Worth

by neurofeces

Such things are perfectly impossible, Enough perhaps to even make you smileat the irony of it: Angels who like the Endless themselves are different to every eye, seeking to encase themselves in a single, lowly form? It is beyond ironic, it is impossible.

Warnings

Presumably Onesided Tenshi-ai (Onesided what? AngelXAngel fiction, m'dears. Since neither has a gender and both have angelic, androgynous forms, the proper designation I've heard is "tenshi-ai" as opposed to "Shounan-ai" or "Shoujo-ai" or "slash." I have yet to find a non-japanese word equivalent, so I hope the largely-american graphic novel fanbase will forgive me my apparent heresy.)

Mentions of events in Sandman: Season of Mists, Sandman: the Kindly Ones and the Lucifer spinoff series (You might be able to muddle through anyway if you don't know Lucifer--I'm running off limited knowledge there after all, and hardly found the series as deep as the Sandman, to be honest. All you have to know is that Lucifer Morningstar shows back up in Hell and Duma and Remiel have a bit of a squabble about it. Duma takes Lucifer's side, and Remiel attempts to destroy Lucifer. Remiel basically sticks his foot in his mouth by flapping his jaw at Duma. Duma ends up being on the winning side, and Remiel's a little humiliated. There you go. That's it in a nutshell--I doubt it would ruin your reading of the series itself either, since it's only a tiny little subplot of the story. You should be largely spoiler-safe unless you don't want to hear exact dialogue on how Remiel manages to say exactly the wrong thing to Duma and accomplish such broad events. As for Kindly Ones, only Lucifer's words to Remiel are used from that book, none of the rest of that elaborate tragedy is even remotely referenced)

Slightly "PG-13"-ish sexuality-related thoughts (But it would surprise me just a little if that stopped anyone from reading, considering the rating on the Sandman series itself is in the "M" regions. I've written nothing graphic though, just...thoughts...wonderings. Sort of like a child in puberty, noticing the opposite sex for the first time, and their own bodily feelings for the first time...except there is no opposite sex in this case. Hmm. Come to think of it, that's slightly awkward. Ah, well...)

Religious Assumptions (Ie. if there are angels, there is a God over them and controlling them. Likewise, I'd be surprised if anyone had a problem with this since they've come this far expecting to read dirty little things about angels though, hmm? (smile) I will not attempt to shove loving God down your throat at any rate, since I am writing slightly dirty little things about angels, myself, so rest at ease if you happen to be a perfectly lovable paranoid delusionalist.)

1st person accounts (Fiction in Remiel's Point of View, that is. It's rather handy since it allowed me to avoid using most pronouns--it's carried on in first person addressing Duma within his mind, and sort of musing along. It should have been fairly obvious, but I explain it nonetheless out of attempts to be kind on my first venture into this fandom, and on the off chance any previous readers of my works might be alarmed by the sudden variance off my usual style.)

The author of this fic is a paranoid lunatic and should not be trusted. (Oh! I am not! I'm the overly helpful commentary! I have to beat off the men with a stick because they love me so much! Well...okay...perhaps not...but people love me! They really do! Or...at least fellow lovable paranoid delusionalists have a mild sense of apprehension near me...that's close enough, isn't it?)

Disclaimer: Should I give one? I think it's likewise fairly evident that the writers of anything on fanfictionDOTnet rarely turn out to be the author themselves in disguise. But if by some mysterious and arcane means I turn into the magnificent Neil Gaiman, you may indeed ask me for autographs, and I will gladly take any royalties I can from a fanbase I never had to work hard to build at all! Sadly, I have yet to turn into Neil Gaiman, or even into a man, but I await that day with great anticipation, just as I await the day I find a decent, platonic Good Omens fic featuring Crowley and Aziraphale--oh right, I think I was writing one of those...hmm... Oh dear...should the disclaimer really be this long?

Worth

-Neurofeces

-o-O-o-

It is a surprising thing indeed. There is nothing there, no genitals, no messy hormones stirring emotions forth as they do in the demons who so lust for pain and pleasure both. Perhaps there are not even veins within my body--no, either of our bodies--or blood to carry a flush to the face and a fear to the heart. Duma, perhaps you would know for certain our composition, but of course you never speak, even now... There is simply smooth flesh between my legs, between your legs. There is no way to love, or lust, or feel any emotion of telltale sexuality...

