Fantasy The Heavenly Affair [Closed]

[.quietus]

There just wasn't a lot of light in Hell.

What was there to be found instead was darkness -- and not the soft, velvety sort that almost felt like an invitation to close your eyes and drift off to sleep, but the gross, wet kind that all but seemed to crawl deep into your bones and stay there, both a reminder of your poor choices and a punishment in itself.

Nemain, the Marchioness of Gnawpit, didn't tend to dwell on such pointless details, though it was hard not to notice the contrast whenever she was leaving the dimension. Annoying. That was the demoness's first thought; it pretty much always was. It didn't at all matter whether she was spilling the blood of lesser beings, dealing with the paperwork that really ought to have been done by someone else, or, like now, drawing blue, glowing sigils on the wall, with the rivers of magma sizzling somewhere beneath her teeth. Why me? That, by the way, happened to be her second thought with the kind of regularity that was almost startling.

What would humans call it? Something like 'statistical outlier?'

Yeah, statistical outlier her fucking ass.

It was no longer an outlier of any sort in Nemain's book when it was always her who was sent to handle this kind of bullshit, and she couldn't help but think back to Duchess Lilith, sitting on her throne made of skulls (pretty cheesy, if you asked her) with that infuriating smirk curling her lips.

"Well, well, well, dear Marchioness. Aren't you the thoughtful type?" And wasn't it funny how that worked? Even if Lilith had said 'thoughtful' for sure, Nemain had also heard about a million other things behind the adjective, none of them quite as nice. Mostly, she'd heard 'nosey,' though if she tried really hard, there had also been a shade of 'nuisance,' 'foolish,' and, yes, even 'annoyance.'

Why she had learned her Dark Lady's ire was something Nemain had never quite understood, but she supposed she didn't really have to understand everything.

Day by day, being stupid actually struck her as the far more superior lifestyle.

Back to the memory, though!

"What a nice report you've written. Full of... personal touch." And there it had been again, the venom that was all but dripping from her words but also hiding behind the veil of plausible deniability far too well to be called out. Not that Nemain would, of course. She rather liked her limbs, for one, and those who talked back to Lilith didn't tend to keep them for long. "Clearly, this is important to you. Isn't it? Far be it from me, then, to break your heart and assign the mission to someone else." Oh, Lilith had definitely been fucking with her. Nemain had known from the very beginning, but what she'd added next all but confirmed it: "Besides, a bird told me that you have a special someone up in the clouds. About time to finally pay her a visit, hm?"

Nemain had wanted to scream. She'd wanted to break something, and while it would have been ideal for that something to be Lilith's skull, anything would have done. She'd wanted to quit her fucking job, pack her things, and go on a long, long vacation, far from any demons and angels and the bullshit that always seemed to follow in her footsteps somehow.

Nemain, of course, had done none of that, because see point A above -- she liked her goddamn limbs.

Even now, she could still see Lilith's voice ringing in her ears, as well as the parting words she'd offered. "Aren't I such a great boss? You could have been stuck with Mephistopheles, girl!"

And sure, Mephistopheles may have been famous for cooking alive those who failed to bring him appropriately warm tea in the morning, but as the portal opened in front of her, shining with the same blue light that had imbued the runes, Nemain was utterly convinced that she would have preferred that.

At least you don't get to think anymore when you're just meat. Thinking too much was the root of her issues - she was convinced of that by now - and so perhaps it would be better to do... well, less of that. No thinking meant no ideas, no conclusions, and certainly no weird theories about even weirder humans that she now had to present to the Heavenly officials, if for no other reason than that nobody else gave a single flying fuck.

This was her life now, Nemain supposed.

As if those winged fucks will ever help. The demoness had had some... experiences with angels, and every single one had cemented the position she had brought with her from her Fall. They were rude; they were stuck-up; they were sanctimonious, somehow believing themselves to be better than she was just because they hadn't yet managed to violate the one weird rule they knew nothing about and that would be their undoing.

In some respects, Nemain almost felt bad for them.

