It was stupid and sentimental, as Samson listened to her speak of the bruise upon her forehead, he found himself bending down to press lips against it, as if to say, there all better even though it was so far from anything but. As deranged as some might consider Phoebe, there was something in her that inspired a protective streak in him. Sure, they spoke most often when Samson embraced the darkness within him rather than fought it, for it was there they had the most in common, but all the same, he could not deny that he hated to see her hurt. As he straightened, though, he couldn’t help but frown at the gesture, not because he hated himself for doing it, but instead, because it only made him sad. It was a gesture like that one which made him remember the life he had thought he was going to have once; the life he had wanted. He had wanted to be a father, he was pretty sure he would have been a good father, he certainly couldn’t have been any worse than his own. It was yet another thing Delilah had taken from him and that fed into the darkness that currently seemed to linger about him.
But any sadness that he held within him quickly dissipated when she elaborated on what she had had managed with Alastair; He couldn’t help but laugh. There was little to laugh about these days, from losing his wings on there was little to be positive about. But the image of Phoebe, Phoebe who was a slip of a thing in his eyes (though honestly so many people were all things considered) punching Alastair in the dick, well how could he not laugh? How could he not laugh, loud and long? Once he caught his breath, “Phoebe, you delight me,” came first, voice low and rough with bitterness followed by, “I hope he’s suffering.” In moments like this he held no uncertain hatred for the demons.
When she said she hadn’t been tended too, lips pursed with displeasure. He couldn’t force her to take care of herself, nor could he force anyone to care for her, but he would volunteer an option all the same. “I think Raphael was brought back, they would be searching for him rather than celebrating if he hadn’t, maybe you should see if he can help you,” he urged, all the while wondering if the other could do anything to help or would do anything to help Phoebe after she had hurt another. And he wondered too, whether Phoebe would follow through on his urging and give his mention any consideration. Perhaps it would depend on whether she wanted to suffer the physical pain.
As for the last, there were a few ways to answer Phoebe’s question about his state. The idea of detailing his own physical harms was unappealing - sore muscles was nothing to complain about, nor was the damage Abaddon had done him as part of the fight to return him to Paradise. Instead, he opted for the heart of the thing, what she would be most interested in hearing about, what he had sought her out to discuss. “I saw Delilah yesterday. Without bars between us,” he said, voice somewhat cold. He couldn’t manage Phoebe’s victorious mannerisms, not when he felt so entirely uncertain whether there was a victor in his exchange with Delilah (discounting Abaddon and her interference).
Phoebe giggled with small delight as Samson kissed her paternally on the forehead. She slapped his chest playfully and said, “You brute! Thank you.” It was an utterly ridiculous gesture, but one she was glad to receive. Many of the angels gave her a wide berth, unsure what to make of her. If some thought she was deranged, she was unaware of that. Surely she wasn’t certain, at times, of which reality she was experiencing—the one that had happened, or the one that was happening—and someone told her all time was a loop, anyway. But she didn’t think she was altogether mad... not yet, anyway. Though the idea that if all time was happening, is happening, can happen again, all in an instant—well, there were memories she would choose to relive again and again, not the ones that kept coming up for her whenever she closed her eyes. This strange new world and the way it was run only added to her confusion. But Phoebe was glad for the touch, of which she received so little nowadays; she was glad someone was still willing to put their lips in kindness on her skin. Samson was a good friend.
When Samson broke into laughter, it made Phoebe’s heart lighter. It was good to hear someone else feel as joyful about the turn of events as she did. She smiled contagiously back at him, basking. A smile meant for court halls, for sunlight through laced-draped windows, for champagne and revelry—not for a prison yard. But she would make of this situation what she could. “I am pleased to be of service,” she said, delighted at his delight, laughing with him. “He is certainly not suffering as much as he should, but for someone who suffers so little, perhaps a bit of it is a start, however small.” She knew of Samson’s complicated feelings and dealings with the demons; he, an angel man, thoroughly, and yet loving—loved?—loving a demon woman who, like so many of them, cared instead to topple cities. Phoebe could find sympathy there, if she tried, but she wouldn’t try—not until this foul arrangement was altered. Not until some of the damages were undone. Angels were not meant to be in cages and removing their wings did not change their nature. Forcing them to appear human did not a human make.
The blonde inclined her head in gratitude; she hadn’t known that Raphael was back. “I will seek him out tomorrow, then; perhaps he will help.” There was a pause that hung in the air after; she was unsure if Raphael would help her, though their friendship went back a ways. She did her best not to trouble Raphael with using him as a doctor; instead, she preferred to think of him as his whole person, enjoying time spent with himself and with Abel. But perhaps, so she could clear away some of the headache, maybe make the fracture a touch more expedient, there would be no harm in asking. Surely asking would at least be alright. Though she had hurt Alastair, wasn’t that only fair, after all his harms? Or would this be a topic on which the two angels would divide. It would sadden her heart, but it wouldn’t be the first time. There was many an angel who wanted to be a saint, confusing that a saint and an angel had two very different missions. Phoebe was certainly an angel, but she never was a saint.
