Layla's fragment is always cold, and Satan would never admit to drawing comfort for it, but as the days in prison get longer, the purple stone is grounding. It is a little ironic that Satan, who campaigned against senseless violence, would be captured under torture. Or perhaps, it is not as ironic as him having started a war. Today, the pendant feels tepid against his ribs.
Satan hasn't felt like himself in days, not since he was brought to the prison, but there's something different today, a stabbing sensation. Like his innards are attempting to fight themselves. It's foreign, and he wonders if he's been poisoned while unconscious. He tries to sleep lightly, but as more and more of his magic is stolen, the pain makes it hard to stay awake. He's fallen asleep during his morning sessions more than once now, much to the High Inquisitor's annoyance and ill-hidden embarrassment.
"Torture so weak-willed it's put me to sleep, High Inquisitor, you'll never become a Great Demon General at this rate." Mocking the high-inquisitor is pointless and counterproductive, he knows, but there's little else to do, and there's nothing he can say to make her hate him more. Satan can see it in her eyes every time she looks at him; he - or at least, the demons he commands - stole something from her. No petty joking or mild embarrassment can trump that, no matter how she tries to fool him that it will. He also would not like her in his army, conflicted and kind as she is, but comparing her to demons always strikes the right chord within her. Satan knows that it can only bother her if a small part of her believes such a thing too. It's an exciting discovery, something he hadn't stumbled upon yet in his constant research, the power of words.
Today, when she enters his chambers, the pain invigorates him, like a shot of adrenaline to the system, and fades as fast as it arrived. Satan contemplates if this encompassing heaviness that he's feeling is death. The High Inquisitor's words have traveled in and out of his conscious thoughts as if his brain is only processing some notes of a music piece. It's distorted and faraway. He thinks he's calling her name, and there might be a pain somewhere, but he's… so tired? He cannot even raise his head to look her in the eye. In fact, he cannot keep his eyes open at all.
Emerada stares at the resting figure; the Devil King half-sits upon the infirmary bed, his hands are shackled to the edges of the mattress, but nothing else restrains him. There's no real need. Emerada stares at him perplexed, and the Devil King quickly grows annoyed at her staring. There's not much he can do about that.
"Hunger," he repeats again; it's neither a question nor a statement, instead, an affirmation of confusion. The Devil King acts like he has never heard the word before. Naturally, he has, but Emerada figures he's trying to contextualize himself in it.
"You're soooo younggg," the magician says unthinkingly, and red eyes snap to her in a fury. She had seen nothing rattle him so far, not when he sacrificed himself on the battlefield, not on his capture, and not in his questionings if what the High Inquisitor says is true. Now, staring down at soft, tanned hands, he seems inexplicably youthful and lost. It reminds Emerada of Emilia's first quest, so much promise of power, and so little maturity to wield it. She'd been so relieved that they'd been granted more time.
"I am older than everyone in your living family," he snaps back.
"Deeemons live a looot longer thaaan us though, dooon't they?" Emerada reasons, "If thisss is thee shape youuur bodyy takes, youuu are still younnng for yourr race."
"What did you do to me?"
"It's a neeeew seal," she explains patiently, watching every expression that crosses the round cheeks and wild hair. "Blooocks your aaaability to regeeenarate maaagic. A demoon that doesss not possess magic, is as mooortal as anyone. You' reee human."
"Hunger," he deduces.
"Indeeed, this new bodyyy of yourss. It has to eeeat. You hadddn't saaaid anything, so we thought thaaat it had not worrrked yet."
"That's what I've been feeling," the Devil King takes one shackled hand to his abdomen, murmuring under his breath, "hunger."
"We weeere lucky, youuu were goiiing to dieee, which would've been baaaad."
"Die?"
"Uhm! If huuumans don't eaaat, they dieee."
"Is it… is it permanent?" he seems to ponder on their line of conversation and tags on to clarify, "the spell."
"Umhhh? Nooo, it's a seaaaal."
"I see," and from there, he says no more. Emerada wonders, the Devil King is more polite than she would've foreseen. It might be childish, but she expected more of 'you'll pay for this' or 'undo this right now'.
"Youu'ree very caaalm."
"Oh no, I assure you, I'm panicking," his tone is polished. Emerada recognizes someone well-educated. If he is truthful or not is difficult to tell, reason dictates that he must be feeling some adverse reaction to humanity being able to lock up his magic. She watches him eat the offered soup, and Emerada has to teach him how to hold the spoon. It's a surreal experience. "Why don't you just drink it from the bowl? Why is this" - he waves the spoon with disdain - "necessary?" Emerada hides her smile under her palm demurely, amused by the incensed reaction to cutlery.
"Somee do," she watches him click his tongue in annoyance, placing the spoon down and reaching for the bowl, "buttt it's consideeered rude. Etiquette requiressss a spooon." And her guess had been right. Frowning moodily, Satan dutifully grabs the spoon and tries again, tremulous fingers bringing the lukewarm liquid to pursed lips. He offers no explanation for his sudden change of heart, and the magician does not question it; she's figured it out by herself.
A Devil King concerned with manners, who would've thought?
When Emilia comes in the next day, the blindfold so tightly wound around the Devil King's eyes is loosened around his neck. The Devil King's eyes, last time Emilia saw them, shone a hateful red, but now, they are dull wine color. They snap towards her form, red-haired and in ordinary clothes. She's unsurprised that the Devil King fails to recognize her, but she's not expecting him to confuse her with someone else. There's something hopeful in his gaze, vulnerable.
"Layla?" the Devil King inquires, the chains around his wrists clink together as he struggles to sit up. The demon hissed when the skin rubbed raw chafes against the holy iron, though it probably has no particular effect against him now. Emilia ignores the tendrils of dried blood, extending down to his elbows. They can take no chances with this creature. She's just bothered by the guise the scriptures have given him. Removing the demonic power has made him -at least temporarily- human, and Emilia needs to remind himself that horns or not, this demon is responsible for the war that has shaped the entirety of Emilia's life.
"Who's Layla?" she answers reflexively, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. The Devil King blinks as if shaking off a memory and frowns.
"Forget it," he bites off. His eyes do not miss the opportunity to examine her, taking in every weakness. Not that at first glance, Emilia looks like much of a fighter. In fact, so often she wears her full armor, much of the masses believe the Hero to be a man. It bothered her at first, but in the end, Emilia isn't looking for fame or glory. Her dream, after all, is going back to being a mere farm girl.
"These are human feet," he tells her, and Emilia has dealt with enough royalty to detect a hidden question when she hears one. She's petty enough to ignore him, but she thinks this is a piece of information she'll relish giving. She knows Emerada has already informed him of this, but it's not foolish to verify the information and find gaps in asking multiple people. Cunning, Crestia Bell called him.
"A side-effect of the seal keeping you here. Apparently, this is what happens to demons when they lose their demonic power. They become just as human as the people you tried to enslave. Irony at its finest."
"You did not come yesterday," he looks her over, "Hero." Does he recognize her voice, or is he taking a guess? Emilia thinks about saying no to throw him off, but in the end, Bell requested the Hero's help.
"I am not obliged to spend all my time cooped up here with you; this punishment is only for the demon who terrorized Ente Isla."
"And yet, here you are."
"I've spent a long time chasing you," Emilia replies, green eyes narrowed on his pitiful figure, "just making sure you don't run off anywhere else."
I'm not feeling this entirely, but I'll get it done hahaha! We'll see how it develops!