Formless...featureless... It should certainly not be possible for one such as I to even feel such things other than touch coming from a region--my chest, my throat, my hands. Yet...Even my wings quiver, and my eyes gaze blankly after you, Duma. There is feeling in areas that should not exist--awareness of their existence, wonder if I could shape this form into that of a human, if with no knowledge I could twist myself into a different vessel, as though that might bring some sort of relief...

Such things are perfectly impossible. Enough perhaps to even make you smile--at the irony of it: Angels who like the Endless themselves are different to every eye, seeking to encase themselves in a single, lowly form? It is beyond ironic, it is impossible.

I am quite certain such things would never even occur to bother you, or concern you at all--you would simply smile in bemusement at your companion's ungainly, haphazard loss of control, and smile in the utmost benevolence, forgiving me of any action I might take in its sway.

I must wonder if it is your sudden shunning of garments that distracts me, if it is a simple interest of mine in the novelty of it all, a curiosity of sorts...but part of me knows differently. Ah, you of course would understand how one could simply know something like that, no matter how one tries to put it out of the mind, how it lingers...

Thoughts do tend to linger as of late. Silence is your realm, not mine, and perhaps you would not be surprised to learn that sometimes even the screams of the damned are more welcome to my ears than your silence...

It is of course impossible for me to apologize for what I said to you. You alone could irk me so, just as you inspire all sorts of other mad, inangelic notions in my mind--only you can induce frustration since I want more from you than from other...things. I hardly can explain why you angered me so then. I certainly would be at a loss to explain why I so wanted to hurt Lucifer--whether it was anger at this place, at him for being the means by which we were sent here, or whether even it was anger at you, for not refusing the key as I did...you had to have known I would not let you stay alone in this place...I could not explain what I thought might happen to you. All manners of horrors passed before my eyes--of you, helpless and unable even to cry out, cast away from the Father, your eyes towards the city I remained in all for the selfishness of love for a place, demons overpowering you and rending you, corrupting you...No...I could not let you go alone. You had to have known that...I wonder sometimes even if that was why you took the key--you knew I would follow. I wonder even then if that was God's revenge on me for ever even considering rebellion--love for you. It certainly is responsible for keeping me here, now, that much I am certain of.

He also loves to paint in ironies...and it is certainly a more gentle punishment than some might receive for such thoughts.

How I wish I had never said those words as I panicked before Morpheus--"Let this burden pass from me. Your will is too harsh. Choose another..." How selfish...how thoughtless, not even realizing your feet touched the ground, not even realizing the tears on your face--perhaps God spoke to you then, or perhaps you simply realized it was what had to be done, that if you refused, another would simply be sent on...You always had better view of consequences than I did.

I wonder if I might have cared had he chosen anyone other than you to be the "another"...

Lucifer's hateful, contemptuous words were right, as much as I hate to admit...

What did you do when the order came for you to spread your wings and reign in Hell? Did you whimper? Did you wail

Ah, both, Morningstar. I cowered like a human child, and left behind Duma to hide my stumbling, as certainly as your sneering tone lanced home, Lucifer, into the unclean heart of me...

Duma always struck me as having some backbone...

His words struck home as easily as the scorpion whips of the Furies, and festered within me like rot itself, though I attempted to hide myself away and appear strong in your eyes, even as I was angry with you for requesting I address him.

I thought it wiser simply to walk away! I lied easily to you--even had I stayed no words of mine would have had impact on him, Lucifer is many things but he was, unfortunately a ruler, as I could never be. You can damned well talk to him. I snapped at you, and patient as ever, you took my abuse, my impatience, gazing out with perceptive eyes, seeing the dream-king's plight...

Even now you make no pretense to hide the key. I could never take it from you now, no matter how I might want to--not when I refused it. It seems to stand there as a reminder of your punishment at cost for my terrible selfishness. You even seemed to revoke all garments afterwards, as though to keep the eye from lingering anywhere other than that key--though of course it made my eyes linger elsewhere still...I would be too embarrassed even to admit that to you openly, even knowing as I do that you would likely simply sit and gaze at me, silent and ambivalent. Perhaps you would even smile faintly, distantly at my new-admitted weakness, my faults, seeing over them as simple, trifling matters, loving with that all-encompassing gentleness of yours...

