[ for better or for worse, dextera is accustomed to such fury directed his way. he doesn’t know what he did, but he accepts it for what it is despite the note of their last conversation—but some exhausted further investigation sets at ease the confusion, more than worry, that dextera might have committed another sin without realizing it.
his thoughts come slowly, drawn lethargically from dreams, but the benefit is that he can speak through his shard without ever opening his mouth. ]
Okay.
[ simple but willing. he wonders what makoto has on his mind at this strange hour. ]
( a moment passes. gradually, makoto gets the torrent of rancor under control; it lessens to a stream and then to a trickle and then to little more than a violent undercurrent surging just beneath the more tangible line of their Communion.
were it anyone else, he would get to the point regardless of whether or not it cut too close to the quick. but having already woken up dextera at an odd hour and assaulted him with a fury that he didn't deserve, he doesn't necessarily want to compound that unnecessarily by launching into a topic that might be... troubling for him, to say the least. all he has to go on is the archangel's words and how he spoke of the young man. that, and how he might react if someone had approached him with similar news about J.
but, in the end, he can't think of a decent way to approach this without being at least somewhat blunt. so he musters an image of the archangel as he stands out in his mind's eye and projects it to dextera.
[ dextera instinctively closes his eyes against the projection, but it reaches into his mind. his arm aches where the consciousness orb was embedded in his clones, as a memory of this precise thing burned into something deeper than flesh. in the relative silence of his room—there are always creaks and voices and wind, in a place this cheap—dextera actually whimpers. ]
—…
[ how does makoto know? where did he get that image from? why now, why does it matter? dextera can’t say that these weeks have been peaceful, out from under the thumb of the archangel, but he had just been getting on his feet without the constant barrage of degradation on the nape of his neck. terror squeezes his chest. ]
I don’t know. I don’t know. Please don’t ask me that.
[ he knows the man, of course. but the answer to the question is too complicated to answer. the archangel is someone profoundly important, not just to dextera, but to the entire world from which he came. ]
( at the response, makoto immediately revokes the image.
for a long moment there is nothing but still and quiet from him. since becoming a demon in body and soul, he can't say he's felt remorse for anything he's done. when his father had crumbled away to bone, ash, and gold dust immediately upon plunging a knife into his ever-beating heart. when he had gathered the debris of enough souls to cover the tiled floor of the fountain in J's manor. he had toppled his former employer and, in his despair, allowed another demon to usurp his role. he had taken advantage of the simple, heartfelt wishes of another and left him shattered in his wake — two of those shards he still wears, sewed into the small of his back.
none of that registers to him, because why should it? he hated his father, and every human that had ever summoned him had agreed to the terms of his contracts. and why should he care about the fate of any demon when they were the monsters who twisted him into what he was now?
but dextera — no, makoto doesn't enjoy causing him discomfort, as strange as that was for him. he perches on a stilted moment of silence before replying, ) I'm sorry. And I won't, not again.
( it's accompanied with a feeling of... genuine remorse, even if it's a very small and fledgling sort of thing, struggling for purchase in the fallow ground of makoto's heart. )
[ dextera is tempted to compare every new revelation from makoto against their first meeting, where makoto presented himself—truthfully, dextera is certain, if not wholly so—as indulgently provocative when he could find something nice to provoke. in their subsequent interactions, however, dextera feels as if he’s been shown something like mercy. he wouldn’t recognize “friendship” even if it were extended to him, but maybe the fact that makoto draws back on something he could use to be cruel is a sign of something new and growing between them.
none of this is something he can dwell on with makoto’s guess. ]
How?
