth. “If that is what you wish.”

The fluttering of your heart goes straight to your head in a soft, gentle hum, and you smooth your thumb over the back of Barbatos’ hand. Slowly, contentedly, he returns the gesture.

You watch for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his every breath. “Do you need to sleep again?”

Barbatos sighs, tugging your hand close to his chest. “Soon. I will likely rest…” He considers, glancing off into space as though trying to recall some minute detail. “...four more days.”

Four days? “Then—why are you awake now?” Surely he should be sleeping, shouldn’t have woken at all...

“There is no need to keep it secret; I suspect he understands the situation.” Ah, and there is the all-knowing, little smile.

“Diavolo did make some… insinuations,” you recall.

“Does that trouble you?”

“Yes?”

“I…” Clear your throat, which suddenly seems a little inadequate for the oxygen and words you’re looking for. “I think he’s under the impression that we’ve… been seeing each other.”

His brow creases for half a moment before softening with amusement. “Ah.” He closes his eyes again. “My lord would think that was the natural progression of things; this has developed rather quickly, and out of order, from our perspective.” He draws a deep, slow breath, like the kind that appears halfway to sleep. “A demon’s perspective.”

You have at least four questions now, but you don’t want to keep him awake, so you squeeze his hand lightly. “You should rest.”

He isn’t wrong; you find you’re more drained than normal, and you’ve only been up a few hours, but—is this not a bit fast? Then again… how many times have you fallen asleep in a pile of demons already? And, really, Barbatos is wearing more clothes than Mammon sometimes wears to sleep. Yet—you feel as though he’s entirely naked.

You’re interrupted by a light, polite laugh. “You needn’t if you do not wish to.”

“I’m overthinking,” you confess. After all, you share a bed with your friends regularly. This isn’t different just because you feel so tenderly for him.

He relinquishes your hand with a soft smile, and closes his eyes again. “Take your time, nykin.”

There’s a small shift in weight on the bed, and it’s not until you feel fabric creeping over your legs that you realize it is his tail moving sluggishly to tug the blanket up and over your hips. But it doesn’t move back down the foot of the bed once that task is complete; instead, his tail settles heavily, gently across your thighs, rolls lightly up your spine, nestled against your back.

“Is that all right?” He’s watching your reaction intently.

You nod against the pillow, and reach for his hand again, which he relinquishes easily, folding into yours. “Sleep well, darling.”

The words are long gone before you realize what you’ve said, but Barbatos’ eyes are closed, and a smile lingers on his lips.

----

It’s the scent, first, of ashes and ink, of early morning mist and winter’s clean edge. You don’t recognize it immediately, beyond demon, but when you open your eyes, well, it certainly couldn’t have been anyone else. The weight of Barbatos’ embrace still presses into the small of your back, his fingers still soft against yours; you hadn’t moved at all in your sleep, probably worried about disturbing him. There is still enough light from the windows to soften the edges of his face, to highlight the curve of his mouth, to smooth away the lines around his eyes. He looks… happier, now, than when you arrived, and you’re inclined to believe you’re not imagining it. Absently, you let your fingers run across the skin of his palm, down to the wrist, and linger there a while under a silken sleeve.

Your stomach rudely reminds you that it’s time to eat again, but you’re not ready to move just yet, so you turn only a little, and take in the rest of the room properly. While the drawing room was fairly small, and sparsely furnished, this one hardly resembles the room of a servant—these are the quarters of a duke brought into the prince’s palace. Beyond the foot of the bed, amongst the paned, Georgian windows is a massive bay window with a soft perch nestled below for lounging, complete with pillows of myriad shapes and a small duvet.

“I knew he would recognize you!” The voice does its best to be hushed, but there’s too much damned told-you-so sunshiny glee crammed into it to make such attempts effective.

“Sorry! Sorry…” He’s whisper-yelling now. “I was just hoping you’d join me for dinner.”

That had been the plan. “Yes, I’ll just…” You absolutely cannot look at him. “Give me a moment, please.”

“Of course, of course! I’ll wait in the drawing room; we have much to discuss.”

The prince is half-lounging on the loveseat so he can see you over its back, smirking in a manner that is one raised brow from lascivious. “So, how is he?”

Perhaps one day you’ll learn a spell that will allow you to melt yourself into the floor. “Still tired. He only spoke to me for a few minutes and went back to sleep.”

He nods, and pushes himself off the seat with a stretch. “That’s to be expected. Did he mention how long he would need?”

“Four days.”

----

You’re seated almost directly at Lord Diavolo’s right hand; there is one empty chair occupying that space, but you are next, and, while the table is set fully and formally, no one comes to take the seat, nor to take Lucifer’s on his left. Upon the banquet table lays a feast fit to feed ten, and, dimly, you wonder what will happen to the food that shall surely go uneaten. There’s roast wyvern and a grilled fish you don’t recognize that’s almost as big as you are, and Arbianock flits about the room like the shadow of a moth, refilling your glass, serving whatever you want before you even ask for it. Even if you can’t name every side dish, you’re sure you’ve tasted them all before, and accept portions gratefully… but you can’t seem to taste much of what’s on your plate over the measured, grave pace of the prince’s voice:

“You do not.”

“And it wasn’t all for nothing; this did clear up a great many questions for me, beyond who opened the door. Suspicions about your lineage are confirmed, and—”

“My lineage?”

“Hm? Yes, it seems Lilith not only shared her power with you, but you are a distant descendant of her human incarnation.”

Diavolo shakes his head. “No. Your lineage wasn’t even a thought until you borrowed Solomon’s magic, and he commented on your ability to invoke more power than you’d shown aptitude for previously—and I had no suspicions about you being Lilith’s descendant until Belphegor reappeared.”

Descended. Is that really all you are? An accident of Fate? Lilith never used that word, never said…

“It was quite the surprise, but… these things do have a habit of coming back around.”

You had both been served a glass of water and a glass of demonus; it is the demonus he sips from now, as his words settle over the table like fog.

“What do you mean?”

“All things are made up of patterns.” He hums. “The universe exists in a state of raw discord—call that chaos, if you will—and Existence is the movement of this energy, this matter, into comprehensible patterns. For instance, a simple thing: fire. All its parts exist, latent, in the atmosphere, but when circumstances push them together in a set, predictable pattern—” He snaps, and a small flame dances between his fingers. “—it springs into being. People, animals, plants, thoughts, every element you can conceive, whole worlds… just like this.” Scarlet and saffron, it licks across his skin. “Patterns. We call it magic, angels call it order; humans, I think, are calling it ‘science’ nowadays.” With a careless wave, the flame winks out. “So, when I transformed Lilith’s Being into a human shape… of course the action would come back here, where it started. Like the tide, everything craves balance; a push, a pull, the elements fall back into disarray but find another pattern. Without it, there is nothing.” Thoughtfully, he examines the space where the flame once was. “And yet… we have the power to create patterns of our own. In a whirling existence of order and discord, we can decide what it all means. Call that… Destiny.”

You’re my successor, Ambrose, because you chose to try. You think you can almost touch the edge of what’s known like this. A strange turn in the pit of your stomach, like you’ve contemplated what nonexistence would feel like for a little too long.

“Ah, but I don’t mean to lecture you! How dreadfully dull.” Diavolo chuckles. “Listen to me; I’m starting to sound like Barbatos—please don’t tell him! Now, I started all this because… aha! Yes.” He sobers. “I cannot remove Belphegor from the House of Lamentation because of the deal you and I made. And frankly, I don’t want to. It would benefit him not at all to misbehave now, so I doubt he’ll try anything further; from his perspective, there’s no sense in jeopardizing his extraordinarily good fortune. However, if it would make you more comfortable, I can have you moved to Purgatory Hall either temporarily, or for the remainder of the year.” Here, the prince straightens, and leans slightly toward you over the table. “But I hope you don’t doubt that Lucifer and his brothers care for you.”

Your heart aches, protesting in your chest. “I don’t.” You know they care, but you know they’re loyal to their brother, too. That, maybe, their loyalty should be to him first. And that you…

You…

You used the pacts against them without even thinking.

“Good! After all, half the Devildom would like to be you right now, if only for the benefits. And yet, you seem to be completely unaware of or care not at all for that kind of thing. Power? You ask for nothing. Riches, sex, unlimited knowledge? Not a single bargain, not one favor. Your complete lack of ambition is truly a marvel!” His smile is radiant. Your head is spinning. You’re not sure whether you’ve been insulted or praised or a bit of both, and just can’t bring yourself to bother untangling it.

You used the pacts to strip your friends of their will.

“Still... all the same, would you like me to have your quarters moved for a while?”

“N—” Tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. “No. Thank you. I… have to go back.”

