Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Saron inhaled deeply, taking in the heaviness of Hell. It never changed. It sank like rusted iron, burned as charcoal and suffocated as something he could describe as bitterness. It clawed at his throat, weighted with an ancient heaviness he couldn’t forget.

It had a way of pressing down on you, like carrying sins and grudges on your shoulders.

He exhaled through his nose. Such stench never leaves. No matter if you scrubbed your hands to red rawness. The scent of iron always clings.

And now, the scent of dung too.

Saron picked a halter that hung on the stone wall. Thick dark leather that was resistant to infernal flames and suited well for hellish creatures.

In the background, hooves clinked restlessly. Some howls, roars and yips. Beasts today are restless. Too restless to be brushed off as impatience.

He walked past the empty stalls to the very first occupied one. The mare growled at him. Its snarl was full of jagged pointy teeth that could ruthlessly tear skin and bones into bits. Her serpentine long tail slashed left and right. The thorns sharply scraped the stone leaving deep marks. Saron sighed seeing the wall he smoothed yesterday to be destroyed yet again. He’ll have to fix it as the lord he was working for didn’t like untidiness.

But first, he should let out the steed who’s ready to bite his head off any minute if he won’t let her out into the meadows.

“Yes, just a little moment.” He murmured completely unfazed by her display of a full set of razor-sharp teeth. For how long he had been in Hell, he learned a simple lesson – don’t show fear. It is a weakness to exploit. And some creatures, such as this mare of Diomedes, liked to put a handler to the test.

He finished buckling the straps and patted her scaled cheek. The skin on her bony snout twitched under his hand. Saron must admit she had beautiful scales. Dark obsidian patches of scales stretched across the body but when the torch light hit right, it shimmered of green and blue shades.  Dark thorns rose from her spine, the closer the scales were to the spine, the sharper these patched were. Even a saddle wouldn’t protect rider’s skin from becoming ribbons.

A beautiful yet menacing creature, one Saron, had been tasked to care. Even though she tended to bite and tear, she grew on him.  

“See, easy.” Saron tutted as he opened the gates. The mare practically jumped out and trashed around in underground stables, the tail slashed and knocked down a lantern that hung on the wall. It fell on the ground splattering glass and wax.

Saron clicked his tongue. That one was a fifth.

He fastened the leash around his hand and pulled her closer to stop her rampage. In return she twisted her head, dragging Saron forward. Saron growled, keeping himself in his place. It was like that every day.  He can’t blame her, who would like to be underground with stone walls and lanterns to keep company?

He would prefer calmer departure to the meadows but that’s a pipe dream. But to compare now and when he just started this job, it was far beyond blessing. She used to run him over and try to pluck his head like some flower every time her silver eyes met his golden ones.

Saron had been working for the lord for past…three or four…years? He didn’t count the days.

Time in Hell is stagnant. No sunlight, nor night to tell the passage of time. Just the same moody grey that lingered in the air. But what he surely knew by now, he got accustomed to the hellish nature of this realm.

He was a demon working for another. More precisely, indebted. No pay, not a single penny for his work but at least he had a roof under his head and food to eat. Anything is better than the pits.

When he finally dragged her out, or more likely, she dragged him out from the underground stables, he led her through the paths of the manor to the meadows. He held by the halter tightly as the lord was not the one who appreciates knocked down sculptures nor trampled roses.

 As he strode through, he hadn’t met any servants. Too early. Must be the middle of the day, in the mortal realms. Even though Hell had no cycles nor all demons slept, demon kind was more active during the human nights.

He finally unhooked the leash and let the mare loose into the meadow paddock, engraved right under a cliff. The demonic horse did not look back and strode forward, lashing her tail, almost hitting Saron’s face if he hadn’t ducked in time. She disappeared behind crimson red foliage, towards her brethren. The lord had thirteen of them. All with full set of sharp teeth and thorns.

And with attitude.

He left the leash on the dark iron fence. Thin and each strip of steel turned and twisted into extravagant shapes. At first glance, it wouldn’t be able to hold off such beasts, but demonic realm had their own tricks. There were sigils engraved into the metal, not letting anyone out by force. Stomp, buck and kick the gates, these won’t bulge.

Since all of Diomedes mares are out and fed, Saron turned to the hellhound pit, notoriously nicknamed as coliseum. It wasn’t magnificent or grand, but a deep hole with a dozen hounds. The reason why it got such a name was simply due to the lord throwing imps and humans who didn’t keep their end of the bargain. Although there were several seats to applaud the unfortunate ones mauled to pieces.

Along way, he visited the backdoor of the kitchens and picked up a cart of leftover carcasses from yesterday’s butcher. The lord preferred his dinner to be the freshest, so rows of skinned ribs and bones with slivers of fat and meat were a good snack for hellhound’s teeth.

As he got closer, he could hear the yips and howls of the dogs. They smelled their food fast and were excited. They always are. At least for him.

He opened the nearby doors and walked downstairs to the entrance of the pit. In the tiny room, dozens of chewed through toys littered the ground. They liked to chew on anything, even gnawed at his horns before. Sharpening their teeth.

Some iron chain leashes and collars hung on the walls. Polished and ready to use whenever the lord ordered to have the beasts by his throne. To have several hounds the size of a horse could raise an intimidating sight, a view one shouldn’t mess with. Especially, when it is the three headed one.

In front of him, behind the bars, hounds stared at him, rather at the cart he carried, waging their tails and snouts drooling. As he came closer, he shooed the dark furred beasts, unlocked the metal doors and carefully slipped inside, making sure that none of them could steal a bone before their time.

“Sit.” He commanded. The hounds sat down right at the same time, even the ground shook. Drool slivered away from their snouts and splashed on the ground. Their red eyes pointed at him and ears perked to hear further commands. Still the tails wagged behind, scattering the dust and pebbles.

“Aren’t you all such a good boys and girls.” He praised as he picked up a rib to throw. All the beasts stared in wait, some paced with their clawed front paws, however just when Saron braced himself to throw as far as he could, the hounds froze, ears turning towards the manor. Then in sync their heads turned towards the castle. Their ears raised straight, mouths open to taste the scent and noses flared to snatch all the smells.

Saron sniffed the air too and furrowed his brows. There was indeed something in the air, but he couldn’t pick up a scent nor did he recognize what it was. No typical scent of blood after the chef prepared meals. Perhaps the lord had invited an influential guest? He liked to do business. If not, then gloating on his possessions with his colleagues, the other lords.

Nevertheless, just as suddenly the unfamiliar scent appeared, so did it disappear. The hounds growled in disappointment but quickly they turned their attention to Saron. Although, one of the heads of the three headed hound, still was turned away from him. It whined.

Saron’s brows furrowed. He may need to find out what that was, unless he wants one of the beasts to run off into the manor and check it by themselves.

But that’s later when he’s finished with the early tasks.

He threw the rib high up in the air and watched the hounds wrestle and jump to catch the treat. The lucky one bolted to its den to gnaw its bone. Then he threw more until each hound had its snout full. He can’t leave a single head without anything, unless he wants a fight to break out. And these are a hassle to put an end. He had to learn the hard way of how hard they can bite.

While the hounds were occupied, he cleared up their pen: picking the leftover scraps of unfortunate deal breakers, bone shards, chewed toys and twigs and pushing away some shattered rocks. Hellhounds can devour pretty much anything and spit out dissolved hot mess. He learned that after one spat out boiling stomach components right at his feet. His boots still had stains.

If he has time later, he could take them for a walk. They had been here for some time. But that’s later after he makes sure of what that scent was. He can’t let a hound slip away to scratch manor’s marble floors and leave pawprints on carpets.

After locking the iron doors, he left the colosseum. He made his way to the stables again. Some servants started tending the gardens – snipping sprawling leaves and branches of red roses. These wrangled as snakes, sharp thorns potent with paralyzing venom. Saron got once dragged into such bushes by the mare. It wasn’t fun.

By now, Saron must have missed breakfast for the servants. He’ll check for leftovers later.  He dove underground again, flickering torches kept him company as he made his way to the last stall – one he dreaded.

He walked slowly, carefully not making loud noises but enough to notify the creature.

The lord liked the exotic. What wouldn’t be more extravagant than having a unicorn in Hell? However, a creature pure as snow was a tough nut to keep. Not in the way as the Diomedes mares were.

The unicorn wasn’t faring well. Scratch that, the stallion was constantly sickly. Saron had been tasked to keep that unicorn alive so each thing the creature had caught made Saron pull his hair out. Perhaps the hellish air wasn’t for the steed.

As Saron came into the view, the unicorn had already been staring at him with his bleak grey eyes. He slid further into the conner, his tail nestled under the split hooves.

“I’m not going to drag you out, just checking in.” Saron murmured as he unhooked the gates. The lock was a simple latch, but unlike the mares, the stallion never tried to open it himself. Like he had given up any ideas of escapement.

The unicorn was thin, too thin for Saron’s liking. It had poor appetite for any demonic diet. It didn’t eat meat like the mares did, not did it try the hellish fruits and lants. Through his time, Saron discovered that the unicorn didn’t stomach well anything demonic, the stallion threw up constantly. Only after, he had requested for hay from mortal realm, did things get better. Whenever a new batch comes in, the hay has already started with wither.

He doubled checked the unicorn as he entered the pen. The stallion may look weak and sickly, one stupid move, one step too close, the unicorn could jump and try to skewer his heart. Such creatures didn’t like anything impure.

The unicorn’s silvery fur had lost its shine, and the mane turned shaggy like a broom. Like an old worn-down yellowish book. Ribs poked through the hide, limbs too thin. It shook whenever it stood up.

He bit on his lip and replaced the water with a clean one. Then added more hay, picking out the moldy strands. He didn’t want to wonder how much longer the unicorn would live. He should ask for a better supply. Or perhaps not. The further the months pass, the more Saron starts to think he tortures than nurses the miserable creature to health.

“Here.” He settled the water bucket on the ground and gently pushed forward to the creature. It hadn’t been eaten yet, Saron hoped it would try to drink. At least a bit.

It wasn’t often that unicorn would stare at his every move. Stallion eyes more often were turned away, starting somewhere far further than this stall. Where Saron had no idea, but not near hell.

But now, the creature plainly gazed at him with unblinking eyes.

Then it slowly closed its eyes, and a little silver tear slipped across its snout. Painfully slow, it slivered and dropped to the ground.

It made Saron’s guts twist.

The unicorn turned his head away, slumping it down on the floor. Hay nor water weren’t on its interest.

He bit his lip; the fang dug sharper than he expected.

Saron remembered the day the unicorn was brought. Fiery with a strong sculpted body. He wished to see it in such spirit again, not the carcass. But sometimes, like today, he had no idea what to do to achieve that. He should do better.

But his half ass plans and thoughts were stooped when new set of footsteps echoed through the stables. Saron didn’t have to turn his head to figure out who such polished shoes belonged to. Only when the click of the heels stopped behind Saron, did he turn to face the butler.

The butler always was in perfect stature and neatly clothed. The ribbon that tied his raven black hair, had not a single wrinkle and shone as if it was brand new. Perfectly pulled into a bow. Saron sometimes wondered whether the other would use a ruler to check the bow length.

He wore a full set of servant clothes: a black coat, vest, white undershirt with laces and pants. The tie was pulled tightly around his neck, the end hidden under the vest. In his pocket a watch hung attached to a golden chain.

The only exception was his expression that reminded Saron of a prideful toad. Under the mask of ignorance and professionalism, criticism laid beneath one Saron often felt its scrutiny.

The feeling was mutual. Saron didn’t like him either.

Saron disliked the servant doll like uniforms while the other claimed the looks reflected on the lord. The butler liked to keep to the rules and insisted on the household to work as finely as a clock, but Saron tended to be more of a rule breaker. He quit the uniform a long time ago and added a little twist to himself. He ditched the coat and vest to the furthest conner of his wardrobe, leaving it to gather dust. An undershirt with sleeves rolled back and pants were enough for him, if not he would add an apron to the mix so to not make a mess out of his clothes.

“The lord asks for your presence.” The butler told dryly.

Saron merely nodded. Although he wished to finish checking up with the unicorn, the lords’ words were absolute and a request to come to the manor always meant now. Saron’s clothes were dirty and stuck with hellhound hair, but after he dusted himself off, he’ll manage somehow. Better not be late than make the lord wait for any unnecessary minute longer.

He closed the gates of the unicorn stall. The creature still laid his head on the ground, his eyes downcast.

“Pitiful creature, the lord would hope to see in better condition.” The butler stated flatly and turned to walk, leading Saron to the manor, the lord’s study.

“Tough work it is when it can’t eat anything in Hell and supplies come fine as shit.” Saron muttered bitterly but the butler had caught him.

“What you ask for is not common nor has a demand in hell.” In other words, no one eats greenery, so you won’t find any sellers. At this rate, Saron might just as well sneak into mortal realm and pull-out patches of grass by the roots.

The butler didn’t say a word further as he led Saron into the manor. As he stepped onto the long entrance stairs, the manor loomed all over him. Black marble was engraved with gems and sigils. To many details to polish.  The very tops of the roofs stretched high into the greyness.

Before setting a foot inside, Saron shook his boots to get rid of dust and mud. None of the servants would appreciate footprints on a carpet. When Saron finally stepped in, his heart settled uncomfortably.

There’s nothing good that comes out when the lord summons. Either a punishment is due or another dreadful task. Either way, Saron didn’t expect to hear praises nor words of encouragement.

 The ceiling stretched high over them, held by arks decorated with gold. Long red stained windows cast vibrant red hue on polished marble floors, one where Saron could see his own uneasy reflection. On the walls, like some list of what violence the lord could bring upon, paintings of gruesome torture hung. These did not shy away from fine details. Spilled guts were engraved with the tiniest veins and cut flesh appeared akin to macabre marble.

If art of cut limbs and burned flesh were not enough, the art of ecstasy added extra spice into the macabre mix. Sculps of pure bliss and terror adored the walls Saron passed through. Paintings of couples and orgies intermingled and twisted to the point one couldn’t unravel to whom a body belonged to. Their faces contracted into pleasure and pain.

Saron briefly gazed at one painting of a woman intermingled with a wolfish beast, a werewolf he supposes. The mortal caressed the beast’s ears as the wolf tore off one of the breasts. Its snout bloodied, dripping down to the woman’s naked body.

The lord had quite a taste in arts. If it had blood on it.

It was too pristine, too non-typical of what Saron had imagined when he had set foot in the lord’s household after the said lord took him in. No magma pools nor infernal fire. Just greed and polished extravagance. But it surely made him feel dirty and unwashed.

As they trekked deeper into the heart of the manor, Saron was sure that the lord must be staying in his study. Saron’s gut was uneasy. He sniffed the air again but there was nothing. There was not a sliver of that unknown scent. If the hounds hadn’t reacted the way they did, Saron would have been sure his mind had played some tricks on him. Or perhaps someone would have played with his nose.

When they finally reached the proper set of doors, the butler knocked and opened the doors widely. “The caretaker, my lord.” He simply presented and turned to the exit, leaving Saron alone with the master of this manor.

Saron stepped inside, his ears flinching as the heavy doors behind him shut tight. Still, he tried to act indifferent and raised his head higher. After all, he didn’t like closed spaces that much.

 He hadn’t said a word. He knew better than speak without permission.

The study was the same as the pompous halls – littered with various expensive objects and artifacts, ones that cost more than Saron’s hide. Not on a single dust gathered.

In a fitting suit, the lord sat by his desk full of documents and deal templates. Half of his face engulfed by the red glow of stained window glass.  He cut a striking figure in the crimson light; his sharp features framed by the pale gleam of ash-colored hair.

When it came to demon masters, Saron noticed that they had tendency to appear as humane as possible. There were still additional demonic qualities such as fangs, sharp nails, horns or patches of scales. However, the figures, most of the time, were human-like. No hooves, no tails and no paws nor claws visible. Must be hidden under layers of clothing.

Despite their humane cover, they still looked uncanny. Neither human, nor a demon. This kind of thing creeped Saron out. But then again, he supposes that those lords secretly despised their monstrous nature. Saron couldn’t blame them as he did so himself.

The landlord turned and his deep vivid red eyes racked through Saron’s body as if once again testing if he’s worthy for the lord’s time.

Saron stood still, his eyes downcast as the demon lord leaned back into his chair. One of his glowed fingers tapped the polished wooden desk. Each tap was too loud, too precise and unnerving, like a flickering tail of a venomous serpent, one you couldn’t guess when it will charge and bare its long fangs.

Silence stretched long. Saron waited.

“The stables.” The lord started. “You proved yourself useful.”

Saron said no word, nor his face changed much. In Hell, praises don’t come without a cost. Especially from the top of the food chain.

“I have a new pet. Delicate one but unruly.”

There it is, Saron thought. He swallowed. Not another unicorn, he wished.

“Feed it, clean it, docile it. Have it presentable and manageable. But…” The lord continued as he folded his hands, the ruby rings glinted under the light “It should forget that it lives in a cage. Otherwise, it would be less interesting than a doll on display.”

Quite vague, if Saron could say so. Yet, unnerving. While he had delt with hounds and carnivorous mares, he learned that he should not be someone to mess around. Otherwise, he’ll be the one pulled by the leash.  However, the lord asks for far different.

The new creature, the demon lord, must be far more intelligent than the average dog.

“Are there any specific requirements in care?” Saron inquired as some creatures need certain care.

“Do not beat it. No bruise nor a shackle. If I see a feather out of place, you will answer for it.”

Saron didn’t like to use force. Well, the mares were with a big attitude and favor tossing him around. And he wrestled with the hounds. But he didn’t dare to hurt any of the lord’s creatures out of malice.

“Must be healthy and clean. Such delicate creature is one of the kinds, it must be preserved well.”

Saron nodded.” Will I be provided with proper supplies?”

“Ask the servants whatever you require. But remember, do not spoil it. It must be mannered. No vulgarities. Its disobedience would bring shame on my name.”

That involves some training and response to commands.

“And lastly…” the lord paused” if it cries, calm it. If it screams, silence it. If it misbehaves, correct it. But gently. Always gently.”

Saron furrowed his brows as he swallowed. It was the opposite of what he could expect from someone who likes color red too much. This sounded too good, like the lord wanted to coddle the creature, unlike the other beasts the lord owned.

Saron was no stranger to rumors that other demon lords, barons and dukes and other fiends like to have more exquisite pets, such as humans for entertainment or simply dress up in expensive fabrics and jewelry. Some were stolen from the mortal realm, others paid the price for demonic service. But this one liked such household pets on a silver plate, not wrapped in silk.

The lord noticed Saron crease of skepticism in his expression.

“I want it not to fear me, Saron. Fear turns beauty into ash. You know what a cage is.”

Saron exhaled silently. He never liked to be reminded of his past. It made his scared ear itch. He despised such sensation, he would scratch it raw, until it bled. But all the blood would pool, paint his claws, leaving a mess, in one he would see his own reflection.

“May I know what kind creature it is?” Saron asked carefully.

“Extraordinary.” The lord answered vaguely, but with a smile, one that had too many teeth. Then suddenly he stood up and walked pass Saron. He only gestured with his hand to follow. Saron didn’t need to be told twice. The lord didn’t have much patience.

The walk to… the extraordinary was painstakingly slow.  On their way, a pair of servants were working to put on a new painting of a bird. From its chest a bloodied arrowhead rose, and a shredded heart peaked through the gap. Once they saw the lord, they bowed their heads. Only after the demon passed them, did they proceed with their work.

The lord had not said a word, nor did Saron ask any. All his questions would be answered soon enough.

Just when the lord turned the opposite from the exit to outside, to a dungeon did Saron’s uneasiness grew further. The lower floors were cold and damp, only the torchlights flickered lazily and spiderwebs hid in the conners.

Not a single guard in sight nor a sound. Only their pair of clicking shoes.

Saron breathed in the damp air and suddenly his nose flared. That unknown scent.

Faint but more prominent. Still unrecognizable. Potent compared to hellish creatures. There was no rot or blood but only a light scent. Saron would consider it somewhere between snow and fire, but no smoke. Clean and crisp.

The lord surely found himself another pure creature. One worth keeping in a manor, even if it was locked up deep in a dungeon.

The lord stopped by the heavy doors. Large and lined with gold. With a flick of his wrist, the doors cracked open and slowly opened. The lord’s red eyes gleamed as the doors turned, clearly savoring the moment. “Enter,” he commanded.

Saron felt his pulse quicken, but he kept his face calm. He passed through his master and stepped into the dim chamber. A shiver rolled over him, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

There, in a massive birdcage, that shimmered faintly of gold and runes, was a figure hidden by white and golden wings. Each feather glimmered faintly, as if holding a light of its own, an ethereal glow that contrasted starkly with the darkness around it.

