A swift awakening

By the time I awake, a pale light is streaming in through the curtained windows and the faint smell of cooked food is wafting up from the floorboards below. There is a light sheen of sweat on my skin from nightmares I cannot remember, but aside from that, I appear relatively intact.

So no one has come to murder me in my sleep, then, I laugh inwardly to myself, only half joking. Blearily, I stretch, pushing out my arms against the light pouring out from the window to shield myself from its brightness, and smile to myself, a giddy feeling overcoming me.

A day before today and I was about to get married to a man I had never met in my life, in a wedding dress I will eternally despise, and a heart set on another man entirely. Now I am mere hours away from addressing the most esteemed demons in hell, with a faint headache from a little too much to drink from the night before and the Devil himself shuffling in the room below.

How things change.

Wading through the covers, and a series of dilopuffs that have come to settle on and around my bed, I do my best to neaten things up by myself, after all, if my mother had taught me one thing, it was to be efficient. With a prolonged yawn, I begin tidying the sheets, straightening the curtains, whilst doing my best to ignore the mouth-watering sensation of food wafting up from the floors below. My stomach, however, has other ideas. A low growl reverberated around the room, startling some of the fluffy creatures who have settled blithely on the bedside table.

It feels like I haven't eaten for days- and the growling rumble in my stomach (enough to scare even a pride of lions from their share of food) seems to suggest enough. But I do my best to keep my mind focused, pinpointed on my tasks, of what is going to be expected of me, and just who I might meet in the upcoming hours.

Today is the day I learn about the prophecy, about what is expected of me- perhaps I will even begin to start some training if I am lucky. I consider myself fortunate that at least two of the demon lords and ladies are somewhat amiable, that will certainly make this day go smoothly. But whether or not I get to meet any of them all depends on just how amiable Valerian is feeling on this morning, and whether I can yet be bothered to get myself changed. That's when I notice a scrap of neatly folded parchment at the end of my bed, something so glaringly obvious one would assume that even in tiredness it would be impossible to miss. But I guess I almost just did.

Drearily, I pick up a note on the end of my bed, surveying it with a dim and unobservant gaze, having to read it two times over before the words even take meaning in my head.

"I left some clothes for you in the wardrobe, if you wish to wear them. Meet me downstairs when you are ready, I will give you a brief overview of what is going to happen today, and breakfast- if you are prompt." ~Val

Folding up the note, I place it on the side of the window cill, doing my best not to grin at the little squiggly drawing of a dilopuff on the corner of the page. For an artist, I can certainly say that would not be one of his most esteemed drawings in the future.

Bleary eyed and still catching my consciousness from my awakening, I sway my way over the wardrobe at the far end of the room, just tailing Valerian's desk of paint and canvasses. There is a slight splurge of golden paint trailing its way up the side of the dark wooden wardrobe, and a few scuffs at its feet. A well used room indeed.

Yawning one more, I open the wardrobe, surveying my options.

As it turns out, those options are vast. His wardrobe holds all manner of items, from fine golden suits, to a glittering array of blazers and fine, renaissance style pants. Anything and everything seems to be crammed into this wardrobe, all with varying degrees of flair and a far cry better from my boring white wedding dress- good riddance to that revolting thing.

It is obvious which pieces he intended for me to take out- a white frilled blouse with a pair of black leggings to match- nothing too conspicuous, a safe bet for a first wearing of the Downside's clothing.

But as I stand there, sifting through his cabinet, I suddenly come across a much greater form of attire: a red blouse with a gold ruffled collar, golden leaves woven up the grand puffy sleeves and lacing the hem- just enough flair to make a statement, but not quite enough to seem garish. The perfect balance- the only issue being, it isn't mine. Standing there for a moment, I assess my options, scratching my chin lightly as I mull over the situation.

I debate calling down to ask him, to take the politer, more courteous route and make a lady of myself, a good impression if you will. After all, stealing is never good in any household. Then I remember that I have never been a lady in my life, and take it out anyway.

After all, I am Valerian's consort now, and what's mine is his- though that is perhaps a little bit overly generous as a statement. But nevertheless, I doubt he will mind, he had always seemed rather subdued, hardly ever straying to outbursts of anger and violence. Far from what the angel's stories make him out to be. And if he does, well, he can deal with that himself.

Tugging off my pj's as quickly as I can, keen to avoid the bitter tinge of the morning air, I pull on my new clothes, a beam of pride running through me as I find they fit perfectly against the curves of my body. How wonderful.

Carefully, I pull out a pair of long plain trousers, before fishing round in the cupboard once more for any further accessories. With a small exclamation, pull out a black buckle belt, snaking it around my waist as I draw the leather in tight, sucking in the fabric against my skin to sculpt a perfect fit.

There, now I am ready.

Lets just hope Valerian will still serve me breakfast after this.

Deciding that stalling is in fact only ever a way to delay the inevitable, I begin to make my way towards the stairwell. My head is dizzy with thoughts of the mouth-watering food, the smells of which waft in delectable waves of goodness up from the floorboards, practically melting on my tongue already.

Then I shake myself, deciding it better to mentally steel myself for what is to come of the rest of the day. After all, who knows what the other demon lords and ladies will be like?

A small round ball of fluff settles on my shoulder as I walk, not lilac and a manner of shades of purple like its brethren counterparts, but black with wide yellow eyes and a small sweeping tail. Quite happily it nests itself on my shoulders, and finding I do not have the heart to flick it away, I continue downstairs, making my way into the living room. A bright, buttery golden light greets me as I enter, the curtains drawn open wide, the whole living room illuminated with life, no longer the darkened, mysterious abode that I had haunted in my drunken state the night before. It is only in such a light that one can truly appreciate the remarkable splendour of the place, the fine crafting of the shape of the room, the meticulously patterned wallpaper, the softness of the carpet and the ornateness of the furnishings, all chosen to suit the needs of one particular individual.

It is truly breath taking.

But my attention is quickly drawn to that individual in particular as a sudden exclamation wakes me from my daydreaming. Starting, I raise my head to peer at the culprit.

"Ah, so sleeping beauty has finally awoken," he muses to himself as the Devil rounds the corner, dressed in a sparkling golden suit emblazoned with the etchings of wings along the front breast plate. The rest of his outfit is less fanciful: blue pants, and a series of straps on his leg, enclosing a silver hilted knife that holds a large, oval ruby. My eyes glance over the knife, his bedazzling form, the slightly messy array of hair that falls over his right eye, and roll my eyes, pushing past him as I enter what I soon find out to be the kitchen.

"Yes, and my so called 'Prince Charming' has a knife at his hip. Plan to stab me, Valerian?" I snicker darkly, taking a seat at the long bar like counter from across the stove top, swivelling myself round to face him with an unassuming gaze. Valerian merely shrugs, twiddling a spatula between his fingers as he shimmies his way across the marbled kitchen floor, over to the stovetop where several pancakes are cooking...