The temptation is very real. You need to—you want… you wish to confide in someone, to ask about what you’ve done, seek advice on the course of action, but Barbatos isn’t available. Reach for your water goblet, stomach heavy with knots.

“I can have someone fetch anything you need for this evening,” the prince suggests, slowly, and you realize with no small embarrassment that you haven’t responded to him at all.

His brow arches. “Apologize? What for? The way I heard it, Belphegor antagonized you.”

Fingers curl tight around the goblet’s stem. “I won’t be apologizing to Belphegor.” There’s a whisper of sensation curling around your forearm.

“Ah, of course; I heard that your rage was quite something.”

“You’re… going to apologize for... being angry?”

Well, it looks like you’re confessing to the prince himself, and it’s too late to stop now. “I used the pacts to keep them all from interfering.” You avoid covering your face, though only just, by shoving your hands into your lap. Like a naughty child. But isn’t that what you are for letting your anger control you? “I was so angry, I… I just took away their ability to act. Made what I wanted more important.”

“Everyone?”

Diavolo is silent for a moment. “And you think that was... wrong?”

"Of course it was wrong!"

But Diavolo looks dumbfounded. "Then was it wrong to use your pact with Beelzebub to keep him from fighting me back in Purgatory Hall?"

"That's nowhere near the same thing. I was stopping a fight, not starting one."

"Of course I wouldn't try to kill him, and—" Your stomach rolls dangerously. "—certainly not while they watched. He's their brother."

"And yet, you would have been well within your rights to try. He tried to kill you, and is now beyond formal punishment from the crown for that action. Taking it into your own hands is not inappropriate."

"Now stop that."

Your cheeks light with shame even as you balk at the command.

When laid out that way—

Even so… "I shouldn't have done it out of anger."

Your nails are cutting into your palms. Lamplight glints, blood-red and bright through an untouched glass of demonus. “Do you… consider Destiny and Fate different things, Diavolo?”

“Yes. I believe Destiny is precisely what I told you: creation and change through will. It is your choice, your power over the shape of your life. Fate, on the other hand, is how you start. It’s the circumstances you’re given and the world you live in, and it is where you will be at the end of all things. But Destiny is how you arrive there, how you’ll shape what that final Fate may be; nobody has a say in how they begin, but they do have a hand in how it ends.”

“That must be very easy for you to say.”

“It wasn’t always.”

“Would you like to take dessert and tea in the parlor, my lord?”

You hadn’t even noticed Arbianock was gone.

----

When you left the House of Lamentation this morning, you hadn’t even had time to consider that you were walking the streets unescorted for the first time since your arrival in the Devildom. Now, as the scant evening light begins to fade into night, you’re painfully aware of every shadow, each unfamiliar face that lingers on every street-corner. And…

They’re studiously avoiding eye-contact. That seems rather backward, but you’re certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, nor slow your steps, as much as you dread arriving at the estate.

The house’s slouching gables seem more grievous than unusual beneath the silver moon, the spire painfully lonesome. Would anyone notice, do you suppose, if you just turned around and retraced your steps into town? There’s not a single insect chirping tonight, no mournful breeze. The house sits, uncharacteristically silent. Perhaps no one is even home.

Your stomach turns. Is it because you fear you won’t have the opportunity to see them, or because you might?

The air has taken on a chill edge, and you’re not dressed for it; you can’t stand on the street forever. So, with a miserably unfortifying breath, you try the door, and find it unlocked.

“Good evening, Ambrose.” Lucifer’s hands rest on the balcony rail, at the top of the stairs.

There’s no hiding the way you flinched. “Good evening.”

He makes no move toward the stairs. “How was your visit?”

“Good.” Anything else sticks in your throat.

“Mm.”

Silence.

Your heart sinks; you had rather thought you two were beyond this. Perhaps you returned too soon… or, too late.

“Are you… here to retrieve your things?” He’s not looking at you, not quite.

Take a deep breath, curl your fingers into your palms. “I wanted to talk to you. Everyone. But—I’m—well... I’m sorry.” You look at your feet. “For this morning.”

Lucifer sighs wearily. “Let’s not stand in the hall.” He descends the stairs briskly, gloved fingers lingering lightly on the rail. “Come along.”

“No.” You sit on the edge of the leather cushion, not quite willing to be comfortable. “Actually, I noticed… they seemed to want to avoid me.”

“Yes; I didn’t worry this morning, as the wrath rolling off of you was plenty potent enough to make any lesser demon think twice, to make no mention of your pacts.” He paces in front of the fire, blocking the heat for a moment, casting long, wavering shadows across carpet and wood. “I also suspect that the story of what happened—some version of it, anyway—has made its rounds. If anyone does touch you now that you can reach the power of your pacts, knowing what you’re willing to risk… what we are willing to risk… I’ll be shocked.”

“What I’m willing to risk?”

Lucifer nods. “It would be like plucking wings to get most demons to outright admit it, but humans are widely regarded as dangerous. Yes, you had no magic of your own when you came here, and required protection because you would have been eaten, and you know now—” He turns away, light from the flames flickering across his face until you see only his back. “You know how easily we can kill. But a human willing to risk their life for something is formidable, even without magic—such willingness is remarkable, a novelty to demons. A human willing to die for their cause is unpredictable, able to do things even a demon or an angel cannot, under normal circumstances, achieve.”

That just… doesn’t seem possible. “Surely a demon or an angel has to be even more dangerous than a human when they’re risking their lives for something they believe is right.”

That doesn’t seem right at all. Didn’t every one of the brothers risk their lives for Lilith? Didn’t Barbatos sacrifice, not his life, but his health, to keep you alive?

The fire crackles. He sighs deeply.

“I did intend to tell you about Belphegor this morning.”

That shatters your daze. You fold your hands tightly in your lap, study a scuff along side-table from what you suspect was a pair of Asmodeus’ heels. “Why didn’t you?”

“You were meant to wait for Mammon, who would escort you to breakfast once Belphegor had gotten his plate. I would have warned you once the rest of us sat down and had something to eat.”

“I didn’t follow the plan.”

“You rarely do. I should have sent Mammon earlier. Or gone myself. Or made Belphegor wait for his breakfast until the rest of us had eaten.” He crosses his legs at the ankle. “Yes—you didn’t follow instructions, but by now I should be prepared for that.”

Wring your fingers together, cracking the joints. “I was hungry, and I completely forgot you said it... I think I was nearly asleep when you told me to wait for Mammon. I didn’t intend to ignore you.”

“I won’t hold it against you.”

That's… unexpected. You look up to meet his eyes, but he can’t hold your gaze for more than a moment before tilting his head, glancing away.

“I… understand if you don’t wish to return, but we’ll have to break the news to my brothers carefully.” A heaviness in the air, like poorly masked despair.

All this time, he thought…? “Lucifer, I’m not leaving. Well—I am, tonight, but I’m not moving out. I’m only staying at the castle a couple days, until Barbatos is well.”

Your heart is lighter, but—“I still need to apologize to them.”

A nod. “Before I summon them… how was Barbatos when you saw him?”

“He was sleeping, but he woke briefly to talk with me; he said he would need to sleep for four more days.”

“And you’ll be staying at the castle during that time?”

“Yes.”

“With him?”

His eyes are scarlet, blood-red, black, and your throat sticks. “More or less.”

Lucifer holds your gaze for a moment. Two. Three. He rises from his seat by the fire. “You know this is… highly unusual.”

“Yes.”

He stops, rests his hand on the back of the chaise, halfway to the door, brows pinched thoughtfully. “Did Barbatos say anything else?”

“Did he say why he did it?”

There’s only one thing Lucifer could be talking about. “No, but I thanked him.”

He nods, drums his fingers on the polished wood, and turns away.

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. “That is a question for Barbatos himself.” And he closes the distance to the door.

----

“You can come in, Beel.”

There’s a nervous churn in your stomach that most definitely isn’t yours; you need to learn how to filter these things out when you don’t need them sooner rather than later. Some of the others appear to be able to shield their feelings, but Beelzebub…

He keeps looking at the table and the books you've placed there, at the bed where your clothes are laid out. After a moment, he settles on staring at the floor. "I wish you wouldn't go."

Your heart softens. "Beel… it's only for a few days."

"I know." He tucks his hands against his chest, fingers hugging one wrist. When you gently nudge his elbow, he meets your eyes. "I'm sorry."

But… he didn't do anything wrong. "For what?"

"Belphie." He looks at the floor again. "I should've known. I wish… I wish I'd pressed Lucifer harder about getting to talk to him or—I should've known. He's my brother. And now you're leaving because—" He swallows. "...I'm sorry."

