[He really should've brought in Sheep MC from the plushie pile in the common room... maybe burying her in stuffed animals would help. Something for later, perhaps.]
In my long existence, it's something I've grown to live with and accept. Consequence of... being who I am, I suppose. I wouldn't bat an eyelash at whoever or whatever managed to kill me.
[He'd be impressed, if not a little relieved. Lucifer doesn't exactly want to die, but it's too late for that, isn't it? If death brought him here, it proves life just goes on. His especially.
Horrible for some. A dream for many. Something inconsequential for him.]
Humans, though, your lives are already so short. It makes sense that these things would affect you so much.
[Big words for someone who's equally as affected by it — but everyone already knows what happens when you take from the Devil.]
...I do sympathise with you. I lost my little sister thousands of years ago, and the wound is still raw. It'll always be raw. I'm sure you've already come to that realisation for yourself, though.
[even through her own haze of grief, her words are honest and meant, her head turned his direction - if it still hurts him now, then he must have cherished her beyond anything. it's also a good transition, before she sounds too bitter about how short life can really be. about how you got numb, until you weren't anymore. she'd lost some of that here, and now it strikes out just as hard.]
I don't often talk about it much is why. But this isn't about me. It's an anecdote, in a way. Maybe you'll feel better to know you aren't alone in the pain. I was not particularly close to Amami or the shopkeeper, but you were. Just don't do what I did — don't be rash or impulsive.
[Does he regret starting a war for Lilith? No. Does he regret killing five people for Clamor, to send a message? Also no, not really. Does he want Helena to fall to his level? Admittedly, no.
[don't be impulsive. if only it was so easy. if only it didn't scorch her, wishing she could do something, anything - wishing they had just woken up, and she could have scolded them for worrying her. but it's not like she can do anything. she's not a killer, and she can't bring back the dead. all she can do is wear her grief like a cloak, and breathe.
at the question, she nods - getting up, she puts the book down like it's made of glass, then the plush on top of it. it'll be easier for him if she's standing, she knows.]
[It would be, but he'd be willing to sit on the hammock if he knew he wouldn't offset the weight and fling her halfway across the room. When she stands, he meets her halfway and wraps her in a hug. It's the sort that he'd give to his youngest brother — warm and protective and safe.]
...I'm sorry that they had to go.
[Conciliatory words might be empty from him, but he speaks them nonetheless.]
[she's at the right height that she can turn and hide her face fully in his chest, taking a deep breath to try and be steady. she's cried so much that she wonders if it's possible to overdo it - her eyes sting yet again, but she's breathing, her arms wrapped tight around him. there has to be so much faith that they'll come back, that there's a reason for all of this, but right now everything feels the way an empty metal chest might - hollow, cold, liable to fall apart with tears rusting the hinges.
even if she trembles some, she doesn't feel terribly afraid of judgement right now, of being seen as childish. she can fall apart at least a little, and it's okay. that protection comes through, like Helena's wrapped up in a warm blanket, shielded temporarily from things that want to pry the self apart.
there is so, so much that is terribly unfair. it is so, so hard to remain strong in all of it.
hopefully he understands that thank you doesn't always need to be spoken.]
[It's alright, because he couldn't possibly see her as a child right now. He recalls holding all of his brothers in his arms, with his wings too, when they all Fell. If crying is childish, then back then, they were the biggest children of all.
Soothingly, he runs a hand through her hair. She can cry as much as he needs, stain his shirt with tears, he doesn't mind one bit.
Loss sucks. He gets it.]
You'll be okay. [He murmurs, for lack of anything else to say.] Even if it's not now.
[Maybe that's not quite accurate. Hurt never lessens, one just gets used to it after a time. In a sense, that might just be the very definition of "okay".]
[those words crack open what she thought was a dam, tears returned in full from where they had been. she'd thought she could manage this, but she can't, and all fear of judgement is washed away in salt water. Helena cries, because okay is the furthest thing from her right now, and it feels like the world wants to crack away. there's no time limit to okay. her face is hidden in his shirt, tears soaking the fabric, and she knows the reason why.
she just wants them back here. even if it's for a reason. she just wants them back.
at a point, she quiets, and she's not shaking. her face, she knows, must be a mess - she can feel how crying leaves one feeling hot and drained, scrubbed raw as if with flannels on the inside. but no more tears want to come for now, and when she pulls back some, it's to try and use her sleeves to wipe the teartracks away.]
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In my long existence, it's something I've grown to live with and accept. Consequence of... being who I am, I suppose. I wouldn't bat an eyelash at whoever or whatever managed to kill me.
[He'd be impressed, if not a little relieved. Lucifer doesn't exactly want to die, but it's too late for that, isn't it? If death brought him here, it proves life just goes on. His especially.
Horrible for some. A dream for many. Something inconsequential for him.]
Humans, though, your lives are already so short. It makes sense that these things would affect you so much.
[Big words for someone who's equally as affected by it — but everyone already knows what happens when you take from the Devil.]
...I do sympathise with you. I lost my little sister thousands of years ago, and the wound is still raw. It'll always be raw. I'm sure you've already come to that realisation for yourself, though.
no subject
[even through her own haze of grief, her words are honest and meant, her head turned his direction - if it still hurts him now, then he must have cherished her beyond anything. it's also a good transition, before she sounds too bitter about how short life can really be. about how you got numb, until you weren't anymore. she'd lost some of that here, and now it strikes out just as hard.]
no subject
[Does he regret starting a war for Lilith? No. Does he regret killing five people for Clamor, to send a message? Also no, not really. Does he want Helena to fall to his level? Admittedly, no.
Some souls are too pure for demons to corrupt.]
Do you want a hug, Helena?
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at the question, she nods - getting up, she puts the book down like it's made of glass, then the plush on top of it. it'll be easier for him if she's standing, she knows.]
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...I'm sorry that they had to go.
[Conciliatory words might be empty from him, but he speaks them nonetheless.]
no subject
even if she trembles some, she doesn't feel terribly afraid of judgement right now, of being seen as childish. she can fall apart at least a little, and it's okay. that protection comes through, like Helena's wrapped up in a warm blanket, shielded temporarily from things that want to pry the self apart.
there is so, so much that is terribly unfair. it is so, so hard to remain strong in all of it.
hopefully he understands that thank you doesn't always need to be spoken.]
no subject
Soothingly, he runs a hand through her hair. She can cry as much as he needs, stain his shirt with tears, he doesn't mind one bit.
Loss sucks. He gets it.]
You'll be okay. [He murmurs, for lack of anything else to say.] Even if it's not now.
[Maybe that's not quite accurate. Hurt never lessens, one just gets used to it after a time. In a sense, that might just be the very definition of "okay".]
no subject
she just wants them back here. even if it's for a reason. she just wants them back.
at a point, she quiets, and she's not shaking. her face, she knows, must be a mess - she can feel how crying leaves one feeling hot and drained, scrubbed raw as if with flannels on the inside. but no more tears want to come for now, and when she pulls back some, it's to try and use her sleeves to wipe the teartracks away.]