Crucifel slept soundly beside Promethiel beneath his silken sheets, exhausted from the night's events and all the events that had led them down the strange path they'd found themselves on.
Far too much had changed for the angel in too little time.
It felt as though she was walking downhill, gravity forcing her to either take increasingly unreliable steps or give in entirely and let herself stumble and go crashing over the scree of sharp stones waiting below. It was an unknown, unexplored ground where any wrong step could send her plummeting from Edenara and into the celestial wastelands, perhaps even Hell itself. All she could do was keep moving forward, hoping that the ground stayed steady beneath her feet.
Before dawn broke through the fiery stained glass windows of her brother's chambers, it was as if her body knew to stir awake and make itself scarce before servants came to ready the Archangel for his day. So Crucifel carefully slipped from the warmth of Promethiel's arms, holding her breath as her hair dragged across his chest and shoulders.
They'd gone to bed in a bare tangle of limbs and wings, so she had nothing to cover herself with. Crucifel muttered a soundless curse to herself as she quietly dug through one of her brother's wardrobes for a robe or spare cloak, whatever she could find to hide her nakedness from any servants who would be traversing the halls early in the morning as they went about their tasks.
One last glimpse over her shoulder revealed the glow of a single, half-lidded golden eye as he watched her leave from his bed, softly closing the door behind her with a 'click'.
The princess made her way through the palace halls with her wings slightly raised to combat the looseness of a robe too large for her frame, head spinning as she tried to make sense of everything threatening to overfill her mind. Where did she even begin to sort through this bizarre mess her life had become?
Her father and mother had been murdered by her brother, who then ascended to the throne and gained his third pair of wings, proving that his soul had not been rejected in his transformation to Archangel.
That same brother then became more affectionate than ever before.
No. This was more than affection, affection was a held hand or a gentle kiss on the cheek.
This was an engulfing flame, a burning touch that made Crucifel want to reluctantly melt into it like ore in a forge. He'd declared his love for her, promised to protect both her and Edenara, even as he tormented her with his vulgar, sinful flirtations. Promethiel even smote an incubus with more hatred than she knew he possessed when he'd found it in her chambers, confusing her feelings further.
His intentions were unclear, shifting like dark water that even with her role as Prophetess, Crucifel could not see through. One moment he was verging on almost laughably villainous, then the next, he was tender and protective to the point of something like devotion.
And then, last night, she'd finally given in to his advances, letting Promethiel take her against the wall of the isolated tower that they knew so well while stardust rained outside. It had been...sweet, strangely enough. He'd been careful, gentle until she'd riled him intentionally, and yet there was a desperation in him that she couldn't understand. A need to win her over that bordered on fretful obsession.
She came to a stop in front of the stone doorway that led into the royal baths, then glanced over her shoulder at the pair of guards that had tailed her like shadows since she left the royal residential wing. Their presence made her nervous, as if they somehow knew that not ten minutes before, Crucifel had been half asleep with the Archangel's cock pressed against her lower belly.
"I shall be fine on my own, thank you. You both may wait at the door," she announced, stepping through the doors and into the steamy, warm room.
From floor to ceiling to the doors themselves, white marble met Crucifel's eyes as it leant the large space a clean, elegant feel to the layout.
Condensation clung to the inner side of the door as she closed it behind her, making the golden crest at the center gleam in light that seemed to emanate from every surface, as if coming from within the stone itself. And rising high into the domed ceiling, the white walls were lined with all too familiar depictions of eyes inlaid with gold, their swirling pupils mocking her as she stripped from the borrowed robes and tossed them away with a frustrated sweep of her wings.
At the center and taking up most of the space in the room was a large heated pool that had seen her clean countless times. Its edges were rounded and the bottom was fitted with tiles of cream and gold, polished to a high gloss that could be admired even through the softly shimmering water.
Crucifel sank down into it, sighing at the feeling of soothing, all encompassing heat sweeping over her body while resting her head on the edge of the pool. She closed her eyes, taking in slow, deep breaths of the damp air as though it could cleanse her lungs of Promethiel's scent.
Even now, she could swear she tasted it on the far back of her tongue, that damnable blend that followed the other angel wherever he went; jasmine and myrrh.
It felt like it had infused into her somehow, clinging deeper than just the first layer of skin. But perhaps that was the guilt speaking, telling her that their actions would dog her steps like a perfumed phantom, letting everyone who came near know their Prophetess's weakness and wickedness.
Crucifel knew now that there were other, more complex notes to his scent if one got far too close. The woodsy essence of sandalwood hid beneath that first honeyed layer, mingling with a light musk that made her feel terribly mortal from the mindless reaction it provoked in her, as if she was a creature from the wilds instead of the divine angel she hoped she still was.
For a being who had a grasp, tenuous or not, on immortality, that was terrifying. It was rawness that should only belong to something less holy.
Citrine eyes shot open with a soft growl of irritation, she'd come here to bathe away her shame, not dissect the layers of Promethiel's scent and how it made her feel.
With her long, white hair clinging from her shoulders all the way down to her hips like a second skin, Crucifel reluctantly left the warm waters to seek out the selection of scented foaming oils that the bath attendants would usually be lathering her with.
They were found in the small alcove where a number of vials, bottles and brushes lay in careful arrangement, allowing her to easily sort through to find her favorite of the bunch, the same she had consistently preferred since childhood; a sweet but herbaceous mix of rose, apple and basil, even just a whiff if it was enough make her feel nostalgic.
Oil and a sponge in hand, Crucifel returned to the heated waters and began her scrubbing from the top.
