Chapter Text
There’s a brooding angel on his front lawn, Wemmbu notes amusedly.
Well, technically not his anything, since he’s been effectively thrown out. Doesn’t stop him from slinking about the shadows and darting behind corners though—he’s the runt of the bunch; such skills are crucial to his survival.
Absent-mindedly rubbing at the nub of a horn protruding from his hair, Wemmbu winces when his claws inevitably tear the delicate scar tissue. Only one wickedly curved horn remains, but he harbours no foolish hopes of mercy from the other demon princes. After all, it’s a sign of status, and he’s learnt that it only means others would stop at nothing to rip it all from him.
They’ve long since grown bored of the scathing remarks and brutal punches thrown his way; no, their latest amusement consisted solely of mutilation. “Look at you, little Wemmbu!” They tighten their grip on his chin, drawing blood with no regard for his anguish. If anything, the metal stench excites them further.
“Always trying so, so hard to be enough,” they simper, trailing a claw across his Adam’s apple, watching it bob. “Too bad you’re a fucking coward. Afraid of a little torture? Can’t bear to go ‘too far’…hah, now that’s a first! Who’s heard of a demon with morals?” Shrill laughter burrows its way into his chest deeper than any knife, squeezing so tightly that Wemmbu can’t remember how to breathe.
“Since you’re so hell-bent on being good, we’ll grant you that wish! Let’s start with cutting off those horns, hmm? You don’t deserve them, anyway.” Claws dig into bone, searching for any trace of ‘angel-sympathiser’ that would condemn him to his death at last. Wemmbu grinds his teeth against each other, refusing to grant them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.
They mock his pathetic attempt to fight back, drinking in his pain like it was the sweetest aphrodisiac. Some of them probably truly got off to it, Wemmbu thinks disgustedly, and abruptly shuts that thought down. That was a whole ‘nother level of depravity he sure as fuck didn’t want to get into.
Then—
His horn snaps.
For a brief moment, he feels nothing at all. It lulls him into a false sense of security, letting him breathe out a sigh of relief. The others raise an eyebrow expectantly, content to wait for his suffering to kick in.
Clearly they’re more acquainted with torture than he is, for white-hot pain abruptly lacerates through his skull, claiming everything in its path. Wemmbu doubles over with a gasp, unable to stop himself from collapsing to the ground. One hand remains feebly clutching at his head, in some last ditch effort to soothe the hurt.
He distantly wonders if he should have just shouldered the ‘traitor’ brand and welcomed death instead. But he has his stubborn pride to nurse, and he thrives solely off spite. He would be giving in to exactly what they wanted, which is the last thing that he wanted.
So, this ethereal angel before his very eyes now? Oh…he presents a curious conundrum indeed. If Wemmbu kills him, that’d just be what’s expected of his kind. If Wemmbu does nothing, that’d just be what’s expected of him.
He decides to do neither. “Looky here,” Wemmbu purrs, emerging from the shadows. “Aren’t you just the perfect piece of prey, offering yourself up on a silver platter?”
That’s what the other demon princes usually say, right? Damn it. He hates their filthy guts, but he has to admit that they do know quite a few intimidation tactics.
The angel whirls around, baring his perfect teeth and pulling his lips back into a snarl. It’s such an innate, feral reaction that it feels strangely jarring. Wemmbu doesn’t know what he expected angels to be like (he’s never fought one), but he thought the whole stick up their ass was about being superior to everyone else.
Those remarkable wings—black as the night—flare up like a warning sign to back the fuck away. Wemmbu, of course, only steps closer. “Calm down, now, little bird. I just wanna talk.”
The angel stiffens at the pet name, but doesn’t quite reach for his sword yet. Score one for Wemmbu! “What do you want?” he says at last, tone carefully guarded. Wemmbu is kind enough to pretend not to notice the way he discreetly adjusts his weight to the balls of his feet, priming him to take flight if need be.
“Just information,” Wemmbu replies cheerily. “Your name, for starters. I’ll even give you mine first! It’s Wemmbu.”
The angel reluctantly tucks his wings in closer, though he’s still maintaining a cautious distance between himself and Wemmbu. “Minute,” he somehow manages to state regally. Wemmbu resists the urge to snort.
“Really? No fancy five-syllable long name? Tsk, that’s disappointing.”