[ how does makoto know, that is. the dreams are creeping up on dextera, too, but not with enough clarity that he’s been able to confidently say anything is about to happen, let alone who is about to arrive. ]
( it's not unfair of one to question exactly how much of makoto's overall mien and how he interacts with others is a front — having been around demons for the last several years, it could be that he strives to emulate them, masking whatever he might have done or said as a former human with his demonic role models placed so firmly in his mind's eye. J has certainly accused him of this, and especially before he went to claim his first human soul — but then he had only thrown himself into that collection, and all the ones following it, at first to prove himself and then to keep his mind off of everything else.
what makes a demon? is it a twisted soul, a body robbed of its human essence? or does it simply happen when one is slowly drained of all qualities that one would typically associate with humanity?
it seems that makoto, despite his best efforts, isn't quite there yet. he feels a camaraderie with dextera that most demons would correctly label an "obvious weakness." )
The same way any of us arrived here.
( he slightly misinterprets the question, but he ends up giving a partial answer nonetheless: he pictures the cosmic dreamscape of the burning light ringed by ravenous dark.
he pauses to consider an answer. ) I doubt you'll be able to run. ( he doesn't say it in an inflammatory way; it's measured, as if he's considering all possible options. there are only so many Aions in this realm; it would be difficult for any of them to purposefully avoid another indefinitely, especially if said other had a vested interest in finding you. )
[ dextera can’t run. he’s never been able to run. the world he knew before was so limited, and now against his will, the archangel has managed to find the place he thought he escaped to. the only thing keeping him grounded in this conversation is that he has time, and maybe if he’s lucky, the archangel won’t arrive at all. maybe it was a fluke. ]
No.
[ he’s powerless against the archangel, and his pained, definitive statement leaves no room for argument. despite all dextera’s powers of godhood, things makoto has experienced for himself, they’re no match for the deceptively simple sway of manipulation the archangel has. ]
( the silence that stretches after that answer is one tinged with sympathy. makoto has never been able to fight back either. the moment preceding his true understanding of what he was to J had been when he had stood up to the demon, when he had dared to tell the man that he wouldn't become a demon — or, at least, not in the way that he wanted him to.
that wouldn't stop him. it couldn't. though built around perception, the strong would always impose their will upon those weaker than they were, and so long as makoto wasn't strong enough to enforce his own declarations, he would always lose them. in hell's strictest definition, he had become a demon in the way that J had decided, though the type of demon he ended up growing into... that was where he told himself he would find his freedom.
but there was an impossibly long and difficult path to that place. for dextera... he gets the feeling he can't even see a similar path, regardless of how arduous it may or may not be. )
I did.
( there are thorns to those simple words; the prickling of residual anger, its source bone-deep and boundless.
there's a pause... then: ) He is just a man.
( he had felt it when the talons of his wings had plunged into the papery plumage of those facsimile wings, tearing through their illusion with obvious disappointment. the violence he had turned toward makoto in that dream had been real, but it had also been feverish, desperate — mortal. and even if he weren't, there was something about being here and all being Aions in the same right that had a way of making the invulnerable suddenly find new vulnerabilities. )
[ it is possible that this world offers new opportunities that dextera’s own had not, but to even begin to think within those parameters, dextera would have to shake off the trauma of the place he came from. there was a practical barrier, too, one that no amount of emotion could ever circumvent— ]
…he has my memories.
[ not literally, not in the crystalline form that dextera had been so close to viewing before he was plucked away from his home. but because of that frightening vision and with no reason to doubt it, the archangel is the only person left in the span of the universe, in all the possible universes that have converged here in this place for some reason, who knows who dextera is. ]
I don’t know who I am without him.
[ the statement is both poetic and true; dextera has defined himself either aligned or in opposition to the archangel since waking up, but it’s impossible to discover anything about his past without being told.
( there's the thin, reedy feedback of disbelief, one that slowly widens into a dubious mire before once again leveling out into low, seething anger.
J had taken everything from him, and everything that he had been given back had been on his terms and to his specifications — his life, his body, his freedom, his dignity. he had willingly worked for three years in a brothel, in part because he thought it would be an expeditious way to learn more about hell and its denizens but also because it bought him extremely important space and agency away from his demon master. despite the tangled web that he and the older demon weaved, he had at the very least never taken from him what the archangel had taken from dextera. one's memories, the very blueprint upon which the self was built.
it fills makoto with a riotous indignation, though one curiously entirely for dextera's behalf. it's an odd feeling.
he is silent for a long moment, ruminating on his anger and this puzzle posed to him. )
So — how do we get them back from him?