Phoebe raised her brows when Samson mentioned seeing Delilah without the bars to hold them back yesterday. She studied his face, looking for answers he may not want to give with his mouth, trying to search out if he felt shame, or remorse, or exultation. For his part, Samson was curiously somber. His voice was cold; was it detachment from that moment, or from Delilah herself? Her green eyes burned brightly, imploring him: “And what came of it?” she asked, curious. She had become more judgmental since the Holy War where once she would not have been, but for her friend she reserved judgments until she’d heard more. She had nothing to say, to advise, to champion or to chastise, until she heard more of the story. He didn’t look worse for wear, but sometimes the real hurt came from the heart and could not be seen from the outside.
Closed To: @rxphaels
Date: October 3, 2016 - 12:10 PM
Location: The Yard
On Samson’s recommendation, Phoebe was hoping to find Raphael in the yard today. The blonde knew that everyone was always coming to her friend for help, no matter how small the cut or scrape; Phoebe tried not to do this. She could understand and endure a fair amount of pain, especially so as not to be a burden to her dear friend. And, to be fair, so much of her torture was psychological in nature, given Alastair’s preferences; it was less likely that she fell into physical harm, though she also had Lilith to thank for that. Stranger alliances had been formed before and in truth Phoebe cared for nearly none of demonkind, if only for what they represented. Lilith was different and she could appreciate that. In contrast, demons that licked Lucifer’s heels perplexed her; the demons had hated being reigned in by God, these creatures of indulgence and chaos—only the be reigned in by one of their own instead, who keeps them on as tight—if not tighter—a leash?
At least when God was in charge, the demons could do as they pleased and the angels had to clean up after.
With great power—responsibility, as they say. It was strange how they took to it, filled with self-importance. How long until that waned, until they no longer wanted to clean up after their own consequences, until Lucifer had a rebellion on his hands? Phoebe didn’t know, but she was willing to bide her time and exploit it when it did. It was inevitable. It was demon nature. Allegiance was just a nice word in the shadows until someone else gave more freedom, offered a stronger leader. Lucifer was still nothing more than God’s favourite, elevated in dishonour. Without God, Lucifer wasn’t enough to fill the void; Lucifer could never bring peace to even his own people. And his people didn’t want peace. How long until the demons woke up and tossed off their yolks? The world is only worth burning down if someone builds it again after. Demons rebuilding after other demons destroyed only fueled dissent; they needed a common enemy to blame, to rile against. Without God, without the angels in full function, the demons could only have boredom and then anarchy. Rank and file held little long-term appeal.
But these ruminations would later need to find appropriate ears; for now, she stepped lightly into the yard, trying not to be dragged down too deeply into the disaster around her. Demons lurked, black wings soaring over, taking as little notice of her as humans did of ants. She looked for Raphael’s tousled dark hair, skimming the tops of heads across the yard until she found him. Moving with the swiftness of a dove in flight, somehow airy and light even among all the drab, she came to his side and lightly placed a hand on his forearm with a gentle smile. “Hello, my friend,” she said with her courtesies, her eyes warm and kind beneath the bruising on her forehead. Her other bruises and contusions—and her fracture—was hidden beneath her clothing. “Might I trouble you for some help?” she asked with a dizzying laugh, gesturing to her head. She didn’t know if he’d heard what happened already, so she didn’t try to explain.
Place: The Fence
Time: September 30th
Availability: @vengeaunces
Restlessness has settled over Josephine has she couldn’t find it within herself to sit still for long. She would walk, for hours at a time, her feet screaming at her to stop. To rest. Jo didn’t relent to those screams, instead she would keep walking in circles around Paradise, her mind wandering. Everything had felt so calm these few days, the whippings aside. Normality was even a word she thought about using as, even with all of her walking, she had settled into some kind of routine. It was odd how quickly she was able to adapt, how little she worried even though there was large winged creatures staring at her at every moment of every day. She was a prison, yet, for a few seconds every day she would forget about the fence that was unrelenting.
Now she found herself staring at the fence, and what was beyond it. This must have been the hour when the angels were allowed outside. Willowy figures moved slowly, their backs straight with pride, and yet as days were passing, their dispositions were being tested. How could one remain so pure in this kind of environment when evil was what was celebrated? Jo wasn’t sure herself, as the temptation to just become a demon lingered longer than anything else at present.
Suddenly a woman came into view behind the barbed wire. She looked angelic, that was a given, and yet, there was something inherently harsh about her disposition. Josephine assured herself that it was merely what happened once you saw the world collapse a few hundred times. And maybe purity was in the eye of the beholder.
“Hello?” Josephine called out, looking around for any demons that may have been displeased to see her, once more, making chit chat with an angel.
Phoebe’s bright eyes snapped up, responsive and alert when she heard the ‘Hello’ darted after her like an arrow. She’d been in the yard—a mixed blessing, but something she still considered a blessing after all—making use of her legs, trying to see if Claire was around for their subtle training, but not seeing her at the fence. Instead, the petite blonde looked up and saw a different brunette—one with darker hair, which was a good consolation. Light brown hair always carried too much nostalgia. The red tones in this woman’s was—well, comforting, in its own unfamiliarity. On steady legs, Phoebe walked to the fence, face full of that pure sort of childlike wonder, curiosity still an emotion that came easily, somehow untainted.