Saron swallowed, momentarily unable to breathe. He watched with eyes wide open, taking in all the sight. He inhaled taking in the scent again, completely strange and alien. Cool, fresh, like a distant forest in early spring. Unworldly yet so familiar and reassuring.

He felt the rolling energy, the radiating brightness and completely opposite of this grotesque realm.  Such an aura was far beyond any pure creature he had handled. Something completely out of this world. Uncomprehensible. Surreal.

His mind raced as the realization dawned upon him. And yet, as he looked closer, taking in the sight, a shiver ran through him, both thrilling and terrifying.

It is no simple pure creature.

“Quite sight indeed!” The landlord huffed as he walked pass Saron whose was gathering his wits.

“Hello, dear. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The landlord stepped further into the chamber, standing up right before the cage. His stance radiated arrogance and somewhat proudness of a thought of showing off his greatest possession across realms.

But his greeting was left unanswered.

Irritated, the landlord tapped the bars with his finger wanting to show off much more. He stood still for a moment however the creature still did not indulge him. It didn’t stir or acknowledge the demon’s presence.

He huffed and clicked his tongue.

“How unmannered of you, dear songbird, to hide and not show yourself before your handler.”

The demon came closer to the creature’s side while Saron stood there frozen near the entrance, trying to figure out what to think of it.

The landlord crouched right before the bundle of feathers.

He tilted his head, like a cat that gazed at its prey, and eyed the shimmering feathers. Like a predator, he slowly flexed his hand and without any warning or fear of ruffled wings he abruptly snaped his arm and yanked the head by its neck out of hiding.

The pair of wings sprang free to attack the demon, however it only hit the bars resulting in metallic screech echoing throughout the room. Saron winced at the sound as he was pulled out of his racing thoughts. Too loud for his sensitive ears.

The demon lord wasn’t fazed by the creatures flaying nor warnings, his face was shaped something akin to annoyance of disciplining an untrained dog. He only squeezed its throat harder, forcing it closer to the bars limiting its movement. Like a tiger with prey within its maw, he waited as the creature – an angel, it hit Saron, struggled within his grasp.

The creature jumped to grasp the demon’s hands, but it quickly chose the bars instead. It pushed itself from the bars, trying to put some distance. When it didn’t work out, the angel twisted and turned trying to use the bars against the demon, but the iron grip did not bulge. It was a pitiful sight.

Saron wanted to step in to stop this sight. Just before he moved, the lord’s irritated eyes flicked back at him, warning him not to mingle.

Only when the angel’s resistance was reduced to uneven panting and limbs shivering did he loosen his grasp, allowing it to breathe but tight enough to not to fester any ideas of slipping away.

“Now, was that so difficult, dear?” The demon whispered sweetly, voice dripping with artificial gentleness.

The angel lifted its sky-blue eyes and met the lord’s piercing gaze. Its face formed into ice cold contempt, that shouldn’t be fitting for a creature with such delicate yet edged features. Even a wyvern would cower under such rage.

Even with such furious look, the angel was beautiful. Saron couldn’t tear his eyes away. He stood there frozen like he was a sinner kneeling before the divine, either waiting to hear the judgment call of eternal flames or pleading to bask in the lights of mercy.

He observed how its wings flexed, the muscles moving beneath indicating the great strength this creature could possess.

Its feathers were brilliant, so unlike. Gilded with precious metals, they shimmered and glimmered under the dim light. Despite being weaved with gold, silver and copper the feathers barely made any sound. There was no screech, nor scratch Saron’s ears could pick up. Only soft, comfortable rustles.

Saron hasn’t seen anything like this. Fascinating.

A soft light clung on the angel, like there was a sun hidden beneath its skin. Its eyes, pools of the sky itself. It reminded Saron of clear winter days, both the warmness of the sun and the coolness of snow.

He gets it. No wonder the landlord is interested of keeping such creature in his manor. Who wouldn’t want to see such ethereal beauty? Whole Hell would be green of jealousy.

“Look at yourself, dear. So unruly and indecent.” He purred as he pulled a stray strand of golden locks behind its ear.

His movements were slow and delicate as if cradling a flower’s petals, so unlike his other hand, strictly keeping it in place.

The demon caressed its cheek, following patterns of copper freckles. He observed how these tiny spots reflected the dim light of the chamber.

The angel froze for a fraction of a second, a disgust running across the face. It twisted in the demon’s grasp which led the other strengthen his hold letting just barely enough to breathe.

“No, no, dear, don’t hide so quickly. You have yet to greet your new handler properly.” The demon cooed sweetly making the angel’s skin crawl.

Saron’s mind was brought back into reality as the landlord referred him.

He really is fucking serious. Saron thought.

A goddammed angel. A myth. A divine creature of beauty such as this.

He wouldn’t even dare to mumble a word to it nor touch it.

It would be the same as sin.

No.

Saron shook his head.

That’s a person. To form and bend into the shape the lord desires to.

The angel did not spare a single glance at the newcomer, only glared at its captor. Its lips thinned as if wanting to say something that wouldn’t be appreciated by the landlord but quickly it turned this idea down leaving only to clench its jaw in pure fury.

“Not even a hello nor a look to spare. Tsk. Very rude of you.” The demon tsked flexing his fingers to force its head to move.

Saron swallowed. He shouldn’t mingle with the lords’ actions but… but this made his guts clench.

“Sir” Saron started carefully, especially not to seem too imprudent. “It is stressed.”

The other paused, clearly irritated by being interrupted.

“A little stress won’t do too much harm. It should know a thing or two. Especially manners and obedience.”

Saron held his breath for a while and then sighed. Fuck this.

“It is a delicate creature, too much and it could break. I assume my lord wishes to have an intact pet. It is my job to see through it.”

The landlord chuckled and let go of it. The angel immediately shifted away, far from arms reach, and wrapped itself with wings, resembling a cocoon much tighter than before Saron had set a foot into this chamber. For a moment the feathers shivered but then turned still as a stone.

The lord leisurely fixed his gloves and sleeves and turned to Saron.

“Very well. You can begin.”

Chapter Text

After the heavy doors behind him shut in heavy groans, Saron was left alone. With the angel.

Saron observed the other for a moment. It was enterally ingulfed in feathers, not a strand of hair peaked out, like it shut itself from the world. Not a single muscle twitched nor shivered, yet the same feathers glimmered like gems.

It was silent, too silent. He couldn’t even hear what’s outside this chamber. The lord must be very insistent to keep the angel locked up safely. Deep in the dungeon with quiet for company.

Such eerie quiet bothered Saron and made shivers run along his spine.

Before he left, the demon lord mentioned extra rules: don’t speak about the angel outside the mansion and report weekly. Since the lord hoarded anything that caught his eye, it was no surprise to Saron. All the paintings, intricate furniture and mansion design reeked of his possessiveness.

But all demons are like that.

Saron exhaled through his nose and brushed his face with a hand. Quite a task he got, one he’s yet to stomach. One with several requirements that didn’t fully make sense to Saron. Compared to how thin the lord’s patience can be and his knowledgeable mind of punishments, this was too…tame. It irked Saron that this job would be far different than handling hounds or unicorn.

On the other hand, shouldn’t Saron be happy that the lord was merciful, insisting on the welfare of the angel, even if it is a trophy? But then again, each goblet, medal and trinket were polished so well one could see a clear reflection of themselves. This one surely would reflect.

His golden eyes again flicked towards the feathery figure hidden under the wings. Still as if turned into a stone. However, Saron was sure that the angel tracked every move of his. Like a rattle snake ready to pounce.

Saron breathed in. The scent was potent, like he inhaled a thunderstorm into himself. Heavy and with a hint of smoke, something Saron could name as lightning. It was clear that the angel was more than agitated after the lord’s manners lesson. The angel wouldn’t like to see his mug right now nor would it be willing to interact with him.

…It is expected.

He assumed it only just got here in the mansion, ripped away from wherever the lord snatched it from. Perhaps, even in Hell. How even did the lord managed to catch it?

It must be beyond stressed and furious in its new environment. The unicorn was the same when the lord had bought it from an auctioneer. The stallion trashed and stabbed anyone who got too close with his horn. Putting in a stable was a tiring task and a dangerous one. Even more so, it took weeks to enter its pasture to change feed.

So, Saron had decided. First, he’ll stay for a little while, even when his hungry stomach is rumbling, furious at the missed breakfast break. He won’t do anything, won’t interact with it, just let it know what his presence feels like. Later, when he’s done with other tasks, he would bring something.

He doubts the angel would want to eat anything. Stress reduces appetite. He himself in its place wouldn’t touch even a crumb. So, water should be fine.

So, Saron picked a spot at the furthest conner of the chamber and settled down on the dark marble floor. He sat down not directly, but sideways, not to seem intrusive but enough to keep an eye on it.

After the display of landlord’s lesson of good manners, Saron doubts it is keen to feel any pressure. It doesn’t seem to react well to force. Not that he planned to use it. Nor allowed is he.

He observed the angel’s figure. Still as a sculpture, pristine even when dust and dirt coated the feathers. Yet under the grime and caged misery, a faint luminescence clung to the creature, like embers defying the dark.

Quite the opposite of one could expect to encounter in underworld.

Ethereal. Divine. Mesmerizing but terrifying.

Saron quietly exhaled. It’s a thrilling thought to know that angels exist. Sometimes, when he had visited the market to pick some supplies or look for a good leather, he could find sellers boasting of their elixirs and artifacts made from angelic material, whether it is a feather or skin and blood. While the boasting and insistence of faithful products was loud and clear, Saron didn’t believe in none of it. Just pretty words and scams.

But here it is. Alive myth. Something that Saron only ever heard in stories. Well, Saron wasn’t very interested in arts and books, he’s more of a grounded character, one who prefers to feel soil than paper, but he had heard plenty of stories and legends of angelic beauty and demise these beings could bring. How the alure of an angel could bring a demon to its knees to meet demise.

It is thrilling, he must admit, to such divine with his own eyes. It still feels unreal and unreachable, even when he’s meters away from touching its feathers. His claws itched.

He forced his stare to flick away from the bundle of feathers. It would be best not to add too much pressure. Instead, his eyes rose up to the golden cage. The bars rose high, connecting into one point where right in the center of it swings hung and collected dust. Extravagant golden ornaments of flowers, blossoms and long-necked birds adored the tip of the cage, the base of each bar and a handle of the doors. Even the runes curved into careful letters. By the doors, the keyhole rested was empty and dark as the pits.

An oversized birdcage, fit for an angel.

Saron turned his gaze away. Some uneasiness settled in his stomach, similar when he stepped near the unicorn. He never liked cages. So, his attention turned to other surroundings.

Same as the room he has been living, the chamber was a little run down – a spare room hidden in the furthest conner of the damp dungeon. Cold cobblestone walls, grey cracked marble floor and bunch of things which some could consider trash.

Expensive extravagant fabrics with few holes and tears thrown on the divan. Cracked sculptures. Rusted weapons that wouldn’t even cut butter. Silverware that lost its shine. On the walls hung old paintings with chipped and cracked paints. Some old furniture is backed in the conner with old tablecloths draped over.

And here, in the center stood the giant bird cage keeping the most precious possession within its grasp.

Saron shifted in his place, letting some life into his bones, and closed his eyes for a moment to breathe.

He didn’t pick up much about the angel. It did not shiver, its wings neatly pressed, not giving any signs of fear. No snarls nor ruffled feathers. It just existed.

His legs ached from stiffness and disuse.

Next time, he’ll pick a chair than the stone-cold floor.

Saron mentally counted the time, but he wasn’t sure how long he was here. Such chamber as this, littered with broken furniture, didn’t show the passage of time. Well, except for layers of dust on chests, fabrics and furniture.

He fetched an old clock in his pocket. Hell had no passage of time, not in the mortal sense. No sunlight nor moonlight. Just the same grey. So, carrying a clock to track time with his tasks was useful.

He checked the time. Far pass lunch. He clicked the clock shut.

He rose up and dusted his pants off. He kept an eye on the angel, but it did not stir after his movement.

Before he turned the handle of the doors, he stopped for a moment, his claws hovering right on the handle. He turned his head to see the golden cage, tracing each bar.

His mouth was dry. He licked his lips and swallowed but a knot in his throat persisted.

Saron opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wasn’t sure why nor did he knew what to say. He simply shook his head and left the chamber.

In the dungeon hall, Saron let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His hand still fidgeted the handle of the closed door.

The lord had gained a mesmerizing creature. Saron doesn’t even know how he was supposed to react. Fascinated? Terrified? However, the lord was never pleased to hear that given tasks are not met. Saron simply must suck up whatever in his guts had slivered in. Or threw up whatever worm had nestled inside.

Saron exhaled as he ran through his hair with a hand, his claws catching on his horns.

Does the divine have such an effect on demons? Considering the twisted obsession with the divinity the demonic kind have, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched, Saron wondered.

Demons are greedy and materialistic, take things that shine and sparkle. And the crowned realm is the shiniest gem of all jewels. Like moths would they flock around a flame. It unnerves him that he, who does not give a dam about shiny things, the urge to have and keep, seemed to be caught in this trap.

He shouldn’t linger here right before the closed doors. Who knows, it might have sensitive ears to hear his drumming heart.

He’ll leave it in its own solitude, then he’ll return later. With food. He must follow the orders.

At the thought of food, his stomach growled loudly, roaring not to be ignored. It mercilessly clawed at his belly.

Fine, fine. He’ll look for something.

He turned towards the exit of the cellars, his legs carrying him away from his task. He wasn’t sure where he was walking precisely, but what he needed right now was a noise. Something that could cancel out that overwhelming quiet that kept pressing on his shoulders.

The cellars were silent, only the sounds of his boots echoed through the maze. The lanterns flickered lazily, drawing small patterns on the ground.

As he reached the upper floors, the scent of wine and polished wood hit him, quite the opposite of the damp air of the dungeons. Yet he couldn’t shake off the unworldly scent of snow.

The halls of the manor were too long, the dark marble too polished and the red carpet that stretched across was too soft for Saron’s taste. The demon didn’t let his eyes wander. He had seen enough of trophies for today.

He passed through the dining room; he didn’t have to lift his gaze to find out of the landlord’s portrait hung on the top of the furnace. Watching over his own domain and making sure none of his subjects misbehaves.

He passed through smaller halls, ones that weren’t polished this obsessively neatly, the ones the servants went in and went out, carrying supplies and laundry.

Saron didn’t notice how he stepped into the kitchens. He lingered by the doors, not setting a foot into the domain of the cooks and servants. Behind him the doors swung lazily as he leaned into the doorframe. He silently observed how servants buried themselves in their daily tasks.

The kitchen reminded him of butchery with some stylistic design choices. Dark polished marble floor with embedded sink to drain liquids. On each side of the room there were several large tables that could easily fit large beasts. On top of them, several cabinets adored the walls. From it, Saron could pick up various peppers, thyme and rosemary scents.

Right in the center of the room, another table stood where the servants buzzed around and worked on dinner preparations. Some were polishing silverware and cups, some caried ingredients for tonight’s dinner and others were busy with cleaning.

Saron lifted his eyes, and, on the ceiling, he noticed building in sharp hooks, fit for hooking on carcasses. A typical kitchen for meat eating nobility.

The servants and maids didn’t pay any mind to him. They kept their eyes down and moved with mechanical precision while chatting to each other.

But there was finally some noise. Their steps, little whispers in between, splashing water, knives hitting cutting boards…It helped to clear his mind for a bit. It gave some sense of life and normalcy compared to the dungeons, even if the household wore ridiculously complex attire.

He loomed by the doors; his wild frame contrasted with clean, sparkling kitchens. As the scent of spices, soaps and meat engulfed him, the tension in his shoulders lessened. He leaned further into the doors, shifting his weight.

As he took the first step into the kitchen, his boots thumbed, the doe demoness’s chestnut ears flicked and soon her head turned her head. Her nose twitched for a second then her snout stretched into a smile, her curved canine teeth in full display.

She quickly dropped the silverware and a rag she had been holding on the table and strode to the chimera demon.

“Is it true? Did our lord have a real angel? How does it look like? Everyone’s -”

Saron stepped back as he was bombarded with questions. Saron could consider the maid, named Jill, to be his friend or at least someone who decides to torture him with endless chit chats. When Saron was newly appointed caretaker of beasts, she was excited to find someone similar her age, so she was very first one to befriend him.

Unlike most demons, Jill had a bright personality. Curious, naïve and wore her emotions like a sleeve. Saron was more reclusive and avoided the mansion as much as possible, he secretly enjoyed Jill’s sunny behavior.  Although Saron sometimes wondered why she worked for this demon lord.

However, in Hell, there was an unspoken rule. No demon talks about their debts nor sticks their tail on the other’s.  Saron himself would never admit his reasons or binds. But as he knows, every servitude of this household is held by soul bound deals. That’s how the lord preferred. Less traitors.

“Jill, one question at the time.” Saron murmured, already feeling tired by such questions.

The doe maid realized she was too close, her ears quivered. Her hooves clicked as she moved several steps back. But still gazed at him with her curious eyes.

“So…?” Her hazelnut eyes shone brightly.

“Yes…” Saron wasn’t sure how much was he allowed to say. Not a single word outside of the manor was allowed. And Jill liked to gossip. A lot.” But…any leftovers?”

“Yes, of course. There are some, but not enough to fill your big and raging stomach.” She joked as she went behind the metallic doors to the butchery.

While the kitchen resembled something to a glorified butcher, behind the metal doors, there was the actual butchery where the chef worked. Cold, hooks, drains, tables that could hold far more weight than one could imagine, and a dozen different shaped knives, all razor sharp that could easily cut through bone and skin. Saron could still hear chopping and bone tearing clatter. He must be preparing for dinner. If here in the kitchen all the pots were licked clean, then surely there must be some scraps or leftover meat there.

While Jill was busy, Saron picked a stool and sat down further away not the disturb working servants. They still worked with their tasks, but Saron could see how their ears were raised in interest and their eyes occasionally flicking towards him.

They are all interested. Who wouldn’t be?

Jill’s head quickly peaked out from the butchery and presented Saron with a plate of flesh. She set the simple porcelain plate and a bent old fork on the table beside Saron.

“The chef just now begun tending to the meat, nothing fancy yet.” She apologized.

“It’s fine, I just need to settle the grumbling beast.” Saron simply joked.

He picked nearby salt and black pepper and springled a little bit of it on top of meat. Demon kind liked meat, preferably raw meats. The demon lord was no exception, insisting on dining on the finest flesh. Well, except for the servants. Same as Saron, they ate a cheaper and older kind. If they are lucky enough, they might have a taste of the lord’s preferences. Or the scraps.

Saron stabbed one slice with a fork and took a bite of it. It was hard and littered with lines of tendons, but Saron’s sharp teeth easily cut through flesh. Expensive beast. The lord must be very pleased.

Jill watched him, as he chewed on the flesh and finally swallowed the bite. She leaned forward, her ears perked up. “So… We all here bustling excitement.”

Saron chewed on his inner cheek and licked his lips as he weighted his words. All dozen eyes were on him. Waiting and measuring.

“The lord has gained a fine creature, that’s for sure.”

The doe demoness blinked in curiosity and leaned even further to Saron. “Oh, tell us more! Does it make you mad with a gaze alone? Does it make one’s heart quiver as the stories say?”

“It is ethereal.” Saron simply stated as if he bit into another piece. This one was a little too hard, perhaps a bone stuck to some tendon.

“It must smell like the skies itself.” Jill wishfully thought.

“A whole manor reeked of it. Had to open all windows to clear out its scent.” An older servant complained, his cat tail twitched in irritation. “It smelled more like a smoke than clouds.” He added grumbling.

Saron brow twitched. He wouldn’t consider it to be like smoke. It didn’t suffocate nor clawed at his throat.  More of a flame, thunder and snow. But before Saron could interject another servant spoke.

“Gosh, an actual angel. What the lord plans to do with it?” another servant wondered as she polished a silver cup with a rag in her talons.

“Probably eat it. I heard that our lord’s colleague had once an angel too. Butchered it the very first day and served it for dinner. Our lord was invited.” The other servant responded, and she tended to a flower bouquet, snipping off unneeded leaves and thorns. Each rose vibrated as a displeased snake. Saron wouldn’t be surprised to see a snout with a full set of fangs sprung out of these.

“But our lord tasked a stable boy, he must have some plans.” Another with curved ram’s horns critiqued.” Perhaps fatting it up.”