“I’m trying to talk to him.” He draws a deep breath through his nose. “I wish I could say I didn’t get it. Why he did it.”

A sharp pain in your chest. “Beel, you’d never—”

But he shakes his head, slowly. “Belphie doesn’t know you. He doesn’t care. It’s just like when you first came here… I didn’t care, either. Nobody did. You’re just—just a thing that reminds him of…” A deep crease settles between his brows, around the corners of his mouth. “Of what we lost. Of when Lilith died. And he hates it. And—I’m sorry.”

You look at the floor, and pull a chair out from the table, sit heavily in it, stomach in knots that don’t belong to you. “Please don't keep apologizing.” Your head is starting to hurt. “I—” Sigh. Fold your hands together tightly. “I can’t pretend I know what it feels like. But… there is a difference between you and your brother: you gave me a chance. Belphegor had the opportunity to get to know me a little; I visited him. But I suppose… it just wasn’t enough. He doesn’t want to care, Beel, but you gave me a chance.” There’s a slight tremble in your fingers, so you twine them further together. “And… yes; Belphegor and I will have to talk eventually if I’m going to be here—and I do want to be here. But… not today.”

Slowly, he nods. “Okay. ...okay.” He reaches for the other chair, hesitates—but you nod, and he folds himself into it.

“It hurt so much.”

There’s such a pain in your chest that it takes your breath away, and your hand finds his arm, grips it tightly over the table.

Beelzebub doesn’t look up, hair shadowing his face. “I haven’t told Belphie yet. He’s not ready. But it—it hurt so much when you called me. He hurt you. You were going to die.” His large hand covers yours, squeezing over his arm, a pressure you can latch onto. “I know why you were angry at him today, but I still couldn’t let you…” Finally, he meets your eyes, gaze burning, shining with unshed tears. “I don’t want anyone else to hurt.”

He nods, slowly. “You’re worried about Barbatos.”

Oh.

“I… am, yes.”

Beelzebub squeezes your hand one more time, and lets it return to your lap.

“How do you know that?” Your unspoken communication isn’t going both directions when you don’t mean to, is it?

“You do. I can smell it.”

The giggle that draws is stuttering, but genuine. “Go get your snack, Beel.”

----

Arbianock absolutely insisted upon carrying the duffel bag to your temporary quarters, but you managed to hold on to your backpack. The room—can it be simply called a room, with arching windows and gossamer curtains?—to which she leads you is easily twice the size of your bedroom at the House of Lamentation, with your own bathroom and… is that door open to a sitting room?

“This is extremely generous,” you manage, as the butler sets your borrowed bag on a chest at the foot of a king-sized, sleigh bed done in soft, dove grey and jewel tones of green and blue.

There goes the thought of possibly insisting that you don’t need such an extravagant set of rooms for three days. But the ceiling is frescoed. Frescoed! Your head is hurting again. You’re quite sure you weren’t even this stressed the first time someone tried to kill you.

The first time.

Oh, dear.

“I’ve also taken the liberty of drawing you a bath; I’m sure you’re ready to retire.”

Arbianock definitely hasn’t left your side since you arrived... “How did you know when I would arrive and that I’d be staying in this room rather than with Barbatos as Lord Diavolo expected?”

“I had prepared two baths, just to be sure, perhaps an hour ago.”

“And they don’t get cold?” You really shouldn’t be surprised by magic bathtubs in the castle, but...

This time, she does let her mouth relax into the slightest smirk, lavender eyes glinting. “They wouldn’t dare.”

“Would you like me to assist you?”

“In the bath?”

“Yes.”

“No, thank you—that’s…” You fold your hands together and meet her eyes. “You’ve helped me a great deal; thank you. I’ll just bathe and get some sleep.”

“Thank you, Arbianock, for everything. I’ll call if I need something.” You won’t. But not because her offer doesn’t seem genuine.

“Good night, Ser.”

“You really don’t need to—”

But she’s gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

You sigh. The carpet beneath your feet is cream and turquoise and you really feel like you shouldn’t be standing on it with shoes. A fire already flickering merrily in a hearth that opens into the sitting room means it isn’t too cold to strip and make your way to the bath without further thought, though you do tuck your boots and dirty clothes into the empty duffel bag that Arbianock stored in the large chest.

The bathroom is… just as extravagant as the bedroom. The bathtub—plenty large enough to seat twelve—is set into the floor below another fireplace, this one shielded with fanciful wire mesh that allows light to play through a delicate depiction of climbing roses. The tub itself is marble, with several perches below the water’s surface, and, as promised, various soaps, salts, and other products sit lined on a marble shelf within easy reach. Dark tiles cross the floor, perhaps basalt, and the walls are the same cream-colored plaster as the bedroom, accented with subtle reliefs in the shape of arches, painted with bronze.

Take a slow, deep breath, and release it amid the heavy steam.

Look, nobody’s mad at ya for bein’ angry, you know?

We’re all angry.

And we told ya, you’re family now. That didn’t change.

An ache in your chest. They were so kind, more forgiving than most humans. And you left. And all because...

It’s not fair. The burn along the base of your spine blends with the bath.

You’re envious of… of what, all the things that could have been?

Everything had been going so well! Belphegor would have been free, the bond of the seven brothers strengthened after learning the truth about Lilith, the House of Lamentation pieced back together... and you’d return to Barbatos, waiting for you on the other side of the door, relieved, perfectly well, not too exhausted to lift his head, nor—

It’s not fair. You were happy. You were so, so happy before Belphegor left the attic, before you admitted what you’d done, just attending classes and waking up to breakfast with your friends, going into town with Mammon and Asmo, trading books with Satan, settling in for a TSL marathon with Levi, making midnight kitchen runs with Beel, playing chess with Lucifer and Diavolo. Looking forward to stealing a glance in the hallway from Barbatos before tea, where you could savor his smile, to continue sitting slowly closer and closer together each week—

Is it such a sin—is it such a sin to just be happy? To be simple and happy for just a little while? Must it go awry? Must it be complicated? Must you be punished? Must you die for it?

It’s not fair. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

Your eyes are hot, wet, spilling tears in that easy, warm way that they do while you’re bathing, blending with the damp already on your cheeks until they’re so diluted you can’t tell your tears from the bathwater. And then you’re coughing, then choking out racking sobs that echo sharp, too sharp, off the stone and marble and plaster. Clap your hands over your mouth, but it doesn’t stop the shake of your shoulders, the uncontrolled rock of your body in the water.

----

“...Ambrose?”

“Hm?” You glance up from the bone-china cup clasped between your fingers.

“You seem distracted.” Simeon’s brow creases. “And you look very tired; is everything all right?”

“Yes! I’m sorry.” Take another sip; it tastes like mint and something floral, with the bright flavor that accompanies most teas from the Celestial Realm which would, ordinarily, feel energizing. “I just… didn’t sleep very well last night. I apologize.” Actually, you’re not sure you slept at all in your plush, borrowed bed, visions of that day flickering through your mind, tangled up amongst yesterday’s guilt and turmoil.

“You don’t need to apologize for that. I can make a more restorative tea, if it’ll help, but it’s no replacement for real sleep.”

Your cheeks heat. “No.”

“Then don’t fret.” He chuckles lightly, musically. “I only did what you’d do if the roles were reversed. It was the right thing.”

“I—I’m glad you think so highly of me.” Take another drink of your tea, already growing cold. “Are you sure you’re all right? Lucifer mentioned that you were exhausted afterward, too.”

“When you say ‘not to a human’, you mean because he loved them so much?”

“Yes... I suppose his brothers already told you about that.”

“They did but it’s… somewhat difficult to imagine now. I can only assume he placed the blame on humanity because it was the only target he could reach, after…” Your fingers tighten in your lap. “Even so—doesn’t he hate the angels that sided against his brothers?” His inner iris seems to contract, blues and greens swirling tempestuously. “I—I’m sorry; I wouldn’t wish it on you. I know you cared very much about Lucifer before, and it couldn’t have been—”

Simeon smiles, waving his hand, but the lines around his eyes are terse, tense. “Don’t worry. I’m not offended. It is rather strange to think he doesn’t, but I suspect he hasn’t completely forgiven us, even if he does seem to hate humanity more than heaven.”

“Even so, it wasn’t very considerate of me.”

“Things have been very hard for you,” he says firmly, a definite argument against your apology. “None of this is your fault, and it’s not fair that you were drawn into our ancient business.” The room is suddenly a little brighter, you think, a little warmer, like you caught a bit of sunlight on your skin. “Give yourself more credit,” he murmurs, warmly, and oh, no, you’re going to cry again.

“Ambrose!”

You don’t get the chance as a solid weight comes careening into the back of your chair, noisily sloshing the tea in your cup.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over!”

