Chapter Text
"I expect you to at least try to behave properly."
Thank Lucifer for cozy, shadowed nooks of King Paimon's home. Otherwise he couldn't have enjoyed this wonderful conversation with his dear father.
Vassago waved one hand casually through the air. His voice was purposefully dismissive. "Si, si, of course, mi querido padre. Look, I even wore this charming outfit you picked out for me."
The young Goetia gestured pointedly to the outfit in question. A red coat, a white shirt with far too many frills, matching gloves, and a pair of black, high-waisted pants so tight they almost ached. Never had clothes so perfectly balanced garish and ugly as the ones that Vassago was forced to wear.
King Beleth's voice was something between a hiss and a snarl. His beak clicked, the prominent crest swaying slightly. "Yes. And you paired it with those disgusting boots."
Of course he'd have a problem with the boots. How could his son have dared to wear heels? White ones. Tasteful ones, perfectly matched with the rest of his outfit, and accentuating his shapely thighs wonderfully. Still, above all else, heels.
Nothing less than an insult, to his father.
Vassago rolled his eyes behind his glasses. "Gracias, Padre, for your brillante aportación. May we go now, or would you prefer spending the rest of the night hugging this wall?"
His father grabbed his left wrist. It was not a gentle hold. He yanked, tugging until the two of them were beak to beak. The King's pale-orange eyes flared, dangerously narrowed.
"Do not act dismissive with me, young man. You may not understand what that entails, despite my best efforts, but you are still a Goetia. Act. Accordingly."
"Acting accordingly," in his father's humble opinion, generally included parading around in ostentatious yet militaristic outfits, making examples out of servants, screaming every so often, and all-around being a self-righteous hijo de puta.
Vassago glared right back. "I've not embarrassed you yet, have I, Papá?"
The feathers at the base of his father's long, sunset-colored neck ruffled, not unlike an agitated hellhound's hackles. He did so loathe hearing his son using Spanish. The nickname Vassago had just bestowed upon him certainly wasn't helping either.
King Beleth's grip on Vassago's wrist tightened. The unfortunate talons stuck in that vice-like hold were starting to feel numb. His father, though he must have known that, did not care. He leaned in even closer, breath hot against Vassago's face.
"Plenty. But not yet to the point of your reputation being unsalvagable. See to it that you keep it that way."
He released his son's hand with all the tenderness and care of a man throwing away a used handkerchief. Vassago's fingers pricked uncomfortably, as blood and sensation started to return to them.
The King stepped away from the private spot they'd claimed, talons silent against the rich carpet. The only noise came from the swishes of his thick, gold-lined cloak. It stood out starkly from the blackness that dominated the rest of his outfit.
He gestured with a clawed hand, not even bothering to turn and look at his own son. "Come now. We mustn't keep Paimon waiting for too long."
His tone was cold. Clipped. As if he hadn't just disciplined Vassago in another noble's home. As if their whole talk, if it could even be called that, hadn't happened.
Vassago still followed. What else was he supposed to do? Stay in the hallway until the party wound down? Pfff, no. If he had to be here, he was going to have at least some modicum of fun. No matter what his father wanted.
His heels clicked against the floor as he caught up to the taller demon.
The vulture spared him a single, sidelong glance. "Do keep that human drivel to yourself, Vassago."
He snorted, even if it was only for show. "Sin promesas, Padre."
*******
Eyes. Too many eyes, all at once, all on him.
They glinted in the muted, dim light of the cavernous banquet hall, their owners half-buried in shadows. It unnerved him, the huge swath of darkness, from which a multitude of eyes poked out seemingly at random.
Imp eyes, black with yellow sclera, wandering over to him and locking onto his wings every time, without fail. Hellhound eyes—security guards, hugging the corners, just like Amiel himself—silver and watchful. Goetian eyes. Those were the most subtle in their staring, but the most cutting as well. No pupils, just pools of different colors, empty and glowing. Assessing. Judging. Disapproving.
The Prince tried his absolute hardest to focus on something else.
The decor would do, yes. Anything was better than the endless sea of eyes.
The boy let his gaze trail across the room, careful to avoid looking at the various demons around it.
Amiel had to admit, the decorations were extremely pretty. The Prince had never exchanged more than a polite greeting with King Paimon of the Ars Goetia, and Dad didn't like him—called him a stuck-up, sniveling suck-up—but no one could deny that the bird demon had taste.
