Semi-Public RP backdated to just after God's Application
Crowley fled, running back to the pseudo-security of his rooms. He could hear footsteps following but ignored them. Slamming the door behind him, he collapsed onto his bed, feeling numb. Even after six thousand years, the wounds were still open, raw, bleeding out.
Alone. Empty and alone. Though the physical wounds from his long and terrifying plummet were considerable, they paled before the dark and angry abyss inside. There existed only a gaping chasm of loss where his hope, his happiness, his love, his heart had been.
Though the air was burning, he felt desperately cold and he wrapped his wings around his nearly broken body. White wings. A cruel symbol of what he could never be again. Snarling, he used most of the rest of his energy to make them black as death. A mark of the betrayed.
He wept thick and bitter tears. He ranted, screamed, and fought those around him. He turned his anger on himself, slicing flesh with sharp new claws and fangs, tearing out feathers a handful at a time. Nothing helped. Nothing was enough to fill the massive, howling emptiness.
Even as Dis and Pandemonium were constructed, even as other demons accepted and rejoiced in their new bodies and roles, even as time, which meant nothing in this place yet, passed, for one demon it was never enough. He learned only to deny his pain, to hide it, to deceive, but it never lessened.
That was then. Now he could do none of those things. Somehow that was worse.