Swallow over the remaining lump in your throat. “Sorry, Luke. I didn’t know you wouldn’t be here, and when Simeon said you’d be home soon, I thought it would be a good surprise.”

Simeon, thankfully, takes your tea so that you can return the embrace. “And I’m happy to see you.” Hugs from Luke feel just like seeing a rainbow as it stretches through the sky on a summer afternoon, the breeze cool, and the air, gold.

You’re not going to tease him just now about worrying after the well-being of a demon but you do smile into his jacket when he refuses to release you, cheek pressed against the top of your head. “He’s really okay, Luke; I talked to him for a few minutes yesterday and he said he just needed to sleep for a few more days. Three days, after this one.”

Luke must feel you stiffen, because his hands move to your shoulders, pushing you back to look at your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Damn it; you should have put it together. He had flinched back from the golden light, just before—

“I’m sorry, I… didn’t realize you wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t necessary, but in order to utilize my full power, I had to shift to my angelic form, which… I’ve never used here, not at any of the parties when everyone else is in their demonic form, because our aura can be painful to look at. When using magic the way I was that night, I… we… have this Radiance that can pain or injure creatures from this realm. It’s defensive and involuntary. Even humans find it difficult to look upon an angel; they find themselves slow or unable to move, discover their wicked thoughts are confused and muddled, and… some go mad.”

You’re an idiot.

“He couldn’t even lift his head,” you mumble. It’s probably a miracle he could move at all yesterday, let alone… “Does Diavolo know about this?”

“Yes, of course; I disclosed everything.”

Which means Diavolo lied.

“And he’s fine, right?” Luke demands.

You’re so sick of being lied to.

“If Barbatos said he’ll be up and about in three days, then yes. There’s no reason not to take his word.” Simeon’s brows draw in a troubled curve. “But, Ambrose…” His eye is drawn to the troubled tremor of your knee, bouncing up and down; for how long, you don’t know. “Maybe you should rest.”

Force yourself to sit still. You thought you’d gotten over that habit. “Simeon, I’ve already slept for three—”

Your stomach drops.

“Ambrose…” Simeon’s voice lilts, slow.

Luke squeezes your hand. “Hey, it’s okay. Simeon is right; maybe—”

“I was asleep for three days.” Try to wet your lips, but your mouth is dry. “Barbatos said four more, which means he’ll have been out for a week.”

“Yes…”

“A week! One of the most powerful beings in the Realms.” There’s an ache starting up behind your eyes, but this is important. “I was mostly dead but I—”

You’ve never liked the feel of his words, insubstantial as smoke, and you find it grates on your already fraying nerves, despite the warmth Luke emits, half perched on the arm of your chair. “Thank you… it’s nice to be up.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem pretty upset.”

“I—”

“About Barbatos, I presume?” His coat hangs in the crook of his arm, but he still curls a hand under his chin.

Luke’s brow wrinkles. “How did you know that?”

“It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know,” says Simeon mildly.

You’d like to lie. “He said he’ll be up in three days.”

“Ahh, which makes a week, total.” He hums. “And you feel… guilty, I imagine?”

You feel cold. Don’t even open your mouth to reply.

“Well, you shouldn’t!” Solomon smiles brightly. “Barbatos resolved the situation in the way he saw fit. It’s not the play I would have made, but it wasn’t my decision. Now, I still haven’t actually heard it from him; did he happen to tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Oh.” With a frown, he shakes out his jacket, resituates it over his elbow before folding his arms. “Well, I was hoping he explained what he was thinking. It was an unnecessarily risky maneuver, you know?”

He blinks. “Oh. Well, let’s start with… what do you know about Barbatos’ powers?”

“Very good. That’s all?”

As though that isn’t enough power?

“That’s all I know.”

A gift.

“What kind of gift?” Luke’s nose is wrinkled. “Life? Or is this like… a metaphor?”

He was giving you lots of sweets.

Solomon tilts his head. “Not a metaphor, no, but ‘life’ is certainly one way to put it.”

The room is suddenly too bright, the world tilting on its axis.

“You know, Simeon, I think… maybe I do need to get some rest.”

----

This has developed rather quickly, and out of order, from a demon’s perspective.

Yes, now that you understand, you’d say it rather has.

“I suppose you must have thought I knew what it meant,” you say softly, into the quiet of the room. Green-orange afternoon daylight filters through the many-paned windows, casting his fair skin in a gentle, bronze-silver glow. “Or were you being subtle and cryptic on purpose?” His hand remains outstretched on the maroon comforter, where you’d so carefully let him go yesterday. You hesitate only half a moment before twining your fingers together again. After all... you do, you suppose, still have permission. “I know you enjoy a playful tête-à-tête, but something more straightforward wouldn’t have gone amiss. Now I have to wait three days to ask you a whole stream of questions.”

Trace your thumb over his knuckles, marvel at the cool, silk-softness of his skin.

“What made you decide? That’s what they all want to know. Diavolo, Solomon… even Lucifer. He didn’t say it, but I think he knew. Solomon is actually the reason I put it together, as much as I find him… untrustworthy. I won’t say unpleasant; he’s polite enough, even fun sometimes, especially with Asmodeus, but—as you said, he’s one to watch for. And yet, he spoke directly enough for me to solve this… because he’s curious? Or is it because he respects you? You’re both so silent about your pact, and I understand it’s no one’s business, but—” You pillow your other arm, and rest your head, fingers lazily laced with his. “It’s silly, and rude, I know, but it... makes me jealous. That pact. The secrecy. Neither of you owe me that knowledge, yet, all the same…” Huff a shallow sigh. “I was refusing to think about it, but now I know why.” Let your eyes drift closed a moment. Just for a moment. “I should be telling you all this when you’re awake. Well, maybe not the last bit. You don’t owe me that.”

The feel of his skin on yours is a marvel, warmed by your touch.

----

“You know, lying in the bed is generally more comfortable.”

Sharp inhale. “Wasn’ ‘nvited.”

“I don’t know… you seemed quite comfortable yesterday.” There’s a teasing smile in Diavolo’s voice.

That seems to give him pause as you carefully slide your hand out of Barbatos’.

“You don’t have a… standing invitation?”

Scrub at your face with your sleeve, blinking blearily. “Lord Diavolo—”

“Diavolo, please.”

“Diavolo, yesterday was the first time I’ve ever shared the same bed with him.”

“Oh.” He glances away, brow furrowed. “Then… you mean you haven’t—”

You meet his eyes, mildly perturbed, an ache settling in your shoulders. “Certainly not.”

“Oh.” He frowns, tilts his head, golden gaze cast somewhere in the distance. Folds his arms across his chest, nods a bit, side to side. “I see.”

You’re not sure that he does, and you wait, expectantly.

“Well—I do understand Barbatos doesn’t have much interest, but I would have thought a partner—a human partner, especially—would bring their own appetites to the table.”

You feel like you know where this is going, and you don’t like it. “...why a human partner?”

You honestly had never thought about it, with Barbatos. Your pact with the Avatar of Lust has yet to ever bother you with even the smallest twinge of warning; Asmodeus has complained many times that it’s absolutely boring. The closest you’ve ever come is idly thinking, every once in a while, what it might be like to kiss the faithful steward, and your pacts have decided to mark that train of thought, when it gets out of hand, as Greed.

And Diavolo said Barbatos hasn’t much interest, either. It’s a pleasant thought.

“Oh.” He settles back into deep thought for a moment, then brightens. “So, you’re like Barbatos, then!”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation with the prince in the unconscious presence of your—your something with whom you haven’t even had this discussion yet!

“We haven’t talked about it.”

Diavolo’s face scrunches, and he ruffles the hair on the back of his head with a hum. “This is… very strange.”

“I quite agree.”

“I hope I haven’t overstepped any boundaries, Ambrose, it’s just—” His eyes settle on Barbatos, still at rest. “You make him so happy. Ever since you started spending time here, he’s happier than I’ve seen him in… well, I can’t remember when. It’s not that he’s been unhappy these last millenia—no, he’s usually quite content, but… that isn’t the same thing.” His golden gaze shifts to you. ”Do you know what I mean?”

Your heart stutters. I’m so happy here, you’d told Barbatos one night. It isn’t that you were never happy at home, that you don’t have happy moments, but before coming here, when was the last time you woke up each morning, cheerful, ready and wanting to see what the day will bring? The last time you sat down and felt the bright, gentle glow of happiness—not contentment, not peaceful acceptance, not calm as you rise to carry out your responsibilities, but genuine happiness?

And to think… to think you may have been able to give Barbatos this brilliant, selfsame simple feeling…?

“Yes… yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

----

After midnight, the fresco on the ceiling begins to make sense.