Flowers, native to the Pride Ring, vibrant and perfectly matched with the hanging tapestries, provided a pop of color against the polished obsidian of the hall. Red and black was a Hell classic for a reason, though the decor here leaned towards purple. Dark magenta curtains were drawn across the windows. Candles, bone white, their flames purposefully dimmed with magic, scattered deep crimson light across the room.
More permanent fixtures were scattered around the room as well. Sculptures, portraits, and a particularly impressive depiction of the Earth's starry skies. It was... captivating, and not just because Amiel had a bit of a fascination with the Earth. The artwork was carved directly into the wall, and every star, arranged into several constellations, was represented by a glittering, polished diamond.
Someone coughed to his left, and Amiel, on instinct, made the mistake of turning towards the sound.
A few feet from him stood a Goetia. Distinctly birdlike, like most of them were. Shorter than usual, and a fair bit more... well-rounded was the polite term, though really, he was simply fat. Like Uncle Mammon. The Goetia was... a raven? Or a crow? Was there even a crow demon among them? Amiel wracked his brain, but no name came up, even though, as Prince, he was supposed to know them all.
The fact that the noble was openly staring definitely wasn't helping the angel's concentration. Their eyes met for a moment, Amiel's violet and the Goetia's glowing, eerie red. The bird dipped his head, as customs dictated. Amiel stood frozen for a second too long, made the same gesture but with much less grace, then turned away, but the damage was already done.
He could feel the demon's stare burning into his back, and what felt like a thousand more looks, lashing over him. An unpleasant, full-body itch crawled underneath his skin, one that had nothing to do with the cream and mauve, gold-trimmed three-piece suit he'd been told to wear. Though, if Amiel were completely honest, that was uncomfortable as well. The mauve vest was too tight, the wing holes of the jacket just slightly too small, and the entire ensemble too layered. Still, the Prince would have preferred the discomfort of a fancy outfit over that of the Stares any day.
The Goetia were always like that, at every gathering, without fail. They would remain polite, of course, but Amiel was young, not stupid. They dissected every bit of his outfit, his face, his hair. His wings. Everyone always stared at the wings.
Amiel tried to find another distraction. Music came to mind. Music! He liked music, and every social event like this had a live ensemble.
He strained his ears, but it was hopeless. Earlier, it had been easier to hear. Now, however, after dinner and a few drinks, the performers might as well not have been playing at all.
The voices were too loud. Suffocatingly so. Nobles, mostly. Mindless chatter, gossip, thinly veiled insults, tossed around by the various groups they'd formed. It was impossible to focus on just one voice, with the way they blended together in the air into one big, sludgy, overwhelming mess.
Amiel took a half-step backward, pressing himself as close to the decorative column as he could without actually leaning against it. His alabaster wings were firmly held against his back, tight enough to ache. He still drew them in a bit more, to the point they were almost folded one over the other, like a feathered cape.
It was just another social event, he argued with himself. Standard fare for the Morningstars. It should have been easy enough—effortless, even. And yet, should was the key word. It wasn’t easy.
The Prince's breathing was getting erratic. Breaths coming in sharper, shorter.
Amiel did his best to control it. He couldn't freak out. Not here. Not like this. He'd embarrass himself, and the stares would get worse, and Mother would appear out of nowhere and give him that pointed, icy look, devoid of anything but the faintest flicker of disappointment.
Amiel's fingers curled on their own volition, but they found only empty air, and eventually, the soft, purple fabric of his gloved palm.
Holding Dad's hand made things easier. He could focus on those charred, blackened fingers, warm even through the gloves Amiel always wore to these events. His father made sure to let him stay close, to cling, if he felt the need to. Told him how he hated these parties too, and how it was just the two of them, braving them stoically. He had a way of making them feel less scary.
Not tonight. The Queen of Hell had judged her son too old to hold his father's hand at social events. He was almost one hundred. Old enough to go and mingle on his own. Old enough to let his father and mother mingle on their own as well.
"Be good and stay here for a little bit, okay, duckling? I'll get back as soon as I can, I promise."
That was what the King of Hell had told his son, half an hour ago. He was still nowhere to be found.
Still, Amiel could do this. He had to do this. Didn't matter that he was starting to feel just a little lightheaded. Or that he was inhaling, but nothing seemed to be coming in. Or that his fingers were maybe, maaaaybe, starting to tremble slightly.
