Nervously, Valerian shifts a little, his wings ruffling under my fingertips. On any other occasion- perhaps when I am not pissed, for example, I would have taken his nervous shifting as a sign of discomfort, and removed myself from the situation as quickly as possible. But with my mind hazy from the influence of alcohol, it is all I can do but think how wonderfully soft his feathers feel under my fingers, and how drowsy I am becoming with the lulling scent of lilies and the warmth radiating from his body. I imagine to him, I must look like a fool.
Truly, alcohol is the worst.
"I will tell you what, Elowyn, cara mea," he says softly, but his voice is strained with tension, as though he is trying to hold something back, some sob or groan or cry of distress. I cannot tell which. "You let go of my wings and I will tell you why I look like this. How I become what you people of the Upper Realm know as 'The Devil'."
Grumbling, I pout at him.
