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Mending the Broken

Chapter Three

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Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

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Stolas groaned, rolling over in bed, his arm cast out for a familiar warm body that was not as familiar as the owl demon would have liked it to be. He blinked slowly, coming to the waking world with a pounding headache that felt as if it was reaching into the core of his being, twisting his stomach, aching and pulsing.

Satan...

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Oh, the previous night was coming back to him, drip by drip, his shoulders rounding, shaking, not wanting to be exactly where he was. Hellfire... Had all that really gone down at Ozzie's? He curled into himself, his feathers sticky with sweat, as if he had been tossing and turning all night long, not really resting at all.

Blitz... The demons... The catcalls... How Blitz had turned from him, left him on his front steps. Stolas' breath hitched, the bubble of a sob threatening to overwhelm him once more. He'd cried enough though, shed too many tears for even an endless lifetime.

The demon... Well, he was tired of crying. Stella had mocked him for it, his family had even said, many, many years ago, that it was a weakness to cry, that other demons would take advantage of him and the family if they saw it, knew about it. On and on and on... It had been drilled into him over time. That was why he only gave great, big, heaving sobs, dry sobs, his whole chest and back shuddering with every gasped breath coming as if each one was his last.

Why did it have to hurt so much? It wasn't as if he and Blitz were an item, partners courting, but Stolas had hoped that it might have been the beginning of that, for them, if only to see what might have been out there for them. Truthfully, he had already been head over heels for Blitz and there was nothing he could do about that, even if it was a truth that his sensible mind, his Goetia mind, didn't want to acknowledge at all.

It was too much. It was too much in the wake of the slamming car door, the rattle of the damaged muffler, sounds raking through the otherwise beautiful night.

Stolas hugged the pillow to his chest. It still smelled like Blitz, just a little bit. It felt like only yesterday he'd had the imp in his arms and his bed, though it was always fleeting, too fleeting. He didn't want it to be sparing, slipping by like water through his fingers, but he couldn't think of any way to get Blitz to stay - of his own free will, of course.

Common sense told him that he had to have Blitz want it, but how did one make that so? He'd tried to do nice things for Blitz, things that seemed normal enough, like movie nights and buying him that stuffed horse plush, though he'd felt a bit silly doing those things. It had never been so with Stella, not even back when they had been friends, as they'd never courted, never done things like long walks on the beach down at the seas of Envy, nor date nights to the pictures, nothing at all like that. Truthfully, that was about the limit of what Stolas knew of dating. Perhaps dinner dates?

He'd tried. He'd tried to make it nice for Blitz, so that Blitz knew that he wanted...more. More than their full moon fucking, where the imp rocked his world through orgasm after orgasm, until the owl was left a quivering mess under him. The feel of that hard, thick cock sliding into him brought a shiver to Stolas' spine each and every time, though Blitz was creative and imaginative, keeping Stolas entertained with bondage, roleplays, gags, impact play, orgasm denial (not his favourite, to be fair to him), e-stim, bear traps... Just when Stolas thought that they couldn't do anything else new and he would be reduced to sucking on imp dick for the rest of eternity (not a bad thing in the slightest), Blitz surprised him. Blitz always surprised him.

Stolas' chest tightened, the pillow crushed to his body. Why did everything have to go wrong? He didn't know the path to follow and not even following the patterns in the stars could help guide him that time. He could predict every future in Hell except for his own, the only future there that was left a mystery to him. So, what was he to do when the path under his feet was lost even to him?

A knock came on the bedroom door and he curled a little more tightly into himself.

"Dad?"

Oh no...

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He'd forgotten Octavia was coming by, the late-night text letting him know that there was no way she could deal with her mother for a single moment longer. Something about trying to get her into a pink, frilly gown? It was all the rage with ladies of royalty in Hell, but not quite the look that his little Starfire was going for herself, which was no problem to Stolas. Her mother, on the other hand, did not see things the same way.

"Ah... Yes, Octavia, I'm coming."

He had to get up, even though it took every muscle in his body to get himself upright, aching, groaning, as if he had run a marathon. Losing Blitz, even if he wasn't sure whether he had lost him yet, was not exactly something that he had anticipated happening the previous night.

Don't act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you. You make that really clear, all the time.

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The words cut deep. Had he really made Blitz feel that that?

His robe hung around his shoulders and Stolas could only hope that he looked normal enough for the morning, sunshine streaming in through the windows where he had not even bothered to close the curtains the night before. If anything else, well... He cast a little spell with a twirl of his claws, taking a stain out of the robe, a few of the ruffled feathers down. Hopefully, that would be enough to take care of it, though a prince could never be sure.

"Uh... Dad?"