"¡Ahoy, mi pequeño príncipe!"
In a display as dignified as it was befitting his station, Amiel inhaled sharply, wings spreading with a whoosh.
For a single, adrenaline-pumping, heart-throbbing breath, the only thing the angel felt was shock.
Then, all at once it faded away, replaced by the iron grip of pure, icy dread.
The Prince's brain froze. He knew it. He knew everyone was looking. At him.
"Fold your wings in. Fold your wings in. Fold your wings in!" The voice in his mind was insistent, frantic, but his body refused to move.
Footsteps, the clicking of heels, nearly lost in the din that filled the banquet hall, came from his right. The Prince inclined his head towards the sound just as a Goetia bounded into his field of view.
He was an explosion of color and energy. Bright red, both in terms of plumage and clothes, with bits of tasteful white and black thrown in. Strutting, swishing his tail feathers, a long, elegant train of red, purple, and finally gold, which almost brushed the floor.
This Goetia was... a parrot, as far as he could see. A name would have been preferable, but it escaped Amiel yet again. He'd tried his best; he'd even looked over the guest list, but they were all blurred together now, a mess of sounds and syllables that probably bore zero resemblance to the actual names of those present.
The mystery Goetia came to a stop right in front of the Prince, hand on his hip, angled in a way that blocked most of the banquet hall from Amiel's view. He was... very tall, compared to the pocket-sized angel, but not quite as tall as was the norm for Hell's nobility. He looked youthful too. But definitely older than Amiel. A teenager?
His voice was warm and tinged with cheer that was far too genuine for this sort of event. "Sorry for giving you a scare, mi príncipe. Just wanted to come and give you un saludo apropiado!"
The noble let one gloved hand rest against his heart and dipped his entire body further into an elegant, ballroom bow, one entirely too subservient for someone of his rank. "Prince Vassago, at the service of Your Royal Highness, the one and only angel in our lovely realm!"
Finally, Amiel's brain came back online. Right. Angel. Angel. Wings. Gosh, wings! They folded in with a snap, coming back to their proper place at his back.
With that taken care of, Amiel started to bow, only to catch himself, back awkwardly mid-bent.
Amiel outranked the Goetia. By miles. He outranked everyone, save his own parents and sister, even if he rarely felt like it. Still, his feelings on the matter were irrelevant. What did matter, however, was the fact that he was not supposed to bow.
The Prince straightened out slowly, only to dip his head as etiquette dictated, his elaborate, honey blonde updo swaying ever so slightly from the motion. His bangs, left to hang free, flopped gracelessly over one violet eye.
To the Goetia—Prince Vassago's immense credit, he did not laugh. At least not out loud. His eyes, though, hidden behind a truly outrageous pair of spiky, golden-tinted glasses, crinkled with obvious amusement.
Amiel's guts twisted into knots.
He was making a fool of himself. Utterly and totally. And for some reason, this nobleman was not moving. What was his angle? Was he hoping for more fun at the Prince's expense? Another embarrassing display? Whatever it was, Amiel had no doubt he'd be able to provide.
"Ay, these fiestas do have a way of making you tense, ¿si?"
Amiel, eloquence incarnate, blinked. The fact that the Goetia was speaking a foreign language sank in fully, at last.
His mind immediately got to analyzing.
That was... Spanish, if Amiel was not mistaken. He didn't speak any foreign human language, but Uncle Ozzie sometimes had his incubi and succubi bring him books and other souvenirs from the human realm. The Prince had seen things written in Latin, a few in French, and one novel in Spanish, which his uncle had fetched for him because it had pretty illustrations.
Still... how and why did Vassago know Spanish?
The parrot chuckled. "¿Un poco tímido, mi príncipe?"
Ah! He'd gotten lost in thought! He was supposed to say something! He wasn't being polite at all. And Amiel had zero idea what Vassago just said to him! How was he even supposed to answer when he had no idea what was asked of him?!
He stuttered, struggling to meet the much taller noble's eyes. His tongue felt about as nimble as a piece of wood in his mouth, as he tried to string a sentence together. "Uhm. I-I'm afraid I don't know what that means, Prince Vassago. I apologize."
The demon waved him off with a white-gloved hand and a completely inappropriate sticking out of his own tongue. "There's no need for that, príncipe! Vassago's more than fine! And don't mind the little quirk, either. Just something I picked up in ¡el reino viviente! Those humans up there really know how to make life less boring."