Her green eyes roamed over the other woman’s figure; the edges of her pants seemed—tailored?—which was a nice break from most of the prisoners, angel or otherwise. It seemed only the demons were allowed to dress as well as they pleased and most of them abused the privilege. Phoebe’s eyes lingered on the woman’s shoes, especially. The detailing on them was considerable, but not tacky, not gaudy. Not like Lucifer’s mansion, or the things kept inside of it. “Hello,” she said back, after the weighted consideration. “Lovely shoes,” Phoebe added, not wanting to seem she without her courtesies, even now. Her voice was light and airy and held no traces of the difficulties she had faced in her lives. “And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” she asked with a smile.
I hear you. A breath that Eve didn’t know she was holding escaped her lips. Today was not the day that Phoebe was lost for good. Her friend was still there with her. “Good. good.” Her voice was quiet, yet bursting with relief. “You had me worried there for a moment. Don’t do it again, alright? I’m not sure that my heart can handle any more scares.”A small, but forced, laugh filled Eve’s voice. This was about Phoebe, and it would not do the other angel any good to know just how rattled Eve truly was, the way her blood ran cold with fear. The very thought sent shivers running up her spine and an involuntary shiver through her body.”
“I don’t know. I like to think we could…” Eve missed her wings. Missed the proof that she earned her redemption. Missed the power that the white feathers afforded her. All during her captivity, her wings were a favorite target. Knives, tweezers, unwanted touches. Whatever the demons could think of to do to her symbol of redemption, to her protection, they did.”But if we could, don’t you think someone would have by now? Instead all we have are the scars, the pain.” The demons were fond of calling her naive, of lambasting her hope. But while optimism and hope filled Eve, she did like to consider herself a realist. The world was full of wonder and possibility, but there were limitations, limitations that even angels were bound by.
Phoebe could hear the relief in Eve’s voice: she wanted to tell her it was fine, that she was fine, that nothing was wrong with her—but it was hard, when the sliding of reality still slipped around her. It wasn’t constant, but it was so hard to fight what couldn’t be touched. Sometimes, when the night terrors came, she shook herself awake, still seeing the figures, and had to muster all of her bravery to stand in the dark cell and move toward what she was terrified of, to touch, to confirm it was just a trick of the shadows. Phoebe felt that, in some way, this torture was good training. The shadows had many tricks: she just had to be brave enough to face them. And she was, she was. When she felt like herself, Phoebe was unstoppable, fearless. But there were small moments of vulnerability that the silence brought out against the cold stone—those were the hardest moments, when flashbacks clouded her vision, and her vision clouded her mind.
Phoebe felt shame burn her cheeks when Eve asked her not to do it again—of course she wouldn’t if she could, she’d like that control, but she didn’t have it. She couldn’t choose to no longer have flashbacks, have hallucinations, have anxiety, have nightmares so real she couldn’t breathe and had to hold her own jaw closed with her hands to keep from screaming. Now it felt like she was a burden to Eve; Eve, who had helped her keep it together this far. Was it too much? Too hard for one of the oldest living women in existence? Of all the things Eve had seen, was Phoebe so difficult? She chewed her lip and stared at the ground, dropping her hand away from the rough wall that separated the two angels as Eve laughed a false laugh. Did Eve think she was that lost? In a distant, detached sort of resonance, Phoebe realized she felt hurt, and also a small loss of joy. She didn’t mention it.
The conversation moved toward wings, something that inflated Phoebe’s hope again, and she swore to herself she’d get them back before she died. One way or another. In a hurried voice, Phoebe spoke in whispers at the wall: “But what if no one had thought of it before? If no one had tried?” It seemed oddly logical to her. “We’re not human, wings or no—we’re not the same,” Phoebe went on, trying to explain her thought process. No, a human couldn’t regrow a limb, but angels were divine and no removing of their wings removed that they were a piece of divinity itself, that God still flowed with them, that though humans were in God’s image the angels were made from God. “God may be gone but we’re what’s left of Him. I don’t think the demons can take all that away so easily—just a physicality, really, and we’re more than these bodies.” It was the truth, and Phoebe shivered with it. She flexed her shoulders instinctively, remembering the feel of her wings, the weight of them; she vowed to keep those muscles exercised, wouldn’t let them atrophy. One way or another, she’d get them back.
Closed to: @vengeaunces·
Date: October 2, 2016 - 12:13 PM
Location: New Utopia Prison, The Yard
Everything had returned to “normal” and he could not have been more disappointed in it all. Even with his own internal anguish to distract him, of which there was always much, he could not deny that he wanted out of the prison for good and to find himself thwarted was less than ideal. After all, the prison was stifling; that alone was enough to make him hate it. He had grown up active, there was always something to do, never any time for idleness. True, he had not the freedom to go where he pleased then either, but the rationale was entirely different; Love bound him to home and duty bound him to obligations. Even so, there were little moments that were entirely his and entirely free, mostly found upon the back of a horse. Heaven had taught him the pleasures in idle leisure, so long as it was punctuated by work too, there was no denying that. New Utopia Prison had reminded him of the apathy it could inspire. The futility of prison life, paired with disappointment of thwarted plans and the dissatisfaction of it being Delilah (and Abaddon) who had forced him to his cell once more inspired darkness.
