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Words flow from Raphael’s tongue just as easily as from his quill. Contracts, prose, poetry—the medium and manner of delivery matter not, so long as they are his compositions.
For the first time, he finds himself speechless.
The babe in Tav’s arms is impossibly small. Wrinkly. Bald. Infuriatingly loud. Repugnant in every sense of the word.
Raphael should hate it. There’s little he loathes more than the chaos of that which falls out of his control, be it a ruthless adversary or the incessant pestering of children with more curiosity than sense.
Instead, his heart twinges with a feeling he cannot place. For all his millennia, he’s never once felt anything like it before. It is a pleasant, warm heat, a contrast to the boiling hellfire that radiates from his core. It is a relaxing satisfaction that spreads across his body from head to toe.
It is a mystery to him, a riddle even he cannot solve. A mystery that will drive him mad, should its hold on him never cease.
“Lost in thought?” Tav calls out to him from their bed. Her babe is cradled in her arms, its cheek pressed against her bare chest. Her pallid skin is covered by a sweaty sheen, dark circles are underlying her eyes, and her hair is matted and tangled, each lock out of place. None could deny her exhaustion.
Still, there’s a glow to her, a radiance that surpasses even that of hers on the day she swore her soul to him.
Not once has Tav ever looked so beautiful.
“Perhaps. I do find myself plagued by a feeling whose manner I cannot place. It is most irksome , and I wish it would leave me be.”
“Describe it to me?”
“It only afflicts me as I gaze upon you—upon your child. It is…pleasant, if vexing. There’s little I haven’t experienced in my years, but this feeling is novel. The closest I’ve felt to it is in your embrace, yet it still does not compare.”
Tav smiles knowingly, patting the bedsheets to her side. “That’s love, Raphael. Come join me in bed. It’s time you meet our son.”
Love.
A weakness only known to mortals; to imply such an incompetence of a devil is an offense punishable by death a thousand times over.
Raphael will indulge himself just this once.
Up close, his babe’s infernal heritage is undeniable. Skin just as crimson as his, stubby horns that poke through the corners of his forehead, orange irises shining through black sclerae, and a tail that coils around his mother’s arm.
But just as apparent as his own characteristics is Tav’s: a back devoid of sinewy wings, chubby hands rather than claws, and a slight roundness to the tip of his ears.
He is small. Fragile. Undeniably mortal.
He is perfect.
“Here,” Tav says, offering their son to Raphael. “You hold him.”
Raphael doesn’t move. The confidence that normally flows through his veins turns to overpowering doubt.
What if he hurts him? Raphael is not a gentle man, nor a kind one. His claws are meant to slice through sinew, not cradle a babe as weak as he.
What if he betrays Tav’s expectations?
What if he is just as horrible a father as Mephistopheles?
Perhaps it would be for Tav to raise their child alone. For her and their son’s sake just as much as his.
“I don’t think so,” Tav declares as if she can read his very thoughts. Or, in all likelihood, she is merely listening to his mindless rambling.
“Was I monologuing again?”
Tav laughs gently. “Just a bit. You won’t hurt him.”
Raphael is less certain.
His indecision evident, Tav carefully scoots over, sitting herself between his legs. Her back is comforting against the ridges of his chest as she leans into him, and her thighs are warm as they press against the insides of his own.
But as Tav drapes his arms over hers, the sensation of his son’s smooth, soft skin against his claws triumphs both of Tav’s reassurances combined.
He cannot imagine a being more opposite than he, yet this child— his son —is of his lineage all the same. A combination of him and Tav made manifest.
He couldn’t be more enamored.
“So,” Tav hums against him, her eyes fixated on his own, “Do you still wish for me to raise our son alone?”
Raphael gazes at his son once again, and then at Tav. He has never been one for uncertainties, but even a devil can change his ways.
“No,” Raphael murmurs as he slots his forehead gently against Tav’s, “I will never change my ways; I will never be a good man. But for you—and our son—I will try to be a good father.”
Tav’s grin is blinding as she presses her lips to his.