For a moment, the little prince simply processed what the Goetia had said. But when it clicked... Amiel's eyes lit up like twin stars, little flecks of gold dancing in his violet irises.
The way Vassago spoke about humans seemed... personal. Familiar. Completely unlike Amiel himself, with his limited, book-only knowledge.
The words slipped out of his mouth, eager and unconstrained by layers of politeness and protocol. He had to make sure. "You've been there, Prince Vassago? To Earth?"
"¡Si! I've made a few trips, mostly to this lovely little country called España." The demon punctuated the last word with a dramatic flourish of his hands.
The Prince's lips parted, just slightly, but no sound came out. He couldn't believe it. Someone who'd actually been to the human world. Uncle Ozzie sent him many things, but Amiel had never actually talked to someone who made regular visits.
Vassago's mouth curled upwards into a smile, one that, as far as Amiel could tell, held no hint of mockery or scheming. Not exactly a common sight, among the Goetia.
"Ah, you are simply too adorable, chiquito! Have I piqued your interest, perhaps?"
Reality caught up to him.
Amiel had to be responsible. He couldn't let himself get too excited. Showing too much emotion at events such as this was not how he was supposed to be acting. That was improper. That was how one got exploited. Mother had made those things very clear to both of her children.
Only Amiel had taken it to heart.
The Queen of Hell never paid it any mind.
The angel lifted both hands up, though the gesture was too frantic to be nearly as placating as he intended. "I-It's nothing! I was just... curious."
Vassago crossed his arms, still smiling, though a touch of cheekiness crept into his expression.
"Muy convincente, príncipe. Very convincing indeed."
Amiel felt his face heat up. Gold crawled up his cheeks, betraying the embarrassment he felt.
Vassago outright cooed, the sound coming out somewhat trill-like. "¡Oh, príncipe! Eres demasiado adorable."
The noble had called him... adorable? Maybe? Possibly?
The Goetia laughed softly, bending down again so they were at least somewhat eye-to-eye. "Just between the two of us, príncipe," Vassago pretend-whispered, one hand obscuring his mouth. "I'm something of a free spirit. If you're curious, just ask. I promise I'll answer."
Amiel shifted awkwardly, glancing subtly over his shoulder. More poorly masked stares greeted him. Of course. The Prince bit his lip, wrestling with the choice.
He wanted to ask. He truly wanted to. This was a rare opportunity, and the noble seemed to be... nice. Not pretend, curry-favor nice. Simple, honest nice. There was something about Vassago that made Amiel feel at ease.
But... he just knew he'd draw even more attention to himself. Probably embarrass himself in some horrible way. Say something wrong, or—
Vassago flicked him on the forehead. The "impact" was gentle, barely there really, but enough to be felt. Amiel stared at him, wide-eyed, jaw dropping slightly again.
"You were thinking way too hard, mi príncipe. I simply had to provide assistance."
Amiel's golden blush, which had just subsided, flared up again. He mumbled, every bit the child he was, rather than the Prince he should have been. "I wasn't thinking that hard."
The parrot raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, mouth set in yet another teasing smile. "Of course, of course, Your Royal Highness. And all this time I've secretly been a hellhound in disguise. World's full of sorpresas, yes?"
The Prince huffed, but offered no response. Something about this Goetia was... very different. Not a bad kind of different either. He was unique, and he seemed to like talking to Amiel. No simpering, no gossip. He wasn't afraid to tease, either.
That was... nice, if unusual. It made his stomach feel weird. Fluttery and warm.
Vassago stood to his full height, brushing imaginary dust off of his red coat with too much enthusiasm. He pressed one fist against his heart, voice dripping with mock severity.
"Well, mi príncipe, I must depart now, to brave this treacherous hall in search of something to drink. Would you do me the honor of joining me?"
And then he stuck his other hand out, extending it to Amiel.
The angel stared at the offered limb, brain working a mile a minute.
He... quite liked the idea, actually. He'd get to talk to Vassago more. Find out fascinating things about the human realm.
But... Dad had told him to wait there. And he'd just met Vassago. And he seemed to be good at drawing attention to himself, so he'd draw attention to Amiel too, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.
"Not to rush you, chiquito, but my hand is getting tired."