You've stared at it off and on for hours, last night and again tonight when it became clear that your mind wasn't going to shut itself off long enough to rest. The scene, for a while, seemed incomprehensible, as though you lacked the correct context to interpret the dark figures. If it had depicted a story similar to those in the human world, you could draw on knowledge of mythology or archetypal characters to find a narrative about kings and gods, or perhaps a legend about soldiers and lovers. But the painted shapes refused to yield any familiar symbolism.

But now, one overlooked wreath of greenery gives you something. The longer you stare, the more certain you become that the white, trifold blossoms topping a tangle of spidery tendrils are a plant you've seen depicted before—one carved into a cabinet door in the castle’s tea room. And now that you're looking for it… the strange flower appears in every segment of the ceiling, its vine-like roots or leaves weaving an interconnected web. Perhaps… it shows the order in which the images should be read?

The response is almost immediate:

Satan: Shouldn’t you be asleep?

You: I’m an adult who took a nap this afternoon.

Satan: You’re a human who had a harrowing experience and, according to every book I’ve consulted on the subject, needs rest in order to remain functional.

You huff. He isn’t wrong, per se, but you’re plenty old enough to know when your sleep schedule has gotten out of hand. Besides, you’ll be back to a normal routine in… two more days.

You: Should I ask someone else my question?

Satan: No.

Satan: It’s a Bloodtide Laris. Culturally significant for demons, as I’m sure you guessed.

You: Does it have any special symbolism, particularly in storytelling or historical record?

Satan: What exactly are you looking at?

You: There’s a fresco on the ceiling in this guest room. Can you tell me what it means?

Satan: Show me.

Your DDD pings.

Satan: It isn’t a pleasant story.

You: That doesn’t change my request.

Indeed, it only increases your curiosity, sparks a need to know, fluttering like butterflies.

Satan: You’ll get into a lot of trouble one day.

You: Already done.

Satan: ...yes. Sorry.

Satan: But I see it didn’t make you any more cautious.

You’re ready to ask again when the ellipsis appears to let you know he’s typing. So, you try to wait patiently, eyes roving over the ceiling again, the veiled figures, the painstakingly detailed trees and mountain-sides.

You: That’s a strange way to depict a knife.

Satan: The important thing about the knife isn’t the blade—it’s the enchantment. The Bloodtide Laris grasps a star—a popular symbol for the soul—in its carnivorous root system.

You select an appropriately alarmed demoji.

You: Maybe you could tell me more about the flower before we continue?

Satan: Right.

Satan: It was given the name “Bloodtide” because it first grew on the banks of the Styx, which were always awash with the blood of the damned.

You: I don’t remember reading that in the Inferno.

Satan: Dante was never physically here.

You: I’ll ask about that at a later time, I suppose.

Satan: The flowers drank the blood and purified the river. They keep it clean to this day, drinking the blood of humans and demons alike, not discriminating. An early king ordered the collection of some of the flowers for study and found that they will break down any flesh given to them. They say he even stole the spilled blood of an angel from battle and the flower drank it up just the same.

You: That’s… eerie, but the flowers don’t go searching for blood. They just eat what’s available, like other plants? Absorbing nutrients from the soil.

Satan: Indeed, though some reports have been made that people who settle among the flowers or go wading in the Styx never return.

You: And they started being associated with the royal line because of their bloody inclinations?

Satan: Initially, yes. But Diavolo started a campaign some time ago to change people’s perception of the flower. He wants to be associated with its purifying properties. As you said, the flowers aren’t weapons or murderers; they’re a necessary part of our ecosystem. They’re white, not blood-red. He’s had limited success changing the minds of the old nobility, but younger demons are more receptive. Either way, the Bloodtide Laris is used less and less in heraldry.

Satan: So, to understand why the blade is depicted with a carnivorous flower, you have to know that the blade was designed to be so sharp that its edge would rend a soul. It drinks the essence and power of whomever it kills. Legend says that it can destroy any being—human, demon, or even angel.

You’re almost afraid to ask.

You: Is it real?

Satan: Yes, and it is the single most dangerous weapon known to the three realms. And yet, why a human and demon would collaborate to create such a thing has been lost.

Satan: Fortunately, the dagger never saw battle on a celestial scale. The Demon King was deposed due to infighting in the Devildom, and in the fourth picture, you can see a sorcerer trick the dagger out of the first human’s possession… but not before they use it to slaughter countless of their own kind.

The roots of the flower, indeed, spread far across the scene, its web holding a veritable constellation of souls.

You: Is the demon anyone we know?

Satan: Quite probably. There are few demons powerful enough to secret away such an artefact and keep it hidden. But the affiliated symbols of this demon aren’t known to me.

You: Thank you, Satan.

Satan: You’re quite welcome. But now you should get some rest.

You: You, too. I kept you up past the midnight reading hour.

Satan: Anyone else and I’d have their head.

You: I know. Thank you… I’ll owe you a coffee.

Satan: A double espresso seems fair.

A winking demoji arrives.

Satan: Good night, Ambrose.

But you don’t go to sleep. Instead, you spend some indefinable amount of time staring at the ceiling as the moonlight creeps further and further down your comforter. Just below the first painted scene is the last, joining up the story like a great cycle, beginning to end to beginning. The dagger, represented as before with a Bloodtide Laris, a star ensnared in its roots, is shrouded by dark mist in some forgotten place of stone and water. The artist took great pains to represent minute, green refractions of light and shadow amongst the blue waters flowing up toward what you assume is the ceiling of the cavern, each brushstroke a meditation on a thousand impeccable textures of stone and liquid.

Yet… the demon never registered as naked in your mind, perhaps because he doesn’t appear naked in the fashion that a human would represent himself. There is, instead, a sense of formlessness to the body through some method of painting that, you believe, must be achieved by magic. The longer you stare, the less the blended shapes and fine brushstrokes seem inclined to sort themselves into a recognizable picture. The demon is aquatic, you think, and yet, human-shaped—but somehow as insectoid as his wings, which are the only features that stay stable, glimmering in the moonlight. But, perhaps… perhaps you see something death-like, too, bones stripped bare of flesh, obsidian and white. Then the feeling is gone again, and the figure is simply an inconstant wisp of paint, no more substantial than smoke.

There’s something familiar about it that pulls at your gut.

And then, by morning, it has retreated to the back of your mind, where all lost things go, with only the faded imprint of realization, like a dream forgotten upon waking.

----

But soft cheeks and a tepid smile hide teeth like a nightmare from the ocean’s crushing depths... and that’s why you must decide what to do with Belphegor. Now. Before Barbatos wakes and realizes you’ve chosen to continue living in the House with your would-be murderer. Based on what he would have done to Namurta…

You can’t be sure he’ll listen to you again, and you’re not sure it would be fair to dissuade him from vengeance without a plan of your own.

“Tea?”

You flinch, and Arbianock catches the silver bell, folds it in a long-fingered hand as it leaps from the side-table. “Please excuse me. I knocked, but you did not answer.”

“I’m sorry; I was just… startled. Lost in thought.”

She hums, a creaking sound like branches disturbed by the wind, and replaces the bell. “Shall I serve tea here or in the drawing room?”

You don’t want to leave. “Here, please; thank you.”

Arbianock bows slightly and moves back to the table beneath the window, and with a brisk and efficient pace, begins setting one place for you from the cart near the door. The teaset is another you haven’t seen before, with a geometric motif, triangles painted in thick, broad strokes and delicate, spidery lines. The mouth of the teacup and the spout of the pot have a sort of crimped effect that plays into the angular pattern painted across the porcelain.

“My lord has sent you some Human Realm tea this afternoon,” she says, sparing only the barest glance, pupils flashing just slightly as the light from the window falls through the lens, bright white and orange, not unlike a wild cat or bear. “He requested a blend to keep your energy up for the day, and fruit paired with the sandwiches and pastries—as he has been reading that humans require a carefully balanced diet to function well.”

You think you can feel the beginnings of a tension headache starting at the base of your skull. “Why?”

“He is concerned that you aren’t sleeping.” Her tone is flat and frank, a startling enough change from the formal and measured pace you’ve become accustomed to that you blink dumbly for a moment.

A bowl of diced fruit is set, all from the Devildom, and the demoness removes the cover from an artfully arranged triple tier of sandwiches and small, fluffy cakes. Your stomach needles you, like it’s been ignored for too long.

“I slept last night.”

“Which implies you didn’t sleep every night during your stay.”

Arbianock stands back from the table expectantly as you sit with your mouth slightly agape, which isn’t helping your case at all. She holds your stare levelly until you figure out that you’re meant to get up and take your seat at the table so she can serve.

That tension headache is full-blown now.

