After a slow descent, the Prince's feet touch upon the seat of his throne-the graven dragon behind him. His legs and waist are wrapped in cords of white. His torso and arms are bare. Very little separates him from the other archangels. And yet so much.
Pearla watches the Prince. The Creator gave him beauty-a beauty unrivaled-and he's taken great pains to preserve it. His time here in Abaddon has kept him from the damage his hordes have suffered in the light of the Celestial. Pearla's heard stories of the Prince venturing above, but his untarnished appearance alone is proof that his time to heal greatly exceeds that of his minions.
"Sit." His celestial lips are still, unable to vocalize anything but animalistic rages-like those assembled, like the demon chained to the floor, like every angel he led astray-but they all hear. They all obey. It's sad, really. His song, like his face, was far superior to all others. Now his mouth is good for nothing.
Wings rustle and talons scratch as countless demons crawl and flap toward rough shelves cut into the cliffs surrounding the hall. The demon chained to the floor drops to his knees.
Humility, even false humility, is appreciated here.
The Prince doesn't sit, though. No. He stands on his throne, his legs spread wide, looking down at the demon trembling on the floor.
"It's unfortunate, brother, to see you in chains. Again."
His voice-sincere, seductive-vibrates through Pearla's small being.
He's opened his mind to the entire assembly, which makes her job much easier, but the Prince's voice is dangerous, his lies far too easy to believe. She draws her legs more tightly into herself, ready to launch up and away should occasion call.
"Let us relieve you of that burden." A small flick of his hand. "Please, friend, release Damien from his chains."
From the darkness beyond the throne emerges another soul-coal black, his shoulders broad and thick, his arms and legs muscled. Scars zigzag across his body, the largest-the one gracing his chest-bears the undeniable shape of a Shield's sword.
Pearla knows this one. This is Maka. Confidante of the Prince. His wings snap on approach, taunting his demon brother. Strange. The rumors had him suffering the pit. It seems he's been shown mercy. A rare thing here.
Damien stands and offers his hands. Maka draws his scimitar and slices through the binds, wrists first and then waist and ankles. His icy blade rubs against the chains of fire, sending up a haze of steam, but Pearla can still see Damien's wings unfurl as the chain around his waist is cut through. They spread wide, like sails released after a storm's confinement. Relief shivers through him, a growl escaping his lips and sending tremors through the hall.
Maka turns and marches away, his talons clacking against the stone floor. The Prince examines Damien like a bird eyeing the worm beneath its feet.
"So subservient, so docile you are, Damien-here in my fortress. And yet, it seems, you cannot be trusted beyond these walls."
Damien stands tall. "I can be trusted."
"Can you?" Dark brows lift over those pale eyes, but the Prince's voice remains silken. "I do not recall asking you to rally your brothers for a heroic battle. Nor did your assignment require it."
The Prince squeezes the ball of fear in his hand. Like sickly blood, it clots and coagulates inside it, oozing between his fingers.
"If I'm not mistaken, and correct me if I am, you developed a fascination that pulled you from the enslaved. Am I mistaken, Damien, or are your ears as damaged as your eyes?"
Silence.
"I require an answer."
"You are not mistaken, Lord Prince."
"Ah." The Prince flings the ball of goo from his hands and twines his fingers together. He peers over loosely bound knuckles at Damien as the fear continues to drip. "I didn't think so."
"You must admit, there was ample cause for my fascination."
Damien's outburst is dismissed with a shrug. The Prince drops into his seat, his wings lowering him slowly.
"I admit nothing. I've spoken to Maka, to Javan. I've spoken to the Twins, Damien. I know what it is that captured your imagination."
"Then you know I was right." Damien is shaking now. Fear, rage. It all seems bottled inside this one. "That boy can heal, Lord Prince. If corrupted, his value to darkness is insurmountable."
Fear trails from the Prince's elbow now, running down the arm of the throne. He watches it.
"Others claim to heal, Damien. He is not the only one."
"But this boy can do it with a touch. He's different, Lord Prince. Like me. Like you."
The Prince stiffens. His nose flares and his eyes narrow. The idea of another being approaching his glory in any manner has always unsettled him.
"Oh, I doubt very much he is like me."