Clearly, he was not quite as convincing as he wanted to be as he opened the door to his bedroom to Octavia, a fake smile stretching his beak unnaturally wide. Blitz had told him once that him faking a smile was not all that different to his regular smile, but the imp was still able to tell the difference. Even when his family and so-called friends could not.

A pang shot through his heart, but he spread his arms wide to welcome his daughter anyway.

"My little owlette... You've come early! Was everything quite okay with your mother?"

Octavia visibly winced, but chose not to comment on what was left unspoken between them.

"Yeah, dad... I guess. I guess it was all right. You okay though?"

"Of course, my owlette! My darling! Everything is wonderful, I'm just so glad to have you back here with me!"

He hid it all. He had been doing it for years. And Octavia, his sweet daughter, made it so very easy for him, lightening his day as she did his nights, the starfire that would bring so much to Hell and beyond. He pulled the mask down over his face, so close and so familiar that it fit like a second skin, his beak curved up into a smile, tail lifting, flicking behind him with far more expression than he would have normally embodied when merely going to get breakfast ready.

Breakfast didn't require him to hop and bounce as if he was a much younger demon. But he did it anyway, for it was all part of the farce, it was all part of pretending that everything was okay - and it was, surely, it was. For he had Octavia there and, thankfully, he no longer had to deal with Stella in the capacity that he had before, which could only be something to be very grateful for. The divorce, well... They would see about that. It was difficult in Hell, to get divorced, for nobles...

Ah. No. There was the slip of the mask, a twitch in the corner of his eye. Push it all down, Stolas, there's a good ol' boy, he told himself, amusing himself by slipping into a British accent from a TV show he had been obsessed with a decade ago. He had to keep the mask on, had to keep pretending, regardless of how his chest ached, how his heart felt heavier and heavier with every step that he made. But what were feathers for it not to bring a touch of lightness?

That's what he told himself, anyway. That was what Stolas had been telling himself for millennia, a demon who may as well have been as old as the creation of time itself. He lied to everyone, he lied to himself, he said that everything was fine, because that's what it looked like to everyone else.

It was fine. Wasn't it?

Octavia didn't listen to her music at breakfast that day, even though it was already quite late in the morning. He appreciated that. He appreciated her bubble of conversation, though she was slow and careful around him, as if she suspected something. If she did, however, she didn't say anything more than what had already been said and for that Stolas was grateful.

His feet dragged, his arms dull and sluggish as he drew on his royal cape trimmed with white ermine, the black speckles royal and yet out of place on his slender frame on such a day. Yet not even Prince Stolas could fob off the trappings of royalty for so long, though he was of the private opinion that royalty in Hell was severely overrated. If he could have gone about his duties as a powerful demon, one of the very most powerful in Hell, he might have never had to marry Stella in the first place. And then where would he have been.

His expression soured as he faced himself in the mirror, royally dressed in red, his top hat in place. It was a reflection that he was familiar with, though he could not meet his own eyes, the red hue fainter than usual. He knew that he would only find himself dead behind the eyes if he dared meet them.

He hadn't dared meet his own eyes in the mirror for several centuries. That was nothing new to him.

He didn't have too far to go, which was a blessing at least, though it took him too close to the object of his desire, the one that had wrenched his heart in two, for his liking. Stolas told himself that it was his doing. If he had not started such a deal, a transaction, maybe Blitz would never have thought of himself as exactly what Stolas told him he was, a plaything.

The owl trembled, on the brink of breaking.

No, hold it in.

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He could hear Stella in his ear, the whispering hiss of her voice, how it pulled at him, reminding him of what he was supposed to be. Even then, he had to be Prince Stolas, a member of the Goetia bloodline. And what was left of him if that was all he was? If he was a face, a mask, a farce...was there really a demon underneath all that?

He didn't know. He had thought he'd known, but perhaps he'd been wrong. He didn't know anymore.

He folded his long limbs into the large, comfortable limousine, but took none of the comforts, not a sip of drink, his face blank, staring straight ahead. An imp drove the limousine, the same one who had for many years, though Stolas could not even remember his name.

He knew his name. He just couldn't remember it. How sad was that?

Useless, dull, pathetic bird, he scowled inwardly, directing the darkness inside, deeper, clawing and poking and seething. Do you really think so highly of yourself that you can't even remember the name of your driver? What would Blitz think of you? Just another pompous noble with their bent beak out of shape, up in the air, forgetting all those around them.

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Selfish.

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User.

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Imbecile.

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Cheater.

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Loser.

Stolas shuddered. The thoughts kept coming, but if he was blank, quiet, calm, he could let them roll off him like a rock in the middle of the river. Of course, the water still came, streaming over the rock, but the rock was left in the middle, unmoved, unchanging.