Saron’s guts twisted in midbite. Now that he had seen such creature, even a thought of its meat, made him feel disturbed. He was no stranger to know that some demons preferred humans to other beasts. The lord liked to indulge from time to time. Whenever such opportunity came to the servants, Saron preferred to stay with an empty stomach.

However, considering the lord’s requirements, a fine dinner wasn’t the plan.

“The lord has other wishes.” He simply stated.

“For what else? For its blood and heart? It could turn anyone powerful!” Some of them inquired.

“You toad, haven’t you heard you could burn inside out with a single drop of it! It bleeds in flames! Must be for the wings. These could make a great trophy!”

“He wishes to keep it in the manor…as a pet.” Saron explained briefly. He wasn’t sure if he was still interested in eating. He played around with the last pieces, twisting it back and forth along the plate.

“A pet!” Servants gasped. “An angel living here. Can you imagine. Such rarity!”

However, their intrigued thoughts died quickly, and silence settled. Saron seeing such fast shift in mood turned to the doors.

Right at the entrance, the doors swung slowly. Before them the butler stood with cold piercing snake eyes. So cold, even the flames could die out by themselves.

“This is His Lordship’s kitchen, not a market. Unless any of you wish to explain your curiosity directly to him, you will return to your work. Now.”

The maids gulped and returned to their tasks. Not even one raised their eyes any further than their work. Their feet worked fast, their hands even more so.

The butler, seeing all the servants return to order, and the silence of work settled, simply nodded. But soon his eyes landed on Saron.

Saron could feel the scrutiny cutting into his back. He braced himself for a lash of harsh words.

“How dare you to eat when the lord’s angel is unfed.”

“It is too stressed. Wouldn’t eat anything.” Saron defended himself as he let the fork rest on the plate. He wasn’t that hungry anymore.

“You are to keep it maintained.” The butler pressed clearly unhappy to be talked back.

Saron sighed feeling a headache crawl in. The butler and his insistence of control and order.

“It needs more a moment of peace than me pushing a plate into its face. The lord insisted it not be hurt.”

The butler wore a face devout of expression, but Saron could feel his growing agitation. The butler never liked it when someone was rebellious and refused to work as fine as a clock. Thus, Saron and the butler often headbutted with each other.

“The lord wishes angel should be served with a golden platter. Only the finest dishes. The chef will prepare a meal, and you will take that and bring it. Am I clear?”

Saron wanted to growl but that only lead him into further lecture of manners, so he quietly exhaled instead „Yes.”

The butler nodded and added “Clean after yourself.”

Saron didn’t bother to answer and stuffed his mouth with the last piece of flesh. Then he stood up and turned to the sink to clean the plate. Cold water dribbled from the tap into the bloodied plate and his hands. It always had a metallic scent.

He rinsed the plate, dried it with a rag and placed it back with other table wear that was for servants.

At the edges of sight, he could see the butler ordering around as Jill prepared a tray. Must be for the angel. Saron walked closer for further inspection and well…he must pick it up.

He gazed into the contents and his brows furrowed. Thinly sliced fresh meat. So thin almost see through. The flesh marred with fat like a marble. Each slice rolled into waves. The blood was drizzled as a sauce and as a decoration minced garlic was sprinkled on top. Besides the plate, a golden goblet was placed filled with dark liquid. When Saron breathed in, a scent of alcohol hit his nose.

It was more suited to a demon nobility.

“Meat and wine…?”

“The lord insists only the finest.” The butler explained, his voice annoyed as if he stated an obvious fact.

Saron wanted to argue but he bit his tongue instead. It would be a grave mistake to insult the lord, even when the man himself wasn’t present. Jill silently mouthed good luck to Saron. He curtly nodded as he picked up the tray.

Just as he exited the kitchen, he was stopped by the same butler again. The demon watched Saron carefully. Although a long moment of silence stretched, Saron could see the other wanted to say something.

“Our lord may consider it a pet, but do not be deceived.”

Saron paused, a shiver traced his spine, but he nodded. He proceeded to walk towards angel’s chamber. As further he stepped, the manor’s walls were closer, the ceiling weighed right on shoulder. Each wallpaper, each painting was more menacing than before. But heaviest thing that clung to him was the tray he was carrying.

He held tightly by the curved handles, Saron could almost feel he had made a dent by pressing too hard. The scent of meat plagued his nose. Putrid and fresh blood. The wine was no better. The scent of alcohol was heavy, intoxicating and stung into his nose. He nearly tasted it by inhaling it. It surely was a feast for a noble demon.

His thoughts wandered to the unicorn. Unlike most hellish creatures, it did not eat meat. If it did, the stallion would throw up within hour. Saron hoped that it wouldn’t be such case with the angel. The lord wouldn’t be pleased to know that his precious new pet cannot stomach meat. It would be a hit to his pride and Saron would feel its scrutiny.

When Saron entered the dungeon, the damp air hit his face. Saron grimaced for a moment as the wet air amplified the scents of the meal. The meat gleamed under the light and the blood sprinkled like the flames in the lanterns.

It was quiet. Not a single guard passed nor watched the entries. Only spider webs and dust. Yet the silence rang in his ears. Like it was angry.

Despite the heavy smell of wine, Saron could pick up the scent of snow, faint but noticeable by his nose. It did not comfort him, only made his heart rate pick up.

He waited to see the angel again but feared too. As if he stepped into the unknown.

Well, literally. Such thing as an angel was an enigma engulfed in legends and tales…not in flesh.

Saron observed the heavy doors engraved in extravagant patterns. Behind them, the angel. He keenly raised his ears to hear anything, but he could only pick up silence. No movement, no shuffle of feathers.

Nothing.

It unsettled Saron’s stomach even more than to hear banging against the cage.

He forced himself to calm down. He’ll just set the tray and see what happens.

Saron slowly twisted the knob and opened the doors, just wide enough to slip inside without spilling anything accidentally. Once he stepped inside, he closed the doors, shutting it quietly.

When he turned his golden eyes to the cage, he was greeted with same sight as before. The angel was huddled in the conner, completely under its wings. Still as a statue.

Still ethereal. Even when a grime coated its feathers.

Saron wondered whether it registered his presence, but his guts told him to be watched. It was a question whether the angel ignored him or was stressed.

He walked further into the room, closer to the cage. His steps were quiet so that he wouldn’t spook it any further, but he could see its tension in wings. With each passing second the muscles tightened like a spring coil. Jus more pressure and it would lash out.

Saron stopped at a respectable distance and put the tray on the ground. It was too far from an angel to reach, so he pushed it closer to the cage, within arm’s reach.

The sharp scratch of metal meeting stone echoed loudly in the room. Saron winced as the sound cut into his ears.  But he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable here. He caught a little shift in feathers, like it squeezed further into itself.

The scent of thunderstorm was heavier than before. If the previous one was anger, this one was a threat. The chimera wouldn’t be surprised if a lightning suddenly lashed out.

Scared, isn’t it?

Saron licked his lips. Was he supposed to comfort it? It was among his tasks, but he doubted that a scared and angry creature would be willing to hear his voice. Let alone interact.

But before he could think, Saron blurted out “Hi.”

Nothing but silence. It didn’t even flinch.

Saron licked his limps again. Was it ignorance or acceptance to continue? He wasn’t sure. But what he really knew is that a gentler tone is better when speaking to refined creatures. With the mares of Diomedes brute strength and louder voice were needed but whenever Saron saw the unicorn, he couldn’t bring himself to raise a tone. He didn’t like it when it flinched, even when he talked in his normal voice.

So, Saron decided to set a gentler tone, a slow one. “The lord provided. Only the finest cuts and beverages.”

When his voice quieted down, he flicked his feline eyes towards the angel. Not a single movement.

He observed the figure keenly. Still as a stone but he could see twisted and bent feathers. Some barbs separated from each other like cracked soil devoid of water. The angel had a rough fight until it got dragged down into a cage. It must be weakened. And weakness leads to an end in Hell.

“It would be good if you eat.” Saron pressed further, his voice still gentle, but only got silence for an answer.

But still the feathers gleamed like polished gold and silver, more vibrant than any gilded plate, goblet and statue in this mansion. Each feather pulsed like amber caught on a wind, like it hands a mind of its own. Saron’s claws itched. He would give anything for an opportunity to touch it, even if hand would burn to ashes.

But his wishes and craves were not the priority. It was the lords.

“It would be an insult if you won’t try a single bite.”  He tried to bargain. It would be something than nothing. Saron at least could have a better excuse that it tried.

Again silence. It bit into Saron’s skin more than it should have.

He tried to calm himself by exhaling a long breath, but irritation rose within Saron, like a blistering flame. He didn’t like people that much and would choose his own solitude, but he hated to be ignored. Like he didn’t exist nor had a say in anything.

With each passing minute he could feel a growl clawing its way out of his throat. Each time he forced himself to swallow down his pride.

If it doesn’t eat, it will be his hide paying the price.

Saron shook his head. It would eat on its own.

“Fine. I’ll leave to it.” He spat out, more frustration in his voice than he wished.

He suddenly rose and shook his frustration. It did not move.

Not when he turned around.

Not when his boots thumbed.

Not when doors opened, nor closed with a thud.

He didn’t hear a single dam thing behind him.

But Saron could feel a stare stabbing right into his neck.

Chapter Text

Saron didn’t sleep that well. He twisted and turned in his squeaky old bed in dreamless sleep. Whenever tiredness washed over him, the ringing silence cut right into his ears, scaring every sleepy thought away.

He huffed under the old shaggy blanket. For a moment, he wondered if he should switch old mattress stuffed with hay with wooden floor. At least then the seeping cold from wood would sink into his skin and bones and clear his head.

However, the ground is littered with dust and flecks of mud. If he slumped down, he’d surely get into sneezing fit as his nose was sensitive. But then again, a sneeze would be a sound to battle the silence.

But at the cost of snot.

Scratch that.

Typically, the underground stables were noisy with the creatures. Whether it was the growls and whines of the mares or their steady breathing in sleep.

Saron had decided to rest in one of the rundown rooms of the stables, then the servant chambers in the manor. It had been too clean, and it had made Saron uncomfortable as it was too silent. Not a squeak from neighbors nor the halls. That night he had secretly slipped out of the manor and turned to the stables. The rumble of beasts calmed him as he nestled in a stack of hay. Since then, he had been living in the stables. The butler was displeased with Saron’s choice. Especially, whenever a straw of hay would be stuck between Saron’s strands of hair or in curves of his horns.

Now, the stables too were silent. Like the angel’s uncaught gaze still haunted him and pulled by his skin.

Saron grumbled as he kicked the blanket. He huffed in irritation as he picked up the clock to see how much time had passed after he retired from day’s tasks.

Only a couple of hours. But it surely felt like an eternity.

After he left the angel in its chambers, he avoided the kitchens. Hell forbit, he’ll encounter the butler again with his piercing green eyes that would check if there was an empty tray in his hands. Saron wasn’t in the mood for a lecture and scorn. Especially for endless questions of the curious maids and servants. He made peace with himself to hold down with the gossip and comments when he would visit the kitchen, whenever to pick the angel’s meal or find a snack for himself. But he had to draw the line or not show his tail.

Saron mind wondered to the angel. Again.

He wasn’t sure of what to think of it. The lord’s orders were loud and clear even if they were cryptic. But in all resume the main point was to keep it alive and…happy.

Saron licked his lips. How would he accomplish that he didn’t know. He highly doubted that the first impression of the mansion was positive to the angel. Not when it was put in the cage nor when the lord given it a lesson of manners.

He turned to the other side.

Whatever.

He can’t expect too much. He doesn’t know a shit about angelic kind, but it surely would take time to even gain its trust. If that would be even possible.

And there is the butler’s comment. Do not be deceived.

Jill loved all the cryptic stories and legends she could get her hands on. Even conspiracy theories, which most of them were nonsense. And that included angelic too.

She sometimes yapped about their supposed grace and purity, that they loved with all their soul every being that walked the realms. Even worms and maggots. Other times, Jill whispered of ridiculous theories that the angels had infiltrated into demonic ranks and pulled the strings of the realms. Half the time, Saron shook his head, warning with such words she could lose a tongue, or worse. No one badmouths a demonic hierarchy.

Saron didn’t believe in any folk tales or superstitions of angels. They were myths made to scare and comfort. If they were real, he would have known them years before.

But the same myth turns out to be alive. And he’s to keep it breathing and well. What a job.

The demon shifted in his place again. He was restless, even when tiredness lingered in his bones. Damm it.

He suddenly rose up from his bed, slipped into his boots and tumbled out of his rundown room. If he can’t sleep, then he won’t sleep.

He checked the harnesses, ones that the lord favored during his hunts. Found one cracked at the edges. Saron pulled out oil cannister, dipped his fingers and rubbed it in between cracked leather to soften up. Only when the leather was flexible and shined spotlessly, did he hang it back in its place.

Still his hands itched uneasily. Not enough to pull his mind away.

Saron scanned through the stables but there wasn’t much to check to make sure everything was in order. Each stable was clean spotless, not a single speck of dirt or old hay. The mares were left alone in the meadows to graze or catch rodents for a snack. Saron didn’t want to drag them back into stables as it reminded him of the cage. The mares won’t disappear or run off during the night as the wards protected the fences from any damage.

What is left here is the unicorn. With unblinking silver eyes, it gazed towards the manor. As it knew its fellow kind too was trapped in unforgiving realm.

Saron gazed into its paddock. It didn’t eat. Drank but not enough. The demon huffed, how can he maintain an animal who didn’t want to live further than misery? When the stallion didn’t met the grace the lord expected, he tossed aside leaving Saron nurse the creature’s health. If such case happens to the angel, Saron wasn’t sure what he would do, but he would surely pay the price by his own hide. The angel is far more precious to the lord.

He slipped out from the stables and wandered through a garden, closer to the wing where the angel was kept. Whenever Saron sniffed the air, the scent of snow haunted him to the point he wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks on him or he truly smelled.

He avoided stepping on the grass, especially on the roots that slumbered like wild beasts. The thorns rose and fell as if breathing. The buds of roses were downcast and like little birds seeking warmth nestled with each other. The petals curved as snakes.

Saron turned towards servant’s entry to the manor, where he would usually pick up bones and scraps to the hounds. There was nothing, but Saron figured it was too early for breakfast preparation. He quietly slipped inside and breathed in the stale air, far different than the outside one, full of scents of soil.

The halls were silent, slumbering. After tending to the manor and lord’s wishes, the servants too were retired.

Except for Saron. And the muffled steps of polished shoes above. The lord must be busy, Saron thought.

Saron didn’t delve into the politics of Hell. To him, it was much more of a spider web, one you won’t realize you were pulled into after it is too late. Often the lords boast and out of boredom make enemies of each other. So, Saron decided better to keep his nose away from being an entertainment of the demonic nobility. Although he isn’t sure how long.

He found himself stepping down the stone stairs towards the dungeon. The further he went down, the more rundown the stones were: smoothed by the edges, web like cracks adored surface and dark moss for decoration.

The lanterns adored the dark endless halls, lonely did the flames flickered inside. He saw the doors of the chamber right before him, cast in a gloomy glow. Heavy and oppressive, guarding a great possession inside.

Saron sighed and fixed his posture. He already told himself multiple times that he’ll check if the angel hasn’t choked on the feast the lord has provided. He’ll check and go away.

He opened the doors and stepped inside.

The same sight. The same angel in the same place. The same untouched food. The light of the lanterns danced the same way as they did before.

It unnerved Saron that everything he left was unchanged. Like it was locked in time. Only the slight odor of rot lingering in the air, betrayed the passage of time.

His boots moved silently closer to inspect the left tray.  It wasn’t even moved or touched. No Fingerprints on the polished golden edge. The goblet remained filled with wine, the edges were stained with alcoholic liquid. The meat lost the sheen and dried resembling old apple skin. Rubbery and full of ridges.  The bloody source turned into clots and scabs. Overall, the dish didn’t seem appetizing. He himself, who wasn’t picky with food, would have second thoughts of having a taste of it.

The angel didn’t bother to at least try.

Frustration settled in his stomach, but he quickly extinguished it. He can’t get mad, he’ll just make it worse than already it is, if even that is possible. Creatures quickly pick up emotions, so Saron must stay calm even if his nerves are on edge.

He only exhaled slowly as he stood up and backed away.

Saron chose the furthest conner of the chamber, specifically where an old chair is laid under a cloth. He settled down right on it, not paying attention to the old cloth or how the chair groaned. He was sure the angel was awake, even if it didn’t seem so nor could Saron see the steady fall and rise as it breathed.

He could feel how it tracked his movement, a gaze like blade hit right into his joints and marrows. But Saron tried to hide his stumbles. He just gazed back at the angel, meeting its hidden eyes.

Saron could claim again that stress reduces appetite. Now that it hasn’t eaten, even touched it, he could make out that feeding extravagant foods would cause more agitation. Such way he could reason some time and apprehension to be patient.  Not the best reasoning, he would get a lash of words from the butler. It is important not to get lord’s hopes too soon and too high. If Saron won’t meet the standard, he’ll suffer, possibly even his soul. He can’t let that happen.

But next time such excuse wouldn’t be taken lightly. It could become an insult of the lord’s generosity. He could try to hide for some time, but the servants could pick up quickly, they are like blood hounds who sniffed out rodents. Eventually, the word would spread and reach the lord’s ears.

The demon leaned further into the chair. The poor furniture creek in pain but Saron didn’t mind. It was a noise, a weapon, in this chamber. He observed the angel for any of its reaction.

There was nothing. Not a shiver or tensing muscles at the sound of char’s weeps.

He waited till morning came. While demon realm didn’t follow the rules of mortals, most demons had picked up some characteristics of the living so communication would be clear. The morning, the day and so on meant active time for the demons while the night was resolved to rest.

During the whole time the angel didn’t even shiver or flexed a muscle. At some hours, Saron wondered if it was doing this purposely. To mock him or reject Hell itself. For how long would it keep this up? The lord is no patient man and would like to see progress fast, but the angel didn’t seem to share the same sentiment.

The stench of rot intermingled with scent of snow and thunderstorm.  Saron could practically taste these two smells. An awful combination.

Saron checked the time. Around half an hour before the servants rise to complete today’s lord’s whims.

The smell was getting to him. He could taste the sour meat in his mouth. It edged him further to nauseousness. When he couldn’t take any better, he rose up and came closer to the cage.

He crouched and leaned forward observing the mop of feathers and then the dish. Saron hoped it wouldn’t be same case with the unicorn that it couldn’t consume anything demonic. It would make it harder to reach fresh produce from earthly realms, not by the typical means. If he served rotten food, the lord would surely serve Saron’s head on a plate instead.

But first, he should find out whether all this is due to stress. But that would take time, and Saron doubts he could keep it starving without receiving a scorn from the butler and…the lord.

“You must be terrified.” Saron muttered in the air.

He waited for response, but nothing came. Not a shift of scent.

…

“I told you it was too stressed.” Saron stated as he dropped the angel’s tray on the table in the kitchens. While the clatter drew the curious and baffled eyes of servants, not one of them spoke nor even murmured under their noses. Not while the butler stood, observing what Saron had brought.

“The lord wouldn’t be pleased to know his generosity was rejected.” After a while the butler said flatly, more irritated at Saron’s neglect of not completing a task than angel’s appetite. His tone annoyed Saron.

“Well, I can’t force it, can I? Not a single feather can fall.” Saron bit back.

The butler eyed him expressionlessly, although his mouth turned into barely noticeable frown.

“Complain to the lord, not to me. I am to make sure your tasks are met properly. Nothing more.”

Saron shut his mouth and turned his head away. Yapp a complaint in the face of the lord and he’ll surely be skinned alive. You don’t critique demon nobility, if you have a care for your filthy life.

“By the end of the week, you are to report to our lord of your progress. By then make sure it is calmer.” The butler warned as he eyed Saron.

The chimeras mouth twitched but he didn’t grumble anything further. Easier said than done.

A one day had passed but he can clearly see that one week to calm it is a madman’s fantasy. A unicorn took months. An angel? Years perhaps, if even possible it is.

And Saron has no time. The lord is no patient man and Saron wouldn’t like to see the lord take the matter into his hands. While Saron hadn’t made any connection with angel, he still wouldn’t want to hear its screams under lord’s lesson.

“Go tend to your other tasks. The lord’s pet’s meal will be served later.”

“Meat again?”

“The lord’s wishes.” The other confirmed.

Saron wordlessly nodded, disappointed. How’s he going to make it eat?

He should get moving with other lord’s creatures, he is late than usual. The hounds would go anxious.

Once the butler had left, leaving doors swings by behind him, did the left servants burst into chatter. Some were baffled at the angel’s poor manners of rejecting the lord’s gifts. Others expressed worry, claiming when the angel weeps, tragedies would soon come.