This was new for Samson. His life and afterlife had been punctuated with so few significant disappointments, there were truly so few things that marred a satisfied life (though anyone could admit that the stains the tapestry to his idyllic life held were large) that it was rare he had to handle them. Undeniably, Samson had triggers, Delilah amongst them first and foremost, and they could send him spiraling into a fit of anger or a bitter hole. But it was only upon the loss of his wings that these had truly become something he lived with. True, disappointing occurrences had increased exponentially since that loss, but all the same, he was learning yet what it meant to hold darkness in your mind, how it could warp thoughts.
The only positive of the entire debacle , it didn’t seem too harsh a word for the events of the day previous, was that the yard had been returned to them (though it did little to ease the darkness). No longer was Abel to be punished, no longer was there to be a spectacle that went wholly undesired (in his mind) and was oh so painful to watch. Instead, the yard had been returned as a place of peace, of sorts, or at least a place where he could speak with his brothers and sisters.
On the back of this darkness that had seemingly invaded, there were two people Samson could have sought after this afternoon in the yard. One was Susanna, the other Phoebe, both golden-haired and good in Samson’s eyes. Opposite as opposite could get, the two served very different purposes for him, but were friends all the same. However, with darkness on his mind and no particular desire to ease it away, it was Phoebe he wanted. As such, it was her golden hair he sought after, a task easier than others - there was something about the lightness of the color and the sun that made it easier for Samson to see despite his faulty vision.
He found her near the edge of the yard, and thankfully alone. They were not on their own time anymore, less time wasted on getting rid of another was time they could converse with instead. Still, as he drew close, and his image of her clarified, whatever thought he might have held in the forefront of his mind, ready to express, faded upon seeing her hurt.
“You’ve been injured, Phoebe,” he said first, concern expressed from head to toe, both in vocals and posture. Once, injury would have been a lesser concern, but these days it was something to worry about. “Have you been taken care of?” he asked then, letting the concern carry through, before the darkness bled in causing him to finish thusly, “And did you give as good as you received?”
The day after her altercation with Alastair, Phoebe was almost grateful for the dark confines of her cell, pleased with the previous day’s work—and learnings—but also in a world of hurt. While her own vision remained in tact, the headache she had that threatened any thoughts was insurmountable; add to that the pain from the bruised rib and tailbone and it hurt to lie down as well as to sit. She had to keep a constant rotation on her cot, ever gently easing herself over, so as to not make anything more irritated. On the other hand, she knew, she knew she would need to get her rib looked at—had to be careful not to aggravate the crack she’d heard; she didn’t know how bad a fracture it was. It would take a least a month to heal a rib fracture and not much to be done for it, or so she thought—she’d prefer a Doctor’s thoughts on it.
All the same, when it came time for the yard, there was no way she was going to give the satisfaction of seeing her radiant triumphant face not out for all to see. There was a bruise on her forehead where her skull had met the pavement, the most visible of her wounds, but she held her head high and fought through the pain the light brought her. In the yard, no one approached her—had they heard? Did they know it was she who had attacked Alastair, blinded his eye, made rivulets in his skin?—or was it just another day, had the stories never moved through, did the bastard nurse his wounds so quietly so as know one would know he could be touched? Phoebe certainly wouldn’t stand for that, she thought, as she was to herself at the edge of the yard. Not long after, one of her dear friend, Samson, came to her.
“Oh, this old thing?” she said with a dizzy laugh, touching her discoloured forehead lightly. “This ain’t got nothin on my rib fracture, but I did get to punch Alastair in the dick, so I call at least that part even,” Phoebe added with a laugh, before lowering her lashes and looking down at the ground. She didn’t care who heard, but all the same she was abashed that she couldn’t look after herself here, couldn’t get care for the messes she chose to get herself in. The messes she’d been put in—what was she supposed to do, smile and take it? Phoebe smiled, yes, but ever the master prey, ever the scheming dove. “I haven’t been seen by anyone, but from what I hear, neither has he been seen. Or seeing!” She didn’t know if Alastair had shown off all his marks, his would-be scars, or if he was hiding. “I may have blinded him in one eye,” she said with a grin. In a place like this, however small the triumph, it meant hope. “How are you?”
I like you // I love you // I’m indifferent toward you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’m jealous of you // I’m scared of you // I would adopt you // I’m attracted to you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I respect you // I want your respect // I feel protective of you // I’d like to cut loose with you // You’re good-looking // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re fun // You’re boring // You’re nice // You’re mean // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I want an apology from you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better
I like you // I love you // I’m indifferent toward you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’m jealous of you // I’m scared of you // I would adopt you // I’m attracted to you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I respect you // I want your respect // I feel protective of you // I’d like to cut loose with you // You’re good-looking // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re fun // You’re boring // You’re nice // You’re mean // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I want an apology from you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better
I like you // I love you // I’m indifferent toward you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’m jealous of you // I’m scared of you // I would adopt you // I’m attracted to you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I respect you // I want your respect // I feel protective of you // I’d like to cut loose with you // You’re good-looking // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re fun // You’re boring // You’re nice // You’re mean // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I want an apology from you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better
It’s complicated // I like you // I love you // I’m indifferent toward you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’m jealous of you // I’m scared of you // I would adopt you // I’m attracted to you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I respect you // I want your respect // I feel protective of you // I’d like to cut loose with you // You’re good-looking // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re fun // You’re boring // You’re nice // You’re mean // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I want an apology from you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better
Full Script w/ @alastairofdivinecruelty
Date: October 1, 2016 - 6:20 AM
Location: Phoebe’s Cell
Dawn crept in through the windows of Phoebe's cell, just the same as Alastair. It was an early morning, a bright morning, a perfect morning. "Quite a day already, Phoebe," he laughed as he ran a hand through his thick hair, tugging on the curls absently. He leaned back against the wall in front of her, a certain touch of lazy satisfaction to his expression. "No dreams this time, though." A light, whimsical breath left his parted lips as he eyed Phoebe through the cell bars. Thoughts of an obscure and horrid nature rolled about in his skull as his head ticked to the side. "D'you know Isaac? Interestin' creature, he is." His fingers drifted from his hair to tug at his bottom lip absently before he pushed himself away the wall. "Escape is a funny thing, innit? You think about it often?"
