Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content as well as rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, or non-consensual sex or scenarios.
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By the time Crucifel's eyes opened the following day, the sun had already risen over the ivory walls and towers of the palace, and Promethiel was gone.
Upon first waking, she'd been confused by the unfamiliar surroundings and scents. This wasn't her bed, nor was it her room. It lacked her familiar stylistic preferences of softer shades in favor of bolder golds and reds, and the ceiling beyond the sheer crimson canopy didn't have the same mural that she had grown up tracing with her eyes in the dark as a child.
There was no tale of a dove sweeping over countless swirling jaws with fangs of seafoam hidden beneath ocean waves, going on to circle a floating isle wreathed in cloud to pluck a single leaf from an olive tree.
Instead, it told the story of another bird altogether, cloaked in gilded flame as it crested the edges of the pale, stone ceiling to line it with each stage its flapping wings. Further toward the center of the vaulted ceiling was another ring of images, that same bird was now nothing but a fireball, swirling like a pulsating comet in its rotation. The next stage, ever closer to the center, saw clouds of gold stars flecked onto the stone with thin lines connecting constellations between them.
And finally, staring back at her from the very middle was the brilliantly shimmering depiction of a phoenix, flaring bright in autumnal gold, red and bronze in the warm sunlight that spilled in from the tall window that rose up next to the bed she lay in. Crucifel knew this ceiling too, and with that realization the memories of the previous night flooded back over her like rising ice water.
The incubus, the paralysis, his tongue dragging over her where no one had ever dared touch her before, Promethiel's divine violence he wrought upon the demon and the smell of burning flesh.
The spot where he'd been was stone cold as she brushed the soft, white material with her fingers, so he had to have been gone for a while by the time she'd woken up. Her body was encased in the comfortable warmth of her brother's silken sheets, enough so that she was tempted to slip back into sleep, but just as Promethiel had his duties to attend to, she also had hers.
A shiver of anxiety rippled through the prophetess. She didn't even want to know what time it was, knowing full well that it was far too late for her to be starting her day as she usually would by leading morning prayers in the palace chapel. Why hasn't anyone woken her?
Crucifel was torn between hoping that news regarding the previous night's break in had been spread enough that her angels would be understanding of her absence earlier in the morning, and an equally ardent wish that it was downplayed or even omitted entirely in order to avoid stoking more fears so close to home. Somehow, both options felt selfish.
Sitting up, Crucifel felt something heavier than the usual tickle of her pale hair sliding across her shoulder and flinched bodily, wings snapping out to their full length and bristling in surprise like a startled bird of prey.
She turned her head down, looking to find the source of the sensation with wide yellow eyes, only to squint them in confusion that quickly shifted to exasperation. Some of the hair that had fallen over her chest was loosely braided, stray strands fell free of it to hang down and tickle her skin as she had gone upright. Certainly a servant hadn't done this while she slept, which only left it to be Promethiel's handiwork. She let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding, wondering how deeply she must have been sleeping for him to manage braiding her hair.
"Even in absence, you manage to be an imp." Crucifel shook her head, starting to undo the braid as she swung her feet off the bed and let them hang over the edge. Her fingers paused once she'd plucked the hairs free though, and after a brief moment of consideration, Crucifel redid the braid in a tighter, neater fashion. It wasn't in the way, more of an accent that hung astride the rest. She'd allow it, for now.
As she sat, there came a knocking at the door, polite but firm, and Crucifel straightened. "You may enter."
The heavy wooden door opened with a creak, revealing the familiar, matronly face of Mirilmen and two chambermaids. They filtered in and the guards at the door closed it behind them.
"Good afternoon, Your Highness," Mirilmen greeted softly with a bow that was mirrored by her two assistants. "His Majesty requested that you were allowed to rest uninterrupted, I hope that you managed to sleep well after your ordeal last night."
"Yes, I did. Thank you, Mirilmen." Crucifel nodded, her smile feeling just a little bit too tight. She wasn't sure if it was a lie or not, herself. Judging by her brother managing to braid her hair without waking her, she had to have been sleeping with some kind of soundness, but her body still felt weak and sluggish in a way that went beyond morning bleariness.
It was obvious that Mirilmen didn't believe her entirely either, but she nodded regardless before turning her head to the freckled angel at her left. "Lilamile, please go fetch her Highness something from the kitchens, something not too heavy on the stomach, and some tea."
"Yes, ma'am," Lilamile nodded to Mirilmen, bowing once more in Crucifel's direction before taking her leave. The other chambermaid at her opposite received a nod from the head maid and stepped away to begin tidying the room with delicate sweeps of her wings.
Crucifel swallowed as Mirilmen stepped closer, tilting her head with a slight frown that wrinkled her forehead so distinctly due to the scar that snaked from her brow to her left cheek. The princess knew that expression, it was one that she'd seen since she was young and the older angel would find her up to some mischief or hiding away with her face in her hands.
"If I may speak boldly, your Highness?" Mirilmen asked.
"Speak freely, Mirilmen," Crucifel answered with a nod, feeling as though in some way she was sitting before her mother. Being scrutinized in concern, but scrutinized nonetheless.
The head maid seemed to sense her apprehension and sighed, holding out her hands for Crucifel to take. "I fear that last night will be marking the start of something bigger, and not just for you, for all of us. It is one thing for a demon to attack a settlement near the edge of the Seal, but this is the heart of Edenara. You are the heart of Edenara."
Some part of Crucifel wanted to laugh bitterly, not out of spite toward Mirilmen's words but because she knew they were true. So much came down to ride upon her back, a broken conduit to a lost God. It wasn't fair, it was so, so far from fair and yet she bore it out of love for her angels and a deep sense of duty. She'd been born for this role, to take that heavy weight of thousands of unanswered prayers, lost family members, frightened and angry pleas and turn them into something with meaning.
But what was she other than a pretty ornament who could only speak from her own heart in a land so far from wherever He was? She tried so hard, yet felt like a failure with each blow to the kingdom's confidence.