Saron fled as fast as he could from the kitchen so he wouldn’t become the main target of questions and gossip. He sneaked his way out from the back door where most supplies were brought. Mostly beasts to butcher and eat.

When he stepped outside, he felt like he could breathe.  While some servants worked in the gardens, Saron couldn’t feel their breaths at his nape compared inside.

The first stop, the colosseum, he decided. It would be best to check if none of the hounds had decided to claw their way out. The pit was deep enough not to jump out or climb out but enough not to kill any oath breakers after a fall. Screams of being mauled by hounds was lord’s entertainment.

 But as long as Saron had been handling these beasts, anything could happen when a hell hound is dead set on a scent.

These hounds were bred with a sharp nose capable of picking up and tracking scents through the realms. While the lord had no time, he sent the hounds to catch and drag oath breakers to the lord’s feet. Saron had been working hard that these beasts would bring a live one in pieces, although it was no mercy as the lord had worse plans than ripping oath breakers to shreds.

Instead of descending into the lowest levels of the colosseum, Saron chose to inspect it from above: the entrance level, where the pit could be viewed. Around the gapping hole stone fence guarded anyone from falling into. While the lord craved for magnificent place to view oath breakers be teared into pieces by hounds’ sharp teeth, Saron was the one who instead of having a fence all around it. An extra safety measure of hounds not escaping their pasture.

When Saron came closer, the little stones and gravel cracked under his boot, he peaked into the gapping hole of the colosseum. He could count several of the hounds which were roaming out in the open. He whistled to catch their attention.

The ears of the hounds instantly perked, and their wolf eyes turned to meet Saron’s. They watched him with a hungry look, waiting for when he would fall into their pit. Their snouts twisted into snarls, full of razor-sharp teeth.

Once the hounds recognized his scent, they whelped and barked in greeting. Some beast heads peaked out form their dens, their sleep filled bodies moved sluggishly, tails low. But soon they grew excited and wagged their tails. Hot saliva dripped from their snouts, pooling on the floors. Saron could hear the ground, dust and flakes of tiny stones sizzle under the boiling acid.

In his mind, Saron counted not their heads, but their bodies. The lord owed some that had several snouts.

His breath hitched as he realized that there were less hounds than it should have been. He counted again and eyed the dens keenly. After multiple tries the number still was wrong.

Saron cursed under his breath.

There was one missing.

He quickly turned around to see any clues where it might have gone. With a hand he ran through the stone railings looking for claw marks. The stone was smooth however Saron managed to feel barely visible claw marks.

He noted that area. A weak spot he would have to check through later. If one could climb over, then another could follow.

Despite how much he eyed the environment and scratch marks, his guts knew where it had gone.

The manor.

It will make such a mess. The servants would not be thankful to fix all the chaos it could create, and the lord be furious that a flea bag hound would destroy broad collection of rare artifacts and arts and charge and perhaps maul the angel. If the cage is not strong that is.

Saron swiftly bolted into the lower floor of the colosseum, where all leashes were kept. Short, long, chain, leather, spiked like rose thorns. When Saron had stumbled down, he grabbed the very first one in sight. Shor, the leather adored with thorns.

Saron didn’t bother to check or change the leach, he turned away to bolt through stairs again, low whines emitted from their throats. Ears low and no wagging tails. Each pair of eyes staring right into his back.

Saron’s eyes quickly flicked back to the hounds. “I know but…I’ll be back.”

He ran along the long stairs, not paying attention to needy whines and whelps or rattling bars. He has a priority now which would be best not to be noticed by the lord.

To track a hellhound wasn’t a hard job if you knew where to look clues…which mostly were chaos and destruction. Whenever the hound picked up the scent, it would barge in with pure strength no matter what the obstacle is.

Claw marks on the grass each mop tore from the soil. The roses of the garden twisted like angry snakes ready to strike and sink their fangs into anyone that got too close. The already got the taste of hounds bashing tail.

Saron mentally cursed again as he saw the hound’s tracks lead into the entrance of the manor.

Great.

The marble stairs at the entrance of the estate were marred with claw marks, mud and weeds. Saron ran through them, for now not minding the mess.

Once he was inside, the main hall reeked of hellhound fur. Saron left the main doors open. He hopes the smell will clear up fast.

The hall, no surprise, was a mess. Mudd with tufts of grass dirtied the red carpets. Some pedestals were knocked down. The marble marred with cracks. Some broke in half. Luckly the artifacts were metal, dented on the impact of the fall but one piece. Although Saron doubted the lord would be pleased with a dent.

Some servants were shaken up, quickly gathering whatever they held previously before the hound had rushed in. Some picked up porcelain cups and splattered shards. Other quickly rushed to pull up the pedestals to its proper places. Some already with brooms brushed the dirt, dust and debris away.

Saron rushed past the servants, not minding their scornful eyes at the back of his spine. They aren’t very happy with extra work that must be done before the lord decides to see what disturbance it is. And Saron himself brought extra dirt, smudging the red carpet furthermore.

Just before Saron entered the dungeons, he heard a loud crash under his feet. Even the floor shook, making the chimera nearly trip on his boots. The lanterns swayed back and forth bring shadows and lights into a dance.

And then victorious howl. Of finding the prey.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The lord would notice that.

Saron ran through the endless halls of the dungeon. The leash jolted like a whip behind him. As he came to see the doors, his jaw clenched. There was nothing left from the door. Some pieces still hung on the hinges, but the floor was filled with dozens of splinters and shards that nearly reached Saron’s feet.

 Saron was filled with dread of the lord’s reaction of the beast barging and destroying things, but what scared him the most was the deafening silence inside the room.

He carefully stepped closer, minding the splitters and shards of wood. His ears peaked keenly catching even the faintest sounds, but he couldn’t detect anything. Not even a single breath of the hound. Saron’s dark hair bristled.

His head peaked through the doorway; he was careful not to rush in as he didn’t know what to expect. The scent of acid hit his face first.

The hound bit into the bars with its fangs. It shook its head, even a whole body shuddered, but the bars did not bulge. Did not even groan under the beast’s powerful jaws. The saliva trickled down the metal sizzling the very first layers of the cage. Under, its runes were more prominent than before.

Whenever the hound pulled its head, it dragged the whole cage forward.

Then Saron eyes landed on the angel. It was still in its conner hidden under the silvery golden feathers.

But then, just barely the feathers shuffled, and the wings opened, just enough for an eye to peak out. A sky blue, like a shard of a star but one full of something that made Saron’s neck shiver uncomfortably. Its eye gazed straight into the hound with unyielding resentment and disinterest.

The hound’s growls of determined frustration died and were replaced with a pitiful whine. As if it tasted like a toad, its maws let go of the bars. Its ears flattened on its head so much, like it glued itself to the furred neck.

A whole tremble ran through the beast, limbs wobbly like its each paw held unimaginable weight. Soon with a loud thump the hound flattened on the ground, tail hidden between its legs. Another miserable whine escaped from its throat. Eyes downcast in submission, avoiding the angel.

Then the angel’s eye slid from the hound to Saron.

Saron’s breath caught in his throat as he froze in his place. He could hear his own heartbeat so loudly, like a drum beat right under his nose.

The eye did not waver nor blink, just stared at Saron with same contempt as it greeted the hound before. Perhaps even more so.

But there was something far beyond anger. Something Saron could define as indifference, one that ran so deep that it ran through rage. Deeper than the endless seas and depths of the underworld. Like Saron was beneath it, worth less than dirt.

The urge to bow his head, to look anywhere else, scraped raw inside him. His knees nearly buckled but he grabbed the doorway to keep himself upright. His own claws dug deep into the wooden chunks. He didn’t register splinters digging in his palm.

Saron couldn’t hold his gaze to meet the angels anymore. He only knew it stripped him bare to the bones and marrows, weighed his soul and found him lacking.

The wings shifted and closed the gap, hiding the eye from anyone to see or feel such scorn. The piercing gaze was gone.

Saron felt like he could breathe. He sucked a deep breath into himself tasting both scents of the alien angel and earthly hound.  The same sentiment shared the hound as it jumped to flee with a puffed tail squeezed in between its legs.

The sound scarping claws on the stone brought the demon back into reality. Saron shook his head and just barely managed to catch its collar with both of his hands when the beast bolted through the doors into dungeons halls.  The hound fought Saron’s iron grip with sudden powerful jerks, the claws digging into the stone dragging long marks. Growls and whines escaped from the creature, not targeted at Saron but at the angel.

It jumped at the furthest wall, dragging Saron with itself. The other slipped on the splinters and painfully tumbled down on the ground, hissing in pain. But still Saron didn’t let go, instead he pulled the collar harder bringing the beast down with himself. It too tumbled down, its limbs sprawled and trashed.

 In between its trashes Saron somehow managed to buckle the leash. However, it did not grant any victory to Saron.

Just as Saron’s grip lessened as he wrapped his hand around the leash, the hound turned to bolt out of the chamber like a terrified rodent, pulling the chimera with itself. Saron tried to keep it in place, but the hound’s pure strength was too strong, and his boots kept slipping on the stone-cold floor, unable to get a steady footing.

Before he was dragged, he peaked at the angel but didn’t see it bulge again. The gaze hidden under the wings, but Saron could still feel how the cold gaze picked at his skin, nearly severing the tissue from muscle. His neck itched.

The hound, without paying a mind, pulled Saron along with itself. Its large body dragged him through the halls of the dungeon, knocking down lanterns on its way. Splatters of glass and wax adored the ground besides claw marks.

Saron tried to keep himself upright and not slipping on the leftover debris on the ground. As he kept up with beast, his foot landed right into pool of melted wax. He slipped and fell on his back on shards of glass, his head hitting the stone floor. His hold of the leash lessened.

Saron hissed as pain exploded in his head, but he didn’t have a single second to think as the hound ran further away dragging him along the way. He gripped the leash tightly as he cannot let a hound, which bolts like headless chicken, lose. It would surely bring even more destruction.

He turned his head to see the view in front beside the large body of the hound. His eyes caught the glint of old stone stairs.

He cannot let the hound drag him further if he wants to have less bruised back than he already has. As the stairs of upper floor came closer Saron angled his legs to meet the flat side of the stairs. He braced for the impact as the hound picked up the pace.

Just as he touched the stairs Saron pulled the leash with all his might cursing under his breath. The hound fell back its front paws swaying in the air and the claws of hind legs scraped the dungeon stairs. The tail rose up to keep its balance, but the hound lost it and toppled down on the ground besides Saron.

It coughed for a moment; the sound was more like a howl. Saliva trickled down, each drop sizzled on the ground like oil in the pan.

Saron didn’t wait much longer and latched on to the collar again, this time making sure that the hound wouldn’t decide to jump and bolt again.

The beast growled and snapped its powerful maws trying to snap Saron’s hands in half. Once its red eyes turned to the demon and breathed in his scent did it faltered with its struggle.

“Scary that thing is, aye.” Saron breathed out puffs of air as he lessened his grip on the collar and turned to stand up.

The hound’s ears perked as it listened to the demon’s voice, and it whined in agreement.

“That’s why you shouldn’t run off after every scent you pick up.” Saron muttered as he petted its head. The ears flattened on its head as if it understood the scold.

Saron let the hound stand up but kept a hand on the collar. The beast has calmed but just in case. Once the hound stood up on all four paws like a wet dog it shook away stress. Still its fur was puffed and tail lowered low.

When the beast was done, Saron nudged it to move. The sooner they get out of the manor, the better. After few pushes the hound turned to move, its ears turned back and forth as if it tried to pick up any sounds behind them. Once it didn’t pick up any noises did it paid attention to Saron’s moves.

They slowly trekked through the stairs as each step was too small for the hound to have a firm footing. Saron had stopped holding the collar, only held the leash, letting the beast walk at its own pace. Still, he had the leash fastened around his wrist for a couple of loops.

When they finally reached the top, Saron stepped carefully as if crossing an enemy’s territory. He observed the hallway but there wasn’t anyone on sight. It was clean as if brand new and all the rushing servants were already gone. As if no hound had dashed through here.

Boy, do they work fast. Saron thought.

He walked silently, making sure his steps wouldn’t be loud as he led the beast through the halls towards the exit. Whenever the hound growled and whined, he shushed it.

The main hall was completely clean and in order. For a second, Saron thought he might have hit his head too hard. But his eyes didn’t lie nor his nose.  There was no mud nor tusks of grass on the ground but only polished marble. The carpets were in deep red without any stain in sight, soft and without wrinkles. Not even the scent of the hound’s fur.

All the pedestals were set back into proper places. Saron couldn’t see any cracks and the artifacts rested in proper shape. No dent nor dirt.

Still, Saron felt uneasy as heaviness settled in his guts. As if he, a prey, stood before endless fields wondering if there’s a predator lurking in the distance.

He pushed the thought away and silently looking at all the conners of the hall stepped into the main hall nearing towards the exit. He nudged the hound to walk beside him, minding where its claws were put.

It was silent, too silent. Not the kind of the angel but Saron heart drummed. He listened carefully but couldn’t pick up anything suspicious.

The main hall felt too long, too spacious.

It made Saron too exposed. He gripped the leash tighter.

Just when Saron reached closer to the exit, his hand hovering over the handle, did he hear a sound which made his spine turn rigid.

One that sounded awfully like a hum. Soft and lazy one.

The one when lord was displeased.

A shiver ran through Saron’s body as he gulped cursing himself of a thought of slipping away unnoticed.

Chapter Text

The lord’s fingers drummed on the oak handle of the fence of second floor near grand stairs that led into upper floors. The clicks were loud and crip in the silence.

However, Saron’s beating heart rang louder in his ears. He stood hunched and frozen in its place. The hound was too curled, its head and tail low, ears flattened to its head.

Saron fist that held the leash shivered as he waited for the lord’s words.

Painfully slow minutes passed, one that put Saron’s nerves on edge.

“I heard noise.” The master said casually. “It made me wonder what you have been up too.”

Saron swallowed and slowly turned to face the lord. Still, he kept his eyes low on the ground, but it wasn’t too hard to figure out where the master of the manor stood. On second floor did he rested his arms on dark oak fences as he leaned forward.

“Care to indulge my curiosity?”

Saron’s Adam apple wobbled as he figured what to say to the lord.

“My lord-”

“Get rid of the mutt and go to the study.” The lord cut Saron as he turned away to his studies. “I’ll be waiting.” He warned.

The other curtly nodded “Yes, my lord.”

Saron rushed away from the manor, pulling the hound, making sure it wouldn’t cause a mess, even leave a single strand of hair on the floor.

The way to the colosseum felt painstakingly slow as if this conner of the manor was forgotten by time. He ignored the eyes of the servants, the ones who tended the gardens, their careful hands griped gardening scissors and snapped crocked thorns of roses. Saron didn’t bother to spare a glance at them nor say a word. He only gripped the leash tightly wishing not to come across anything that could hold back master’s wish of indulging curiosity.

He can’t be late, even when dreaded facing the lord so much as he knew a punishment was due.

When he finally reached the pit of the hounds, Saron unhooked the leash while he held the collar. Inside other beasts looked up, their ears straight, listening. Their snouts raised, tongues peaked out tasting the scents in the air.

The beasts, seeing their own brethren, howled and yelped in greeting. Some stood on their hind legs too reach higher.

“Off you go.” He nudged the hound forward.

The hound’s front paws settled down on the fence that kept the edge of the pit and amphitheater separate. With powerful kick it jumped down and landed with a loud thud.

The beasts greeted their siblings with whelps and sniff. They smelled every conner of its fur taking in new unfamiliar scents.

Saron didn’t wait much longer to see the reactions of hounds to the scent and dove back into the manor. He dreaded going back but he couldn’t turn back nor run away. The deal he had made wouldn’t let him go against the lord’s orders.

On his way, he tried to fix his crumbled shirt and pick out pieces of glass and wax that stuck to the fabric. With his claw he swiped through his hair, getting rid of knots and unfamiliar objects.

Hoping he looked at least a bit decent, he entered the manor and went straight to the lord’s office. He didn’t look up to the paintings as these made him nauseous. Once the heavily wide dark oak doors decorated with a hellish landscape came into view, he slowed his pace to calculated steps.

Saron breathed in and tried to calm himself and his beating heart. Panic wouldn’t help him. The lord doesn’t like weakness or disobedience.

He knocked on the door once and waited for an answer. A long stretch of minutes passed but Saron didn’t knock twice. He patiently waited for permission to enter.

The doors opened slowly on their own, revealing the view of the owner of this household, engulfed in red light. He stood in front of red windows, gazing into his gardens. The servants, like little ants, doted around the rose fields, tending to each thorn and blossom.

“You’re late, Saron.” The lord stated lazily, not sparing a single look at the other. He watched how a gardener carried a bouquet of the finest crimson red roses.

“My apologies, my lord.” The chimera muttered, his eyes low.

The lord swayed his head sideways considering the other’s apology. Then he gestured at the two armchairs and a coffee table between them. “Come, sit.”

Saron eyed the furniture and hesitated. It was too expensive; he could dirty the fabrics of the chair and nick the polished wood, leaving ugly scratches on curved ornaments of thorns. He opened his mouth to decline but was shortly cut off.

“Come, come, Saron, no need to be modest.” The lord encouraged him again as he sat down. His voice was light and casual as if he greeted a dear friend, not a servant.

Saron reluctantly stepped forward, his steps slow, ones of a timid feline. All his muscles were tense, waiting for the trap to sprang out. But none came.  The lord observed him in a content gaze. For now.

He stopped beside the chair waiting but the lord only flicked his chin, inviting him to lounge as he picked up a bottle of old wine and a pair of glasses.

Saron slowly sat down. The more he sunk down into the cushion, the more his back straightened. He didn’t dare to lean back as he knew leftover bits of wax stuck to his shirt on the backside could ruin the intricate embroidery of the chair.

He settled down his hands on his lamp and didn’t lift his gaze above the table. His leg twitched in uneasiness, but he forced himself to stop. The lord likes silence.

“Care for a drink? One of the finest vintages, made from the grapes of our prince’s Zagan gardens. Our governor is masterful in winemaking. A true work of art.”

Saron swallowed thickly as the other opened the bottle. Thick scent of alcohol crawled into the air mixing with the musky incense in the room. Spicy, sour and unexpectedly light as air. It plagued Saron’s nose and crawled into his head like a nightmare did to a mind. He couldn’t figure out what the scent reminded him of.

“Thank you, my lord, but I must decline.” Saron said as if he kept his voice steady.

The master hummed in thought as he poured the drink into his glass, the liquid sloshed like mad waves in a storm. “So humble, Saron, here I figured you would like to taste a true quality. It is a rare chance.”

“My tongue is too foul for such arts.” Saron wheezed out, keeping his eyes low.

The other as if hearing an innocent joke chuckled lightly. Yet it didn’t reach his eyes. Saron couldn’t decipher whether the lord was pleased or irritated by his decline of such invitation to taste finery.

“As you wish.” He nodded as he took a sip himself.

A hum of content echoed in the chamber as the lord enjoyed the flavorful taste. Saron only listened. His leg nearly started to shake but he reminded himself to breathe.

The lord shifted in his place, taking more comfortable position as he leaned to the armchair. He settled down the glass on the wooden table and nestled his ringed fingers on his knees.

A minute passed, unbearably uncomfortable for Saron. But he kept still.

“So, Saron…you have a story to tell. I waited for long enough.”

The chimera licked his lips. The scent made him nauseous. Should he lie? No, he can’t. If his master had already waited for him in the grand hall, he surely knew. A lie would anger him, more than he already was. And Saron didn’t wish to feel the brunt of it.

“One of the hounds had escaped. It smelled…your new pet, my lord. I chased after it but...”

Saron breathed in, aware of stepping into failure. Claws itched but he ignored. He chewed the bottom lip for a moment. Anything he would say wouldn’t make his case any better.

“But…it found the angel first.”

He waited for a second, bracing for a punch, hit, anything but nothing came. Hair at the back of his neck bristled.

“That’s what a purebred hell hound does.” The lord swirled the glass; wine shimmered like blood. “I suppose it is good that hounds could successfully track if my songbird had a whim of flying away. But I am more concerned about little bird’s wings. Beasts are nothing more than brutes.”

Saron’s breath stuck in his throat and nested into an uncomfortable knot. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that his master had implied more than hounds. Considering Saron’s past before he started to work for the lord, such words slivered under his skin like a hunting knife between skin and muscle.

“The hound didn’t hurt the angel, my lord.” He clarified. “Instead, it got scared.”

“Oh?” The lord hummed as head leaned forward taking another sip.