Phoebe was used to these morning calls by now. He crept in with all the stealth of a wolf in sheep's clothing; like could spot like from so far off and closer was even easier. She smiled at him with all the sweetness of a dove and commented, "Indeed a day, a dawn just broken." The breaking having a multitude of meanings, it seemed. Shaking her head when asked of Isaac—she didn't know him, that she could remember, at least not personally, but she'd heard the name—and her smile didn't waver as she replied with utter truth, "I do not think of escape often." She was perfectly still as he drew away from the wall, unintimidated; she thought of other things more often. " “Good morning, Alastair. Have you come to ask me today?"
Alastair matched her smile as it crinkled the corners of his eyes and edged his teeth closer to being seen. He hadn't expected her to know of Isaac, but Phoebe had her ways of surprising him. What she knew was uncertain to him, though her insistent question clawed at his mind that she knew something or everything. Or, the answer he truthfully felt most comfortable with, she knew nothing. Each day, each morning. His smile faded from his lips into something more feral, something that lacked tainted joy and or any thought of being cordial. "No," he seethed. "What is it that you think of?" He pressed, as still as she was save for the slow rise and fall of his chest with every irritated breath. "Is it her? D'you think of her more before or after I...?" He waved his fingers, the very same that had tore out Arianna's heart. "Well, y'know. You were there, after all."
Phoebe noticed he was in a mood this morning; all the bustle at the fence seemed to foul him up. Was that actual concern? Was there something afoot that was vaguely threatening? Phoebe let him see the pleasure of his discomfort on her face. The more feral his features, the more pleasant she became, as if they were having tea together, as if this were a choice. He was taught as a strung wire, humming with the promise of a snap. Phoebe didn't answer what she thought of—he was doing it for her. "Very well," she said, in response to his not asking, and carried on with the conversation. "Indeed, I was there. It is a memory very clear to me." While other things blurred, this flashback never would. "Well, I think of her as God intended her to be, of course, Alastair. How else to keep her alive, her flame tended, her soul honoured?" The question was, of course, rhetorical. She also prayed.
Alastair swallowed the bitterness in his throat and sugared it with an impish smile. It was a silent clash of expressions, of feelings made tangible in the faintest twitch of brows, the clench of jaws, or the narrowing of eyes. It was a bloodletting he was growing used to, until they both bled their concerns and thoughts onto the floor. Her question was of little importance, especially when a meatier subject was brought to the table. Though, with her years under the ground, he knew Arianna had no meat left to her. "God intended? He had a funny way of intendin' for people to die," he said, jovial in his use of past tense. "So many." A smile of reflection, of good memory, softened his features as if he were thinking of a lover. "D'you know what she said...? Before your God let her bleed out all over heaven?"
Phoebe smiled, unbothered by his insinuations; she was–had been?—devout to God. Such an accusation lofted God's direction did not deter the blonde, nor shake her. "All creatures serve their time on this earth," she said, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly so he would catch her reference—both that she had died young and had made peace with that, but also that there was not an intention for there to be a second time for her on earth, as she was now. This was a travesty in all its forms. And that—that fault fell squarely on the demons. "Funny how it is you, Forgiven, used it only to Fall. I believe that choice was yours. My God's only fault was believing in you." She did not answer the latter part; she didn't wish to know, and in part, she didn't believe Alastair to tell the truth of it, anyway. Anything he said would be only to get beneath her skin.
Alastair had made a lifetime, the only one in memory, of shortening as many lifetimes as he could. Earth, heaven, hell. Didn't matter to him where they roamed, he would bleed them out all the same. He chuckle. "Your God had many faults, Phoebe," he said with a shake of his head. He'd never asked for God's belief, never prayed for it. "More than just believin' in me. Though if you'd like to see me as his worst, his one and only, I'll happily take it." It wasn't a bitter pill for him to swallow, more of a sugar cube if anything. Her artful question dodging made him smile even more and it was well enough, he could carry the conversation himself if need be. "She asked about you, of course, wonderin' where you were lettin' her die like that. And a great king," he said wistfully, pulling the words from his mind like petals from a flower. "Some palace in Versailles, I think? Couldn't quite catch it through the cryin' and blubberin' and pleadin', though..." He perked up. "Did she think she was a princess, Phoebe?" As he spoke, he went without blinking, without hardly even a breath to stretch his lungs as he simply looked at her. The demon's smile was small and didn't meet his eyes. "Well, princesses have a habit of gettin' their hearts snatched up so it's just as well, I 'spose."