I wonder if I would ever have the bravery you do, to face such a task. I know now that I am no ruler, nor will I ever be. I have trouble even having the bravery to expose myself so, as you do. I tried, for a period, perhaps even in the vain hopes that your eyes might linger on me a little longer, but as ever your gaze swept on, unaffected, perhaps you smiled a little then turned onward, your focus on other things, pondering silence, pondering God, pondering our realm, leaving no space for pondering me--or perhaps you had already pondered me and discovered all things in your quiet observation and found me less interesting in comparison to the rest of the universe, and the more beautiful, and perfect creation.

I watched you silently as you stretched your arms upwards, seemingly in bliss. Did the sound delight you? It made me shudder in some part of me, but in another, I felt satisfied to see that strange look on your face... Another part of me was angry at the God who would send you down here without crime...Yet another was angry at even myself I suppose for following, though I had to follow. Care for you feels part of my function now--it is a part of me. Sometimes it is even of comfort to think that those thoughts might be unchanging, as you seem to be, friend.

...Friend...is that what I should call you? Were I friend to you, I would have behaved better, I would hope.

I accused you then, shouting at you-- "God set us here to rule this place. But you do nothing. To do nothing is not to rule, Duma." You were patient with my patronizing, rising slowly, unhurriedly. I knew you were not inactive in our realm. Of course I knew. I noticed your absences from that room. The emptiness weighed on me like a stifling madness--and it always made me think in horror of what it might be like had I been forced to come here, to Hell, alone. I put the room back into order, almost out of compulsion for when you might return, in hopes you might notice as well, in hopes it might please you. I still am unsure as to whether you noticed it at all, with your distant, disfocused, gaze.

If I knew, I wondered why I said such things--perhaps out of frustration that I could not see what your absences brought forth: when I left, demons would be pushed towards betterment--the screams had purpose, but with you gone... It seemed to make no difference to Hell, and brought me sorrow. ...You brought them moments of rest--I see that now. The simple mercy of giving them time to draw breath, of soothing them for even a moment. In some ways, it made the suffering worse, but in others, it brought hope--my own words of how kindness seemed magnified in Hell should have rung in my ears, but they did not, and as ever, you did not remind me.

How foolish I felt when I finally realized...

Even while I knew nothing of your actions then...I had to have known you were certainly not useless, not as I painted you.

Perhaps I resented the key you wore as though it were a jewel...Perhaps I wished I were strong enough to take the pressures of Hell alone--if it would mean you were still in the silver city, perhaps I came to welcome that bitter absence when I knew I shouldn't have...

I do not remember my thoughts...only that I was angry...that I accused you further with black, harsh words, free of any mercy, free of any...love...I might have felt for you. If love were to be patient and kind, I showed you no love then. I poured out my anger on you, poured out my frustration, my agitations...and you took it all, silently...even when my words became poison.

"You object to my handling of the affair with Lucifer? Well, why? Because you loved him when he was Samael? Have you seen the ruin he is now?"

I deliberately provoked you, wanting you to be angry, wanting you to give a cry, some sort of expression of rage or pain. You only looked at me, quietly, patiently, not flinching at my insinuations, my abuses. Perhaps even if I had said nothing you would have gone to him, perhaps not.

Oh how I wish I might have remained silent...might have learned from you and held my tongue...

In my anger I wondered if you did it to provoke me in turn, to flaunt yourself as a demon might and try to tempt me to react...but I know you would do no such thing...least of all, tempt another angel, but I wondered if you intended to cause me pain for all those many occasions I returned in temper and lashed at you with my words.

You spread your wings, and I knew there was no way I could make you turn back. I spat more poisonous words after you, nonetheless in desperation. "I won't conceal your idleness and subversion any longer! I'll rule alone!" I screamed this after you, knowing even then, you were more the ruler than I, and would always be the one who took the key, the one who was stable and kind enough, and good enough to rule when I was nothing but anger and filth, the one true hope in Hell...

