Into Valerian's room

"May I carry you up, Princess?"

The statement is so foreign to me that it completely shocks me out of my daze.

"Carry me..?"

Valerian nods, gesturing up to the dimly lit array of stairs that stretch out before us with a blithe wave of his hand. Blankly, I stare at the entrance before me, the cogs working in my brain at a momently slow pace. Noticing my hesitation, Valerian gives a little, honeyed laugh, stepping back a little in order to give me room to think.

"Yes, carry you. Of course, if you don't want to, I completely understand. But being part of my court, I am responsible for your safety down here, and frankly, you are swaying on the spot and seem to be having a hard time processing everything. The memory splaying process seems to have taken a great toll on you. I would much rather help you get up to the bedroom safely then have you collapse on me."

"Well, I…" I trail off, and all at once all feasible thoughts slip from my brain like water down a drain. Valerian's hand comes to settle at my waist, ghosting over my skin, careful to not initiate contact, his eyes scanning me, waiting for my permission.

It is that moment I realise with a crashing sensation of truth that in spite of every rumour, every tale and exaggerated truth, he would not lay a hand on me unless I explicitly asked him to.

He wouldn't even dare. It suddenly becomes apparent that in all our time together this evening, not once has he been remotely crude, or unchaste, but is rather much more gentlemen. Of course, he did dump me head first into a pool, but that is little of my concern anymore. It is reassuring to realise he seems more content on keeping most of himself privy- locking away some icy, unforeseen part of his heart in a dark chamber where he daren't not open it again.

With a light scowl, I wonder inwardly whether this is a result of what happened with Lyla, or whether it is merely his preference to be more recluse.

So with this in mind, when Valerian asks:

"Your word, Princess?"

It is all I can do but say:

"You may."

With an oddly grateful nod, Valerian draws his arms around my waist, his touch gentle, fingers light, barely skimming over my body, as though half afraid to touch it. There is something tentative about the way he holds me, as though he has done it before, a practised touch, and one initiated many times over. Cautious, but kind, so that as he scoops me up into his arms I let myself subside to my woozy, drunken haze, content in knowing that with him, I will be safe.

"I am glad," Valerian says suddenly, drawing my cognition briefly back to reality. With a dim and unseeing gaze, I look out upon the dark spiralling staircase, faintly aware of the brush of feathers at my feet. My mind is so muddled with thoughts and questions and memories that I can almost barely bring myself to query this statement, but with a determined effort I manage to pull through and ask:

"What are you glad about?" I ask, attempting my best effort to keep the slur out of my voice, but failing miserably. Hopefully by morning, this ridiculous befuddled state will have long since passed- I would rather not make a fool of myself in front of the remaining demon lords. Of course, Valerian had assured me it was merely a by product of my memories being messed with, but something about the whole ordeal makes me can't help but think he is simply saying such generous things to be nice. Maybe I am just a really big mess- memories splayed or not.

"That you trust me," he says simply, and nothing else, letting a blissful silence fall between us as light appears at the top of the stairwell. We arrive at the top of the stairwell with a few short strides from Valerian, standing there for a moment and letting the drifting in streams of buttery light down coil onto our faces, bright enough that I have to blink it away, but not so much that it is jarring.

My mind sings blissfully as I let myself sink further into Valerian's arms, too tired to protest otherwise. I never really did understand why Valerian- a Devil with a kingdom of demons, with nothing to lose and everything to gain, would treasure my trust in him so much as he does. Perhaps it has something to do with this weird prophecy everyone is talking out. Or maybe Valerian is simply friend deprived- who is to tell?

I let myself wonder on that for a moment, puzzling over its importance to him, and why he seems so insistent on the fact. I myself am not a particularly trusting individual, and aside from perhaps Alastor- who I could always rely on to have my back, I have never really taken it upon myself to trust anyone, not even my own mother.

There are always too many variables, opportunities for betrayal, backstabbing, and all manner of unwanted consequences that come with lending too much trust to the wrong person. A great number of nobility exploited me for my services, position, when I was too young to realise what it meant to be a princess to the ruling kingdom of the Upper World. They would use me for their personal gain, play with me to get in the good books of my mother, and then when they had they wanted, they would leave, and just like that, my trust would crumble.

Years of this taught me that trust is too tricky to lend, or even partially give, and resulted in a weathered, much more hardened individual to the ways of mortals. But there is something about the Devil- in a similar way that is apparent with Alastor, that offers some undying reassurance that whatever I do, I can undoubtedly trust him. It is that inkling of a feeling in my heart, a call, or a tiny little hum, that reminds me of this, instils it into my brain.

I can trust Valerian.

And this seems to make him pleased.

I do not take in much as we enter Valerians room, my mind to addled with thoughts of the Devil, of the tales he has told me, and blurred by the wooziness of my drunken haze to fully formulate any thoughts into a proper cognition.

All I know is that it is big, draped with curtains of black and cold, and has a large open balcony to one side, concealed by a glass door and draped with a silken fabric. There are bookshelves- many of them, and cabinets lining his room: some containing clothes, all feathered and fancy, laced with a gold trim that have the the perfect amount of flair and formality for the king of the Downside. Even when half awake, it doesn't take a genius to tell this is a gorgeous place.

His room is filled with an iridescent shine that beams down from the glass chandeliers up above our head, the crystals embedded in it sending rays of gold and rainbow silver down and about the room. There are all manner of paintings, a work desk, even some painting supplies, which make me believe in a fascinated yet astounded wonder that perhaps some of the paintings I viewed around the palace weren't just from some nameless artist, but Valerian himself. I suppose he is a man of many talents- not that that makes me jealous or anything.

Besides, I never really had any hobbies to begin with. My mother preferred to keep me miles away from creativity, preferring to endorse matters of royal duty, marriage and responsibility. I never found such lectures to be of my taste- they were all pretty shitty and dull, so instead wheedled my way out of them with Alastor and went hunting for entrances to hell instead.

I suppose the irony of that is that my hunts were always in vain- I never did find the Devil. In fact, he found me.