Or so he thought. For even the constant stream of water would wear away such a rock over time, bit by bit, thousand years by thousand years, depending on the flow of it. And, sometimes, when the flow of water was particularly fierce, the rock would be worn away more swiftly.

Chipped away, smoothed away, worn away. Just like the thoughts hammering against his psyche, demanding that he pay attention to them. Slowly, but surely, they took root, sinking tiny little pinching claws into his mind, biting deep, slipping through the cracks in his armour. All without him even knowing.

Imp City. He did not look at it as they passed, but he felt the swathe of the city, the heat of it. It loomed ominously, taunting him, and he trembled there, letting out a little hoot that set his feathers puffing up around his collar.

He felt him there... As if he was taller than even the skyscrapers and broken buildings of the city that so many imps had made home. Looming, dominating, bearing Stolas down to his knees. Yet the owl would have gone there willingly, if Blitz had really been there, on the ground before the one that he so very desperately wished he had not hurt so. Wishing, however, had never gotten him anywhere. Not even wishing upon a shooting star. It had taken him many years before he had shocked that childish fantasy from his heart and it had come with his mother's death.

He was barely aware of the distance covered, the limousine smooth, flawless, the road disappearing beneath its wheels. Stolas did not lean back into the seat, sitting up straight and stiff, his beak clamped shut. He didn't deserve the comfort and there was far too much tension in his body to relax, to find the sweet release of muscles that had been drawn taut for far, far too long.

When the limousine drew to a smooth halt, he had to take a deep breath, he had to gather himself. He had to put on his face. It was never enough, but he had to do it anyway, woodenly following the directions of the puppeteer, his very own puppet master, cane in hand and a noble's smile on his face. It was the kind of smile that didn't mean anything and he was well-acquainted with both bearing it and seeing it.

It was a royal visit to a sinner's stables, something that he had, originally, planned to invite Blitz to. He'd wanted to ask the imp at their date, after their date - sometime around their date. He'd thought that Blitz would have been interested - well, of course, he might have been there ahead of Stolas dragging the owl along if he had been the one inviting him there. Everyone who had been in a ten-foot radius of the imp knew that he loved horses with a passion and, well, it would have been the perfect place to invite him to. Moreover, it would have brightened up his visit to the stables, being walked around by a stuttering sinner and a noble demon who didn't seem to know the first thing about horses, by a factor of a million. And that was by no means any kind of exaggeration.

Stolas walked slowly, making the appropriate noises at the appropriate times, though it was as if he was walking through a dream, everything part of a daze. His feet moved to the will of another and he nodded solemnly at what looked like a new barn and jumping arena, something that he only really knew the purposes of because of, of course, Blitz.

Blitz, Blitz, Blitz. Everything came back to him. And he couldn't even say his nickname anymore - Blitz had even let him use it after he'd rescued the imps and Loona from the human world that one time! If he'd been allowed to use the name, why oh why could he suddenly not force his mind to wrap its mental tongue around it?

A cough caught his attention, in the centre aisle of an indoor barn, not quite knowing how he'd gotten there.

"Sir, is everything... Ah... I don't mean..."

He glanced down, the sinner twisting his hands together, though he tried to keep it subtle, tucking them down and away from Stolas' gaze. The sinner was mostly humanoid, though his horns were gnarled and twisted like old, withered tree branches, hair hanging lankly around his face, his eyes dark and enlarged. Every sinner got sent to Hell with an insecurity of theirs heightened, though many argued that most of their forms, whether humanoid or worse, were random. There was always something, physical, mental or emotional, that had been warped and twisted, forcing them to focus on it every day of the rest of their afterlives.

Maybe, for the sinner, it was his eyes. Maybe it was something that Stolas could not even see. He didn't care enough to speculate on it for any longer.

"No, no, please, do go on."

He smiled more genuinely, trying to imagine that it was Blitz telling him about the stables. That both helped and hindered the moment, but it did something. That something was all that Stolas needed right then.

The sinner talked about the stables, how they were trying to match Hell horses with the right riders, how they were trying to suit them to different disciplines and give sinners, well...

"Something to live for? Does that even make sense?"

Stolas chuckled, though he did not mean to.

"My dear, we are all simply trying to live down here."

The sinner blinked at him and Stolas wished that he had gotten his name. It might come to him later, however, though the owl did not feel bad at all about throwing him with that line. It was perfectly true.

"I think I shall take a walk and survey the facilities a little further. Is there a path you might recommend I follow?"