"No, no. Of course not, but beyond the gifts bestowed to other men, this boy has something, Prince. Something."
The Prince glances sideways to Maka, who has established himself against a pillar. Maka seems uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but nods slowly.
It seems they're holding a private conversation: Maka and the Prince. The ability angels have to control just who hears their thoughts is a frustration to the cherubic order, to those who gather information. Pearla grows frustrated that they've closed out the assembly. She's not the only one: growls and hisses sound all around, and the twitching wings of the accused say they've closed out Damien as well.
Finally, with a decidedly more curious expression on his face, the Prince opens his mind to those gathered.
"I see." He stretches his wings luxuriously wide so they gently brush the arms of his throne. Then he settles back and raises a fear-streaked hand before his face. "Hands like ours."
"Yes, Lord Prince."
The Prince doesn't sigh, but everything about his posture says he'd like to. "It is now widely known, Damien, that you and your brothers allowed a Shield to claim the victory that night."
Before Damien can unleash an argument, Maka intercedes. "There were two, Lord Prince. Two Shields."
"Two? Well then." The Prince turns his eyes on Maka, quelling him with sarcasm. "I'll not patronize you, Damien; this information is valuable and something must be done with the boy. And yet the question begs to be asked: of what value are you to me? You, with eyes so frail and weak . . ."
"You could fix that."
They're dangerous words for Damien to utter, and the assembly reacts as such. Pearla expects nothing but satanic fury at the near-demand, but is surprised at the Prince's docile treatment.
"I could, yes, but I'd prefer to return you to the pit for a millennium or two while another of your brothers-Maka, maybe-handles this boy."
"Lord Prince-"
"What's to stop me from doing that, Damien?"
"Because this thing, whatever it is, has grown beyond just the boy, and I deserve a chance to make it right."
"Deserve?" It's Maka.
But the Prince interrupts. "Beyond the boy?" His mawkish voice is low now, rough. He tilts his head, the icy shadows pulling his nose and chin into darkness. "Tell me, Damien. Regale me with a tale that will change my mind."
Pearla considers Damien. His straightened gait, his squared shoulders. He has the look of a gambler throwing his final card to the table. The one he's hidden up his sleeve.
"She saw me," he says. "The girl."
The Prince stands. His face, once passive, is now rigid as stone, a sense of urgency pulling his wings tight.
"Saw. You."
"Yes, my celestial form. This girl, this Brielle, saw through the terrestrial veil with understanding. It was like, like . . ."
"Like Elisha's servant. In Dothan. The site of your last great failure."
"Yes, Lord Prince." Damien averts his eyes, but only briefly. Then he steps forward, toward the Prince, his face set. "She knew where I stood and what I did. She knew what the greatest expression of love looked like in the Celestial. Somehow, some way, Lord Prince, mankind is breaking into our realm."
Even Pearla gasps at this revelation.
Yapping phrases like "the beginning of the end" begin to permeate the great hall. "Cataclysmic." "Armageddon."
The Prince stands silent for what seems like years, while the raging of the assembly builds. And then with measured, soundless footsteps, the Prince of Darkness crosses the floor. He lifts his hand toward Damien's face-an offer of healing, it seems-and Damien steadies himself visibly for the honor. It's not like the Prince to offer healing-even to one of his own-and Pearla is perplexed by the gesture.
But before the Prince can make contact, a noisy clatter echoes through the hall.
From the shadows, a small, blackened creature scurries-all four of its limbs moving one after the other. It's an impish spy, the fallen counterpart to Pearla's cherubic order, and she recoils at the sight of her traitorous kinsmen. His small, bat-like wings lift him here and there on his chaotic trot across the stone floor. When he reaches the river of fear running in a sticky trail from the Prince's arm, the creature groans in delight and swims through it toward his master.
The Prince's hand, so close to Damien's face, drops away, reaching down and allowing the imp to latch on to his fingers. It scurries up the Prince's arm and shoulder, leaning past the lush black curls and into his ear.
The Prince's face hardens at whatever he hears, and with pale fingers he pinches the imp like a naughty cat and drops him to the floor. The imp chirps and gurgles, sliding in the train of soupy fear, finally springing from the hall.