It wants only to sulk; to sit there alone in the darkness and feel sorry for itself until what is left of it rots away into oblivion–or, more likely, until some rival with a grudge comes along and finishes what the hunters could not. In truth it would be a mercy for Vincent to put the pitiful creature out of its misery, and the demon former known as Marcella knows that the thought must surely have crossed its lover’s mind.
“It’s over,” It slurs again more forcefully; glassy, dead eyes trying to focus in the vague direction of the other demon’s voice. “Why can’t you see that?” The grotesque thing folds in on itself once again, hiding its mutilated face in its hands so that Vincent will not see the moisture it can feel beginning to ooze like human tears down its cheeks. Its grievous wounds are still fresh, and so is the trauma; a body it had called its own for over four centuries defiled and left in ruin, emptiness where it once felt whole now aching like phantom pangs that will haunt the crossroads demon forevermore.
“There is no recovery from this.” It’s muffled voice assures, to eviscerated even to pretend as though it gives a damn. “There is no future for me; for any of us. You three cannot hope to hold the territory for long…You will fail, and you will suffer the consequences. Let it fall on me. I am as good as dead, anyway. If you care as you say you do then spare me the racks and end it quickly, as I would have for you.”
sympathy twines itself cruelly around the demon's borrowed heart, an emotion as foreign & distant as the concept of love. twisted & corrupted, it was a vulnerability his kind often scavenged from as humanity plead themselves, desperate & weakened, to the woes of mortality & strife. they were repulsive, vile — ( ;; FODDER , so easily swayed &turned away from their savior. ) fingers flex in on themselves, curling unconsciously against the meat of his vessel’s palm. dark irises are watchful as they scrape the leftovers of what remained of his lover, the sad, pathetic creature retching in the corner, coiled in on itself as helplessness peeled back the steel armor shielding Marcella's once evocative persona. the proud, aristocratic demon reduced to nothing more than ash.
it would be a mercy. to kill it. to smother the pain &end the traumatized demon's misery. an easy, swift death consumed by the black-hole swirling around in his head-space &succumb to the killer laying dormant beneath his stolen flesh. but he doesn’t. can’t. what stays his hand is the same bound loyalty he’d pledged to her over a century ago – &as reckless & frivolous as the younger demon may be, he isn't one to abandon ties & turn on those to whom he's pledged his command. especially her. for reasons far beyond those even he can conceive.
“ i'm fairly certain Lucius would have my head, if you came to harm upon my hand, ” fingertips brush over a trinket on a nearby shelf, thoughtful. a necklace, once belonging to the formerly Marcella ( ; elegant, with distinct traces of crimson ) . “ & i will not be swallowed by the guilt of taking my own lover’s life when so much of it controls me already. if it weren't for you, i would have assuredly been rack fodder by now. ”
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