Awakening to the truth was cruel, but living a lie was always the far crueller fate.

Any and all pity she may have felt for them evaporated into nothingness, though, when she reached the pearly gates and the angel who was guarding them, a snot-nosed brat with far too many pimples covering his parody of an actual face, sized her up and down, as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes. Maybe he really couldn't. Nemain could understand that, but did he have to give her the look you usually gave to the shit you'd just stepped into?

"Errr," he drawled out, "I don't believe this is the entrance to Hell, Miss. If you've come to file an official appeal regarding your... unfortunate state, you may do so at--"

"A meeting," Nemain interrupted him, "I've booked it and everything. As in, with an official representative? My name is Marchioness Nemain of Gnawpit and I demand the entrance I am owed." She hadn't quite voiced the or else she was thinking, but she also didn't have to.

Not at all.

 

[Katerina]

“Ariel!” Her boss’ shout was quite unnecessary, given that Arielle was, at present, standing no more than two strides away from his desk. Of course, to notice this, he would be required to look up from his company-issued laptop, so Arielle could hardly blame him.

“I have the records you requested, Mr. Secretary,” she said, at a much more reasonable volume. He started and finally glanced up—not at her, but at the binder she held out to him. “Grouped by year and sorted by relevance. I bookmarked page fourteen, which I think you will find particularly helpful in establishing precedence."

“I didn’t request any records.”

“But you were about to.” Seraphim Gabriel, the Secretary of Miracles & Celestial Events, seemed to consider her for a moment, before accepting the the binder.

“Thank you, Ariel.” Arielle almost reached the exit before he called her back. “Any updates regarding the special project?” The gnawing feeling of ineptitude began anew in Arielle’s stomach. She understood that, given his campaign for leader of Heaven, the Seraphim felt unable to trust intel coming in from the Department of Human Affairs & Heavenly Guardians, but why he’d assigned a project requiring covert investigation to her, Arielle had no idea. She felt like a fledging who’d been thrown off a cliff and told to fly.

“I have been monitoring the situation closely, and everything seems as it should,” she said, choosing her words carefully. Despite her efforts, they turned rambling. Too many qualifiers and filler words and, God, this was why she avoided unpreparedness at all costs! “However, I’d like to reiterate that perhaps you might feel more confident if you reassigned the project to someone whose skills are better suited—”

“I have the utmost confidence in you, Ariel.” Properly dismissed this time, Arielle returned to the outer office. It was sleek and modern, with a lot of while and chrome. Two desks faced each other and separated Gabriel's office from a small reception area. As the door clicked shut behind Arielle, one of her favorite voices dispelled the incompetence that loomed overhead like a cloud.

“I’m not sure why you keep deleting Learn Employees’ Names from the Secretary’s schedule," said Mirelle. She was the never-awkward, never-ruffled, never-without-a-comeback Chief of Staff for their department. Where Mirelle’s confidence seemed innate and authentic, Arielle’s felt performative and pretentious. “Lionel dropped off a note for you, it’s on your desk.”

“Thank you.” Locating the memo, Arielle carefully broke the seal. It was notice of an official visit from a representative of Hell, who would be arriving…five minutes ago. Excellent. Lionel would be getting an earful from her, as soon as she had the time to track him down. Why he would alert her so last-minute and why he would alert her at all were both mysteries to Arielle. Official state visits rarely fell within her purview. Except for rare circumstances, God’s Office or the Department of Foreign Affairs & Diplomacy would handle such meetings. Perhaps it was a good sign. Perhaps it suggested that angels were already beginning to view Gabriel as God’s de-facto successor. Which only made it worse that she was already six minutes late. Her heart rate matched the rhythm of her heels clicking on the linoleum floor as she strode to the nearest Visitor’s Entrance.

