Nervously, Valerian shifts a little, his wings ruffling under my fingertips. On any other occasion- perhaps when I am not pissed, for example, I would have taken his nervous shifting as a sign of discomfort, and removed myself from the situation as quickly as possible. But with my mind hazy from the influence of alcohol, it is all I can do but think how wonderfully soft his feathers feel under my fingers, and how drowsy I am becoming with the lulling scent of lilies and the warmth radiating from his body. I imagine to him, I must look like a fool.
Truly, alcohol is the worst.
"I will tell you what, Elowyn, cara mea," he says softly, but his voice is strained with tension, as though he is trying to hold something back, some sob or groan or cry of distress. I cannot tell which. "You let go of my wings and I will tell you why I look like this. How I become what you people of the Upper Realm know as 'The Devil'."
Grumbling, I pout at him.
Right then and there I do not want to let go. Leaning my head drearily against him, I find his wings are so soft- they feel like a pillow, something that I would delightedly sink my head upon and sleep into the next week. But there is an enigmatic expression on Valerian's face, and one of distress playing in his eyes that causes my heart to pang with a curious mixture of guilt and grief. There is something so familiar about the expression that I could have sworn I saw it before- somewhere, a long, long time ago. Perhaps in a dream.
It is this thought that niggles at the chambers of my heart, instils a fiery guilt into my veins with enough force to make me squirm inwardly. So with the last cognitive thoughts I have, I pull myself away, letting go of his beautiful raven wings and slink back against the velvety couch, pouting.
The loss of distress from Valerian's form is almost tangible.
"Thank you," he says with an audible sigh of relief, drawing himself back a bit as he brings up a stool to sit on, tail swatting the air beside him with a lingering, unvoiced agitation. It is only after watching him do this that I realise it is likely so he can keep his distance from me, so that I won't decide to latch onto his wings at random again- or any other part of his body for that matter. Even in my drunken state I can tell that it made him uneasy at best, but as to why, I could not say.
I mull over the possibility that perhaps it is a culture thing- that down here touching peoples wings is rude or offensive in some way- in the same way that some people don't like having their hair touched, or their back.
I make a mental note not to get drunk around Dreyfus, who likely would be much less forgiving if I pulled the same stunt on him. Instead I decide it best to ask Tarquin over the matter at some other point in time- he seems the more amiable of the two demon lords I have met, even if he doesn't quite yet understand the meaning of personal space and boundaries. Nevertheless, I will soon teach him that.
Clasping his hands over himself, Valerian shuffles forward in his seat, watching me absently through his lilac eyes, a myriad of unspoken thoughts running through his mind.
Rubbing the back of my head, I sit up to face opposite him, trying not to glance back at his wings for fear of what I foolishly might do. If only Alastor was here. He would take care of me. Stop me from doing anything... rash.
"Alright, so are you going to tell me now?" I prompt, folding my arms around myself, as my eyes meet his, a cold chill running down my spine. Valerian smiles gently, running absent circles with his tail through the air.
"Indeed I shall. Alright, where to start," he murmurs as I reach for another glass of water from the table beside the couch, suddenly taken by an overwhelming thirst. Watching him with a faint and drunken interest, I pour myself a glass of icy water, relishing the coolness upon my burning skin as I take a few more sips, gulping down the liquid. Waiting until I am at last settled, the Devil clears his throat.
"You probably know that many, many years ago, I used to be an angel," he starts, giving me time to nod my understanding through sips of water. Gulping down a few icy mouthfuls, I wipe my mouth, interjecting before Valerian can get a chance to continue.
"In the Upper Realm, they claim you got cast out for your sins- that you were greedy and promiscuous, and didn't follow the rules of the angels. They always claim you did something unforgivable, but they never mention what," I pipe up, sitting up a little straighter now, pleased that the room is beginning to spin a fraction less than it was ten minutes ago. Valerian had mentioned that the effects of the alcohol are short lived and superficial- I can only hope that this is an example of those exact effects.
Mulling over my words, Valerian purses his lips.
"I suppose that is one way of putting it," he laughs, running his fingers through his fine raven hair with a languorous roll of his eyes.
"There was a time when I was the perfect angel- I believed in our supremacy and was revolted by the sins of humanity. You see angels are iron fisted creatures. They do not show mercy to those they believe have sinned- however small that sin may be. They are arrogant- think that just because they have the favour of the deities, that they rule the skies, that somehow makes them greater than every other creature upon the earth," he pauses for a moment, giving me a lasting look as I take another greedy sip of water, spying him over the rim of my glass.
In all honesty, such an attitude they boast sounds not dissimilar to the ones of the nobles, or my mother. Of course, I have no doubt that the angels are much more gruelling and authoritative in their rules than the mortals of the Upper Realm, but at the very least, I can sympathise with Valerian's vision of them- after all, that vision was one of my mother for a very, very long time.
At this string of thoughts, Valerian's eyes light up as he reclines back on his seat, intrigue painting his face.
"Indeed," he announces, clearly having read my mind. "The mortals on the Upper Realm idolize, even mimic the angels- they see them as pure, greater beings who will guide them into greatness- they worship the angels as gods. But in truth they are creatures with a terrifying amount of power- recruiting armies of the sinless and likeminded to join their ranks in heaven, and discarding the rest of them to rot in the Downside. Of course, not all of them are like this- and in recent years there have been few angels who broke away from this cycle of hedonism- your father included. But," he says, pausing to mull over his words, a glazed look in his eyes, as though remembering something about the past, some fine detail that I am not yet privy to. For a moment- just a moment- there is silence, then:
"When I was 18 I was asked to take part in the ritual of judgement. And it was the second worst day of my life," he admits, clenching his fits beside him as he shuffles on his seat, wings ruffled and blazing.
"Ritual of Judgement?" I press curiously, leaning forward as I lower my breath to little more than a whisper, as though fearful someone else might hear. Valerian nods slowly.
"Souls who have died ascended to the judgement room which is housed in the angel's Realm: Elysium. The angels are then to decide which souls they would keep, and which ones they would throw away and let become mindless wonderous of the downside. Lost spirits, if you will. No past, no memories, just a blank slate of nothing." Valerian takes another breath, his resolve wavering. Gently, I reach out to place a hand on his arm, running my thumb over him gently, reassuring. Starting a little, Valerian looks down at it, as if surprised to see any ounce of compassion come out of me whatsoever.
But he accepts it nonetheless, giving me a light but grateful smile, and continues.
"The first soul I was ever asked to pass judgement on was a woman. She was beautiful- a Princess by nature. Her brother had been killed the day before fighting a noble battle in the south of the Upper Realm. He had ascended to join the ranks of the angels for his deeds. But the woman, not baring to live without him, killed herself, hoping to join him wherever he might be. But," he says, throat working as his eyes flutter shut, reimagining the scene.
"When the angels heard this, they laughed."