Remonstrance, No. 1
001 - fingertips
"Do not look so frightened," she laughs, "it was merely a bad dream."
Her hands caress. His skin is pale and cold like marble. He can't warm up, not even to her touch. The bed feels like it is made out of endless pillows, and no trace of a world outside their sanctuary reaches him. She has called this place paradise many times.
"You're not real," is all he can say.
He thinks she is smiling but he can't see. He has always been blind to the beauty of earth and now he has finally learned what the word means he is faced with blindness in its most literal form.
"Come," she whispers, and she takes his hands, pressing them to her heart, "do you feel that? My heartbeat, do you remember that I am real as long as you feel it?"
She tightens her grip.
Time passes. He does not know whether it is day or night, but neither does he care. He focuses, tries to at least. He clings to the steady ticking of the clockwork night sky in the hope something will join that delicious sound, but her heart won't beat under his fingertips.
002 - feel
He is dragged out of bed by a voice that is not half as gentle as hers. He is pushed onto the wooden floor and stripped to the bone. His hands are tied. There is no love here. he doesn't think it strange his skin is like marble in his dreams. In life it is so soft that ten minutes of shoving have his knees bleeding.
Someone grabs his wings to have something to hold on to, and the demon underneath lets out an agonizing shriek. Here he is, a mighty demon, crippled and nearly turned to dust under the fingers of men with strange taste. Forced to twist, to change and to splay himself out for them. He doesn't even feel it anymore. He is even stripped of lust, and he doesn't even pity himself.
At this point, he doubts whether he'll feel at all.
003 - finesse
"Cecil," she whispers, "come."
He won't. He can't bear the finesse of her touches knowing he won't feel, again. He can't hold her hands any longer. Her skin became like fire, leaving blisters on his flawless appearance. She does not understand. She keeps reaching and touching until it turns into clawing and even her touches stop being sweet.
"Please," she whispers.
"No," he says.
"Why?"
He presses his fingers to her lips in their endless ocean of pillows and he hopes she sees his weak attempt for a smile.
"Because it will not beat for me."
004 - filth
His mouth is full of dust and he trembles. His blind eyes sting and he feels disgusted with himself. There is someone in front of him, someone who clings to his jaw and forces him to open his mouth. The taste of fish fills up his senses. He used to love eating fish, now it makes him wish he could throw up. The other forces the food down his throat.
"Have to eat, won't we?" the voice is male, "won't have you dying here. A demon dying famished, how pathetic would it be?"
Filth. Filth everywhere. His knees bleed and his elbows bleed and when he tries to get rid of the food in his mouth his nose bleeds too, after the man makes Cecil's head collide with the wall.
005 - faint
He can't. He doesn't want to go to paradise anymore. He doesn't want to wake up anymore. He is simply not sure anymore.
She is persistence itself, returning to him every night, like a loyal dog. He pushes her away, he doesn't want her. This night it feels like waking up when his eyes open and he lays in her arms. He can't remember whether it feels different than all those times before.
He tries to escape her grasp. She clings on to him. He starts fighting, struggling. She lets go with a gasp. He can imagine her eyes being wide. Her hands grasp for his.
"Cecil."
"Let go of me!" he can't help it, he can't help but scream it at her, trying to get away. He doesn't want more hope. He doesn't want her pity any longer, not if he can't have it at all times. Not if he can't have her love instead of her.
"It's a dream," she repeats, like it will help him. "It's a dream."
It's been long since she was startled by the demon's silver tears, and Cecily Herondale knows that he will eventually cease to struggle and slump in. When he does this time, she pulls him to her body and makes sure his ear lays against her breast.
He won't stop shaking.
"Listen," she hushes him, "listen very carefully. Do you remember that I am real as long as you feel my heartbeat?"
He tries, like he tried any night - and wonder what will become of him if he fails once more. What if her heart simply refuses to beat for him?
"It won't," he whispers. "It never does."
"This time it will," she promises, and he closes his eyes, "this time is different."
And very faint he hears the thumping of her heart. He is aware of the mundane anatomy, and knows the hearth is simply a muscle. Yet, that it would beat for him makes it a near miracle.
It is faint, but it is there.