( said, of course, in a way that brokers dextera little room for negotiation. )
[ who, in all his life, has ever been on his side?
everyone wants something from him. their help comes with conditions, and their love is an exchange made in blood. he expects as much from makoto, too, but there’s something—something that may not be altogether selfless, but is not working with dextera’s destruction in mind. he can feel that, however distant through the obscurity of the barriers of their alignment. makoto is angry for him.
this silences dextera after his initial shocked breath, and leaves him to acknowledge the only answer is that he doesn’t really have one. ]
I…
[ it’s a testament to the archangel’s sway over him that the resolution he finally comes up with is not even one he wants. ]
( it's a novelty that they share, though in makoto's case, he had left behind a string of incidents in which demons had given him the impression they were on his side before... doing exactly what demons do and screwing him over. he had learned to wall off the part of himself that yearned for that kind of camaraderie and instead do the same when given the chance.
but this place and the circumstances they've all found themselves in has done much to knock down those walls, and... it's a frightening sort of leap to make, but he finds he's willing to make it. he doesn't think dextera is the type to betray him. he doesn't want to believe he is.
makoto's emotional response to his answer is incendiary — it roars to life like a sudden flame and consumes the words, causing them to crumble and burn and blacken at the edges. it's a flat rejection, and one that does carry some frustration at dextera... though it's one that he at least attempts to temper. )
Absolutely not.
( he pauses, and when he continues, his tone is far more level, ) He's taken what rightfully belongs to you. If anything, he should beg your forgiveness.
[ dextera thinks to protest that that would never happen and it’s impossible to even imagine, but a fleeting memory—the ghost of a sensation—suggests that it’s not as far away as he might suspect. the only problem is that he doesn’t want to make the archangel beg; he’s never craved power over another person, even to his own detriment. momentary displays of rage, even malice, are different from a concerted effort to control.
that is, after all, how he keeps forgiving the archangel time and time again. ]
…Makoto.
[ dextera says his name, as a way to buy time for his answer, but also because he sincerely needs to focus his thoughts. there’s the briefest impulse for him to be honest about the dynamic at play between himself and the archangel, and his reasons as such for abandoning the kenoma, but he thinks better of it in the face of makoto’s foul mood. ]
When he comes… if he comes… the only thing I want is to hold on to the things I have. I just don’t want to lose anything else.
( to hear his name... it brings with it a bizarre myriad of different and conflicting emotions. in hell, to say one's name was an act of dominance; to shape the syllables in your mouth and command them on your tongue was in and of itself proof in your irrefutable power over them, a hierarchical fact. as he had gained power and prestige, he had heard it less and less outside of these instances — these, and when J had kept him both leashed and incited with his own affectionate nicknames (a different type of control). but dextera presents it without these trappings and connotations, making it sound familiar but also... blessedly devoid of inherent judgment or criticism.
needless to say: it buys dextera plenty of time. there is a pensiveness, faintly mystified, emanating from the demon before he decides to continue.
from there, the silence continues; makoto is at odds with himself, understanding profoundly what dextera means in wanting to keep the last things left to him but also desperately wishing he could make him want more. is this how J had felt, whenever he had started to watch his ward slide into the direction of indolence...?
he decides not to push dextera, but also reserves the right to perhaps push him later. )
If that's what you want, I will do everything I can to make sure that doesn't come to pass.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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his thoughts come slowly, drawn lethargically from dreams, but the benefit is that he can speak through his shard without ever opening his mouth. ]
Okay.