“Your angel, my lord, revealed itself. Did not say a word, nor lift a hand but with a gaze it reduced the hound into shivering pup.”

Saron briefly lifted his golden eyes; the lord’s red ones shone with interest and hunger.

“Fascinating. My songbird got a fiery spirit.” He smiled widely, showing too many teeth.

He swirled the drink observing how light flickered on the surface. After a while he spoke.

 “A will is good but is like a fire, it lightens the soul…but untended it blisters into wildfire. It is important to redirect it in a proper way. That is your job, Saron.”

Saron’s jaw clenched as his gut told a nice talk is coming towards the end. His claws itched again like ants traced his veins, he wished to scratch. “Yes, my lord.”

The other nodded in content as he sipped again. “Good, keep that in mind. Refined creatures need a direction.”

“Of course, my lord.”

The owner of the manor gulped down remaining wine and leisurely stood up leaving the grass on the wooden table. A droplet of remaining alcohol gathered at the rim and slivered down across the body to the base.

“While I appreciate sincerity, not only did you cause a mess due neglect but also put my songbird’s wellbeing into danger.”

Saron gulped. There it is. His hands turned to itch furthermore, like needles prickled his skin. He hated that sensation.

“I am merciful and forgive as I given you a loose leash. You’re a young demon, Saron. All there is flames in your heart…and little thought in the head.”

The lord walked to his table; his finger traced the edge until he opened one of the drawers. Saron didn’t dare to even breathe he only heard a metal click as the lord drew out large metallic pliers. Familiar, rusted by the iron scented blood of his own.

The other walked closer, his steps casual and unbothered. In his hands the pliers swayed back and forth as he played with the handles. But his voice dripped in sinister amusement as he enjoyed Saron’s unaware hunch.

“But I have my image to maintain. I can’t let anyone have unfavorable ideas.” He purred.

The demon came closer, a foot before Saron, and smiled friendly as if he had not made a promise of torture. “Now, which hand would you like? I would hate to ruin the one you favor.”

Saron’s heart quickened.

…

Cold water trickled from bloodied fingertips splattering and leaving pink streaks in the porcelain sink. Saron’s tired eyes observed how the running tap water pushed away cluttered blood clots revealing the meaty gap where his claws should have been.

One for the hound.

Second for the mess it created.

Third one for putting the angel at risk.

Saron exhaled, his hand quivered under cold water that cleaned the wounds. After the punishment, even as he grasped his injured hand with the other, it shook endlessly. Whenever the pain pulsed, the tremble reached to the elbow. Only when he reached to servant’s bathroom did it reduce the quiver. He supposes that’s stress.

He closed his eyes and breathed in. After the scent of his own blood cleared up, heaviness in the chest had lifted and his stomach settled in better. It still churned uncomfortably when he took in too much of putrid scent of his own. It reminded him of the punishment, when his blood sprang free as a claw got loose.

It had hurt. Gods, it did so much.

Pain roared in his ears, ferociously burned his nerves and blinded his thoughts. He didn’t hear his own heart’s rapid beating, nor did he feel himself flinching like a whipped dog. He only registered the creek of the pliers, the snap between bone and claw. The sensation if wetness that followed, slivering down on his fingers, made him shiver and wish to cower.

But he couldn’t. Not when the lord observed him, traced the flowing crimson blood as if checking perhaps a droplet would fall on the carpet. Not when his master baited him to hold onto the armchair, instead of gripping his own trousers. Then Saron would dirty the floor and nick the wood. Then a fourth claw would be pulled, and he wouldn’t bear another one.

Tiredness nestled in his bones. Even to open his eyes felt like unreachable task. He opened them, staring into the rusted copper tap.

The coldness bit into his fingers but it settled down the burning swelling and pain. His breath calmed down and his head cleared up from a painstaking fog.

He hated pain. He wished to tear it away, pull it apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left except for a puddle.

But pain eventually stops. It roars at first, tearing apart one’s mind and flesh, then its claws rake the skin as if asking to be not forgotten and lastly, slumbers down into nothingness. But what is left in the ashes is fear.

He despised how much he feared it. To be hurt. To be pulled into the cycle again.

Saron observed the marred skin, the fleshy gap where a bone covered by blood peaked out. In hell, pain was common occurrence. Every creature had their own claws and fangs to attack and defend. A demon could shake off wounds and blood like water. It is nothing.

But not for Saron. Not for someone who was taught to fear it. In the pits it signaled to get away from the entrance, push oneself against the rusted bars. Cower under handlers.

What’s the best way to control a beast than teaching it to cower under a hit?

Now that the pits were long gone behind, his body still remembered well enough. It shook when it knew a hit would land; his own blood would spill. It flinched when at the sound of metal scrapping, of pliers creaking.

And his mind would race at the thought of lurking punishment and when he would mess up. When he got into the manor, he had made a handful of mistakes, but a couple of lord’s ‘lesson’ proved to be beneficial, and Saron had picked the pace. He learned not to be late, to present clean and mannered.

As the months and years passed, he learned his place and how to navigate. The punishments were rare, and his body became calmer, less flinched at unsuspected sounds, even his mind settled down. But it was never enough, the lurking taught of fucking things up never left.

And this punishment reminded all of this quite well enough.

In other palm he held the three claws. Curved and sharp, ones a predator possessed. Still with red drying specks. There were slivers of skin at the edges and shards of bones. He eyed them with disgust and pulled them under the water too letting the stream carry away leftover tissue.

The lord had an idea for Saron – collect the claws, in that way the chimera would know how many mistakes he had made. To know how well he behaves.

But all it really meant to Saron was the count of pain he had gone through. Each collected claw carried a nightmare of pain, blood and dread, all things he wished claw out of himself.

He kept them in a darkened jar in his living space. He would have hidden it in the closet where he wouldn’t see it every time he entered to rest. But his lord suggested keeping it in a plain sight, preferably on the table beside the bed so that Saron could see it whenever he wakes up.

So, it stayed at the table. He saw the claws when he rose up, wrote little notes and gone to rest.

In total he had collected 22 claws. Now, 25.

He didn’t wish to raise the number higher, but his guts told him the worst are further ahead. Taking care of the angel, it is. For one tarnished feather, his one claw.

Saron turned the knob of the sink. The flow of water reduced into droplets; each one fell and splattered on the porcelain. Like a wilted flower, his hand hovered over the sink. The three claws that rested on the bottom – three fallen petals.

He observed and waited for the last remaining slivers of water to trickle down. The meaty gaps swelled with blood that stitched together the marred skin.

While the punishment is over, it’ll take time to heal. A non-lethal flesh wound would take a couple of days but for a bone knits itself together, grows for a week. His claws come back. New and sharp.

Saron flinched as a door creaked opened behind him. Jill’s head peaked out, her wet nose twitched as she sniffed the air. In her arms she carried a bundle of bandages and rags.

“I thought I find you here.” She started gently, slowly creeping into a bathroom, as if approaching a scared cat.

The other didn’t turn, just his back hunched just a little bit further as if it couldn’t decide whether to hide or flee. Still, Saron stood frozen wanting the earth itself to swallow him.

The maid crept closer, her hooves barely made any sound. She stopped at Saron’s rigid side and tilted her head gazing at his turned eyes. “I brought bandages.” She whispered.

Saron pulled his hands away from the sink and hid them behind, before Jill could look at them. Hideous they are. “Don’t need any. It will heal on its own.” He grumbled as he turned further away to leave.

“It will heal, but bleed, nonetheless. Claws don’t come out clean. You’ll carry a speck of blood wherever you go.” The doe demoness argued back. Her voice carried gentleness and firmness as if she had said the same words countless times.

Saron bit his inner cheek. He hated that she was right. While the flesh heals, skin stitches together into smoothness, into brand new tissue, talons don’t grow nicely. They claw their way out, piercing the new skin apart. It itches and droplet by droplet the hand would bleed again, dirtying whatever Saron would touch.

And the lord wouldn’t like that.

But still, whenever Saron thought of wrapping his hand, a shame rose. Demons don’t carry bandages. Only low life would walk with wrapped rags as their bodies couldn’t regenerate fast.

It meant one’s heart beat weakly, lacking magic. Weak heart was a death sentence in hell.

 And the others would know he was punished. Again.

“Everyone would know.” He grumbled weakly, knowing he would lose the argument anyways.

“No one mistakes screams.” Jill confirmed solemnly as her furred chestnut ears lowered. “But it’s better to tend than govern pride.”

Saron huffed, irritated. She was right. He hated that he had lost the same argument countless times whenever he was punished for any mistake. He even had a taste of the lord’s scorn when he splattered blood on a door’s handle as he slumped to leave. The lord is a clean man.

A couple of drops from the tap fell into the sink.

Fine.

As his back straightened, Saron outstretched his unwounded hand. „Give them.”

But before he reached to grasp the rags, Jill swiftly pulled away, grasping the bundle of bandages to her chest.

 “Oh no, you’ll do a poor job of bandaging. It’ll just fall off. I’ll do it.” She shook her head tutting.

“Jill…” he growled, baring his teeth. That he accepted was enough. Coddling was out of question. Several times she had patched his clawless hands; he simply didn’t want her to see his marred flesh again. He doesn’t want her pity.

But the doe wasn’t fazed by Saron’s threat. Before she turned away to look for a stool, she bared her own curved fangs in challenge. Once she found it, she carried it to the other and gestured smiling “Come, sit.”

Saron stood, unmoving. He stared at the wooden stool as if its bare existence had offended him.

“No.” He spat out.

Jill puffed up her cheeks and stood her ground. Her ears folded back, the dark furred edges curved like arcs.

Saron did what any reasonable demon would do.

He slumped down. On the tilled floor. He stared right at the demoness who gazed back at him with unimpressed eyes.

A long-stretched minute passed between them until Jill huffed, her voice between a playful and annoyance. Saron’s mouth twitched but he would never admit it as a smile.

“You never want to do anything you’re told to do.” She murmured as she shook her head.

“You’ll dirty your skirts if you laid on the floor.” He mumbled, his head turned away.

“Maid’s clothes are made to be dirtied.” She shook her dead.

She positioned the stool by Saron and sat down. Her dark layered skirts fluttered down like curtains. With her hands, she picked up an old, tattered towel and delicately placed it on her lap.

“Hand now.” She gestured invitingly. “I don’t have all the time.”

Saron pursed his lips. His pride still hurt for submitting, and shame lingered. However, what stung him the most was fear. Fear of Jill, despite years of knowing her, would thrust her own claws in Saron’s injured ones and tear skin and break bones.

He shook his head. He knew her for enough time, that she wouldn’t gloat upon nor ridicule other’s pain.

After several grumbles he carefully not to bump or curl his fingers raised his injured hand on her lap. He kept his head turned away, even his eyes did not gaze at the doe.  He simply didn’t wish to see her face fall. Still his gaze flickered shyly. To make sure, he would say.

Like any previous time, Jill’s face remained unchanged. Her ears did not lower nor did her nose twitch. While her eyes shone with sadness and the conners of her lips stretched, she never said anything pitiful. For that Saron was glad as his pride wouldn’t handle it.

Jill began her work. She picked up the corner of the towel and gently brushed away gathered blood and undried water. She checked through every little scale that grew on his knuckles, joints and rims where claws met skin. She delicately swept through loose scales, mindful not to pull them with the rag.

Even with her careful pats it stung like bee’s venom. Saron hissed several times but kept his hand steady. It stung more whenever she patted between gaps. When it stung too much, his hand would flinch, and body turned tense ready to flee. Saron had to remind himself that Jill was helping, not hurting him.

Once the maid deemed the hand was clean, she began to wrap it with bandages. She unraveled a strip and slid it under his palm. She mentioned the other to press the end with a thumb. Then Jill in multiple layers delicately wrapped each finger tightly but loose enough for mobility. Her fingers worked with ease and made sure not to accidentally bump into the wounds.

While she worked, Saron’s head remained turned away. In the air he could pick up damp scent of his own blood lowering and feel the fabric tightening his hand. He didn’t say anything, but his breathing loosened as the pain dulled down into background throb. Skin started to stitch itself together.

When she finished, Jill wrapped the ends into a neat bow. “There finished. Extra padding if bumped into something.” She patted his wrist. “Was it so hard?” She teased.

Saron hissed, one not out malice. He took his hand back into his lap, careful not to pull anything. Not to lose pride, he didn’t inspect Jill’s handy work, but his other hand unconsciously traced the layers of fabric.

Jill laughed and folded the towel into a square. There were some specks of blood.

Then they settled into silence. Saron’s head rested on the wall behind him while the maid cleaned the towel under the sink. Only water splashes echoed as she scrubbing away Saron’s blood from the towel. She worked without mentioning the three claws that rested at the bottom, coated in water each time she squeezed the liquid out of fabric.

Once she was done, she let the old rag rest on the edge of the sink.

“You must be hungry, I didn’t see you snuffing around the kitchens.” She stated.

Saron’s stomach churned at the thought of eating meat after he had seen his own gaping flesh. He swallowed thickly as his tongue grew bitter. Now the scents of meats and sounds of chef’s cleave cutting through bone and skin would surely turn him nauseous.

“No appetite.”

“Well, you need keep up energy or do want to walk around waddled in bandages longer?” Jill bit back without malice but with a hint of teasing.

But Saron knew he had been out of work too long. He can’t slack off, even with an injured hand that would barely hold anything for today. He didn’t want to think how many times he would accidentally hit himself or stumble against something.

“Then I have no time. Master’s wishes must be tended.” He said slowly standing up. He tried his best to put the least pressure on his weakened hand.

Jill didn’t argue back, she simply nodded. “Yes, I have my own hands full. I’d see you later then, don’t forget to eat something later. A starving demon is a brainless one.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Saron mumbled as he walked to the sink and picked up the three wet claws. Somehow these claws weighed far more than should have.

He gazed at his severed parts of himself. Perfectly curved and sharp to rake skin and flesh, pierce into a bone and keep prey in place. His talons and fangs had saved him plenty of times. In the pits, he only could trust his own sharp weapons for survival.

But now as he held them in his palms, like after any other punishment, his guts sat heavy. While they regrew back, curved and sharp as a razor, each time it felt like a part of him, one he couldn’t point out, had been pulled piece by piece at the same time.

He shouldn’t hold his own parts in his hands. Let alone collect them. He shouldn’t trace the rims where keratin and bone met, the shards of bone and muscle that still was attached to the back of the claw.

Saron swiftly flexed his hand into a fist, the claws dug into his palm, nearly drawing blood. He wished to throw them as far as possible where he could never see them ever again, not touching them and tracing the jagged ends, parts that should have been inside of him.

But also, part of him secretly asked to tear away Jill’s careful bandages, thrust the claws right back into his open wounds and observe whether his body would except that severed part of him again and grew back into one.

But new always grew.

He sighed as he hid the three claws in the pocket of his trousers. He has work to do, not sulk of the inevitable. The creatures must maintain, feed and be cleaned. That included the angel too, the most beloved by the lord.

After Saron had messed up, his master would surely keep an eye on him, to make sure Saron had learned the lesson.

When he turned, Jill was already gone. The exit doors were shut like they hadn’t been opened before. Saron didn’t hear her leave.

He slowly exhaled as he picked up a pocket watch to check to time.

After lunch. He’s sulked for long enough and now is running late.

He mentally counted the number of tasks that should be done. More precisely, importance and duration.

The lord’s new pet takes priority. The lord wouldn’t be pleased to hear that his beloved new pet was tended even a minute late. Besides, its meal should have been prepared by now.

Chapter Text

Saron walked through the manor with a golden tray in his hand. It was meat. Yet again.

He doubted that the angel would eat it. Yesterday it hadn’t touched anything, The same with previous day.

It made Saron anxious in three ways.

First, the gloaming threat of not completing lord’s wish of the menu. Expensive meat that cost more than his own hide and fragrant wine so far went down the drain, were left alone to rot all day. The lord wouldn’t be too pleased to know his fortunes are wasted.

Second, his master would take offense of angel’s lack of manners. More precisely, the expenses are the lord’s generosity. Once the lord’s pride takes a hit, the angel would surely have a couple of lessons of good etiquette. Or Saron would get the brunt of it for neglecting his tasks of raising a well-mannered pet.

And thirdly, he isn’t so sure about welfare of the angel. For how long doesn’t it have to eat? Demons could last weeks, if their hearts are strong that is. He heard that some fiends had lasted even years without food or water, only sustained by the magic their beating heart produced. But that’s mostly applied to deserted demons and beasts.

But how is it with angel? Does it have such ability? For how long can it keep up not feeling hunger? But when it finally gnaws what would it do? Would it ignore just out of spite, choose misery or would it succumb?

In his opinion, he doubts that the angel would give this soon, not with the piercing gaze it is blessed with.

But pride and stubbornness are dangerous things. It saves demons dignity, but when too much of it is, it only destroys and makes a lesson for everyone to know not to overestimate themselves nor others. Many demons had died thinking less of their prey or the deals they had made.

So, Saron hoped that the angel had some brains, not only feathers. That it is smart as its eyes showed.

He sighed as he trekked into the dungeon. Its stone halls were clean. No shards on the ground, no splashed wask. Not even the scent of the hound’s fur. Brand new lanterns hung, the flames danced dizzily inside. As if a hell hound had not run through here and Saron wasn’t dragged around by the leash.

If he hadn’t worn the same dirty clothes, he would surely for a moment doubt his own memory.

But what dungeons surely had was dampness that made the dish he carried to emit even more putrid scent. At this point he could easily get nauseous.

He swallowed thickly.

This time, the dish was much more…unique. Liver sliced into cubes placed like mountain range; blood oozed from capillaries. minced meat mixed with something Saron didn’t recognize as garnish. For decoration, like snow thinly shredded almonds with orange shavings were drizzled on top. You could say, it was a grotesque form of miniature.

Saron isn’t too sure why his master is insistent of feeding his pet with the finest cuisine, but his guts told him it was not out of merciful heart. The lord much more liked order and control and perhaps such menus scratch the right spot.

Nevertheless, it is up to Saron to fulfill such mood. Although he doesn’t know how long all this will keep up. For someone the patience would run out. It is only a question who such someone would be.

Him, the angel or the lord? A third day halfway has passed, and Saron feels like his sanity is pulling away from his mind.

Or simply perhaps he lacks sleep. He hadn’t slept that well yesterday or rather tossed around the bed until got pissed off and ventured to do something useful. Of course, there’s his aching hand, he could feel it stitching itself together, new bone forming under the skin.

To heal, energy is needed. Whether to conserve it to sleep off or to consume. Both ways didn’t seem too appealing to Saron. He has enough work to do, and his mind is too agitated by the day’s…events…to rest. His hand still reminded him of its wounds, throbbed even after Jill’s carefully wrapped bandage.

Even thinking about a meal, his stomach flipped. He doubted he could handle anything meaty and bloody. Which was not that great, when he carried a bloody dish.

He pushed away his thoughts as the angel’s chamber came into view. Saron stopped for moment to inspect.

The doors were replaced by metallic ones. The floor was clean, doorframe new and no wooden shards lingered in the conners. But surely these new ones were grander, belonging more to halls for feasts than damp underground. Golden ornaments of flowers adored the frame and edges. In each conner resided a golden blossom, the petals large and curved, like peony, right in its core – ruby shined. In the center, a landscape of mountains and birds were imprinted, their eyes of gemstones that glimmered under lantern light.

It was a bit non typical for hell to display delicate beauty. But then again it kept a creature of myths. The lord decided to have a theme, Saron supposes.

But further he observed, he found patterns of runes. So well ingrained in patterns, Saron could have missed if hadn’t bothered to inspect. After the hound’s break in, the lord decided not to play around. Saron was sure these wards could hold off more than a couple of scent crazed dogs. And probably had much more up in their sleeves than enhancement of sturdiness.

Saron breathed in, calming his mind. Why did his heart beat fast whenever he was right before the creature’s room?

Or perhaps, this still reminded him of his mistake, of neglect. The punishment was over, no need to get remined of it. The hand was wrapped; he can’t see the wounds – a good thing about bandaging. But pain nor his mind would go away that easily.

Either way, he must keep your cool. Creatures don’t respond that well when he himself is agitated.

Once Saron exhaled, readying his uninjured hand to knock, but he stopped himself quickly. He held the tray with both hands. If leaves up to his bad arm, it surely wouldn’t like the doubled weight and he himself wouldn’t want to add unnecessary pressure.

Saron weighed his options and decided that a boot will be. Before he could land a hit, the doors hummed in recognition, and he could hear a lock clicking inside. Not long after the doors parted and slowly opened, inviting him in.