Lucifer's clothes were stained with blood as he strode in to the arena, and I saw you there, the glint of hair, of wings, the outline of your body that I had burned into my eyelids, memorizing it, and I knew you had brought him there and had healed his weaknesses well enough that he could stand and flaunt and taunt, at once repulsive and charismatic in a way I could never be. And thus, I despaired, thinking my words had turned you against me, finally, that my accusations of subversion to my schemes would bear fruit...and indeed...those accusations did. You did. You were the instrument by which my plans failed--though I suffered little for it. Perhaps even my lack of suffering for my actions was carefully planned out on your part, as you protected me, gradually, patiently opening my eyes to my own meager state...

You returned in silence, and I likewise did not speak, angry still, even hurt by your actions against me...You did not look at me, did not even pretend to hear me when I spoke after my anger had cooled, calling for you. I knew your eyes. I knew when you were listening and when you were pretending not to. It changed your very pose, your wings stiff, and your perfect mouth tight and thin and unusually tense...

I had yet to comprehend you might be angry with me--that you could be angry and still remain silent, pristine, perfect...To me you had always seemed limitlessly patient, something to be taken for granted. I did not realize how carefully you supported me until you stopped interceding in the backgrounds of things.

All of Hell seemed multiplied in difficulty by ten...

I am sorry to say I learned slowly. It was a hard lesson, and one much needed in my case. It was not a flaunt, it was not an act of coyness that a demon might put before another...it was a patient punishment, a loving, merciful lesson, as my own words had spoken before. ...because you will be a better person for it, and thank us. I could see your wings were restless then--even you did not deal with the forced idleness well, but you did it to teach me that lesson--that I needed you, and what's more, that you knew it.

I still do not know if you know the depth of the truth in that statement, or if you know how and why I need you...

I hope you never know--because to me it is shameful, much as the rest of me is. I am a stubborn, and cowardly creature, and I know it. It shames me more than you could imagine, Duma. I am over those who rise because it is an obsession of mine to become better than what I am, an obsession of mine, to make all things rise with purpose and clarity, and goodness...and all too often, I take in too many duties, and I collapse under the weight of my own flaws, and look to see you, perfect and pristine and achingly kind, holding back the fragments of my own plans from harming me, and I lash out at you, presuming idleness, screaming that you could have stopped the collapse of my plans from the beginning, demanding to know why you didn't do so.

Because you will be a better person...

Any creature would love another if only the could recognize how they were protected from pain, though not from disappointment, and the wisdom that grows from failure...

Any creature would be reduced to rehearsing confessions to you.

It was only after this long, painful realization, that I finally came to you and managed my first apology.

That time when I spoke, I begged your attention, and your head moved, granting it, even as your eyes still stared out into the darkness. I stammered the plea for your forgiveness--and it was difficult. I was not accustomed to making mistakes, ever, and certainly not to admitting them, or even seeing them. Even now I would not be able to admit to seeing two figures standing by Lucifer's portal, and recognizing your silhouette, and being filled with burning jealousy, with the ache of my own bitter actions. I still worry of what Lucifer could mean to you, Duma, what he could do to you, how he might stain you if he provoked you to become like him, and how...it all might have been my fault, the fault of my tongue, the fault of my childish urge to anger you--as though that might make you speak to me... As though having you speak would mean a thing when I would never have stopped to hear you even if you had...

I can't stand the thought that my foolishness might be the cause of pain, or ruin to you, you who means so much to me...

If you could fall while in Hell...it would ruin me--especially if I knew the fault were mine...perhaps that first speech on your part, that I used to so desperately try to urge you to, would be a curse... A curse on me, or a curse on Hell itself, or even a gentle word that would seal your doom, your undoing, your lack of angelic function any longer...

Even in Hell, we still cling to our function...we could no sooner abandon it to spite God for His deemed injustices than we could abandon our own consciousness and our ability to think. I was a fool to think otherwise--and I know you smiled at me as I spoke such idiocies and urged you to speak.

Yes, you knew...You remained silent.

As though you could not speak all the more harshly to me without words...