Phoebe actually snorted her laughter at Alastair, at his aggressive presumptions, his need to have his ego stroked. She gestured dismissively with her hand, granting, yes, "Of course a God who makes us in His image has His flaws, as being flawless itself is troubling, but I hardly see you as His worst. Though I'm sure Lucifer approves of your hubris on the matter, to jump to such conclusions." The fault in her God she'd stated was with regards to the situation of the death of her sister, which indeed had been a choice made by the man in front of her, and no god at all. The rest of his offerings didn't crack the blonde's resolve; she doubted her sister would blame her death on her, especially as she'd sacrificed her own life for Arianna's once already. The crying, though, that sounded about right—because Phoebe had witnessed that; it wasn't as if he was sharing something she hadn't been present for. If there had been a whisper, that was all she could have missed—the rest of a confessional, hardly. She met his gaze without blinking, unabashed. "Their hearts are claimed by wicked queens and charming princes, neither of which you are, so don't fancy yourself a Grimm fairy tale."
If Alastair hadn't taken to Phoebe so well before, he might have graced her with a personal reenactment of Arianna's death. His smile was no longer a smile, it was something otherworldly and sinister. Inhuman. Hateful, even. His thoughts turned away from Lucifer, lovely and wondrous Lucifer, and he scorned any idea of hubris. Whispers in dark corners and shadowy gatherings of two and three murmured that he, Alastair, could hold a candle to Lucifer. He was an entity in Lucifer's horde, yes, but he was separate and would keep his flame to himself unless He or others (namely, Abbadon in all her beautiful fucking treachery) had need for it. "Not charmin'? Well that's not fair. Arianna would disagree with you, love. How'd you think I got so close to her?" The hanging lights flickered in warning as his fingers laced and curled around one another. "I can still smell her, feel her heartbeat, remember the count of her last breaths," his voice was a low hum, a growl. "How can you be the one honorin' her soul?" His lips pulled back into a snarl as lights sputtered and began to fade. "When I'm the one still tearin' it apart."
Phoebe was not privy to Alastair's thoughts, though if she heard him scorn hubris and hold a candle to Lucifer in the same sentence, she'd have had a hearty laugh; how blind did one man ache to be? Phoebe was not in awe of Lucifer, nor saw him a worthy aspiration: she still thought his goals small-minded, his execution lackluster, his eye for design immature; Phoebe had judged Lucifer and found him wanting. To hear that Arianna had affections for Alastair was a surprise to her: this new information she found, while it was taunting, had a ring of truth to it, unlike his previous accusations. Arianna not only preferred the men who brought trouble—how Phoebe always had to clean up!—but also the men who kept Phoebe's company, of which Alastair had been one of the few, in heaven. It seemed—coldly logical—that Arianna continued that even with her white wings. Blonde brows furrowed, seeking through, shifting through, her memory of those final moments. Had there been something other than fear in her little sister's eyes as she pleaded, crying, with Alastair? "Is that it?" Phoebe mused, taunting him in turn. "Is that the reason you refrained from sharing Arianna's last words before–something you would have gloated to share, something you can't even recite now—because she had spoken a kindness to you with her dying breath? Not honoured me, nor her God, but looked into your eyes and asked you with love still on her tongue for you to stay your hand? How did that feel?" The lights flickered, casting a ghastly shadow underneath Alastair's cheekbones; Phoebe's eyes narrowed in a flash of wrath.
Alastair had broken through her face of stone and frigid smiles. With the slightest crack in the furrow of her brow, he felt victorious. Each word had been a chip, but now he was getting somewhere and he would burrow into her heart one bloody way or another. If Phoebe wished for him to recall those last tender moments, he would oblige her with the most heartfelt of intentions. "It felt rapturous," he crooned through a monster's jaws. "I reckon it was the first time I ever felt holy, y'know? I feel warm thinkin' about it now, after all this time. God has blessed me with the memory." Arianna's fingers scrabbling at him, pulling and pushing at his shoulder's in uncertainty and fear. She wanted to hold onto life, but he had peeled her finger's from the cliff face one by one by one until she took her nasty fall. A passionate crime. "I didn't want to share your sister's secrets, what would she think of me? Mine to keep, mine to hold." His voice was followed with a faint laugh, a scoff. Her wrath was bubbling, rising up in her like a volatile wave, and he stared at it with hopeful and hungry eyes. Eyes that went dark as the light and the faint hum of the electricity faded in a snap. "You want to know, truly? Oh, Phoebe, it felt like love."
Phoebe allowed her face to become full of teeth, so white, and something like a smile. "Then she got what she wanted from you," and she let her words undercut him. Never could he have considered that the puppeteer might have been orchestrated by a little mouse; that Arianna, for all her calculating cloying covetousness, could get what she wanted from him. It wasn't for Phoebe to know if Arianna had actually loved him—for Arianna took her affections in manipulations more than in authenticity, and in that the two were well-matched; so if she had never loved him—all the better. The smile slid along Phoebe's face, gone cheshire, as the lights flickered again. The power going out had many offerings to give and her head was whirring with possibilities. "You, brought low by my sister, so stunted a show of love! Well, at least that left the one of us satisfied." As the prison went full dark, she used her speed and the element of surprise to rush Alastair, all force in her fast run backing her elbow, which she aimed to knock him to the ground by inserting right below his sternum, hoping to knock the breath out of him.