Swiping a visitor’s badge from security, Arielle squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and pushed open the gates. Hopefully, her smile said, “I apologize for my lateness, and am otherwise a very competent individual!” …Maybe that was a lot to expect from a smile. Then, her eyes fell upon the representative from Hell and Arielle knew that no smile in the universe would suffice. Heat began creeping up her neck and her smile flickered—but only for a moment, before her professional mask slotted into place. She would shove all the the shame, the anxiety, and the lingering righteousness so deep down inside of her that even she wouldn’t know if they were real. If she tried hard enough, she might even be able to convince herself that Nemain (for that was the demoness’ name now) didn’t remember her.

“Marchioness, thank you so much for coming. My name is Arielle. I am the assistant to the Secretary of Miracles, Seraphim Gabriel.” Arielle immediately regretted offering Nemain her hand to shake, but it was muscle-memory, and she could hardly take it back now. God, how she hated being forced into situations outside her job description. She wasn’t supposed have a hand, literal or otherwise, in state visits. She didn’t even know if handshakes were custom in Hell! The ridiculous image of Nemain taking her hand just to pull her into the depths of the underworld came to mind, and Arielle mentally shook herself. “Welcome to Heaven.”

 

[.quietus]

Needless to say, Nemain did remember Arielle. She remembered her face; she remembered her voice; she remembered her everything, but the thing she remembered most of all was just how crazy the woman had used to drive her back in the day. Why must it be her? Why? Apparently, some things didn't change, and Nemain could already feel her blood pressure rising just by looking at Arielle. Is she... really pretending not to know who I am?

Then again, perhaps choosing to believe that she pretended was a tad too generous of an interpretation. Knowing Arielle and her pea-sized brain, it was just as likely that she somehow had forgotten, instead dedicating that section of her mind to all those rules angels had for wiping their own asses or somesuch bullshit.

Had she already mentioned how much she hated angels?

Because she really, really did.

Especially this one, with those pretty, innocent eyes of hers that almost made you think that she was not, in fact, half as worthless as she actually was.

No, Nemain did not accept her hand. The Marchioness instead stared at it as if it wasn't an ordinary limb but a venomous snake ready to bite her -- and for all she knew, that might have been exactly what it was. What? Her past experiences supported the hypothesis! "Arielle, you say?" Nemain's voice was flat, though if you really knew her, you could hear the anger sizzling beneath. Many demons used their wrath as a sledgehammer; Nemain rather preferred to wield it one like would a scalpel, taking her victim down with precious strikes. In other words? Arielle would probably do well to pay attention. She would have done even better not to come at all, but that ship had obviously fucking sailed.

"Feels like I've heard that name before. Now, where oh where could it have been?" Nemain rubbed her chin, apparently deeply in thought. "Oh, I know! Don't you work in that brothel near the gates of Hell? Man, I thought they paid you more than this, but I suppose I understand. Don't worry, I can be... discreet."

Was this terribly childish of her? Maybe, but Nemain also wasn't going to lose any sleep over being an asshole towards someone who didn't even bother to remember her damn name. And after she'd ruined her life, too! How rude was that? Most demons at least had the decency to heads of their enemies as trophies because anything, anything was better than being forgotten.

Such a slap in her face!

And she rather liked her fucking face.

Taking great care not to look nearly as annoyed as she felt, Nemain tilted her head quizzically. "Do you accept donations, Arielle?" The honey dripping from her words was, of course, poisoned, though she didn't even attempt to hide that. In many ways, that was the point. "Seeing you struggle to keep your virtue intact is too much even for my old, rotten heart."

Okay, perhaps this could actually be kind of fun? Nemain hadn't yet decided, but she also didn't think there was literally any reason for her to not try and make this already insufferable visit as bearable for herself as possible.

 

[Katerina]

The distrust in Nemain’s eyes as she stared at Arielle’s outstretched hand shouldn’t have surprised Arielle. But she’d allowed herself to imagine the next few minutes unfolding in at atmosphere of cool professionalism. Even if she didn’t believe Nemain would be friendly (Were demons ever friendly?), even if she didn’t truly believe Nemain had forgotten her, Arielle had hoped for cordiality. Arielle let her arm fall limply to her side. Okay, so handshakes were a no-go. Arielle could roll with that. Maybe she could still salvage this.