He carefully, mindful of the heavy metallic doors, slivered in. His stature was much more of a wary cat, as if he would get squished by the metal if he stepped wrongly. Yet the doors remained still, only after he was inside did it shut, sealing itself tightly.

A shiver ran through Saron’s spine. He had a poor knowledge of seals and wards, only the basics, thus he didn’t put much faith in works of others. He simply didn’t know if hidden secrets enchantments were ingrained.

For what he supposes, it doesn’t open for anyone, nor let out.

While the doors creeped him out, when he finally turned to brace the chamber, he felt a hit in the guts.

On the table rested a bouquet of red roses, just picked recently. Thorns and leaves trimmed, so could a dozen blossoms fit into a narrow porcelain vase. They bloomed in deep velvet red, the edges of the curved petals reaching nearly pitch-black color.

Saron’s gaze passed through the vase to a bottle of wine placed beside it. The same one the lord suggested to try. A finest art and proof of one’s mastery. Its emitting scent was strong, expensive with spices yet light.

However, it carried some sourness as if it stayed open for quite some time.

Then there was the angel’s stare. Thankfully targeted not at him, but at a goblet placed inside the cage. Filled with wine to a brim, the rim stained. A droplet had silvered down to the floor, now dried.

Its cold stare pierced the goblet with pure hatred, disgust and offense. Saron couldn’t point out what irked him inside, but such gaze reminded him of recognition, one when you had pieced together a mockery behind a mask of generosity.

More precisely, when a prey knew it was toyed.

His eyes flicked at that placed goblet.

The lord was here.

Saron swallowed thickly. He didn’t wish to think what was on his mind when the lord had stepped inside nor would he love to know what expression the master greeted the angel and with what mood he had left.

His breath hitched in his throat as his hand shivered.

Did his master not like what he saw? How did the angel behave? Was it reclusive or did his lord do something? Was it unmannered?

Did his lord check to see how well Saron complete his work? Was he disappointed? Did Saron…messed up again?

Fuck, he should have been here.

He was sulking too long. He shouldn’t have lingered in the bathroom; he shouldn’t have let Jill tend his hand. Only jump straight back to work, proceed with upmost care.

The thought of possibility of another punishment made Saron nauseous and weakness slivered into his knees. His body craved to cower.

His legs stumbled back, as if furthering the distance between him and goblet would save his hide.

His hand itched. Terribly. As if maggots had slivered under his skin.

He tried to suppress the raising panic, keep himself still, not to scare the creature but an impulsive filch ran through his wrapped fingers up to his shoulder.

If he hadn’t also held the tray with his good hand, he would surely have toppled down the tray including the macabre dish, splashing the contents across the room.

He would have made a mess. Of the finest and most expensive dinner.

Thankfully he managed to keep it in his hands. Just barely. Still the tray wobbled in his grasp as his other hand shivered both out of fear and throb.

Due to sudden movement, pain flared up in his hand. He hissed as it cruelly raked his fingers, reminding him of what he had lost.

He wished to curl up his hand to his chest, squeezing pain away but he forced himself to keep on holding on the tray. Do not spill, don’t topple it, he warned himself.

Yet a little whine escaped from his mouth. One that attracted the angel’s attention.

Its gaze slid off from the wine to him.

Not to him. To his shaking hand.

It would be an understatement to call all catching stare as intense. Its gaze alone could seize, the same reason why the pliers grasped his claw. It resembled much more to a dagger piercing his hand, nearly nailing it to the wall behind.

He shrunk down under its scorn, his shoulders slouched inward, his frame resembled a guilty dog. Its gaze was unbearable and rested heavily, his knees nearly buckled.

The sky-blue eye did not blink, nor did the creature move. It simply stared as if it could peel layer by layer the wrappings by sight alone. Like it knew that bloodstained bandages hid his marred flesh.

Under such gaze, Saron felt too exposed, naked. His body asked to get away, put off some distance but his mind remained frozen, like he was nailed to the wall, unable to move an inch.

It creeped him out. So much.

Saron didn’t move; he stood frozen as minutes painstakingly slowly passed. Except for his shivering hand.

Its wings slowly shifted, the rustle echoed like distant bells. Just slightly. Each feather rippled under the light, shining as precious metals. Each bar gleamed and pulsed as if alive. Then it slowly blinked.

The eye remained on him, on his hand. But Saron could see there was something different within its gaze. And he didn’t like that. Not single bit.

Because beneath its stare, ambers of something awfully close to understanding blistered. Not sympathetic, not pity. But a simple recognition of pain.

Saron wasn’t sure it recognized his, perhaps its own or even the concept of being hurt. But it surely left him exposed and raw.

With a good hand, he gripped the tray tightly, shifting the same hand to the middle for better balance. The injured one he hid behind his back.

The angel traced his movements as the object of its interest disappeared behind Saron’s back. It observed as if searching for something but then its eyes flicked to meet Saron’s golden ones.

The demon gulped.

It was one thing, to feel scorn landing on his hand, to feel it skin him alive. But now its attention was on his mind, piercing right through his skull and unwrapping his brain piece by piece as if he was a puzzle.

Saron was that little ant; one you watched as you were bored. Observing its tiny movements and behavior so unworldly to you, like the little insect had lived in its little world, unaware of your presence and acting questionably.

A minute passed. He swallowed tickly, his mouth’s dry.

Under its gaze, Saron could make out a sliver of curiosity. At least he had believed so. Or at least it was expectant as if waiting to see what he would do, what he would say.

That irked him further. But shouldn’t he be happy? He has its attention, one that is not pure hatred, with the tiniest fragment of something different.

But it made him feel worse, far smaller. Like little ant. Because now it watched with expectation, looking for his tiniest move and shifts in his mind.

It was as if he had stepped into a meadow, full of venomous snakes. Long flowing grass, where he couldn’t see where his boot had and will step. Each move must be calculated, checked carefully. Wrong decision and sharp fangs would pierce him.

While the angel was not venomous, at least he hoped for, it felt more dangerous. It was simply because Saron hated expectations because his mind would look for errors he had made and would do. He despised the dread of mistake.

Part of his logical mind told him; he should be glad of its attention. It meant it was willing to work with him, listen, and he should strike while the metal was piping hot.

But his heart told him, now he was on a death row. While not literally, but it would surely shape how the angel viewed him.

He swallowed again. The angel’s stare didn’t waver, just simply watched and pulled his head apart. His hand still throbbed, like it was too shredded to pieces.

Another minute had passed. A shiver ran through his spine. Part of him wanted to snarl, bare its teeth, to show he’s not to be messed with, defend. To do anything than standing still as a statue turned by a basilisks. But the look in its eye told him he would be the one torn apart if he sets a foot wrong.

Its silence creeped Saron out. It was loud in his ears, rang like bells.

Uneasiness nestled his limbs. His body craved to twitch, move and shake off the stress.

Funny, his body built to be a predator: muscle, fangs, claws and horns. Yet he stood, wishing to bolt or even dare to attack as a prey. For a demon that would be a major hit to its pride.

It was unbearable. Even the tray quivered in his good hand.

His breath picked up the pace, loud enough for his ears. If he had tail with himself, it would surely sway back and forth.

So, he stepped further. Just tiny little step. Painfully slow one like he walked into a trap, where his miscalculated move would cause for it to spring free.

Saron could see the muscles of its wings tightening, like a coil. Yet the creature stared unblinkingly, tracing his moves. Expectant.

Saron made another step closer to the cage. His boot clicked silently, he couldn’t even hear the stone scraping beneath him.

Another one. He could feel every move; every muscle stretches beneath his skin. The angel’s gaze dug into his joints.

And next one. The angel’s scent was strong. Not putrid or suffocating, but it surely put nailed itself into his nose and mind. He couldn’t ever forget it nor mistake it. It still carried tons of snow, fire even a thunderstorm cackle. Fresh and crisp, comforting but also eerie and dangerous.

Until he was right before the cage, just enough to place the dish for its arms to reach through the bars. The bars shined with runes and golden intricate patterns. Although some of it had a dent and scratched marred its sides from the hound’s teeth.

He slowly bent down, calculating his every muscle move and twitch. He could feel his weight shifting and body adjusting to the balance. Saron didn’t even blink or breathe, only stared right into the sky-blue eye.

The angel gazed back, waiting and measuring. Its feathers gleamed dangerously, like blades.

Upon closer, within its eye blues danced inside shifting into spirals and waves. It reminded Saron of glacier ice at the top of towering mountains, where cold could seize one in matters of seconds. Yet it also resembled a clear sky, cold but open, full of possibilities.

Saron carefully placed the tray on the stone. It clicked sharply through the room, only sound besides Saron breathing and his heart drumming. Yet the creature’s eye remained fixed on him, didn’t spare a single glance to the food.

His arm drew back, but when Saron briefly flicked his attention to the goblet, left by the lord, his limb indecisively remained in midair. He slowly curled his hand; claws prickled his palm.

A fang dug into his lips, nearly drew blood. He shifted his eyes to the angel, checking. Or perhaps even asking for permission. Whatever he found in its gaze, didn’t reassure him. Like a mirror it watched him back. Withing its eye he could see his own reflection.

Saron calculated in his mind again, wishing what he was going to do wouldn’t fire back on him.

He slowly extended his hand; his back leaned further towards the cage. His claws almost touched the bars. For a moment he hesitated, as if he was stepping into forbidden grounds, but then slowly exhaled, reminding himself to be calm.

His hand passed the bars, fingers, like petals, slowly uncurled towards the goblet. Once his hand hovered over the drink, did it carefully lowered down to pick up the wine. His claws curved around the rim, clicking shapely glazing through ornaments.

The angel’s eye sharpened, alert, clawing his outstretched hand, shredding away all the muscle and tendons. But it was expectant. Saron supposes that’s good.

He gripped the goblet and rose it into the air; the wine inside didn’t stir, only wobbled so slightly.  He pulled closer towards himself, mindful not knock into the bars. Once his hand passed through the cage and set it beside him, he let himself breathe. Tension in his shoulders lessened, just slightly.

All this time, the angel’s eye remained fixed on him. Even now, it gazed at him, piercing his mind and pulling apart his heart and intentions. But there was something Saron couldn’t mistake.

Curiosity.

Faint and delicate. Not born from boredom but Saron would call it genuine.

It was supposed to be a win; he got reaction beyond anger and stress. He should be proud. But honestly, he didn’t know whether he should cry or laugh.

Because now it was curious. Not expectant, not bored. By no means trust but interest. And Saron wasn’t so sure how he should govern such fickle of flame.

It was intelligent and calculating, catching all the errors and intentions. While Saron was supposed to be its caretaker, a handler to keep it in check and tended, his guts told him he was prey. He wasn’t sure if it ever would change.

He licked his lips. His throat wobbled.

“The hound, it shouldn’t have been here.”

The creature’s eye shifted and thinned. Its feathers glimmered as curled up like fallen leaves. Saron wasn’t sure whether it was offended or didn’t wish to be reminded. But it didn’t shut him off, hiding its eye behind wings.

“It must have frightened you by bargaining in.” He added.

The eye quivered for a moment but the other could sense it was not out for fear but in thought as if it weighed his words. Then it narrowed further as if Saron’s words struck into its pride.

But the angel didn’t spare a glance at him. It remained turned sideways, further away, gazing into unknown. While its eyes didn’t hide under curtains of its wings, Saron understood that their conversation was over, and its patience soured.

Saron lingered, his throat was dry as the deserts. He observed its feathers, how each one gleamed and shimmered under the torch light.

He breathed in tasting the scent on his tongue. It didn’t posses the essence of heavy storms and lightning. Saron tended to trust his nose better than his sight or hearing as it could pick more details than other senses. Especially regarding the creature that hides from him, from the world itself.  And it said that the angel wasn’t that pissed, not enough to scorn him.

It settled Saron’s nerves better; however, some dread lingered in his guts. Such creatures, like angels, were rare and barely known among common demons, living in tales and myths of their grace and chaos.

He simply didn’t know what to expect. He knew the mares would try to topple him or check how much patience he has. The hounds may appear terrifying –  they are scary to oath breakers – but Saron had learned that a treat and scratch under its ear or snout would turn them into a tail wagging pup. Fearsome as they are, they quickly bond.

But the angel...He couldn’t wrap his head around. It was unknown and unfamiliar. Whenever he had something to grasp, to read, he wasn’t sure of his actions nor the creature’s reaction. He simply had no control.

Far more intelligent, Saron could sense that. It didn’t watch him with eyes of a wary prey or a predator, but with intellect. It didn’t look at his body to see a flaw in his body or seek a chance to attack. No, it looked for intent, choosing to unwrap his mind instead.

This was far more unnerving than meeting any kind of creature.

He licked his lips again, thinking if he should say anything further. He wondered if he should encourage it to try to eat but quickly, he pushed the thought. The tray laying in from of it was a remainder enough. Either way, he doubted it would try to have a taste.

If it proceeds like that further, he wasn’t sure what he would do. He dreaded at the thought of explaining to the lord why its pet is too lean, why such fortune is left to rot.

Besides, if Saron added something, he doubts it would respond too well. It would be better to leave before it got agitated by his presence. It already sees and would see his mug every day. Let it linger in its own solitude, would be better

He bit into his inner cheek. He shouldn’t stay too long. There are still other things he should tend. For example, that weak spot in the hound’s pit. He cannot let something similar happen again.

So, he slowly stood and wordlessly left. Saron didn’t feel the need to explain nor excuse himself. It already knew.

                                                                                ---

Saron stared at the blank paper. After he had finished his daily tasks, when he returned to his chambers, the rundown room besides stables, he had figured out he should write some notes and track his…progress with the newest pet, the angel.

While he wasn’t skilled enough to write delicate letters, his style resembled a warfare of wobbly lines and dots, Saron thoughted it could help clear his mind and get to know the creature for better handling. Simply, keep track of information.

But there was one unfortunate thing: he wasn’t confident about what he should write. Whenever he picked the pencil, readied his good hand, his mind emptied into blankness.

What is he supposed to write about a creature he barely knew, one that didn’t let anything slip away out its wings? More importantly, how would he describe the silence it carried with itself, the way it made him squirm whenever its eyes pierced him?

Saron knew creatures and beasts, at least he hoped so since he’s still among the livening. How to treat scales, polish them to shininess, how to brush for so it won’t get matted into tufts. To pick the right foods and keep their teeth sharp and polished.

Aside from physical needs, he had trained them to respond to commands, to be mannered in terms of not biting the hands that fed them or whatever his master inquired.

But the angel…His lord has asked far more different than just handling it. To keep it maintained, clean and fed. Polish to pristine. But to keep it…happy.

If it weeps, comfort. If it screams, silence it. And so forth. But always gently, as his lord asked.

But most importantly, it should forget it lives in a cage.

Saron chuckled bitterly. Such idea, for a creature that is locked up behind bars, to forget, sounded like a farce, mad joke. But the same one his lord treated as serious.

The lord’s ideas are to be followed. He’s the one holding Saron’s leash and Saron didn’t wish to be choked as his heart would break. That’s the worst thing that could happen for a demon.

He exhaled as he scratched his head. Frustration simmered in his mind.

 Putting words on paper was never his greatest skill. Let alone write properly. The letters were always a monstrosity. Wobbly, uneven and barely readable. Even the butler couldn’t beat out of him it.

When Saron made a deal with the lord, when he came to the manor to work, the butler didn’t take kindly to learn on his master’s new subject was illiterate. And took it upon himself to correct such flaws.  Which led Saron to sit by the desk for hours until his hand cramped, trying to scribble demonic letters while the other gawked whenever he made an uneven line. He even insisted Saron should learn scripture of mortals.

After months of trying, under a scornful teacher, Saron had improved. But just enough to pass the other’s expectations. However, under the endless torture of paper and pen, his handwriting was still awful.

A pen never fit him. It was too small, too delicate for his clawed hands. He broke endless of them.

Lucky his lessons had ended. But Saron secretly thought the butler’s patience ran out and he concluded a defeat. He just didn’t want to admit it out loud. That Saron was a lost cause in thing kind of thing.

He played with the pencil in his hand in thought then brought his clawed hand to the paper and scribbled a couple of words, not perfect but something to grasp upon.

Hides.

Doesn’t eat.

Saron chewed his lip as he inspected the two chicken scratch sentences.

If it was any other creature, Saron would assume it was stressed and wary. It would be natural, considering it was in a new place with new creatures and new living conditions.

But something irked inside Saron’s heart. So far, he had learned that the angel was no simple creature, an intelligent one. Because of that he wasn’t so sure it was scared.

Pissed off yes. Not shivering prey, no beast. But something so much more.

Frustrated, he crossed out the words, the paper crumpled as pencil scratched and hid the letters behind blackness.

He settled down the pencil as he shook his aching head and tried to smooth out the paper. Tiredness hit him with full force, his body craving for rest. Which was not a surprise as he hadn’t eaten through the day nor rested well enough. His hands were full of work, especially when he’s slower than usual, mindful of his injured limb. And if he wants to deal with clawless hand faster, he should retire.

But…whenever he gazed at the scratched-out words, it didn’t fit right with him, to describe the angel like that, like he underestimated it.

How could he reduce such creature into words describing its behavior when it seemed to be far beyond him and what he knew as a caretaker.

Instead, he wrote the only thing he could think as the truth. Just two words.

It watches.

He stared at the crooked letters until they seemed to gaze back at him. The paper felt heavier than it should, as if the words had bared their teeth.

Chapter Text

Since then, Saron could feel something different in the air whenever he visited the cage. The scent his nose picked up wasn’t that heavy. Still strong but he could sense some faint, barely noticeable lightness to it.

To put it simply, the angel watched him. Not in the same way as previously, full of anger and scorn that nailed him to the wall. It’s not the same when its eyes hid under shimmering wings, piercing Saron’s back when he left.

No, it watched him, really observed him. Whenever Saron entered the chamber, carrying a new dish or taking the untouched one away, its wings would unravel and reveal a gap where the blue eye shone brightly.

Gazing without a single blink, tracing his movements, twitches and expressions. He had noticed how its eye lingered on his injured hand. He hid it behind himself, giving it less opportunities to skin him again.

It was something. By no means, it wasn’t…not…creepy.

It observed him all the time. Right when the doors cracked open until the same one sealed back. Every minute and every step.

This started to pull Saron’s mind, grinding his nerves further. Because every minute, every second he had been staying in the chamber, it gawked at him.

He really felt like an ant, a bug you observed as it crawled through your hand.

And it made him wish to pull his hair, no, his horns out. Because he couldn’t decipher what that stare really meant. He could feel the lingering anger, brewing like a storm, but also something akin to curiosity.

How can one just stare for hours?

 It really made Saron’s hair bristle and stand up.

Or perhaps it was finally bored, and Saron was something more intricate than four cracked stone walls and used furniture. He was alive and moving, not cracked, moldy or scratched.

Even ethereal angels must be entertained.

Hell forbit, it could die from boredom. And that would be very not good for Saron, if he wants to keep his heart beating.

So here Saron was, silently sitting in the conner, gazing back at the angel and somewhat sulking. Cold seeped through the stone walls behind his back, nestling into his bones and marrows. He fought back raising shiver, one not from chill. Its eyes would catch him shaking in less than a second. Instead, he huffed.

He got its attention. The demon should congratulate himself. Progress. An opportunity to start working with it and tend to the tasks the lord inquired.

But it only made him laugh bitterly.

It never looked at the food.

And Saron’s guts didn’t like that. Because it meant it had no interest, perhaps he was more alluring, more specifically, his actions, behavior or whatever part of him the angel latched onto.

It didn’t even scorn the wine and the goblet. Like it was already forgotten, not worthy of its attention. It rested on the table before Saron. The roses still were in a deep crimson color. However, he could see the petals greyed and curved as the blossoms dried.

In the end it didn’t spare a single glance nor had a taste of various grotesquely marvelous creations of the chef. And surely the said chef tried to make each dish more extravagant and expensive.

It refused food five times. Five days.

Each one passing raised Saron’s dread further.

It was no stress.

At first, he thought it was such case. New place, new environment and new creatures and fiends. It was expected. But when Saron saw the look it carried, he started to doubt. Now he was more sure it was blatantly refusing. Not out of fear, but of pride and stubbornness.

Fear and stress were easier to handle, but pride does not bend. It shatters.

Such realization made Saron’s nerves burn hot because each minute brough closer to the check up with the lord regarding the pet. How it is maintained and how Saron is failing all this, because it refused to indulge in his master’s generosity.

 And then he would get punished. Another claw.

Or perhaps something more creative. Perhaps a fang.

Special pet, special punishment, so that Saron would remember well not to neglect such one of the kind creature.