Alastair laughed and it was a mocking, hollow sound. Oh, it wasn't the love Phoebe might have thought it to be. Even he wasn't capable of something that disgusting and inhumane. A misshapen feeling between blood and the ribs, if it were love...In his hand, it was as sharp and as deadly of a weapon as anything else and that was all. "I loved her only when she died and I had my bloody fist through her chest, you fuckin--" Phoebe lashed out from the dark and he had to commend her for how strong she had become. The blow stunted his breath and pushed him back from the open door, but his bones were strong. Something was happening, something at the fence or inside, but he couldn't be bothered. There was a hunt to be had. Breaths returned quick and he moved just as quickly to stand. When he reached out, he grazed skin with his fingertips before she was off, the quick little thing. The iron of the cell door clipped his wings when he burst through it. Her steps weren't far, just ahead he figured, and he used his wings to propel him forward with the intent to bring his weight down upon her.
Phoebe was not asinine; she did not imagine it to be the love she experienced, but for him to claim he had felt it, even from her still-beating heart, was a triumph, however small, however much he had wanted to reclassify it. May that be worth something to Arianna's legacy. As Alastair moved out of the way from the open door, which wasn't her goal but she'd take it well enough, she figured she could use it to her advantage. While he was winded, she slipped by him, scratching at his neck on the way, one long and deep gash—or as deep a gash and grown out fingernails could manage, ragged and unkept as they were; though she despised them, they were useful. He may have taken her wings, but she'd give herself claws, and now she'd marked him. He grazed her with his fingertips but she moved quickly, knowing she was no match for his strength and so had to rely on her swiftness and her subtleties. She knew he could fly, would fly, so Phoebe anticipated that and ducked in the shadow of an open cell door, allowing him to rush forward. He seemed to have desired to come down on her, but she was not where he had anticipated. Rushing out of the shadows while he was disoriented, she jumped onto his back and wound her fingers tight into his hair, yanking hard; if he disengaged her, she'd take a good clump of scalp with her. But she was trying her best to stay on his back, his shoulders, like a bullrider or perhaps more like a six year old throwing an impressive tantrum, unbridled and wily.
Alastair grunted at the split of his skin, the angel's ragged claws a welcome surprise. Red warmth trickled down the line of his neck and he grinned with monstrous thrill. She was gone when he came down like a meteor and cracked the floor, his hands braced against the stone as his impact jarred his skull. His head snapped back when she wound her fingers through his hair and threatened to rip it from his skull. Whether he was laughing or growling, he couldn't differentiate the rumble in his throat. "Look at you go!" Alastair reached back with both hands and searched for the bones of her shoulders, vicious fingers searching for the scars of where he had torn her wings out. He wanted to dig in deep, split the scarred skin of memory, and draw out her wrath like ichor. Raven wings flared out dangerously from where she anchored herself on his back and folded in around him as tight as they could. The demon kept his weight in his heels as he angled himself to fall back against the nearest wall in an attempt to jar her just as his fall had done to him.
Phoebe seethed quietly through his approval; that was not what she sought, but if it came down to it, if his dying also pleased him, then it would please them both. She could live with that, if she had to. He stood up from the floor with jagged footsteps, uncertain from the impact with the floor, and as he swayed, so did she, but she held on tightly. He scrambled to try to find her shoulders, the place he'd ripped out her wings, but elbows didn't bend well backwards; he kept grazing her scars, her wounds, but drew little blood. She had just a moment's notice as he adjusted his wings around himself, but it wasn't enough time—he slammed her against the wall, knocked the breath from her, probably bruised more than a few ribs. With her legs wrapped around him and her hand still buried in his hair, she used her other hand to scratch at his face, his eyes; her nails searched for his eyeball, to pluck it out, to scratch it out. If she failed, his eye would at the very least be indisposed for awhile, scratching at the socket, the lids, the cornea, and then switching hands, burying the one in his hair and freeing the other to repeat. She heard one of her ribs suddenly crack from his pressure, but she would not yet let go.
Claws cut open Alastair's face, created cracks of red in his mask of jubilation. Oh, she was volatile and he roared in glee and hate. He stole her breath, but it wasn't enough. His head shook against her tight hold of his hair and drew her nails away from his corneas, through the skin of his eye socket instead, as he was very keen on not losing his sight. The wounds of her wingless back were fruitless and with one hand, he gripped her right ankle without mercy and pulled to loosen her hold around his waist. Alastair's other hand snapped up and laced, twisted, his claws with hers. His own blood made them somewhat slick, but his grip was relentless and he tugged her arm violently forward in an attempt to further dislodge her hold. Where she was sharp, he was brutal. She wanted to sever, he wanted to break. Whatever pain he felt in scratches and tearing became secondary, perhaps even third to the chaotic mixture of rage and happiness, as he bent forward and pulled her arm again to tear her off his back, to perhaps even tear her arm from its socket. How long had she been waiting for this moment? He would make it worthwhile for the both of them.