Oh. Oh! Again with getting spaced out! He really had to work on that habit! The Prince drew back as much as the limited space allowed, wings twitching restlessly. His voice came out annoyingly shaky, and a bit higher in pitch than he intended.
"A-ah... I-I can't do that, Prince Vassago."
The Goetia tilted his head. "Qué? Why not?"
Amiel felt his cheeks heat up again, for what felt like a millionth time that night. It was... frankly a bit embarrassing, his reason for hugging the wall like some toddler. Charlie was only three decades older than him, and she had no problem wading into the fray at every gathering. Amiel knew how silly it would sound to a noble, to a person who frequented these parties so often. But... it was the truth.
"My father... told me to wait for him here."
Vassago hummed thoughtfully, one long finger tapping delicately against his chin. "Ya veo, ya veo. And you have been waiting for how long, little prince?"
Amiel's gaze drooped downward, as if his shoes and the floor had suddenly become the most interesting things in existence. Had it not been completely improper, Amiel would have answered without ever meeting those red eyes. However, it was improper, so he forced himself to look up at Vassago, however reluctantly.
"Around... an hour."
Vassago stared at him. There was something soft in the look he gave the Prince, clearly visible even behind his yellow-tinted glasses. Not pity exactly, but... adjacent to it. Or at least it felt that way to Amiel.
"Mi príncipe... don't you think His Majesty would like you to have some fun?"
Yes. Yes, he would. There was no doubting that. Even Dad lit up sometimes, when the company was less boring than usual, like when some of the Sins were present. And... the banquet hall was large, yes, but it was hardly a sprawling cityscape. Amiel himself hardly blended into the crowd, with his golden hair and snow-white wings. It'd be easy enough to find him.
And yet, still, Amiel hesitated. His mind helpfully supplied a steady stream of "what ifs," each more embarrassing than the last.
"What if you trip?"
"What if you spill something on his outfit?"
"What if you bore him to death with your pestering questions?"
"What if you embarrass your family and cause a scandal?"
It was too much. Far too much. No, no, no, no! He had to decline. It was better that way. But how? What would be polite and believable enough?
"Well, yes, but..." He trailed off, biting his lip.
Oh gosh. Oh, he was doomed. Amiel had nothing. His brain felt both empty and overcrowded all at once, half-baked ideas floating around, slipping through his fingers when he tried to focus on them.
Had it been seconds since he stopped speaking? Minutes? It felt like hours.
The Prince pounced clumsily upon the first excuse that came to mind, like a drowning man grasping at driftwood.
"I'm too young to drink yet," he blurted out in a voice that seemed far too loud to his own ears.
The parrot demon blinked. Once. Twice. And then... he laughed. And not as nobles usually did, stifled, airy, hidden behind gloved hands. No, no. This was a true, genuine laugh. It bubbled up from Vassago's chest, real, honest, and above all else, so very, very loud.
Amiel's wings pressed firmly against his back as Vassago leaned against the pillar for support, utterly uncaring of all the stares he was most definitely turning Amiel's way. The Prince was too afraid to even check.
It took him a few moments, but the demon got ahold of himself.
"Pffff! Príncipe, you're too funny! You think I'd take you to drink something alcoholic?" He laughed again, mercifully quieter this time. "And then what? Have your Papá tear me limb from limb? ¡No, no, no! I assure you, there are suitable drinks para tu tierna edad."
The angel shifted his weight from foot to foot, unsuccessfully trying to will away the gold that dusted his cheeks. Why had he gone with that? That was the stupidest thing he could have said. He'd been served something non-alcoholic earlier, during dinner!
Vassago cut that panicky, self-deprecating train of thought short.
"Any other concerns, mi príncipe?"
Amiel's mouth, moving quicker than his brain, betrayed him. Backstabbed him in the worst way possible.
"No—"
Whatever might have followed that single word would remain a mystery, even to Amiel himself. Vassago heard it, snatched his hand up in his own, and immediately tugged. It wasn't an aggressive tug, but it did have some force behind it.
"¡Ay, Maravilloso! Let's go then!"
The Goetia started walking, still tightly gripping the Prince's hand. Amiel's legs moved on their own, barely keeping pace with the demon's measured steps. He opened his mouth, but... nothing came out.
It—this—the whole situation was simply too much for the little angel.
Vassago didn't even notice, back turned to Amiel, as he shepherded the Prince of Hell through the crowd without a care in the world.