“It’ll work itself out,” you mumble as you sit, and the demoness sets briskly to work. “But I’ll have to thank him; I appreciate the thought.”

Tea whispers in your cup and the hearty, warm scent of it ought to have your shoulders relaxing but your mind is overfull.

“Arbianock… may I ask you a question?”

You’re not sure how to react to that. “Well… if you’re not comfortable with my questions, you don’t have to answer them.”

Her amethyst eyes shift to glance at you sidelong, but she says nothing, only replaces the spoon and stands at attention, folding her hands over her soft waist. She doesn’t wear a cumberbund as Barbatos does for his uniform, but a strange, suede apron a little darker in tone than her skin. Her thumb brushes over one of its pockets.

You stop staring and busy yourself with a three-tined fork and select a piece of lavafruit, juicy and refreshing despite the name. It’s a variety you ask for every time Lucifer places an order from the market, and you wonder if they know.

Take a slow, steadying breath. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you known Barbatos?”

“I have been serving Master Barbatos almost my entire life.”

“Oh—” You wish you’d made an effort to sound less surprised but—“You serve Barbatos, not just Lord Diavolo?”

Her expression remains passionless, attentive but aloof. She must have learned that from him, but her mask is not a smiling one; it is cold, distantly polite. “Barbatos is my master but Lord Diavolo is our Prince, and master of my master. I serve Lord Diavolo because he does.”

Her eyes linger for another moment, then Arbianock moves at last, fingers lacing together. “Barbatos is older than everyone. And younger.” She bows slightly, almost levelling your gaze, head tilted, silver brows lowered. “He walks halls that haven’t been tread in millenia and he knows all the secret spaces that haven’t yet been carved. He was born ages before our time, and never at all. He saw your heavens when they were black and he shall see them fall again into the darkness behind the stars, and what do you think we are, human and ephemeral Ambrose? What do you think he is?”

You can’t move. You can’t move an inch, though every fiber in your body is screaming to run, screaming danger, like being alone in the dark, like a spider on your skin, like the sound you don’t know and cannot see. The demon hasn’t transformed, hasn’t touched her magic at all, but it’s like you suddenly know: a sharp, sick-sweet scent reaching your nose that you hadn’t noticed before, clinging to her skin.

The seconds slip by, silent, unwavering.

What kind of choice? Is the obvious question, but don’t you already know? You came here with one decision in mind and stayed because there’s another that you know, in your heart, you’ve already made.

You take the teacup into your hand, and you draw a long, slow sip. It clears your mind, warms your throat, thaws the icy fear that had settled in your chest.

“I—” Whatever bolstered you moments ago suddenly fizzles out, lacking a proper target. You sit, blinking at the teaset. “Excuse me.” Usually there’s much more to facing down a demon’s challenge… at least, in your previous experience. They don’t normally act so blasé about the whole thing—there’s some humiliation or biting back or a concession. Something. But the demoness goes about her business like nothing at all happened, refilling your cup, straightening a tea towel on the cart.

No, this wasn’t a fight. What happened here is quite simple: you've been had.

"Did Diavolo send you here to antagonize me into making a decision?"

Your stomach turns, a bitter taste on the tip of your tongue. “Like you?”

“I, personally, have no interest.” Arbianock smiles, distantly. “I am only looking after my master.”

----

You pass the twins’ room for the sixth time.

You’ve already thought about what you’re going to say, analyzed it from every angle, but each time you think you’ll knock on the door, your mind goes completely blank.

And so you pace the hallway again.

Satan’s room across the hall. Asmo’s room. The shared bathroom. The door to the twins’ room that you’d always thought of as Beel’s.

“Oh.” You hadn’t even raised your hand to knock before the door swung open, leaving you blinking just as wide-eyed at Beelzebub as he is at you right now. “...are you looking for me?”

“Oh…” A crease appears between Beelzebub’s eyes. “He’s here. Do you want to talk to him?”

No. “Yes. I think I should.”

He nods, slowly, but his worry doesn’t smooth. “I was going to get some food… Do you want me to stay? I’ll be right back and we can go in together.”

Tempting. Very tempting. “Thank you, Beel, but… I think I should try to talk to him alone first. If I need you, I’ll call you, okay?”

Strong arms tug you into a warm chest, squeezing without hesitation. “Thank you. He hasn’t been himself since… everything.”

That’s what you’re counting on. You’re counting on the truth of the little brother all alone in the attic, trying not to cry even as he rails against everything Lucifer stands for. The child who still loves his family. “I know.”

When Beelzebub releases you at last, he pokes his head back into the room. “Ambrose is here to see you.”

A muffled reply.

“Yeah. Please, Belphie, be nice.”

He leaves the door cracked, and squeezing your shoulder, softly says, “I know you can do it.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you in front of the door, an ache in your chest, and a small swell of pride. You hope he’s right.

“Well, come in if you’re going to come in!” grumbles Belphegor’s voice, and you’re suddenly reminded of every time you’ve spoken through a door before. A time when you thought you might like him. A time you came armed with confidence.

Not today.

You push through. Belphegor is lounging on his bed in a mess of pillows, hair sticking up every which-way, looking bored. The resemblance to Namurta’s lackadaisical demeanor is startling. Guilt settles in your stomach.

“Good afternoon.” Your hands are trembling again, so you fold them behind your back.

“Cut to the chase.”

A deep breath. “I’m here to talk to you; I don’t want us to have any problems while I’m living here.”

“So it’s true. You really decided to stay? Guess you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.” Slowly, he sits up, one shoulder leading the other like his body is on the axis of a thread, the lazy slump of a rag doll pulled taut. “So. What should I do now? What’s gonna make you change your mind? Maybe I killed you too nicely last time by letting you sleep. Should’ve just finished the job, but…” He yawns, jaw stretching wide enough to show off his broad teeth, each overlarge molar topped with jagged points. “It seemed like more trouble than you were worth. Humans are fragile—you were already bleeding inside. You remember that, don’t you?”

“What?” His expression melts into confusion, almost comical, if not for your heart still hammering in your chest, starkly aware of the delicacy of this conversation.

“Why.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Furrows his brow. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Set your jaw. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Ugh.” The demon throws himself back on the bed. “Why don’t you go hang out with the angels? Nobody wants that here. Self-righteous prick.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Your hands untwine and one rakes itself through your hair. Yes, of course that wouldn’t work, though true... you have something else. “It’s not the right thing to do in an abstract, moral sense. It’s because you’re owed an explanation.”

“...you owe me an explanation? That’s a good one. Has anybody told you that you’re really fucking weird?”

He scoffs. “I was just surprised how stupid you were. Dumber than most humans. I think you’re potentially the most gullible I’ve ever met.”

“Don’t you dare say her name—”

“—and I’m here because she still believes in you.”

Belphegor snarls, teeth bared.

A deep, violet energy crawls along his skin.

“If you do anything to threaten me, I’ll call Beel.”

“I can kill you before you can say a word, human.”

“Nobody can summon a demon without an incantation, and you can’t even do that. I already know they found a human too useless to do real magic. You can’t bluff; I’ve been listening.”

“Not closely enough.”

Irritation crawls along your skin, an itch, and you set your jaw. “What, exactly, do you think happened that night? How did they know where to find me?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out! They sent you back in time to the attic, and you didn’t come back. It doesn’t take a detective. Barbatos wouldn’t even have to use his powers for that one.”

“Shut up!” He makes a lunge, eyes glittering, flaring black and venomous indigo, and you stumble back, knocking yourself off-balance—

Solidly, into a broad chest and arms tight around your shoulders. “Belphie, no!”

The mark over your stomach prickles like pins and needles. One flicker of thought toward Beelzebub had been enough.

Belphegor snarls, overlarge teeth glinting. “They started it!” But he must not like what he sees on his brother’s face and shifts seamlessly to wide, doe-eyes, genuinely hurt, perhaps, but the growl doesn’t leave his voice. “You’re really going to side with a human, Beel, a human over me?”

“Not over you, Belphie,” he replies, softly. Never over you.”

“Then give them to me.”

A deep hum thrums against your back. “No. You need to listen. Please. Ambrose has to tell you—”

“No, you listen—humans lie. You’re protecting nothing but a miserable sack of lies. They tell you exactly what you want to hear, and then—”

“Belphegor, that’s enough.”

“No, not you—not you, it’s none of your business,” he hisses, as every eye turns toward the bedroom door.

Lucifer looks from Belphegor to you, still firmly clasped to Beelzebub’s chest.

“Belphie—” his twin tries again.

He says nothing.

“They told you she lived a happy, human life with her lover, didn’t they?”

“That doesn’t change anything!”

“Nothing at all? Doesn’t it matter that her life was saved?”