His hand twitched and a throb echoed under the wraps, one the angel’s eye caught. Last time he unraveled the bandage and checked, the wounds had sealed shut, smooth with new patches of scales, soft and reflecting the torchlight. But claws were yet to crawl out, forcing Saron to bleed again.

As much as Saron despised looking at his own marred flesh, regrowing claws were no better. They stung and cut through newly formed flesh and skin, making space for themselves. While it wasn’t blindly painful, it was surely annoying. With it came a need to scratch, rake his new talons through something and make sure they would be sharp.

Saron had to control himself and keep his hands off any walls and trunks. His lord wouldn’t appreciate marred wallpaper and wood. He had learned that well enough.

He slowly exhaled, calming himself. He’s got two days more to ‘docile’ the angel, to present something useful to the lord besides it is still alive.

He pulled out of his jacket a clock to check the time; all through his movement, he could feel angel’s stare rake him. He wished to flinch, shook off the stress but he remained calm and pretended to be unbothered.

While Saron is the prey in this chamber, his pride didn’t wish to waver. It claimed that Saron shouldn’t cower or fear the angel’s plight. He is a demon after all. Demons don’t cower, they butt with their horns.

Besides, his handler part told him to stay calm too. Creatures don’t react well when a caretaker is heated up or stressed. They would simply run over him, that’s something Saron couldn’t allow, especially in this household.

But it didn’t mean his heart didn’t beat with stress. He didn’t wait to hear lord’s hums and purrs of disappointment coated in sweet honey.

Saron gazed through the ticking clock, its sound crisp in the air. He had been staying, more like sulking, for around two-three hours, hoping the angel’s attention would slide to the pristine plate before the cage.

But it never moved from Saron.

The food might also be invisible.

He sighed as he clicked the clock shut and put it back into his jacket. The creature’s gaze never left him, tracing his movements and observing how his pocket sagged with metallic gadget.

Saron shifted in his place, uncomfortable under its stare. His whole skin twitched, just like horse hide as a fly bit. But soon he stood up from the stone ground. He wished to shake off dust from his pants, but his hands froze just in time. It would only lead to the angel measuring his moves furthermore.

For a moment, he stopped to think, observing its wings, how each feather shined, even with grime coating the surface. Like a dusty mirror. Then he silently stepped closer towards the cage. Head raised and back straight.

The angel unblinking investigated his steps, how his boots clicked and scattered the settled down dust. How each crease of clothing fabric twisted and folded as he moved closer. How his jacket swayed behind when his balance shifted.

Just when Saron reached the tray, did he bent and crouched.

Gathering his courage, he countered the angel’s stare. He raised his good hand and settled it down on the tray, his claws clicked. The scents of meat and wine were heavy in the air. The skin of flesh dried into a leathery and gummy texture, losing its shine. Seeping blood clotted into black chunks, resembling coal. After hours of sitting here, it didn’t look very appetizing.

He pushed the tray forward, just few centimeters closer to the cage yet the scraping sound cut into Saron’s ears. As if he stepped into forbidden grounds.

It was simple, silent gesture of what he had wanted, craved, from the angel. His and its welfare dependent on it.

Yet the same creature’s eye didn’t wander any further away than his face. It observed his yellow feline ones, measuring and thinking.

Saron swallowed thickly, his throat dry as the deserts. “Eat.”

The silence after his words rang through the chamber was too loud for his ears, like each letter cut into him. He held his breath.

The angel didn’t blink as if silence didn’t affect it.

Saron pressed his lips into a thin line, his fang putting a dent into his inner cheek, and repeated the same word.

The creature’s gaze didn’t waver. Its sky-blue eye remained nailed to his head. Not a single fleck of a feather, as if Saron hadn’t said a word.

Saron’s hand curled along the tray’s handle, grazing through ornaments, as a shard of frustration nestled into him.

He commanded again, his voice sterner, closer to the one he used for hounds.

No reaction. Nothing.

Only its blue eye nailed into him.

He waited but there was nothing. The angel remained still as a statue, piercing right into him, into his heart and cutting into his growing frustration.

Saron really wished to tear his horns out, to claw, do something than this – this unbothered silence the angel wore as its skin and feathers.

 It’s like talking to the wall, talking to himself, his voice left unanswered.

As the time further stretched, the more his jaw clenched and harder he gripped the tray. He tried again to push the tray, this time harsher than he should have. The plate rattled and the goblet swung. But such action didn’t faze the creature. It didn’t lay its eye on the quivering plate; it simply remained fixed on Saron.

It made Saron annoyed even further. Perhaps it was his growing stress due to the upcoming meeting or how he was talking to the wall, shaped like a bundle of feathers, but a little growl of anger escaped through his lips.

One he regretted instantly.

He got a reaction from the angel, not the kind he wished to see. Not a flick to the dish, no movements, not even a rustle of feathers.

No, it’s blue eye’s pupil widened. Like his unconscious growl of frustration piqued its curiosity.

Its stare intensified. It wasn’t like previous time, like a blade it nailed him and raked his skin. Now it was worse, now he could sense mirth behind the angelic eye as if it enjoyed drawing out a reaction out of him.

Like it was playing with him. Toying him.

More like purposely messing with him.

Like a kid would poke a web, waiting to see if the spider would crawl out.

Saron flinched like a frightened cat as he stood up swiftly, nearly knocking the tray over. His back stood straight, his nose flared, fangs bared, and yellow eyes narrowed. If he had a tail, it would surely swat back on forth like a whip.

To be toyed by his lord was one thing, to be teased by Jill was another.

But by the angel –

Something he’s supposed to handle and keep maintained and docile –

He had to stop himself from hissing and spatting out like a feral feline. He only breathed in sharply, annoyed to taste its scent lingering in the air. The lightness edged him further.

Instead, he pressed his lips tightly, his jaws clenched nearly grinding his teeth and fangs prickled his lower lip drawing blood.

No, he won’t indulge it anymore, he won’t allow that.

His hands clenched into fists, they shook in anger. His bad hand flared up and throbbed in defiance. But compared to the wounded pride, it barely hurt, echoing in the back of Saron’s mind.

No, he won’t give away anything.

His ears flattened as his eyes glared like one of a furious wolf. However, he didn’t growl nor hiss, just breathed deeply, controlling his flaring anger.

Unfortunately, for him worse was yet to come.

With a soft rustle its wings opened wider, enough for another layer of white feathers to peel away.

There it was.

The second eye.

Brilliantly blue like the other, shimmering like stars. Blond eyelashes framed the blues like a halo. Its copper freckles reflected both the golden torchlights and the blues, like a twilight palette. Mesmerizing as the other, it dissolved his simmering anger made his breath hitch.

But it carried an equal measure of amusement.

As if one eye wasn’t enough to drink him in, to catch all his twitches and squirms.  As if it wanted to take in all the details of the theatre Saron had unwittingly staged.

All the muscles the demon possessed had all tensed up, as if caught between bolting away and defending. Saron’s dry throat wobbled again unable to swallow anything. His clenched fists unfolded, and claws extended as if showing off their sharpened curves.  In each passing second, they twitched uneasily.

At the back of his nape hair bristled.

He was a deer caught under torchlight. Frozen, unable to move under its gaze, one that enjoyed seeing him squirm.

But that wasn’t the end. No.

It cocked its head, tilting sideways. The gesture seemed too animalistic for an angelic creature, as if mocking the very essence of Saron’s tasks. Within its eyes mirth and amusement mingled and danced together in circle. Right in the center, Saron’s frozen reflection gazed back at him.

Every hair of Saron’s body rose, his instincts blaring red of danger. Subconsciously he stepped back, his moves painfully slow as if he stepped right into a trap. Like a prey slowly making his way to flee at any given opportunity.

They observed each other for a long while as the demon like a frightened beast backed away. Saron’s heartbeat rang in his ears as the angel examined him, as it with a scalpel cut into his skin and muscles and looked for a new piece toy with. Like a dam pig in a butcher.

He breathed quickly in short breaths, puffing air away and tasting the scent again. Its smell irked him and ground his nerves further. The taste of lightness of snowflakes and ambers, so unlike the thunderstorms it carried before, made his guts churn uncomfortably as it recognized that the angel enjoyed toying with him.

Every muscle of his legs stayed tense and ready to jump. The strain burned all his tendons. Like a conserved prey his eyes quickly flicked through the room.

The angel instantly caught his eyes wandering, the pupils widened in content.

It was a grave mistake.

An embarrassment, one Saron would carry to his grave.

The creature’s wings rippled, each feather shining like liquid gold and silver. Beneath, its muscles slowly, almost unbothered, moved and unraveled like a ball of yarn.

Saron traced every painstakingly dragged muscle twitch and stretch. Well defined, capable of withstanding mightiest and fearsome storms. A single smack could dislocate his jaw.

Its moves made him coil, because he recognizes it was no simple stretch nor shift. No, it was preparing. To attack.

He slowly prepared himself to step back, his weight shifting as his leg moved further away. To crawl away from its space but his feline eyes were glued and breath stuck in his throat as the wings slowly spread more until they froze stagnant.

Saron froze in misstep, bracing.

Like metal coil, its wings flinched swiftly and sprang free, spreading open wide. The furthest tips touched the bars, some feathers peak through like claws grasping towards Saron.

It should have been a glorious look. Perfectly defined muscles, each feather aligned in rows, glimmering as stars and gems and humming as if alive and breathing. Despite the lingering dust, it truly showed the untainted glory it carried.

While Saron’s eyes would drool over such magnificent view, his treacherous instincts registered one thing. Run.

All his lessons, his pride and training drilled down to the bone –

gone, swept away by the angel.

His legs moved before his mind could catch up, stumbling and boots painfully scraped on the stone. He nearly thumbed down by his own feet as he bolted towards the door.

In a matter of seconds, he slammed the metallic doors and quickly squeezed through the pair of metals as they slowly opened.

His heart rattled in his chest.

Once the doors closed, sealing themselves shut, the scents of the dungeon hit his nose.  As the metallic doors cooled his back, as his heart calmed down from hammering inside his ribs, his head cleared up to realize such a stupid, ridiculous thing.

He wasn’t chased. Nor was he attacked.

Just shooed away by its wings. Like some dog under a table whelping for a bite.

Shit.

His back slid down to the floor; his knees were weak after adrenaline wore off. He brought his hands on his face gathering the stray dark locks as shame slivered into his heart.

Saron was a demon, a chimera one at that. All muscles, claws and fangs. Raised to strike fear into enemies’ eyes and reduce them into shivering mess as he shattered bones within his maws.

A terrifying beast. A great example of a savage demon.

Yet he had run away like a dammed wimp. Like a hound with a tail between his legs.

He could feel his anger flare up and rise from ashes. It claimed to settle the score with the angel, show it he shouldn’t be messed and toyed with. Roar, claw and bang. Intimidate it. Do something to restore his wounded pride.

But-

His master’s orders echoed in his mind: no feather must fall nor wrinkle. Always gently.

He swallowed and inhaled through his mouth. He could feel the metallic taste lingering on his tongue as he had bitten into his lip with a fang.

While his demonic ego hurt, the handler part stung further into his ribs. He was supposed to handle it, maintain it and have it manageable and presentable. The lord deemed he was fitting for such job.

And what did he do? He let it run over his head.

He deals with the mares of Diomedes, carnivorous steeds that were a hazard to care for someone who didn’t carry the scent of their master. Fearsomely beautiful creatures but Saron had to watch his head all the time.

He trains hellhounds who spit acid under his feet and tried to gnaw his horns like twigs. Their jaws are strong to sever limbs and stomachs so potent even stones dissolve. Saron had to be careful enough not to let them drool all over him.

Even if the stallion was sickly and weak, Saron learned not to underestimate the unicorn’s strong legs. It could easily jump and try to pierce his heart with its horn.

But here he was, lying on the ground, spooked by an angelic way of playing.

All through his life of caring for the lords’ creatures, he had to watch out for his hide, to make sure none of them would snap his neck or maul him.

But the angel…It didn’t carry intent of hurting him. But this didn’t make his job easier but turned into a worse turn.

It played with his mind instead.

First, ignored him, then pierced him and pulled out his bones and marrows with a blue gaze alone.

And today it decided to toy him. As if he was a prey, not a handler.

“Pathetic.” He mumbled to himself. “Stupid.”

Dread settled in his guts. If his lord had learned of Saron’s embarrassing fiasco, he would surely laugh wholeheartedly with a glass of wine in his hand. Jill wouldn’t let Saron live in peace anymore, teasing him nonstop.

While Saron would grant his master a good laugh, his lord despised lack of professionalism and manners. And what did Saron do? Exactly that.

The pet is unfed, untended. Feathers dirty and dusted.

And he made a ridiculous embarrassment out of himself. Disobedient and unmannered.

Worse, Saron had made a mockery of the lord as his actions reflected the household, the lord’s prestige and refinement. What would other lords, barons, dukes and ladies think of his master’s choice of a stable boy who can’t control a pet?

Saron exhaled slowly as his head touched the doors.

His hands itched, like ants slivered underneath. Especially, the bad one.

He closed his eyes.

Two days.

If he fails to satisfy his lord, surely another punishment would be due. The lord cannot let anyone think he cannot manage his own manor. Or perhaps he enjoyed control and drawing fear out of Saron.

What would it be now? Another claw? A fang? A horn? Or would his lord decide to skin him, to grant Saron something he would remember very well?

His jaw clenched.

But He can’t bear to have another claw pulled, to smell his own blood and see marred flesh. The sight of Jill’s pressed lips into a thin line when she patched his wounds would rake his head again.

Just not so soon. He needs time to settle down his mind first.

And the angel is the solution to escape such fate. That is if he could bend it.

He’s got two days.

Two days left to get himself into shape, make actual progress with the angel and make his lord content with the results.

He shook his head at the impossible task, but a flicker of pride and avoidance of punishment flared in his chest.

He still has some time. Two days. Well, one and a half.

Saron rose up from the ground, his hands clenching by his sides. He gazed at the door, more precisely, what hid behind them.

Plenty of time to turn the tables.

For now, Saron would let the angel rest, just a little bit, enough to think it had won. He’ll take a little break to clear his head and cook up some plan. He’ll return the favor.

…

Not long after Saron returned to the door with a plan within his hands. A plate. Not for it, for him. If it doesn’t eat, fine, it can drool while he does.

Saron breathed in to calm his heart, reminding himself to relax his tense muscles and shit into easy posture. Still, his hands gripped the simple chipped plate a little too hard.

As the door cracked open, the angel’s eye was already fixed on him. He ignored the creeping dread, the embarrassment, and countered its stare with his own.

He swallowed down, hoping his idea would work. He has its attention, so that’s a start.

Saron walked towards the cage, slowly with relaxed shoulders. He could feel the other’s stare rake his whole body, from the soles of his clicking boots, to his curved horns. But he didn’t give away his nerves, he didn’t twitch, squirm nor let his eyes wonder. His attention is fully on the angel.

When Saron was close to the bars, few centimeters away from the angel’s tray with the same untouched dish. Without breaking eye contact he nudged it with the tip of his boot.

The angel didn’t bulge. As always it stayed still as a statue. An observant one.

But Saron didn’t let himself be bothered by its silence. He lowered down on the ground; in the same place he was an hour ago. He leather boots creaked as he folded his feet. Laid back, comfortable and never leaving its blue eye alone.

He settled down the plate on his lap. Meat, just enough scorched, to have a crispy outside and juicy inside. The scent of it, the spices of pepper, rose in the air. Alluring and inviting. One more minute, and his stomach would growl to pick up the pace.

But Saron waited for the other reaction. He didn’t move, just observed the angel, measuring its shifts of behavior.

Just as Saron could feel its curiosity rise, the way its head tilted as if mocking, reminding him of its control, he shifted in his place. Slowly and nonchalantly, like its bait didn’t bother him.

Then he turned around, his clothes rustling as he shifted. His back turned to the cage, to the angel.

He could feel its stare biting into his neck, but he ignored it. His show had only just begun.

If the angel liked to watch, he wouldn’t give it anything. Plain and simple, he won’t be measured and toyed.

His back turned away would have been enough to make a point of himself, that he shouldn’t be underestimated, but Saron was a petty demon too.

Leisurely, he picked up the fork and knife, just barely enough for the angel to see his arms shift, and cut into his meal. Knife scrapped into the old porcelain plate as the juiciness inside seeped and pooled down onto the plate. But the sound didn’t bother Saron. It was his own, his way of gaining control.

He nailed the small newly cut piece with his fork and brought it closer to his lips. He bit into it and slowly chewed savoring the crispy, yet juicy peppery taste. He chewed unhurriedly, his posture relaxed and almost smug. If the angel is curious, it would only see his back. Nothing more.

Saron cut another piece, small as the other. His lips curved into a smirk as he could feel its gaze intensify, piercing his spine. But it couldn’t see his expression, his twitches, wounds and squirms.

 And that was his leverage, a way to establish control.

He chewed slowly, enjoying that it could only see his curved horns. Then swallowed. Audibly. Mockingly, reminding it of what is asked to do.

Every bite was his performance. Every scrap of a cut calculated. Every chew slow and, he even sighed in content. Every swallow loud enough for it to hear, to pierce its ears.

He played around with his meal, turning and shifting pieces of meat back and forth. Just the same as the angel toyed with him. Painstaking slow, dragging out every action, like the deadline didn’t bound him.

Never once did he glance back, his head remained turned to the dish. Not when its stare could cut and shredded his spine.

He didn’t need to. Its cutting gaze alone was enough to know that within it unanswered curiosity blistered and grinded. His demonic part purred happily.

Part of Saron craved to turn around to see its expression. To counter its blue eye with his own yellow one and then –

Smile, smirk and show off his fang. A little gesture of tease.

Yet his every instinct screamed to not mess around but make sure it is still in its place, in its cage. Unmoved, still as a statue hidden under layers of feathers. He craved to reassure himself that it hadn’t moved, crept closer.

But he refused. If he did, he would only lose. It would only mean that he gave in, that he lost. And Saron didn’t wish to be a sore loser. So he forced his hands steady, cut another slice of meat and lifted another bite. Calm and carefree. Collected and in control.

The air shifted faintly behind him. Just a barely a result of feathers. Saron’s jaw clenched for a second, but he hid his flinch. He wouldn’t fall for such provocation and grant satisfaction for it.

He swallowed another bite, savoring the taste, nearly humming. If the angel hungers, let it. If the hunger claws inside of it, it already knows what it would take to soften the grumble. It just needs a little push. Not from Saron, from the angel itself.

He’ll let it writhe in its frustration, simmer in unresolved interest and drown in its own spite of losing a toy. Saron won’t give it pleasure.

It is his game now.

He smirked to himself as he nailed another bite. However, his fork stopped in the air as his lips twisted into a frown.

The knife that cut into his neck…was gone.

A shiver raised through his spine at the suddenly gone sensation of being watched, like it never existed. But Saron forced himself not to waver and stuffed his mouth full.

He listened carefully as he chewed, his hand playing with the left bits. His ears caught the rustle of feathers, loud enough for him to consider as closing curtains.

Then silence settled in. With no gaze to accompany.

As the eerie quiet lingered in the air, the meat turned to taste like ash in his mouth. He forcibly swallowed down the half-chewed bite. Like a stone it fell heavy in his guts.

The grumble in the stomach was gone, instead, as minutes passed, an itch nestled inside. It rose into his chest and mind, nagging him to turn around to see what it had done. Did it hide in anger or found the show Saron had provided distasteful?

No. Saron mentally shook his head. He can’t turn around. It’s baiting him, messing with his mind and edging his nerves. Toying him again.

He won’t give in. Even when his hand itched, even when his instinct screamed to turn and check. Not when he felt like predator that lost its teeth.

But ever so slowly, as he continued to eat and act unbothered by solitude, a new realization, unfavorable one, dawned upon him.

The angel outplayed him.

Chapter Text

It still didn’t eat.

Saron huffed as he tacked up the mare.

Didn’t spare a glance. Not even to him.

Endless amounts of buckles and strips of leather adored the saddle. Some for decoration, others not to fall when a steed strode through mountains and cliffs.

But unfortunately, for Saron it meant to figure out which buckle went where. It was a time-consuming job, one both him and the mare found unpleasant.

Saron cursed under his breath, as he nearly nicked on one of the belts. As his claws slowly came in, they caught on things even under a wrap.

The mare hissed impatiently as her hooves scratched the ground. Thorned tail slashed behind her like an angry viper.

“Just a minute.” Saron shushed her muttering under his breath that he’s nearly done.

He pulled one of the belts tightly, buckling it under her scaled belly. The patches were soft and smooth to the touch, completely opposite of the ones that ran through her spine, hardened with age and battle.