I wonder sometimes...would your life be easier if I hated you--Would mine?--if I did not react at the thought of what might harm or spoil you as fervently and desperately as I always do, just as desperately chaining and binding you close to me so you might never leave me, or thinking I might, and in my foolish ways, somehow not end up driving you further from me...?

How different things might be...

I wonder then if I might have put my eyes to the ground and see soft feet approach--beautiful feet that should not have been made to walk the dust and feel the stones of Hell beneath their sensitive whiteness...I wonder if I had hated you, instead of loved you, if I might have felt your fingers against my hair as you placed a hand over my head, blessing me in your silence, if I would have felt the sudden thrill of bliss from your gentle touch, and ached so exquisitely that it cause me to wonder if that was the pain and pleasure in one that demons sought--the release of forgiveness, more than the release of a sexual union. I wonder if I had hated you if you might have smiled in forgiveness as you did when I asked for it, so miserably, finally aghast as I realized what I might have done, that I clung you in the relief of being forgiven, surprising you for the moment in my desperation not to be parted from you...

At that moment my former words felt bitter on my tongue. If you ever loved the Morningstar, I ached with envy, longing even to be in his place should it bring me you and the assurance you would never separate yourself from me again, even if it cast me eternally from God's grace, and made me the puppet of Evil to be destroyed ultimately at the end. I wonder if it would bring a sweeter, more delightful union than the fresh breath forgiveness offered...

In silence, alone, I touch my wings to still their trembling, I feel for the heart I might not have to see if it is steady, I put fingers against the flatness, the formlessness in my groin with a frown, certain that I should feel nothing apart from the sense of touch in that region, and think nothing of it in any event, and...I know I feel something despite it all, and that something has its cause in you...another purpose, beyond function, beyond Heavenly Decree...

So I sit by your side, in silence, hoping against hope I might see you smile, eyes sparkling with delight at my nervous quiet, fingers touching my fidgeting wings, stilling them and bringing me an anxious, guilty bliss.

At your gentle fingers on mine we are a small bubble of peace within the now-subdued screams of the damned. We are temperance in the screams of ecstasy from the reveling demons below. We are mercy and tenderness and redemption, and we are all this in silence. I may not be fully still, or fully at peace...but even that small touch to quiet me, the mere contact from you is enough to satisfy me, and make the silence, the lost time possibly spent bettering others below, all worthwhile.

Yes...one day, I will find the words worthy to tell you...

...Just sits there and plays with my old front door key and watchesyou, eh? And never says a thing? I bet that drives you quite mad.

Mad indeed, Lucifer... And madder than you may think, at that, Star of the Morning...

-o-O-o- Finire -o-O-o-

A few Notes:

"...Angels who like the Endless themselves are different to every eye..."

I noticed in my copy of Season of Mists that Remiel and Duma seem to change appearance every time they interact with a different character--I don't believe it's simply lighting or such, because their hair and facial features change between the time Loki looks at them, and the time they appear before Dream. I interpreted this--perhaps wrongfully--as the angels having "aspects", just like Dream does, depending on who looks at them. (After all it's implied Dream is a cat to Bast much of the time, and with Nada, he takes on African features, but is always the same character.)

"I am a stubborn, and cowardly creature, and I know it"

Admit it. Remiel isn't exactly your stereotypical sweetness-and-ponies angel stereotype. He has an edge of sinfulness to him, if you will. Personally I find this fascinating, because Duma and Remiel prove to be excellent foils for one another, and compliments once you soften Remiel a little to the point where he recognizes the fact he is hardly a stereotypical sweetness-and-ponies angel stereotype. Literarily speaking, it would have been better had I not softened him down, because it would prove a point of excellent clash, but since this is only a one-shot, I decided I could make Remiel a touch more self-observant in the end and bring out the complementation, rather than the clash.

"...If you ever loved Samael..."