…Or maybe not. Only once Nemain began to speak did Arielle realize the extent to which she has misstepped. Nemain’s tone was flat, but emotion simmered just under the surface. Emotion that Arielle quickly decided she wanted nothing to do with. But then the words themselves registered and the heat that had been climbing up Arielle’s neck shot to her face. For a moment, she could do nothing but stare, aghast.

Cool. Calm. Professional. Arielle lifted her chin. She met Nemain’s piercing blue eyes with her own. She would not be intimidated. At least, she would not show that she was intimidated. Except for the occasional smiting, the Department of Miracles & Celestial Events facilitated mostly pleasant interactions. It was why Gabriel had some trouble being taken seriously, despite being almost-universally liked. But if Arielle wanted to keep her position when he became God’s successor, she would have to get used to more difficult conversations.

Still, Nemain’s offer of a donation just about pushed Arielle over the edge. Though she cursed herself for doing so, she broke eye contact to glance over at the angel monitoring the gates. An noxious mix of embarrassment and indignation flooded her. Not that she had anything to feel embarrassed about. Well, that was blatantly false, but the last thing Arielle needed right now was to open the vault of humiliating memories she kept locked inside her. Luckily, Arielle had a lot of practice shoving her feelings down. They didn’t stay down, of course, but that’s what the supply closet was for.

Pulling her gaze from the eavesdropping guard, Arielle forced herself to once again meet Nemain’s eyes. How such iciness could survive in Hell, Arielle didn’t know.

“I believe you have mistaken me for someone else,” Arielle said. She could barely hear her own voice over the pounding of her heart, but the words she could make out sounded unaffected enough. Bolstered by this, she continued, though she was unable to fully resist the urge to lower her voice before discussing such topics. She took a determined step forward. “Though I wouldn’t condemn the virtue of those unfortunate employees so much as I would condemn the virtue of those who frequent such establishments often enough to know said employees by name.”

Perhaps angrily whispering at visiting diplomats was not the most dignified action, but Arielle still felt quite satisfied with herself as she stepped back, confident she had gained the high ground.

 

[.quietus]

Ah ha! So that got under your skin, didn't it? Arielle could prattle on and on about how she didn't condemn those who worked there and how the insinuation didn't bother her at all, actually, but Nemain had eyes and thus Nemain could see things for herself. And what was it that she saw? That sweet, sweet shame, hiding just behind the thin veneer of what Arielle likely thought to be righteous indignation. The embarrassment, too. The embarrassment that all but said: 'How can someone think something so scandalous of a pure angel like myself?'

Hypocrites, every single one of them.

Not that that surprised Nemain, who by now thought that angels were pretty much the god's cruelest joke. They for sure had to be; no creator, no matter how eccentric, would entrust the safety of his realm to a bunch of chicken look-alikes, so the demoness could only conclude there was some punchline that was escaping her.

The fact remained, though, that even in that poor company, Arielle somehow managed to stick out like a sore thumb, and the demoness fantasized, only briefly, about how nice it would be to wrap her fingers around the angel's slender neck and squeeze.

One could dream, eh?

It certainly couldn't go beyond daydreaming for now, so Nemain just rolled her eyes. "Yes, thank you for the speech. How very socially conscious of you. You get, what, ten goody little two shoes points?" That ought to be a rate satisfying enough for a sniveling rat like Arielle, who could probably only dream about things like pay increase or common dignity. And so what if they were made up? Things not being real hadn't stopped Arielle before. In fact, that had only ever seemed to encourage her. "But I'll have to deduct twenty of those for lying. Although, I suppose that pretending not to remember me isn't a lie as much as it is cowardice?"

Nemain's gaze dropped to her nails, as if a) there was something there she simply had to inspect right now, or b) she couldn't stand looking at Arielle anymore.

Maybe both of those things were true; maybe none of them were.