He needed a break, to breathe air that was different, if not fresh, and he took step after step, following the route, roughly, that the sinner had directed him on. It did seem like a nice facility there and he had seen enough of Hell horses, through Blitz, to know that they were well looked after. That was one thing that Blitz was especially passionate about, the care of horses, making sure that they were well looked after and had absolutely everything that they needed. He'd lamented that Striker's horse, Bombproof, had not had her flames tended to, the living flame that flickered in her belly and the underside of her neck. Apparently, she had needed a lot more care than what Striker had given her and Blitz vowed to take her off the "cock sucking cowboy" if he ever dared show his face again. As far as Stolas knew, Striker had not.

He didn't know if it made him feel better, thinking about Blitz, but it made him feel something, something that wasn't a yawning, gaping hole, as if he had been slashed with an angelic weapon. He needed that, needed to feel, following the path around the burned grass, around a small hillock, the fields where some of the Hell horses grazed. Some were in pairs, others alone and there was a big herd of twelve in one field too, where a lake that seemed natural allowed them to drink freely, living as close to a safe, natural life as possible.

Blitz would have approved of that.

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Stolas' beak twitched, hand clenching into a fist. He was gone, he was lost, he couldn't get the imp off his mind - and was that really anything of a surprise, really? He walked with a short, choppy stride, not knowing where he was going, not wanting to admit to the tears forming in the corners of his eyes, hot and forlorn, humiliating at best. They streamed down his face, tracking through his feathers, and all he could think about was how embarrassed Stella and Octavia would have been to find him like that, or even to know that he was out in public crying like a demon of a much lower class.

He'd never wanted to be a noble, never aspired to it, content with his plants, the stars, a life that everyone had said was not for him, not for that kind of pursuits of pleasure. But he had been thrust into it anyway, regardless of his wishes, forced to perform, to be noble, to act like it.

He'd been forced to wear the mask and he had not even known it had been in place, a phantom in his own life, ghosting along with feathers trailing behind him.

Stolas heaved, a hand pressed to his chest, no longer crying, though his chest strained, gasping, panting, straining for breath. He didn't need to breathe, not technically, though his body understood the rhythms of it and being passively stripped of it struck him with horror, panic clutching him. His feathers fluffed up and he clawed at his fine clothes, the cape suddenly too much, too heavy, as if even the weight of what he had been wearing for millennia and beyond was too much for him.

It would weigh him down, bearing him to the ground, covering him, losing him. If he curled up under it, would he ever even be found? Stolas swayed, eyes blurring with tears that would not fall, both pairs of them, his body hot, cloying, clinging, even his feathers feeling as if they lay, suddenly, too close to his skin for comfort.

He was fading, losing... Without Blitz, what was he? Not to put his worth in another, no... But he had. He had clung to the imp as if Blitz had been a flagon of water in the deserts of Wrath, the fierce passion of the imp burning away just a little of the darkness inside Stolas. It had not been enough, never enough, though Stolas, like with every lie, had repeated to himself that it was enough, that it had had to be enough. There was no option for it not to be enough, not as the words, the thoughts, the clawing emotions, battered him from every direction, roiling and writhing, a mob of clamouring demons that were his own personal ones.

Hooves thundering drew him, but only a little. Enough for one pair of eyes to open into a squint, fat tears rolling, though they were not replaced with fresh ones. His heart burned, pounding, aching, his hand pressing down on it with such force that his nails dug in, cutting through, a prickle of blood rising to dampen his feathers. He barely even felt the jab of pain.

Dimly, he caught a whoop in the air and, for a moment, it lifted his heart. It gave him something else to focus on, something to think about, something that his broken mind could cling to. It gave him enough, that one, single sound, to stand tall again, even if he kept his hand clutched to his chest as if he was stopping his heart from shattering,

He didn't know where it had come from - maybe with the hoofbeats? But it was enough, for the moment, it was enough. It was enough to get him to straighten his back, even if the load was still on his shoulders, his tail feathers fanning out shakily behind him, trying to release the tiniest tensions in his body. Of course, Stolas could not focus on the largest of them, but he tried to forget that that one was there.

He'd deal with it later.

Would he?

Stolas clenched his beak, biting into the edges of it, scraping anxiously. What was there to deal with? Worries churned and clawed at his stomach, yet his legs shook terribly and he had a face to put back on for the walk back, the return to his home, now that his royal duties were more than aptly down. At least, he hoped so. He wasn't so sure he had it in him anymore to care if they weren't.

His feet moved, his head bowed against an unmovable weight, a hellish wind that pushed him back with every step forward he took. The hoofbeats faded into the distance, as if they had never been. The clawing ache in his gut remained, closing around his heart.

He didn't know where he was going, but the path back to the barn seemed like the next best option.

It was all he could do.