“She still died. She died a mortal, and she died without us. So no. It didn’t change anything, and it definitely means she didn’t visit you.”

As a human might turn white as a sheet, Belphegor’s skin fades to grey. “H—how did you—”

“I had a vision about that, too, just before she visited me in the attic. She asked me to help all of you, in any way I could.” You approach, carefully, and settle on the edge of Beelzebub’s bed. “She called you out by name, Belphegor, even though you’d... done what you did already. You almost toppled everything, and she still believed you’re worth the effort, with forgiving, or at least worth trying.” Something catches in your throat, something familiar. Who would you be, to tell someone else that their brother isn’t worth forgiving? “So here I am, and I’m willing to at least try. Are you?”

Belphegor’s face is blank, but his eyes are shining. “Go away.”

“I—”

“I said go away I won’t hurt you again now GO AWAY!”

The other bed creaks under his weight as he buries himself in the comforter, bent in an awful, unnatural curve, fingers curled in his hair. “Go away go away go away go away go away—” The words are muffled, but clear enough to feel their intent. Beel goes to the side of his twin’s bed and sits on the floor, doesn’t take his eyes off him, and as for you—

You glance at Lucifer, who nods, face carefully impassive save for the furrow of his brow. Quietly as you can, you climb off the bed to make your exit, and you can hear Belphegor continue:

“It’s my fault.”

The invisible shudder of pain from his brothers is enough to put a tremor in the air, piercing your chest, but this isn’t your place now. It is best to give them some privacy.

---

“In the bed.”

You know the words but they don’t… make sense...

“Ambrose.”

Tired.

“Then get into the bed.”

Bed? Right, somebody said…

There’s a warm, firm pressure on your shoulder, and your body jerks to one side, head popping off the… pillow? No, not a pillow, that’s a comforter, and…

A deep, sharp inhale. Yawn. “Hm?”

The rumbling chuckle could only belong to Diavolo, and, yes, this is Barbatos’ bedroom, where you’d fallen asleep in the armchair again. “You didn’t come to dinner.”

Your brain is full of cottonseed and humidity. “I apologize.” Is that the right thing to say?

Diavolo pats your shoulder. “Think nothing of it! Are you hungry?”

“No.” You rub your hand across your forehead and cheeks. “No, thank you.” That bit is important. The polite bit.

“Just tired, then.” He’s smiling, but things are a little blurry.

Your eyes don’t want to focus, so you’ll just rest them a moment, clear them up… “Yeah.”

“Arbianock delivered your nightclothes, right here.” Indeed, they’re on the end of the bed—a set of cotton drawers and long-sleeved shirt, ideal for whatever the Devildom’s weather. Very considerate. But…

“This isn’t my room.” Things are swimming into focus. Your body is still sleep-heavy, but another deep breath keeps your gaze steady on the demon prince. “I can go to my quarters.”

“You can if you’re feeling up to it, of course.” Diavolo folds his arms, mouth curled halfway to a smile.

You are just awake enough to feel a prickle of suspicion. He says it too lightly, too casually. “You’re not going to argue with me.”

He feigns a look of hurt. “Why should I? You’re obviously very tired, and you can sleep wherever you want.”

“Including here,” you observe, dryly.

“Including here.” He smiles, devilishly.

Rub your face with the heel of your hand, and draw a deep, slow breath that stretches your ribs.

“You’ve been so busy getting things sorted… it really is admirable, you know. But you need a proper sleep, and I don’t think you’re going to get it slumped over in a chair or in that grand, empty room in the other wing, do you?”

You’d like to bury your face in the comforter and stop thinking, let the sand-weight of your extremities pull you back under. There’s a sort of nebulous headache in the cotton-fog of your skull, but even so—“You’re being very transparent.”

“I’ll… think about it.”

“Good.” He rests a heavy hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry I missed tea this afternoon; I had planned to talk to you over dinner, but once you have some rest, we can discuss things over breakfast. Lucifer told me what you did. It’s really remarkable… you could have done anything and you chose to try to work with Belphegor—and he’s agreed. Only a human could be so devoted to a better way. A new way. I’ve never seen a people so willing to practice forgiveness! You’re a credit to your species, Ambrose... I couldn’t ask for a better candidate.”

Distantly, your mind is spinning, buzzing uncomfortably, but there’s a warm rush in your chest. “I… thank you.”

He smiles brightly, pats your shoulder lightly. “Now, have a good night, and get some sleep! Sleep promotes healing!”

You’re quite sure he’s parroting that phrase directly from a text about human health, but you don’t get the chance to call him on it, as Diavolo dismisses himself swiftly while your mind is still working to catch up. Candidate for what? The exchange program? You suppose that doesn’t matter right now.

Belphegor agreed. He must have said something else after you had gone, after he spoke with Lucifer and Beel. He had only said he would not harm you—and you’d thought that was enough, inclined to believe him, supposing he probably wouldn’t even want to look at you for the rest of the semester, knowing you know what you do. You were willing to settle for just that. But now? Now, you’ll just have to wait until morning to understand what happened.

A weary sigh escapes your lips. How did you get here?

Your eyes fall on him at last.

Barbatos, still more peaceful than you’ve ever seen him, supported by dark pillows, nestled among silken blankets in loose, layered clothing, and you envy that undisturbed sleep. A sleep that you need. A sleep you won’t get unless you—

There’s heat rising in your cheeks, with no one to witness it. You can’t pretend it would be like sharing the bed with Mammon or Beel. If you stay tonight, it’s like asserting that you belong.

And… you want to. Hells, you want to. You want it so desperately that your heart constricts your throat, as though it could crawl right up and out of your chest and settle down with him.

Your gaze falls upon the clothes on the end of the bed. You can still scoop them up and make your way down the hall. Down the hall to that huge, empty room that certainly isn’t your own. Would you stare at the ceiling again, with its masterful brushstrokes and foreign storytelling while your heart yearns? Would you lie awake as your mind refuses to settle down, reliving one sensation after another, would you feel the blankets heavy on your skin, a thousand textures so, so loud in the night?

Or will you stay, where you’ve been invited, where you’re wanted? Have you only been avoiding it because you’re afraid?

Afraid that you’ll grow accustomed to the sensation?

The nightclothes find your fingers, but you make no move to leave. Your body decides without you, limbs heavily slouching in and out of place in practiced motion, shirt, pants, boots, socks, pants and shirt again. Dressing is easy. The difficult thing will be getting into the bed, and too quickly that is what you must do.

You stand for a moment, just staring, despite the protest of unsteady legs, feeling the fine, soft fibers of the carpet on bare feet. Warm, unnaturally so, unless the floor is somehow being heated... Your eyes rake the perimeter to find what looks almost like a wrought iron radiator system winding about the nook, only slender and a bit green like oxidized copper, passing behind the headboard against the dark wainscoting. Does he have trouble keeping warm, you wonder? You know his skin to be cool to the touch, but you had assumed that he wouldn’t have different needs from a human or even other demons. No one in the House of Lamentation has—

You’re letting your mind wander. You’re stalling, overthinking.

Take a deep breath.

Slowly, you inch toward the mattress. Slowly, you brace one knee on the bed, shifting your weight with careful control, hardly disturbing his side at all. The pillow that you’d used before is still in place, and the blanket is within reach to share. Snuggling hesitantly into the mattress, over the duvet, you reach for the blanket’s corner—a whole extra length folded there alongside his body like it’s been waiting for you—avoiding brushing Barbatos’ tail as you tug it up and over your middle.

You’re facing him. Your cheeks still burn as you watch the rise and fall of his chest, the serene expression on his lips. Smooth skin, catching the silver glow of the moon through the window-panes in fine contours, uninterrupted by lines of age, supple and soft as something just-born, almost aglow himself. Even your hand, where it rests between you, ceases at the wrist in lateral lines. There’s a thin, white scar under your thumb where you nearly fell out of a tree, many years ago, and there, a small pockmark over the main artery where an IV had slipped beneath the skin, much later. The veins show blue-green and purple, curling up toward your knuckles, branching like a tree, and one day, this skin, already creased, already scarred, will be paper-thin and wrinkled and stained with age.

How ephemeral you are, indeed, beside something ancient and so new.

You close your eyes. Your heart still beats.

----

The complete lack of sun when you awake is no longer a surprise, but it remains disorienting as you blink your eyes into focus. Your mind doesn’t know what to expect anymore between your room at the House of Lamentation, the guest room with its frescoed ceiling, and… You inhale the scent of ash and ink and mist clinging to grass as the first rays of sun pierce the chill air of morning. Barbatos’ bedroom. A deep, slow, hot huff of breath sounds against the pillow as you roll your shoulders and snuggle further into the plush mattress. You’re not ready to get up, though you really should. This is the best sleep you’ve had in days.