[ simple but willing. he wonders what makoto has on his mind at this strange hour. ]
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were it anyone else, he would get to the point regardless of whether or not it cut too close to the quick. but having already woken up dextera at an odd hour and assaulted him with a fury that he didn't deserve, he doesn't necessarily want to compound that unnecessarily by launching into a topic that might be... troubling for him, to say the least. all he has to go on is the archangel's words and how he spoke of the young man. that, and how he might react if someone had approached him with similar news about J.
but, in the end, he can't think of a decent way to approach this without being at least somewhat blunt. so he musters an image of the archangel as he stands out in his mind's eye and projects it to dextera.
and along with it: ) Who is he to you?
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—…
[ how does makoto know? where did he get that image from? why now, why does it matter? dextera can’t say that these weeks have been peaceful, out from under the thumb of the archangel, but he had just been getting on his feet without the constant barrage of degradation on the nape of his neck. terror squeezes his chest. ]
I don’t know. I don’t know. Please don’t ask me that.
[ he knows the man, of course. but the answer to the question is too complicated to answer. the archangel is someone profoundly important, not just to dextera, but to the entire world from which he came. ]
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for a long moment there is nothing but still and quiet from him. since becoming a demon in body and soul, he can't say he's felt remorse for anything he's done. when his father had crumbled away to bone, ash, and gold dust immediately upon plunging a knife into his ever-beating heart. when he had gathered the debris of enough souls to cover the tiled floor of the fountain in J's manor. he had toppled his former employer and, in his despair, allowed another demon to usurp his role. he had taken advantage of the simple, heartfelt wishes of another and left him shattered in his wake — two of those shards he still wears, sewed into the small of his back.
none of that registers to him, because why should it? he hated his father, and every human that had ever summoned him had agreed to the terms of his contracts. and why should he care about the fate of any demon when they were the monsters who twisted him into what he was now?
but dextera — no, makoto doesn't enjoy causing him discomfort, as strange as that was for him. he perches on a stilted moment of silence before replying, ) I'm sorry. And I won't, not again.
( it's accompanied with a feeling of... genuine remorse, even if it's a very small and fledgling sort of thing, struggling for purchase in the fallow ground of makoto's heart. )
I think he is going to arrive in this world soon.
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none of this is something he can dwell on with makoto’s guess. ]
How?
[ how does makoto know, that is. the dreams are creeping up on dextera, too, but not with enough clarity that he’s been able to confidently say anything is about to happen, let alone who is about to arrive. ]
I won’t be able to stay here if he comes.
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what makes a demon? is it a twisted soul, a body robbed of its human essence? or does it simply happen when one is slowly drained of all qualities that one would typically associate with humanity?
it seems that makoto, despite his best efforts, isn't quite there yet. he feels a camaraderie with dextera that most demons would correctly label an "obvious weakness." )
The same way any of us arrived here.
( he slightly misinterprets the question, but he ends up giving a partial answer nonetheless: he pictures the cosmic dreamscape of the burning light ringed by ravenous dark.
he pauses to consider an answer. ) I doubt you'll be able to run. ( he doesn't say it in an inflammatory way; it's measured, as if he's considering all possible options. there are only so many Aions in this realm; it would be difficult for any of them to purposefully avoid another indefinitely, especially if said other had a vested interest in finding you. )
Could you defend yourself?
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No.
[ he’s powerless against the archangel, and his pained, definitive statement leaves no room for argument. despite all dextera’s powers of godhood, things makoto has experienced for himself, they’re no match for the deceptively simple sway of manipulation the archangel has. ]
Did you talk to him? I can’t do anything.
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that wouldn't stop him. it couldn't. though built around perception, the strong would always impose their will upon those weaker than they were, and so long as makoto wasn't strong enough to enforce his own declarations, he would always lose them. in hell's strictest definition, he had become a demon in the way that J had decided, though the type of demon he ended up growing into... that was where he told himself he would find his freedom.
but there was an impossibly long and difficult path to that place. for dextera... he gets the feeling he can't even see a similar path, regardless of how arduous it may or may not be. )
I did.