Phoebe noticed that as he stopped grabbing her shoulders to shift his hands to protect his eyes, she had more maneuverability. With the pain in her ribs, she couldn't stay between Alastair and the wall; when he grabbed her ankle and pulled down hard, she went, scratching his back in red rivulets all the way to the ground, where she landed and would probably have a bruised tailbone from it. As such, his slippery grip would not have found her where he expected, with his first effort being so fruitful. From the ground, like a child, she sat around his ankles, sitting on his feet so that he could not walk, and punched him repeatedly in the groin. Even in demons, that still had to hurt, enough to give pause, she figured, and then bolted in a run away from him before he could grab her, ducking into a small dark crevice that barely fit her body, but she'd be out of prying eyes—especially eyes with blood in them. Phoebe prayed her thanks to the power outages, the shadows that concealed her. She knew eventually she'd have to go back to her cell; she didn't know what he'd say to coax her out, but she was going to stay hidden as long as she could.
Even as she tore open his back, Alastair didn't hate her. Even as she punched him in one of his greatest assets, he didn't hate her. A thrill of pleasure tingled along his back as blood dribbled down taut muscles. It felt wonderful to fight, to bleed. His blessing of a high pain tolerance drove away any unnecessary feeling as each of his senses, bleeding eyes be damned, latched onto the smallest pinpoints of movement and the sound that followed. The Club was a pack of predators, a destructive and highly capable one at that, but they could function well enough alone. He peered into the dark with narrowed eyes, having halted any attempt to wipe the blood from them. It was a useless action and his body was a taut string ready to snap and lash out. "Look at you, a proper hellion," he rasped as he oriented himself in the dark and stalked further down the hallway. "Consider me a proud friend. Even if you punched me in my fuckin' cock, you cheeky angel." There was good-hearted humor in his tone, but he didn't follow it with a laugh like he may have before. He shook his head and flicked blood over the stone. If she thought the dark would keep her safe, what did she imagine Hell was? It was a dark, smothering heat that comforted as much as it burned. The dark was for demons. "Come on out, love. I'm not even angry. Can't ever stay mad at you very long."
Phoebe heart was cool-calm, she counted her breaths, made them even, thought about how even breathing wrong might give her away; it reminded her of times she had to hide in heavy curtains out of watchful eyes. Alastair may be a master predator, but there was a power in being master prey, too. She even kept her eyes closed so that the white of them wouldn't betray her, wouldn't shine out of the darkness. Relying on her other senses, she could hear his footsteps, yes, and of course his words, his taunts which out of habit were so hard not to reply to, to taunt back. Steady, steady, she thought to herself, thought herself again a bird evading a housecat—for that's how she saw Alastair by now: a proud, incessant, pampered housecat. Even housecats could startle and while in her heart Phoebe knew she would have to go back to the cell, she also knew that she could lose a battle and win a war—she had to believe it. So, she chose carefully. She chose a word out of the recesses of memory, knowing it would give away her location at the same time. Out of her hiding place, she opened her eyes into narrow slits for seeing; she whispered like a hiss, "Crissssssanto," just above silence, the kind of thing he may not have been sure he heard, and then like an echo, "aaaanto," as she launched from her hiding place toward his face when he looked her way. She knew this was the sword she'd fall on, she didn't know how, but she was going to take something with her. Her hand shot out of the darkness and went for his left eye, the one she'd been working on so rabidly earlier, and made sure he wouldn't be seeing out of it for a very long time.
Alastair followed her voice, but the whisper of a whisper compelled him to snap before he desired to. In his head, it wasn't her voice, but a distant child's. Was it a boy's? What was it? What was it? "What the fuck did you say?" The humor was gone, the joy was gone, all that remained was the echo and the rage as he stared into where she was. Whatever she had used, it had worked, and he spat blood when her claws found his face, his eye, again. The pain cut against his nerves, straight into his skull, but he didn't falter as he whipped his body around and gathered her in his arms. Alastair dropped forward, one hand pressed against her throat to hold her down, and the other grabbed her by the top of her skull, bloody fingers tight in the roots of her blonde hair. "Say it again." His eyes glared back into hers, one faded and dark, as he hissed blood. He didn't wait, he didn't want to hear it. Her skull made a muffled crack against the floor as he slammed her head against it and when her poisonous words went silent, as well as her body, only then did he sit back and wipe the blood from his eyes.
When Phoebe had attacked Alastair, she was surprised by the change in his face—no longer nonchalant and jeering, this was a contortion that made her believe her could be above petty hate, that his destruction ran deeper and down. His voice was chilling, and for once, she had the satisfaction. He could gloat over her new violence, but it paled compared to the stillframe of his face like this, something she'd keep seared into her memory next to the memory of her sister's death. This triumph. She could crack him, and would. Battles and wars, battles and wars. And that was her last thought before he dropped her like a babydoll; she felt the cold of the prison floor pressing its harsh patterns into her throat, and then the world went dark.
Alastair stared down at her stillness, his breaths heavy and his eyes flaring red. There were no gasps of horror, no eyes stretched wide by fear. There was no audience, only him and only her. Anto, Anto, Anto... He stared at her until the quiet overcame any sound the two of them had made, any thunder his heart had created. The storm went silent. Damn her. He should have killed the both of them. He stood and instead of slinging her over his shoulder like nothing, he cradled her in both arms. Blood dripped from his face, onto her skin and her clothes, with each step he took toward her cell. His eyes could barely register the light (his right more so than his left) when the power slowly kicked back to life. When he left her in her cell with a smile, it was both fond and...something. It was something.
2087
titsay
areudirty
stormborns