I do believe I addressed it in the piece itself, but in the Lucifer series, the angel "Samael" is alluded to as his former identity. My own research into angels (since studying ancient cultures, the apocrypha, jewish pseudopigripha, and gnostic texts, and angels or demons in general are hobbies of mine) alluded to a "Sammael", literally translated as "the poison angel." I can only assumed "Samael" is an alternate spelling. "Sammael" is an angel sometimes used on the side of good, sometimes used on the side of evil. (He isn't the only one, my research has also provided a similar history to the angel "Chamuel", said to be the dark angel that wrestled with Jacob, though tradition itself occasionally makes Jacob out as a giant in his own right, literally and metaphorically.) Actually in all likelihood this is a good choice for an alter ego of Lucifer, and I have seen Samael, or "Sammael" used elsewhere in fiction for the same purpose, or sometimes in place of Lucifer as the tempter responsible for the "fall of man." In this work, however, it is simply the alternate name, among many, for Lucifer Morningstar, and is used as such. The research however, is fascinating, and I'd highly recommend looking into it if you are unfamiliar with the various legends behind the other angel, or even the many shades of "Lucifer" (meaning "light bringer") as "Satan." (Literally "the adversary.")

"...Even in Hell, we still cling to our function..."

I always personally found it somewhat amusingly shortsighted that Remiel keeps telling Duma he can speak since he's no longer an angel, and then he goes on with his being set over "those who rise" (those who are ambitious, perhaps? Remiel does seem a bit bent on controlling his surroundings.) and Remiel runs about trying to get things in order all throughout Hell. I truly can't see Remiel being happy sitting silently to himself and letting his new world run itself. If that over-involvement is taken in as an aspect of his character, his own realizations as to who he is and why he does the things he does, could conceivably make him eventually notice that Duma sees things he doesn't and he sees things Duma doesn't, and that they do indeed, both need to be there as rulers of Hell. Even beyond the saccharine romantic ideas which could be taken from that, it was a good spring-off point insofar as character-fiction went...in my mind at least, and seems to further add power to God's role. (Rather strange to empower God in a piece of fanfiction. I keep expecting a bolt of lightning to strike me through the crown of the head.)

Incidentally, this last one also gave me some of my personal issues with the Lucifer storyline--I found the series in general seemed to cheapen the ideas that could be taken from Gaiman's work, and reduce them down to stereotypes. In Lucifer, there was no real reason to have Remiel or Duma in Hell except to occasionally meddle in the intrigues of the demons who had the real power. Lucifer became more of a means to get original characters together in the storyline, for either romantic purposes, or action purposes, or even worse, he simply became a fragmentation and pale shade of melancholy, brooding, lovable Dream--which seemed most unlike the manipulative, intelligent, and antihero-like-at-best character he was portrayed as in The Sandman graphic novels. Mazikeen, suffered even worse, becoming a stereotype tough-woman Xena: Warrior princess sort of love interest and sidekick to Lucifer...It...saddened me deeply to read that spin-off, to tell the truth. I was able to take some "enhancing" off it to flavor my Sandman fiction, but...I found it personally, very unsatisfying. I was honestly unable to finish it...But I am also aware I can get painstaking in my character developments, perhaps too much so for any given now-eighteen year old young woman. (Side note: I wrote this at seventeen, with some editing for Kindly Ones references after I bought the work after my Eighteenth birthday. I still hope to get the Wake soon and complete my collection.) I would not by any means try to persuade anyone who truly likes the spin-off, from liking it for their own personal reasons. Ah...it's times like this that I wish I knew for certain what the author's intents were...but oh well...fanfiction is the fun of interpretation, isn't it?

My rants aside, I hope this fic has been enjoyed, and I hope you drop a review of any sort of comment you might like. I have an undying joy for reading flames and competent criticisms from people with far different interpretations on my own, but I can also be just as easily puffed up with joy by some sort of...er...trifling... and ah...mostly meaningless praise?

It would only take a moment, really... (coughs subtly)

I hope to write in this fandom again--perhaps when I fill my shelf as I should with the Sandman novels I am missing. (I have all but The Wake, and Endless Nights--if you count that as the last of the books, that is. I've lost track of the spin-off series I've read...there are quite a few. Er...the one on Destruction is quite good...and the one on the Furies has lovely art--Daniel, in all his glory, is on my desktop at this very moment, in fact.)

Thank you very much. Ah...if you'll excuse me...I guess I'm off to reread my graphic-novel copy of Murder Mysteries and think yet more slightly dirty angel-related thoughts. (ahem)