FALSE HEAVENS

as ravens to omen and vile weather to happy days, so do the hellhounds come to cassiel in the halls of the black palace. from memory or the command of their keeper they crawl forward from dens and dank trenches, following the call of her scent till the first finds her among the obsidian halls. cassiel knows the sensation of being stalked — that which is beautiful is hunted to the ends of the earth — and she knows azazel’s beloved monsters. each as high as her hip and baring eyes like polished stone, they were each misshapen in a way that seemed they had been crunched between the teeth of the shadows, who had attempted one bite before realizing they could not stand the taste, promptly spitting them back out. where once there had been one there springs another, and then a third in a manner so quiet and sudden that it could not be said if they emerged from far corners or merely splintered off the first hound, shadowy replicas of the original. 

 enough of you, the angel snarls when one of the beasts grows bold, raising an arm outward as if to cast a holy hand upon it. oren would have been responsible for dispelling such creatures had he been at her side, but wings had been required for the quick transit from caelum to the demon’s realm, and so he had been left to chase doe — and cassiel to raise her sword against hell’s teeth. 

“my quarrel is with your mistress, foul thing.” the tip of her blade rises to the advancing monsters when she turns, a breath away from sinking into the largest’s throat. cassiel’s wings spread open, a feral creature enlarging their posture to intimidating, the impressive span of her feathers leaving shadow in their wake. the hellhound lower their heads in unison, snarling as they roll back their great dark joints and position to lunge. the angel presses a holy-forged metal to hot throat and answers with a growl of her own: “but i shall run you through if you do not withdraw.”

bastienavalos​:

“patience?” cassiel repeats the word, honey-tone rolling in the crinkled petals of incredulity so the word arrives coated sticky and disbelieving. “and you shall be the one to lecture me on it, sir hunter?” how amusing, in true, the thought of the little warrior schooling her on tolerance and temper — not only for how ill-suited bastien was to the task, but for the intimate nature the angel imagined herself familiarized with the concept. perhaps it could be said that god had attempted to instill as much in her once, his mighty angels zadkiel and michael following in turn with instruction amid their infatuations. yet it had been, to cassiel’s count, only her own cleverness (and perhaps viktoria’s guiding hand) that had finally imparted the worth of waiting. in truth, she was little more patient than the kitten who waits huddled around a thin corner, biding only long enough to pounce on the next passing shadow — but such is the nature of all young-hearted creatures, to believe themselves greater than they are.

she splits from bastien’s path to walk along a tree trunk, its ascent towards the lazy, low-hanging and nearly horizontal. bronze feet grip their way along the foam of green moss and bark, the dappled light of the day easily mistake for golden flowers left in cassiel’s wake.

“how glorious shall it be, bastien?” her voice calls forward, a curled finger under his chin, tickling there idly. “amuse me.”