my lord
[llyse]
I had no idea.
That first day I naively told Sapphirus: pick whoever you want, it matters not to me. I should have chosen; I should have picked the red prince, should have saddled Sapphirus with you, weak and sleepy and temperamental. And so terribly, terribly beautiful.
It does not do for a staff officer, a mere advisor (but I was more than that, was I?) to develop an attraction for his Prince. Doubly so for an angel, even a fallen one. Triply so for an angel whose one goal is to manipulate said Prince into handing him the key to the gates of heaven and the destruction of hell. And yet I—
I refuse to call it love. That will not do; love is too dangerous for one such as I. Love is trust, is reliance; trust is in itself untrustworthy, for in trusting, a person opens himself to harm. The tactician in me will not allow that. Still, part of me wishes that I could trust you with my secrets, and show you all of me. Foolish, that part is.
The first time I saw you, you were sleeping, pale hair tangled with gold. I see you sleeping quite a lot: it makes you look younger, calmer. There is less of the prince you are or the king you will be, no trace of the temper (oh, that glorious short-fused temper) that marks you waking hours. You sleep like a child, sprawled over the bed as if to conquer its length, peacefully. And in the morning your hair will be hopelessly tangled, and yet you refuse to braid it for sleep or cut it short.
For all your slender pale beauty, you are as rude as any coarse working man. I certainly did not teach you that; in fact, I fear I have wasted my time with those books on etiquette, and you as impatient and blunt as ever. Your habit of drawing your sword at a moment's provocation certainly drives me to distraction even as it affords me amusement, and your quick mastery of it makes me proud.
So many little habits define our days together. Your habit of falling asleep, often at the most inopportune times. Your predilection for fruit. The arguments we get into, and your method of solving them. Book-learning and sword-training, and watching you dance every evening, battling earnestly against imaginary enemies while I admire the clean lines of your body. My habit of making jokes you do not approve of. My teasing, and your irritated responses. Sometimes I wake, and I wonder if it has always been this way, you and me and life. I wonder if I can continue living like this, forgetting my dream of triumphant return, forgetting everything but you.
But still I wake from that daydream, knowing that I cannot. Sooner or later things will be revealed, and perhaps your blade will spill the blood of a fallen angel. If you have learnt your lessons well, you will not hesitate; and neither will I. I cannot let my feelings interfere with what I must do, even if I have to kill you.
There is no place for angels in Hell.
My lord Platina.
I had no idea.
That first day I naively told Sapphirus: pick whoever you want, it matters not to me. I should have chosen; I should have picked the red prince, should have saddled Sapphirus with you, weak and sleepy and temperamental. And so terribly, terribly beautiful.
It does not do for a staff officer, a mere advisor (but I was more than that, was I?) to develop an attraction for his Prince. Doubly so for an angel, even a fallen one. Triply so for an angel whose one goal is to manipulate said Prince into handing him the key to the gates of heaven and the destruction of hell. And yet I—
I refuse to call it love. That will not do; love is too dangerous for one such as I. Love is trust, is reliance; trust is in itself untrustworthy, for in trusting, a person opens himself to harm. The tactician in me will not allow that. Still, part of me wishes that I could trust you with my secrets, and show you all of me. Foolish, that part is.
The first time I saw you, you were sleeping, pale hair tangled with gold. I see you sleeping quite a lot: it makes you look younger, calmer. There is less of the prince you are or the king you will be, no trace of the temper (oh, that glorious short-fused temper) that marks you waking hours. You sleep like a child, sprawled over the bed as if to conquer its length, peacefully. And in the morning your hair will be hopelessly tangled, and yet you refuse to braid it for sleep or cut it short.
For all your slender pale beauty, you are as rude as any coarse working man. I certainly did not teach you that; in fact, I fear I have wasted my time with those books on etiquette, and you as impatient and blunt as ever. Your habit of drawing your sword at a moment's provocation certainly drives me to distraction even as it affords me amusement, and your quick mastery of it makes me proud.
So many little habits define our days together. Your habit of falling asleep, often at the most inopportune times. Your predilection for fruit. The arguments we get into, and your method of solving them. Book-learning and sword-training, and watching you dance every evening, battling earnestly against imaginary enemies while I admire the clean lines of your body. My habit of making jokes you do not approve of. My teasing, and your irritated responses. Sometimes I wake, and I wonder if it has always been this way, you and me and life. I wonder if I can continue living like this, forgetting my dream of triumphant return, forgetting everything but you.
But still I wake from that daydream, knowing that I cannot. Sooner or later things will be revealed, and perhaps your blade will spill the blood of a fallen angel. If you have learnt your lessons well, you will not hesitate; and neither will I. I cannot let my feelings interfere with what I must do, even if I have to kill you.
There is no place for angels in Hell.
My lord Platina.