“I-” Minute cuts himself off, shaking his head. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he seems to convince himself otherwise. “Those are reserved for the pure-breds.”
Now, Wemmbu isn’t a genius, but Minute certainly wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding his contempt. He spits the term out like it’s poison on his tongue, feathers ruffling up in sync. The movement makes his wings catch against the moonlight, and Wemmbu belatedly realises that they’re not wholly black at all.
A viridescent swirl of colours peek through the dark canvas, as if Minute had painted the very cosmos he soars through—onto his wings. He shifts uneasily under Wemmbu’s scrutiny, but the demon really couldn’t bring himself to maintain appearances any longer.
His kind…they were not meant to find beauty in anything but suffering, and yet the sight was no less breathtaking. Almost in a trance, Wemmbu reaches a hand out, wondering what it’d feel like to comb through those feathers. He barely manages to catch himself in time and force that traitorous hand back to his side.
“Huh,” Wemmbu says deliberately, as if he wasn’t just caught gaping like an awe-struck mortal. “Wasn’t aware that the angels had a whole hierarchy too. What happened to equality for all, or whatever altruistic bullshit y’all are fond of spewing these days?”
When Minute’s shoulders tense at his words, it almost feels like a reward. No one's ever told him angels were this fun to tease! Indeed, Minute wears his heart on his sleeve; emotional turmoil flashing across his features like an open book, and Wemmbu has never been more happy to read.
“…I don’t know.” Minute finally whispers, gaze darting away.
“Something to do with those wings of yours?” Wemmbu asks casually, even if his racing mind was an indicator of anything but.
Annnd that guarded expression makes its dreaded return onto Minute’s devastatingly handsome face. “What’s it to you?” he mutters, seemingly more upset with himself than Wemmbu. “Plan on spilling the sob story about that horn of yours?”
Caught off guard, a chuckle bubbles its way out of Wemmbu’s throat. “Yeah, actually.” The demon shrugs, cracking a grin. “My brothers did this to me. So much for families, huh?”
“Families,” the angel echoes, mulling over the word. “I doubt they’d be willing to sully their bloodline with that sort of comparison.”
A final moment of hesitation, then—there it is. Wemmbu’s charisma works wonders. Minute extends one wing to its full length, letting him see the otherwise hidden injury. Entire patches of feathers had been crudely plucked out, likely as some form of twisted amusement.
The sight is haunting. It feels so deeply wrong, as if the very balance of the universe has been rocked off-kilter. It’s an unforgiving scar that ruins an otherwise perfect face. It’s a cruel punishment; a deliberate blow to his angelic pride.
“Said they’re doing me a favour,” Minute blurts out, unable to stop the barrage of words once the first sentence left his lips. “Told me if I begged prettily enough on my knees, they’d give me a few of their pure white feathers when it’s moulting season.”
Wemmbu visibly recoils. “They’re just fucking jealous,” he says, wondering if he was assuring himself more than Minute. He continues, either way. “Your wings are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. They all hate what they can’t have.”
“They fear what’s different,” Wemmbu scoffs, gaining momentum and stating it like an absolute fact. “They can’t bear to be outshined, so they debase it in hopes that you’ll be dragged down to eye level, then beneath their feet.”
Minute blinks, clearly taken aback. “I suppose you’re right. I just…didn’t expect to hear it from a demon, I guess.”
Rolling his eyes, Wemmbu retorts, “Go figure. Why are you here anyway? Can you even still fly?”
“Not as well as I’d like to,” Minute admits, voice rough around the edges. He opens his mouth, as if he’d like to say more, but clamps it shut swiftly. Gaze narrowing, his seems to hone in with predatory focus when the jewel buried within Wemmbu’s hair glistens under the moonlight.
“Say, what’s that tiara of yours symbolise?” he asks conversationally, as if his fingers weren’t inching closer and closer to the sheathed blade at his belt.
“This little thing?” Wemmbu makes sure to sound as innocent as possible. “Just the mark of a prince, for silly old me!” He takes a step closer, if only to see how the angel would take to such a challenge.
“I should kill you,” Minute growls, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.
“You should, but you won’t,” Wemmbu counters, evidently pleased with himself. “We’re two sides of the same coin.”
And you’d be a fool to think I’m done with you yet.