C'thelli's Demonic Orphanage

21

C'thelli had confessed. She apologised for her poor treatment of Feimo and those yet to rehabilitate, she listed her sins, and above all, she confessed to despising the monster inside of her, the one that relished in the bath of blood and violence. When all was said and done and she fell into a deep silence, the demon was there with a smile and a pounding heart.

This had been a revelation for them both. The devil finally found the resolve to beseech God, and he had learnt much about his Eye. Ever since he had met her, he had thought she were like a painting on a wall. One-note and two-dimensional. But now here she was, the ugly model behind the art. She was somebody with fears and hopes, and a beating heart. She was an Underworlder, like him, and she too struggled against her nature, struggled to be good. It was nice to hear, nice to know that he wasn't alone in this endeavour.

He asked her how she felt, however after hearing no answer but a tired breath, he found that the devil had passed out from a mix of wine and exhaustion. So he did the only thing he could think of. Stowing the remaining wine and glasses away in the kitchen, he hoisted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs and into her room.

Like setting the table, he took great care in placing her on her bed, removed her boots with surgical precision, before lifting her blanket to her chin. It was a cold night, and the beginnings of Autumn were starting to drift into the summer season and stretch the night a little further. At the thought, his own head, already woozy from drink, ebbed with the request for sleep. He was happy to oblige. Turning to go, his laden eyes trailed over the room as he tip-toed towards the door.

But he didn't reach the exit. Instead, a floorboard squeaked beneath his halting weight as a dim glow caught his eye. Like the twinkle of gold it beckoned him over to the devil's night-stand. Along the top of its surface were an array of trinkets, from the long blackened bone of Satan's dagger smouldering idly, A knight's helm covered in leaves, and... His nail file? He picked it up with glee, he had lost it weeks ago and hadn't been able to sharpen his teeth in so long. No wonder the devil's had been so pristine as of late, the cheek!

But that was not the only item that had caught his attention. No, it was the Angel's halo glimmering in a glass jar dead centre in C'thelli's collection. The voice of Dom whispered in his ear as he reached for the lid, The second item we need... The tin lid was cold to the touch, as if attempting to ward him off like he were an evil spirit. 

Was he evil? Even in his stupor, he couldn't stop the gnawing guilt from welling in his gut as the jar popped open. He had said he was capable of some mischief, of stealing and subscribing to the priest's plot to kill God and replacing him with the vampire. But C'thelli... she slept so peacefully, so content with the world right behind him. There were no strings attached to her either, he knew that. He would have felt them when he had helped her out the burning house. So was she simply mad?

Or was it he who had lost touch with reality?

If the jar had felt cold, than the halo was downright freezing, numbing his fingertips until they shook. Or maybe they were his nerves. Either way, he bit his lip and shook his head with a violent attempt to rearrange his priorities. He had a job to do and C'thelli will come to appreciate the good they were doing. He hoped.

With a gulp, he whisked himself away to his room with both his file and halo in hand. Shut away, he was about to hide them, when a sudden wave of nausea rattled his head and caused him to collapse onto the stolid floor with a crash. He fought to keep his eyes open, to lift himself onto his bed, but his body was exhausted. Even his chin, undoubtedly bruised from the fall, was numb to the blow, leaving his heavy eyelids to collapse with the bliss of sleep.

When unconscious, Feimo was accustomed to dreaming of epic battles, bountiful banquets and lavish parties all in which he were the centre of attention. But this one was different. It was quiet, filled with birds twittering in trees and doe frolicking through rustling shrubs as a small cottage opened its door to him. It resembled the orphanage perfectly, from its rickety porch, apple tree and its capital T shape, and better yet, it was no longer upon the hill but within the seclusive safety of a forest, far from conspiracies of Dom and those alike him.