( there are thorns to those simple words; the prickling of residual anger, its source bone-deep and boundless.
there's a pause... then: ) He is just a man.
( he had felt it when the talons of his wings had plunged into the papery plumage of those facsimile wings, tearing through their illusion with obvious disappointment. the violence he had turned toward makoto in that dream had been real, but it had also been feverish, desperate — mortal. and even if he weren't, there was something about being here and all being Aions in the same right that had a way of making the invulnerable suddenly find new vulnerabilities. )
Are you truly so powerless against him?
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…he has my memories.
[ not literally, not in the crystalline form that dextera had been so close to viewing before he was plucked away from his home. but because of that frightening vision and with no reason to doubt it, the archangel is the only person left in the span of the universe, in all the possible universes that have converged here in this place for some reason, who knows who dextera is. ]
I don’t know who I am without him.
[ the statement is both poetic and true; dextera has defined himself either aligned or in opposition to the archangel since waking up, but it’s impossible to discover anything about his past without being told.
no god, no aion can give him that instead. ]
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J had taken everything from him, and everything that he had been given back had been on his terms and to his specifications — his life, his body, his freedom, his dignity. he had willingly worked for three years in a brothel, in part because he thought it would be an expeditious way to learn more about hell and its denizens but also because it bought him extremely important space and agency away from his demon master. despite the tangled web that he and the older demon weaved, he had at the very least never taken from him what the archangel had taken from dextera. one's memories, the very blueprint upon which the self was built.
it fills makoto with a riotous indignation, though one curiously entirely for dextera's behalf. it's an odd feeling.
he is silent for a long moment, ruminating on his anger and this puzzle posed to him. )
So — how do we get them back from him?
( said, of course, in a way that brokers dextera little room for negotiation. )
no subject
[ who, in all his life, has ever been on his side?
everyone wants something from him. their help comes with conditions, and their love is an exchange made in blood. he expects as much from makoto, too, but there’s something—something that may not be altogether selfless, but is not working with dextera’s destruction in mind. he can feel that, however distant through the obscurity of the barriers of their alignment. makoto is angry for him.
this silences dextera after his initial shocked breath, and leaves him to acknowledge the only answer is that he doesn’t really have one. ]
I…
[ it’s a testament to the archangel’s sway over him that the resolution he finally comes up with is not even one he wants. ]
I would have to beg.
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but this place and the circumstances they've all found themselves in has done much to knock down those walls, and... it's a frightening sort of leap to make, but he finds he's willing to make it. he doesn't think dextera is the type to betray him. he doesn't want to believe he is.
makoto's emotional response to his answer is incendiary — it roars to life like a sudden flame and consumes the words, causing them to crumble and burn and blacken at the edges. it's a flat rejection, and one that does carry some frustration at dextera... though it's one that he at least attempts to temper. )
Absolutely not.
( he pauses, and when he continues, his tone is far more level, ) He's taken what rightfully belongs to you. If anything, he should beg your forgiveness.
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that is, after all, how he keeps forgiving the archangel time and time again. ]
…Makoto.
[ dextera says his name, as a way to buy time for his answer, but also because he sincerely needs to focus his thoughts. there’s the briefest impulse for him to be honest about the dynamic at play between himself and the archangel, and his reasons as such for abandoning the kenoma, but he thinks better of it in the face of makoto’s foul mood. ]
When he comes… if he comes… the only thing I want is to hold on to the things I have. I just don’t want to lose anything else.
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needless to say: it buys dextera plenty of time. there is a pensiveness, faintly mystified, emanating from the demon before he decides to continue.
from there, the silence continues; makoto is at odds with himself, understanding profoundly what dextera means in wanting to keep the last things left to him but also desperately wishing he could make him want more. is this how J had felt, whenever he had started to watch his ward slide into the direction of indolence...?
he decides not to push dextera, but also reserves the right to perhaps push him later. )
If that's what you want, I will do everything I can to make sure that doesn't come to pass.