"Spare me the nonsense, Arielle. I know damn well that you know who I am, so let's stop embarrassing each other here. I do realize that this might be difficult for you to grasp, but some of us haven't yet given up on our backbones." Did the angel deserve all that? Well, no. Only because she deserved much worse than what she'd just said, though! The main thing that was working in the brat's favor right now was that Nemain really didn't have the time for this, which was a realization that she accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. "Are you planning to do your damn job or should I just... prepare to spend the rest of my visit here? Had I known this, I would have brought a goddamn chair."

And a noose.

A noose would have been nice.

 

[Katerina]

As Nemain began her diatribe, Arielle crossed her arms…then immediately unfolded them so as not to squish the lapels of her blazer. Instead, she fixed Nemain with a look that she hoped conveyed the same superiority and refusal to be baited as the expression of a parent watching their child throw a tantrum. Her mask held strong as Nemain accused her of lying, weakened a bit at the demoness’ pronouncement that they knew each other, and cracked at her claim that Arielle didn’t know how to do her job.

For a moment, Arielle’s expression conveyed a touch less lofty disapproval and a touch more canine-whose-snout-just-got-swatted-with-a-newspaper. Then, she recalled the backbone comment and her eyes hardened. It took a lot of backbone to do the right thing, the good thing. It wasn’t easy, not even for angels. It wasn’t easy to report a peer for breaking rules. It wasn’t easy to maintain trust in authority figures who decided to give up on that peer and let her fall. It wasn’t easy to not feel responsible. But Arielle withstood difficulty. Fuck this. She could play hardball, too.

“You’re right,” Arielle said, cool and detached. She laughed—or made a sound resembling a laugh, with some humor, but no warmth. “How embarrassing. I thought we were mature, professional adults who could pretend at cordiality in a work setting. Clearly, I was mistaken, an embarrassing error on my part, indeed.”

Holding up the visitor’s badge between the two of them, Arielle continued, “And if you really know who I am, you’ll know that I determine whether you easily bypass security or get the usual thorough inspection. A search, a polygraph. It could take hours. And it sounds like you’re in a hurry.”

She delivered her words in a nearly-impassive tone. It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact. Visiting demons often found themselves subject to long security holds. Very few were vouched for by an Archangel or Seraphim because few angels wanted to be responsible for a demonic visitor.

Arielle felt only vaguely in control of her muscles as she thrust the badge at Nemain with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. Not waiting to see if Nemain had ahold of it, she turned on her heel to open the gate. Then, she promptly spun back around. Words accumulated on the tip of her tongue and she knew she couldn’t hold them back. She knew she should. She knew she would regret speaking before she even opened her mouth. She knew they contained a shameful hint of malice. In her defense, it had been a long day. A long month, actually. Being entrusted with tasks outside of her training and job description had Arielle on edge. So she gave up. She stared up at Nemain’s hateful blue eyes and let the words pour out.

“Also, for the record, adhering to social norms isn’t lying and it isn’t cowardice, it’s following the rules—something I thought you might have learned the value of by now.”

Then, she wrenched the gate open and stepped back to allow Nemain entrance, calling an unsettlingly-pleasant thank you to the security angel behind her.

 

[Katerina]

Arielle’s walking speed as she returned to the office rivaled her departing pace, though this time she was fueled by rage rather than anxiety. With each click of her heels against the tile floors, however, her anger faded, replaced with a concoction of emotions so confounding she couldn’t even begin to process them.

Arriving at her office was not as comforting as Arielle hoped it would be.

“The Secretary can see you right away,” Mirelle said as they entered. Arielle thanked Mirelle and grabbed a journalist’s pad from her desk. Tucking invisible strands of hair behind her ears, she knocked on then opened Gabriel’s office door.

“Mr. Secretary? I have Marchioness Nemain of Gnawpit to see you,” she said. He bid them enter, and Arielle stepped back so Nemain could precede her, purposefully avoiding eye contact with the demoness.

“How can I help you, Marchioness?” Gabriel asked, demonstrating that he was indeed able to pull his focus from his company-issued laptop when required.