The mare’s skin twitched irritation, one Saron knew he should keep an eye on the powerful legs. Unless he wished to have a print of a hoof on his mug.

His hand ran through hooks and attached them to each thorn that rose through her neck.

For a moment he examined his handy work, making sure every leather was buckled neatly and in order. No wrinkle, nor dusty patch. All the metal parts polished into shiny gleam and the leather softened in scent-masking oil. The way his lord preferred.

His master had been invited to a hunt.

For what to hunt, Saron wasn’t so sure whether he wanted to know. Either a mystical beast, whose hide and meat cost more than his soul, or an oath breaker that got into demonic nobility’s bad side. Unlike his lord, who tossed such traitors into the hell hound pen to watch them mauled to pieces, some nobles preferred extra entertainment in their mundane days, when punishing servants was not enough to lift one’s spirits.

His lord enjoyed such activities, so Saron hoped that a couple of days would be reserved for such indulgence. That way he would have a little more time to tip the scales with the angel. Of course, it all depended on how much prey was entertaining to the pack of hunters.

Saron sighed as he took the rains in his hands and led the steed through the stables. He could feel the restlessness lingering in her as the muscles beneath the scaled hide flexed with every step. Her nose twitched back and forth impatiently, occasionally revealing a row of razor-sharp teeth.

It wasn’t hard for Saron to guess that she was eager for the hunt. As carnivorous as she is, she liked the taste of blood.

At the conner of his eye, he could see the unicorn lingering. Staring. Sickly as always.

A shiver rose across Saron’s spine as he got remined of someone peculiar. That someone who wore feathers as curtains.

He shook his head as the mare pulled on the reins, warning him not to slack off.

As they left the underground stables, a grey sky greeted them. Same as always.

It was still early, as no servants passed through the gardens with their hands full of supplies. As no wind blew, the sight reminded Saron of a painting. Beautiful yet controlled and lifeless. Each rose and vines slumbered, still their venomous thorns rose sharp as needles.

But there was one figure.

His lord’s.

Finely dressed, as if to a macabre ballroom, he leisurely wandered through the polished stone pathways, his ruby eyes scanning through the gardens and admiring the view.

As Saron came closer, his lord had been inspecting a rose. Within his hand he checked the red petals, looking for any imperfections: patches of brown or wrinkled and torn edges. Satisfied, he hummed in content and plucked the flower swiftly. The thorns and vines below curled like a wounded animal.

Saron didn’t set foot to the endless garden, nor did he present the mare. He patiently waited at the edge, where the main paths led, as his master twisted the bud in his hand, either admiring or examining it in every possible direction.

Without sparing a glance at Saron, he spoke much rather to himself.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it? A perfect shade of red.”

After a stretch of time as the demon spoke no further words, Saron hit that the question was no rhetoric.

His grip on the reins grew stronger.

“Yes, my lord.” Saron confirmed, his eyes cast down.

His master yet again scanned through the gardens, observing every hovering structure, marble statue and blooming flower. His frame relaxed, as if he had not been carrying any burden whatsoever. In his glowed hands, he twisted the flower around, nearly caressing it softly, yet his eyes remained distant, glued to various decorative structures before him.

Despite Saron’s nerves prickling beneath his skin, he remained calm and patient. Who is he to rush his lord?

After a while, concluding the demon spoke in a soft voice, too soft to ever consider as kindness.

“It would be a lovely sigh with my little songbird resting right here.” He pointed at the center clearing, where a pavilion stood. The dark marble structure loomed like a watchtower; the statues of winged gargoyles were its guards.

Saron’s jaw tightened but he forced his voice to stay calm. “It truly would be, my lord. Though…” he swallowed forced his voice not to waver “it might take some tending before it shows its true beauty.”

At that, the lord glanced over his shoulder at him, curiosity sparking in the crimson depths. Whether the invitation for entertainment, or an imaginary of a docile angel, the master’s mood was light and content.

“And you believe you can coax it to bloom?”

Saron swallowed as he picked proper words to speak. This was the moment to anchor himself, to buy time. “It is my job, my lord. But not with a whip. It requires… patience and gentleness as my lord had suggested. With care it would blossom into vibrant rose. It surely would be a mesmerizing sight.”

His lord huffed, his mouth curved into a smirk.

“You do know to speak sweetly.” Saron hid his flinch.” I do am curious of what you can tell about my dear songbird, but there are eventful matters to attend, a prey to hunt. It pains my heart to postpone our little talk but I can’t keep colleagues waiting.”

He turned, leaving the gardens behind. So did the softness of greed was lost, replaced by strict authoritative order. Like a cold blade hovering over one’s neck.

“But once I’m done, I’ll expect to see you in the study immediately.”

Saron’s mouth thinned as he kept his eyes down, not daring to lift them higher as his lord came closer. That would be an insult and poor manners.

So, Saron threaded carefully, masking himself as competent servant.

“May I know, when to expect my lord’s return?” He asked cautiously.

Without much bother to calculate, his lord spoke in a cold purr as if he smelled Saron’s burning nerves.

“The hunts where you don’t know the end are the most interesting ones. That way you are prepared every second of it.”

“I’ll be waiting for your return, my lord.” Saron bowed down, presenting the rains in his hands. The mare was docile, an opposite compared to when he tended, from polishing scales to strapping down the saddler.

Gloved hand reached out, took the rains and replaced it with a flower instead.

“Give the rose to my dear songbird.”

Saron wordlessly nodded at the command, still his mind raced. Perhaps it was lord who stood too close for his comfort, perhaps that he saw Saron’s wrapped hand. Or perhaps the responsibility of his lord’s beloved pet. But deep-down Saron knew the angel wouldn’t look at the rose with the same care the lord had shared.

It wouldn’t accept, just stare at him plainly. Like it always did.

Still Saron curled the rose gently, careful not to twist nor wrinkle any delicate petal. Although, the view of such blossom in his palm, between curved claws and bandage, was too ridiculous. A part of him wished to clench into a fist, tearing each petal into ribbons.

As Saron observed the rose, its bright red petals, the lord’s figure had disappeared, along with the mare. He only heard hooves clicking, each time more silent, until silence lingered.

Honestly, Saron dreaded seeing the angel. In the chamber he wasn’t a handler, not even a self-respecting demon, but a prey caught in the torchlight.

Saron inspected the rose in his hand and sighed somehow mad at himself of buying time yet promising the impossible.

The rose truly was mesmerizing, its red, bright as blood, petals gently curved around itself, as if seeking warmth. Like gems, the morning dew still adored its curves. But Saron could see it slowly unraveling, each layer making space for itself. As dew fell into his palm, trailing down his hand, he could guess the bud would unfurl bigger than his palm.

Could he truly coax the angel to bloom mesmerizingly just like this brilliant rose?

He knew the hounds, the signs when one would lash out. Same with the mares. He could sense with a single muscle twitch alone that it was ready to pounce and bite into his neck.

But the lessons he had learned seemed futile when it came to the angel.

It is not stupid but calculating. And perhaps too prideful.

He sighed, as he turned to leave the gardens.

All this is his headache in the following days, if he’s lucky enough to be graced such fortune.

…

Saron walked into the chamber; the golden gilded doors thudded behind him.

Nothing had changed. Same plate of food, the same angel who hid behind its wings. Same white brilliant feathers.

The demon proceeded closer, making sure his steps were loud enough for it to hear. Not too intrusive but noticeable. But he doubted that he needed to notify his presence. It surely knew about him, even before setting foot into the room.

He had learned that working with lord’s beasts. Just loud enough for them to hear his presence. Saron had learned the hard way, what happened when a hellhound gets caught off guard. His previous shirt was adored with dozens of holes after it spewed acid.

When Saron reached the bars, he stopped to observe the other’s figure.

Still as a statue. No movement, even no breathing.

Still Saron was sure it was awake. Beasts aren’t lazy when a snack is right in front of them. This one would pull on his mind again.

He crouched down, nearly kneeling and gently placed the rose down on the stone floor. Not too close, not too far. Within reach.

The alluring scent rose in the air, fresh and sweet, far different than the ones drying on the table at the end of the room. Yet told of the same trap.

Dew slivered down on the floor.

Saron patiently waited for its reaction. His nerves were high on alert, bracing himself for unpleasant impact of its new game.

As minutes, Saron reminded himself to stay calm, to stay patient. Frustration only invites its entertainment and for Saron, who had little time until that meeting, couldn’t let himself be ridiculed again.

So, Saron breathed in slowly, clearing his mind.

Like the curtains of a theater the angel’s wing slowly unfurled.

An eye peaked out behind its feathery veil.

A closed one.

The demon quickly bit his tongue before he could hiss, reminding himself not to react and stay calm. Even when it was straight up mocking him, making a moron out of him.

No, he won’t give reaction. He’s no entertainment for a bored oversized bird.

The angel didn’t move any further, turning back into a statue. Saron scanned through its figure, looking for any sign of liveness. Blond eyelashes adored its eyelid, which reminded him of golden wires.

Whatever the creature had in mind, it was intentional, as if it proceeded to continue its previous game, one Saron didn’t wish to participate. Part of him wanted to flinch, do something to cause it to move.

But nothing was simple with the angel. It was calculating and deliberate. Its every move, even a ruffle of feathers was no simple movement…but a puzzle for Saron to figure out. One Saron dreaded to solve as it turned him into prey.

Despite how much he wished not to partake, establish his control and do what his lord wishes, his guts told him to reach progress with the angel, he must play by its rules even when it grinded his nerves into a mush.

Saron settled down on the floor and with a deep exhale, whether to brace or calm himself, he closed his eyes.

Darkness greeted him and silence settled down between them.

He exhaled again, wondering whether this was a good idea.

The demon shifted in his place to get more comfortable.

…

Scratch that, the quiet, the same one as before, was too obnoxiously loud. The further he stayed still in blackness, the more the silence cut into his ears, its claws raking through his head.

Even little sounds were starting to edge him further. The heartbeat drummed in his throat, that muffled repetitive thud nearly made him nauseous. Each time louder than the last.

So did his breathing. Every inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth.

Even the shizzle fabric of his shirt as his chest rose and fell. Even the pull of his trousers as he shifted in his place, never finding comfortable spot.

Every little sound was a reminder of his foolishness, of his attempt to do…what exactly? Woo a creature that carried silence and stillness like a second skin? Fool it in its own game?

If his hearing wasn’t the problem alone, his nose too joined in to the pile of noisiness. While he would have admitted that the rose smelled nice, fresh and sweet, now it reeked. He could even taste the putrid stench in his mouth, nearly choking him.

There was his own scent, musky and earthly with a hint of sweat. Quite the opposite of what angel carried with itself.

The further the minutes stretched, the more he compilated his decision to play along.

His inner grumbling was instantly stopped as his ears perked at unfamiliar sound, one that was not his own. A soft rustle of feathers.

It could have been seen as insignificant movement, just a little shift in one place, just the same as Saron did so few minutes before.

However, with this angel there was no such thing as meaningless action.

Even the little ones.

Especially the little ones.

Saron’s lips thinned as he thickly swallowed. It was baiting him. What else would it be? It tended to pull his mind, piece by piece, until he would flinch granting it some entertainment in the stale chamber.

While Saron had decided to partake in its little games and puzzles, he won’t give such satisfaction of making a fool out of him. A couple times were enough of him.

So, he forced his tense spine to relax and let his fists loose.

Not long after another sound rose. Louder. Like a layer of feathers unraveled.

Saron let his jaw slack as his fangs bit into his inner lip.

Another. Closer. Nearly metallic.

Relax, he told himself, it is locked up. But still, he could feel his anxiety rise and gnaw at his bones.

Each new rustle, more deliberate, making him question furthermore than previous ones, his mind turned to race. Despite forcing himself to stay still for hell knows for how long, his head seemed to get noisy with possible phantom illusions of its movement, the spread of its wings, of its gaze that measured for how long he would last.

His claws itched, especially the bandaged ones. He could feel wetness gathering at the tips as they further grew into a proper curve that would make any beast proud.

Couldn’t choose better time, couldn’t it.

Half of him wanted to check out, make sure his blood wasn’t seeping through the bandages. The other half…was uneasy, even scared because if he felt the drops trickle down, the angel could clearly see the red beads staining the white cloth.

He wanted to curl his hand, hide it behind where it couldn’t see, but the pride side hummed not to react as that would make him weak, submissive.

He didn’t even know if it stared at him with his piercing gaze at all. Mabey it too stayed closed eyed, testing who would last longer. A treacherous voice rose in his mind, suggesting taking a look, but Saron squashed such thought fast. He won’t lose whatever the angel had in mind.

He relaxed his sore muscles as he raised his head where the creature supposedly stayed.

His right ear twitched as a rustle came from the side. He didn’t turn his head.

The further this went on, the more Saron turned less reactive. His ears didn’t flinch, nor eyes jumped behind eyelids towards a sound.

There were less baits and more silence between them. Yet the same heaviness could be felt as it laid on his shoulders.

Time stretched, minutes into hours. Saron had lost the count of the pocket clock’s ticks. Would that even matter, when such creature could spent eternity in silence?

Behind the fading noisiness of his mind, his own unbearably loud breathing and the angel’s attempts to force him to lose balance, he could barely pick up a faint noise not his own.

So small, that Saron even doubted whether it was intentional. Soft beat, delicate yet formidable and stubborn, like it carved its way out of darkness.

His heart drummed brutely in between the shackles of a deal that bind him of servitude. But that one thumbed without skipping a beat in harmonious order. The closest thing he could compare it to was a song.

It was oddly comforting.

Saron breathed out, relaxing his muscles and asking for his mind to calm down and latch on this little noise.

He could feel himself swaying along its rhythm, even his own clumsy heart seemed to try to follow it and attune.

His own still missed a beat as it jumped to fast. But as his head got clearer, it settled down at a slower pace. Not perfect, but it didn’t feel like his heart would jump out of his throat.

While the creature tended to drive him to madness, its scent was…nice. Crisp, clean and fresh. Like a dew. He could inhale it, fill his lungs full of it and not feel overwhelmed.

Saron remained still, lowering his head, letting its hum lull him until his ears picked up another sound. This time it was familiar, too familiar for him to mistake his own habits.

Simple, not loud nor silent. Measured. Just enough.

Like when he entered the chamber.

Saron’s breath hitched for a breath moment, then it settled down. It was like a notice that whatever the game the angel had thought of had ended. It let Saron loose from its grasps.

Slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes.

It hurt a little bit, as he got accustomed to darkness. His joints ached from staying too long and cold seeped through the stone he sat on.

The sight of his hand greeted him. It stung in a low buzz. The claws had stopped their piercing, blood dried but he could see red and brownish specks on the wrapped cloth. Somehow, he didn’t feel ashamed.

Then Saron cautiously raised his gaze towards the golden cage. The bars, the intricate markings glinted in the torchlight. Not as much as the angelic feathers. These glowed like waves pushing light back and forth within the barbs.

The angel remained in its corner. Its feathers rolled off like curtains, pooling on the floor.

Its sky-blue eye started back at him.

But what got his attention was its slow blink.

Like it too had woken up from a slumber.

Both gazed at each other. None of them had blinked again.

He could still hear its melodious rhythm ringing in his ears. Small yet Saron, among all the noise, could recognize it now. He even doubts he could forget its beat.

Saron’s throat wobbled like it wanted to choke out words, but no sound had escaped from his mouth. He opened his lips, but after he couldn’t pick out proper words, he pressed them into thin line.

He wasn’t sure if they were even needed. After he had lowered his eyes, a new sight brought him back into reality.

The rose.

The bud had been turned towards him.

Saron swallowed thickly as a shiver rose. How did it…? He didn’t hear it nor smell it to be this close to the bars, to…him.

He flicked his back and forth between the flower and the angel. How did it did wasn’t the main concern but what it wanted out of him was the hazardous puzzle for him to figure out. So far had he known the angel, he doubts it will through a bone for him gnaw.

 No, it will wordlessly pierce him as he would squirm on a dissection table. While he could guess it was in a good mood, he doubts it would stop its mind games. It liked to be entertained but somehow Saron’s guts could guess that there was something more than petty games to keep one from boredom.

Perhaps it wants to show something. In painstakingly annoying, nerve grinding way.

Saron’s eyes settled down again to the vibrant red rose. The dew that adored its petals were long gone, its petals had unfurled further, making the bud nearly bigger than his palm. It wordlessly rested on the stone floor. He wasn’t sure if it was the angel’s or his reflection that glinted between its petals.

Delicately, deliberately placed, like it was another challenge, a continuation of the game Saron was pulled in.

His lips thinned. He could feel its gaze raking through him. It was like its curiosity before, but there was some spark behind its blue eye. Not expectation nor malice. Yet it felt like he was stepping through glass, thin and unknown.

Saron had his orders to complete and maintain. But hearing its rhythm echo in his ears, his mouth twisted. When the cage would be not enough for his lord, would he try to bind its heart with chains?

He shook his head. It doesn’t matter what he feels, it’s what his lord desires. If he wants a docile creature, he will get it. One or the other way. Saron simply is caught in between. That frustrated him far further than the angel itself.

Tiredness nestled in his bones. He brushed his face with his good hand and muttered to himself, barely audible. “I’m too stupid for your thing. What am I supposed to do with you?”

The little squint of its eye let Saron know it heard him well enough.

He exhaled. “What do you want from me?”

The angel didn’t blink, just gazed with unwavering grace.

Saron huffed as he fixed his dark locks, his fingers caught on curved horns. “Figured.”

He could leave this chamber and its angel. But the thought of it felt like running away with a tail between his legs.

His eyes settled back to the rose. The flower wordlessly stared at him. The more he looked at it, the more it haunted his mind and pulled old memories he had buried. The more it resembled a mirror himself and less of angel’s and its refusal.

Beautiful, trapped thing, plucked away from where it had belonged.

He remembers that scent of rusted iron, fear drumming in his chest, the muzzle –

No.

He shook his head.

The rose, the angel was getting to him. He can’t let that happen, let his past claw the present. He wasn’t in the pits and its constant hunger.

“You’re cruel.” His voice tired with a hint of bitterness.

The angel cocked its head. Just a little bit. amusement.

Saron nearly scoffed, but he really wished to lie down and let earth swallow him hole. But here he was with the angel and rose in between.

“You don’t want it, fine.”

The creature didn’t bat an eye. Silent yet is gaze measured him.

The demon sighed as he picked up the rose by the stem, mindful of its thorns. He twirled it in his hand as his lips thinned into a line. “But it must stay.”

He could smell the raising tension in the air, but he continued quietly. “I cannot take it for myself.”

The creature’s blue eye switched to his hand, the band one. Saron swallowed, not feeling the need to explain himself. He wordlessly unwrapped the dirty bandage, just enough for it to see clearly what layers of fabric hid underneath.

He ignored the raising chill as its pierce raked through his hand investigating the new growing claws, the dried blood that turned into scabs, and new soft, dark scales where claw met skin. His face remained neutral, but deep inside it felt like he had reopened the wound again, red and pulsing.

Saron let it observe until its gaze softened. At least he thought so.

“You won’t take the brunt of it; the lord adores you…” he paused as the blue eye narrowed sharply. “But I cannot promise when his patience will snap and pull feather by feather out of you.”

The stare Saron got could be classified as sarcastic the lord can try. Its feather ruffled as in warning, gleaming like fire itself.

He chuckled bitterly as he eyed the rose.

“You don’t like it, fine, I do too, but this is the reality you’re in now.”

Saron set down the rose on the ground, this time pointing at the angel. Far enough, so it wouldn’t reach.

The creature didn’t bother to acknowledge the flower, it stared plainly at Saron. He could still see some softness, but an irritation bubbled underneath like it didn’t wish to be reminded of the predicament of its cage.

He huffed as he scratched his hand to ease the raising itch.

“I don’t like serving him… but it is better than where I’ve been.” He slowly licked his lips, considering his next words but his mind was closer to a mush than clear water.

Damm he was tired.

“Look, I know what a cage is.” He started quietly. “It eats you. The more you rage, the smaller it is, until it becomes a noose that will choke you.”

Saron paused letting his words settle.” So, a little compliance would keep your head sane and feathers intact.” His lips thinned, wondering if he should continue. “…and perhaps you’ll dodge that noose.”

The angel was silent. It always was. But Saron didn’t feel the need to fill the quiet, he just wrapped his hand back. While the blood had dried up, he couldn’t let a new stream open up and stain manor’s pristine floors.

He could feel the creature observing as he finally tied the ends into a knot. But Saron didn’t bother to counter it.

Slowly he stood up, the joints ached from staying still too long. He shook off the lingering buzz in his bones and brushed off the dust on his pants.

“I leave you to consider.”