A certain charm belonged to places like the palace's library once the sun had gone down.
Pale alabaster walls slipped into warm greys or else glowed soft amber with light from the fireplace. From outside, the moon would contrast that by reaching through windows with sterling fingers of light to draw chilled lines down the stone. The already hushed atmosphere settled deeper as if finally having fallen completely into slumber, leaving only a still and utter peace.
From outside came the only sound besides crackling from the stony fireplace and turning of pages in the form of gentle whispers of stardust brushing down the edges of the building.
Crucifel sat in silence at one of the sturdy wooden tables scattered throughout the library, a finger idly tracing familiar swirls in the wood grain as she studied the tome splayed open before her. Lit candles at the table's center illuminated the pages, and occasionally she would curve that tracing finger to bring the flames higher in order to scrutinize a section more closely.
The prophetess' brow furrowed slightly as she scanned through the highly redacted text, feeling the frustration begin to mount as each time she thought that she was on the right path, it only led to carefully blotted or else entirely torn away pages. Even when she held up the pages to the light, careful to avoid the parchment catching flame, nothing could be revealed through the murky ink that smeared out anything from single words to entire passages. It was maddening, each dead end and door being shut in her face.
She glanced at the small pile of thoroughly exhausted books and scrolls to the side, biting back the rising unease in her gut. How was she supposed to learn anything if every little scrap of information beyond the surface level was dashed into obscurity? Peaceful, cozy surroundings or not, Crucifel could feel her mood beginning to fray. Why had he done this when the information could mean such a difference to those who might need it?
"Researching new torture methods for when you get sick enough of me to gain a taste for blood?"
Crucifel sighed, her wings flicking in irritation against her back as she closed the tome and turned to look over her shoulder at her brother. "No, but it sounds like a very interesting vein of research," she replied flatly. "I think I might just have to look into it later."
"Mm, maybe you should," Promethiel said, moving forward to lean down onto his elbows on the table beside Crucifel, reaching over to brush a strand of snowy hair from her face. "What has you looking so frustrated so late in the evening? Some light reading?"
"Nothing," Crucifel replied, moving to lift her hand and swat his away, only for him to catch her wrist in a grip that was both gentle and firm all at once. Insistent, that was the word she was feeling pressed to her skin.
"Is that right? Nothing at all?" he asked, leaning closer and lowering his voice, eyes glowing in the candlelight as he met her citrine gaze.
"Nothing of interest to you," Crucifel hissed softly, resisting the urge to pull out of his grip as she stared him down through the amber gloom. "Shouldn't His Majesty be sleeping instead of lurking around in the shadows like a prowling wolf?"
"And yet, here you are. Hiding away in the library, reading from a fine selection of Father's old, restricted books about the fallen," Promethiel replied, ignoring her return question without so much as a flicker of acknowledgement. "That sounds interesting to me. Care to share what you've found?"
He genuinely did know how best to ruffle her feathers, didn't he? Crucifel resisted the urge to bite his hand holding her wrist, knowing that she was above that, for the time being, and that her perverse brother would find the sting of her teeth far more enjoyable than punishing. She settled for glaring at him instead, trying to ignore the way her stomach began to twist into bitter knots with each passing second that their skin touched.
"They're not the most pleasant topic of conversation, but these lost souls make an interesting study. What I can find at least," Crucifel finally replied, shoving aside the worst of her resentment with a long sigh. What could he do, punish her for looking at blotted pages where only common facts remained? The redactions were the work of their father, not his, and even if he did take issue with her snooping, he hardly had the right to forbid it. "Why even have these in the restricted section if they've already been watered down so thoroughly?!"
"I've always found the fallen rather fascinating. There's something very... Undeniable about them. You can almost feel the distrust radiating out from the words remaining, like the author can barely stand to depict them," Promethiel hummed sympathetically as he rubbed circles on her wrist with his thumb, reaching with his other hand to tickle her chin. "Don't you think that perhaps it's because of that flagrant censorship that they are shelved where they are? To avoid questions like 'why'?"
Crucifel leaned her chin away from his touch as if he were pointing a knife to her jaw, glancing down at the offending finger and then back to her brother. "I don't think I like what you're implying," she said stiffly, leaning further away from him and putting more effort into her subtle attempts to jerk her wrist from his grasp. "I'm sure he had his reasons, he and Mother both. I just have to work harder to find the information that I'm seeking. And you of all beings have no ground to stand on for hiding things."
A dry laugh spilled from Promethiel's lips, and he tilted his head with a conceding roll of his shoulders. "I have no defense there, Dear. But I do have curiosity, why so intent on this? Why the urgency?"
"I want to save your soul, Promethiel, before it's too late for you!" Crucifel snapped, unable to fight the tremor that went through her voice and body alike. "How we talk about the fallen, as if they're some kind of mindless beasts and not beings that were once angels like us, it feels unfair. I don't want that to happen to you, no matter how terrible you've been."
He was silent for a moment, still holding fast to her wrist, fingers pressing in with a gentleness that would have felt almost like a caress if not for the solidity of his grip. The corner of his mouth twitched, and a wan smile curved his lips for a brief moment before twisting it into something with more heat.
"Absolutely fascinating," Promethiel breathed at last, kissing her wrist softly. "It's so easy to forget that there's more than sin in their hearts, isn't there? To think that you'd even want to save me after everything, you're too sweet."
Crucifel watched him, revulsion lighting her yellow gaze as he pressed his lips to her knuckles with tender, amorous kisses. He might have been an angel, but there was nothing holy about the way his tongue darted to playfully slide over the knuckle of her middle finger, nor was the shiver that went up her spine. "If you keep this up, you'll fall too, Promethiel. You'll be just like them."
"Maybe I want to," Promethiel replied, his voice a dark rasp. "But who is to say I will? No one is watching us anymore, Crucifel, and I don't just mean our parents."
Crucifel moved to stand, wings unfurling to rise up behind her and bristle and the hand not in her sibling's grip raised, ready to strike with claws extended. "You're sick. Sick and blasphemous. I am trying to help you!"