Faced with the empty armchair and its teal velvet, you know you need to get up and get breakfast and figure out what you’re going to say. What you’re going to do. You can’t stay here, as much as it feels like this is exactly the place you’re meant to be right now, surrounded by Barbatos’ sharp scent, his slow, steady breaths at your back—

“Good afternoon.” Your body freezes all at once, violently, but melts as soon as you hear the soft, honey chuckle that accompanies the words.

“Barbatos.” You roll quickly over, and, faced with the fathomless verdance of his eyes, the open softness in his smile, your heart can’t decide whether to stop entirely or break record speed.

“You stayed,” he observes, his hand finding yours, fingers tangling together on the comforter.

“I did,” is all that finds voice, everything else too heavy to leave your mouth.

“I am glad.” Gently, he presses your palms together. “But you must have been exhausted to sleep so late into the day… or did you return after breakfast?”

You shake your head; you’ll figure out what you’re going to do about the fact that you missed breakfast with Lord Diavolo later. "I was more tired than usual."

“Yes… thank you.” You lace his fingers tightly with yours, as you did four days ago. “How are you feeling?”

“Well.” He hums, and a faint flush dusts his cheeks. “Quite well. Certainly well enough to resume my duties, but I find myself unwilling to end this moment.”

“I’d be happy to—”

“Nonsense.” His thumb begins tracing a soft pattern from your wrist to fingertip, skin tingling at the attention. “I will fetch us refreshment; just first allow me to look at you.”

If your face wasn’t hot before, it certainly is now, flushing as though it could make you invisible. The way he looks at you—the gentle turn of his mouth, lips parted just so, as though he isn’t aware of what he’s doing, the lively crease of his eyes, the light that dances in them the way a candle cheers a room. You had thought it was the formality missing from his clothing that had made him seem naked, but you realize it’s really this: the role removed entirely from his countenance.

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen anything quite so beautiful.

His thumb brushes the top of your hand, the air charged with something like mischief. “I have a request, if you’re amenable.”

Oh, you’d agree to just about anything right now, his face framed by dark wisps of hair, hand clasping yours, held in a half-embrace by the weight of his tail, comfortable, safe—

Happy.

Barbatos smiles, and it crinkles his eyes, flashes his glassen teeth in the afternoon light. “Please refrain from finding yourself in life-threatening situations from now on, cynamome.”

The heat on your cheeks shifts from bashfulness to shame. “I—I really didn’t intend—”

“I know.” He pulls your hand closer, presses a kiss beneath your thumb at the hollow of the wrist. “Forgive me; I should not have implied otherwise.” When the sinking feeling in your chest doesn’t subside, he meets your gaze seriously, all traces of mirth gone. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Reflexively, in time with the stutter of your heart, you squeeze his fingers, but no words leave your mouth. You can’t hold his gaze, so you drop it to where your hands are intertwined, pillowed on the satiny blankets.

You can feel the shift as he raises himself slightly off the mattress, and his tail traces its way up your back, a shiver dancing across your skin. One of its tips glides along your jaw, guides your chin up, leather-smooth and warm—warmed, you realize, by your own body heat—to meet his eyes again. The open softness is there in the curve of his mouth, the apple rounding of his cheeks. “You’ve done your best with the hand Fate has dealt you, Ambrose, and what you have done is admirable.” In his eyes… moonlight through water green with lilies and grasses that know no mark of hours, no seasons, only the heat of night reflected through rain, ceaseless, like the promise of the heart’s steady drum.

“I only did what I thought anyone should,” leaves your lips in honesty before any thought can overtake it.

Barbatos smiles; the moonlight dances. “And that is what makes it remarkable. You are remarkable, Ambrose; do not forget it. You have brought sunlight to this world, to your friends, to my master, and, indeed—” His cheeks flush a dusky rose. “—to me. I do not regret how this week has transpired… perhaps you’ll forgive me for that, too.”

“What is there to forgive?” you ask, and his tail, still cradling your face, moves in time to each word.

“You were nearly lost, forever, to everyone. You were caused great pain, yet… I don’t find myself wishing that it never happened; I only find myself grateful that it brought you here.”

There’s no remorse in his gaze, either, only that tangible gentleness as your jaw trembles, and you’re overwhelmed with the desire to sit up, face him properly, so you do, and he lets you, relinquishing your hand, mirroring your movements, letting his tail settle down upon your shoulder and across your lap, loathe, perhaps, to let go entirely. That is a feeling you can well appreciate.

Barbatos waits upon your judgment, patient, but there’s a flicker of apprehension, too, like a spark of electricity in the air.

His thumb traces a circle across the top of your hand. “If it is within my power, I can grant it.”

A hot coil of shame seizes your neck and chest. “You’ve done too much for me already, Barbatos. And… it isn’t something you can change. I just—wish I’d done better.” The words sound even worse than they had in your head. You know how childish they are, how silly it is to wish for something like that; what’s done is done and the outcome isn’t bad, not by far, not at all. You’ve accomplished almost everything you’d set out to do. It just… wasn’t to plan. It was a mess. It—

Of course you do. That day is as treasured a memory as those before and after. “That I wouldn’t change anything.”

“Because you feared a single change would have diverted your path from the destination, from being here, and now.” Barbatos lifts your hand, presses his lips to where he’d traced circles before, but does not avert his eyes from yours. “Why not this time?” he whispers against your skin.

He straightens up, slowly, mouth pulling into an expression you’ve seen only once before, something like shame, something like guilt, eyes soft, his frame struggling against some great, invisible weight. “What else could I have done?” he asks. “Selected another course of events, another reality, while you die in this one? It would have been easy, yes, certainly easier than manipulating individual timelines.” Barbatos must see the lack of comprehension on your face, because he continues: “Perhaps my greatest power is the ability to choose which sequence of events, which timeline, becomes the true reality. I could have let you die there in the attic, cut the timeline, and moved another into its place like a weaver drawing together two lengths of thread; you would die, and yet live, because you were drawn from a series of events where you remained unharmed.” His gaze, fathomless, wretched, searches your features. “And every day after, I would look into the eyes of a stranger wearing your face. Though they’d be granted your memories as the timelines synchronized... I would know. I would always know.”

Heart aching, you pull him into an embrace, never mind that he doesn’t respond immediately, a soft murmur of astonishment in his throat. But then, Barbatos buries his face against your neck, arms tugging you close, tail unwinding so quickly from your lap and shoulder that it runs like silk, only to loop around the small of your back, secure. You hold him tighter. And then tighter still when you think you can feel his heartbeat in your chest. His breath, warm on your skin. A soft nuzzle against the hollow between neck and shoulder.

Time stills in the gravity of relief and affection, quietly, unnoticed.

There’s a hesitant smile on your lips as Barbatos draws back just enough to look you in the face, and there’s a smile on his, too, soft with solemn, tortured delight. “I would ask for nothing else. But please—don’t say it again. Once said, it cannot be undone.”

You open your mouth but he stops it with a hand on your cheek, thumb across your lips. “Please—consider that before deciding to say it again, in your own time. I will never ask, nor expect that sentiment from you; only… take the time to think on it before speaking it again.” There’s something in his eyes, a flicker akin to flame—not the tame dance of candlelight but the reckless abandon of wildfire. “When you do, you won’t be able to take it back.”

The rings around your fingers burn as you draw him close again.

“Thank you, nykin.” His voice hums against your cheek, its thrum buzzing in your chest.

You close your eyes. “Will you tell me what that means?”

“For quite some time, I suspect.”

“A pity,” Barbatos murmurs, tilting his head so that his cheek rests on the crown of your head. “I believe it’s the only one that appropriately conveys a concept that otherwise remains only in our language. Kin, the suffix: akin, ‘related,’ ‘close,’—and nigh: ’near,’ as in both space and time.” He nuzzles into your hair and, distinctly, you feel the lingering press of his lips. “You are with me, you are now, you are the space between this breath and the next. Near to me, my present, my impending moment. Nykin.”

You’re not sure when the tears started. You just know by the time you feel them, hot on your cheeks, cool, gentle kisses follow in their wake, catching them where they fall. Barbatos does so silently, cradling your head, never shushing, never asking for your calm, and the tears come faster, and you’re laughing, and you’re not quite sure why, heart full to bursting. Your fingers tangle in his hair, at last, as they wanted to before, weaving through silken strands, and when you find his cheeks to kiss them, when you find his mouth, you’re not sure whose salt-sweet tears have settled upon your tongue.

----

@mysterypotatoink

#my fics #obey me!#shall we date? obey me #barbatos #barbatos x mc #shall we date? obey me!

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