Halo Of Horns

SIXTEEN

At some point in the night, his skin cooled off enough that Azazel no longer needed to be directly attached to her in order to breathe on his own. The pain of the suffocating fire that lit within him was so unbearable, he couldn't imagine it to its full magnitude. Even after experiencing the pain, his memory of it would never be as bad as the real experience.

Even the Lakes of Fire were gentler than whatever this spell was. The licking flames of the lake burned him from the outside in. A pain he could numb and overtake with his cold heart. This pain was from the inside out and burned every nerve, vein, and muscle within him. It scorched his body beyond mobility and stalled his brain.

Azazel knew what it was like to sit in the depths of the molten hot lake, his wings bearing the scars of his trials. He knew the years of punishment he endured at his own hands. He would live them a thousand times over again, instead of a second longer of this curse.

Still, though he no longer needed to be attached to her, he found loss in moving away from her small body. The way he could cradle her against him was comforting in an odd way. To think he needed comfort at all was odd, let alone for him to experience it.

So, despite his cool skin and her now flushed complexion, he remained by her side, holding her in his arms. A blanket covered the space between them, a barrier protecting their flesh, but he could still feel her chest rise and fall. He felt the whisper of her snores on his neck. He propped his chin a top her head, breathing in her lavender-scented hair. The white curls splayed over the pillow and around her neck.

This was wrong. He had to stop himself before his demons overtook him and made choices he otherwise wouldn't mind.

But this was his brother's daughter.

Slipping away from her side and off the bed was more of a struggle than he thought it would be. Once he was up, he hastily grabbed a cigar from the decorative metal box on his dresser, almost spilling the entire container onto the floor.  He didn't light it until he was out on the balcony, the door cracked behind him, letting in a cool draft.

Nicotine didn't affect him the same way it would a human. He could smoke as much as he wanted for as long as he wanted and never find himself with a speck of tar in his lungs. Not that he would care if he did. He was trapped in a desolate world of isolation and fire for the rest of his existence. He couldn't necessarily enjoy what was left of the world.

He forbade it.

Azazel cringed at the divine name, his face contorting in disgust. Practically tasting the vile nature of such a so-called "'Father' on his tongue.

Even without the effects of nicotine, it gave him an odd sense of normality to hold the cigar between his fingers and watch out over the world. He could feel the smoke in his lungs, letting it burn for as long as possible before he let it out into the misty air.

The western tower's balcony was his favorite place, his world visible with one sweep of the eye. The Fields of Falsehood screamed at him in mercy, as if he could change anything about their situation when he himself was being punished.

He stood there alone for a while, his shirt soaked in sweat and torn open at the buttons. His forearms rested on the thick railing, leaning over in thought. Distracted, he let his cigar burn on without a care, ash dropping down the side of the castle wall.

Nothing broke him out of his own mind until he smelled her.

Technically, Azazel heard her before he  smelled her. Her scent was already all over his body and clothes, hindering his sharp senses. Still, he could hear the creak of the bed under her weight, the sheets shifting and rustling.