Heavy is the Crown
Word count: 930
Description:
Being the leader of an entire realm is no easy feat, especially when you're not like rulers past.
Inspired/based on Lesson 9 in Obey Me: Nightbringer, so beware of spoilers.
Can also be found on AO3 here.
“When it comes down to it, you don’t accept us either, do you Diavolo?”
The Demon Prince isn’t sure what stings more – the alcohol making its way down his throat, or Lucifer’s sharp words from their earlier confrontation.
He sits alone now, the chill of the night settling in his bones despite the flames of the fireplace mere steps away. He watches how the flickering light passes through his glass, turning his current poison of choice to a fiery amber. A slight tilt of his hand and the slightly viscous fluid reminds him of honey, but the only taste left on his tongue is bitter.
Diavolo had become used to swallowing his feelings, his role as future ruler of the realm always priority. It did not matter how suffocating it could all be – the constant gaze and judgment of the House of Lords, the responsibilities of ruling an entire realm suddenly left to him as his father disappeared into the shadows, the strain of keeping the peace as his realm was shaken with instability – he had to be ever noble, ever present, ever ready-to-lead.
But it was in these moments, these quiet nights where he requested to be left alone, where he could allow himself to feel it all. The stress, the anger, the fear, the despair, the hurt. It was just all too much sometimes, too hard and too stifling and too complicated and oh, it was just too much! He has been raised for this all his life and yet still he feels he is finding his footing, trying to make sure what he does appeases those he disdains and those he favors, while also trying to always remain true to himself.
So, what was he to do? A strange human had suddenly appeared before him, with even stranger events occurring soon after. The former angels he had been trying so earnestly to support were finding themselves in unexplainable predicaments, one of them having gone on a rampage and destroying his home. The tension in the Devildom was at an all-time high, and the nobles were watching his every move, just waiting for him to slip-up so they could decry him as unfit to rule and nothing but a child with foolish dreams.
He downs his glass and pours another.
There had been so much he had wanted to say to Lucifer in that moment, to make him see that no, of course he didn’t feel that way! He wouldn’t have done all he had up until that point if he had seen them somehow as lesser, as not belonging. But he knew that had he not spoken carefully, even those words would have been twisted and misunderstood – a struggle he was seemingly dealing with more and more these days.
Diavolo slowly rises from his seat, glass still in hand, and begins to quietly wander through the hallways of the castle. He passes by numerous paintings – some portraits, some tales of Devildom history. Even these walls had eyes – always watching, always waiting.
He’s not sure if he meant to come here, or if his feet had just decided a destination on their own, but he finds himself in the Eastern Hall, looking upon one particular grand portrait that dwarfed the entire room with its emanating presence.
“What am I supposed to do, mother?”
Diavolo winces as he hears his own voice, meek and feeble. He rests his forehead against the gilded frame with a sigh, his gaze towards the worn stone floor. What was he doing, asking a portrait of the mother he never got to know? He might as well go asking his father, who retreated to the depths of the Devildom into an even deeper slumber. The answer would be the same.
Hah, he thought, have I always felt this alone?
He knew, despite all of his tumultuous thoughts and emotions bubbling deep in his chest, that he would have to once more go out with a charismatic smile and a steady hand. There was no one to make these decisions but himself, no one who could tell him what to do, what to say to make it all better and right. He had to lead, to show all those nobles who underestimated him that he was worthy of his position, even if they disagreed with his ambitions.
“Young Master?”
With a start and a flourish of his wings, Diavolo turns around to see Barbatos, looking upon the prince with a hint of concern in his dark eyes.
“...You’re bleeding.”
He’s confused at first, but soon he feels the ichor dripping down his hand – ah, he had cracked the glass in his grip. When did that happen?
“Oh – I’m sorry, Barbatos. I didn’t mean for you to see me in such a state.” Diavolo clears his throat, murmuring a spell to heal the cut. “I was just lost in my thoughts.”
“You don’t need to apologize, My Lord.” Barbatos gives him a kind smile, taking a step back and motioning back down the hallway from where he had appeared. “Why don’t you come back and have a cup of tea with me? I even prepared some of your favorite, hellfire mushroom cigar cookies.”
“...Thank you, Barbatos.” For the first time that night, Diavolo felt a smile curve his lips, a weight slightly lifted off his head and heart. “That sounds lovely.”
That’s right, he wasn’t alone – he had, at the very least, a friend here beside him who chose to stand by him and his ideals.
He wondered if he could perhaps soon find more.
275 notes
·
View notes
Review - Um Dia
Prepare os lencinhos, porque a minissérie Um Dia finalmente chegou à #Netflix. 🥹
Vem ver o que achamos da #minissérie na nossa #review!
Você já se perguntou como as conexões são feitas? Para se conectar profundamente com alguém, é necessário dias, horas, meses ou anos? Ou melhor, um dia comum, como qualquer outro, pode mudar o curso das nossas vidas e nos transformar por completo? Todas essas questões são trazidas de forma visceral em Um Dia [One Day], nova minissérie da Netflix baseada no livro de David Nicholl.
Os fãs de…
View On WordPress
3 notes
·
View notes
Brazil former intelligence head says January 8 riots were ‘unimaginable'
Retired Army General Gonçalves Dias, who briefly served as head of Brazil’s top intelligence agency earlier this year, told lawmakers on Thursday that the January 8 riots were “unimaginable” – despite all public evidence to the contrary.
The putschist pro-Bolsonaro demonstrations were openly planned on social media. The vandals gave the operation a code name: “Selma’s party” — a play on the word selva (jungle), military slang in Brazil for “let’s go” or “I’m ready.”
The day before the incident, Justice Minister Flávio Dino tweeted that he was aware of an alleged “war” in Brasília, about which he had spoken with the defense minister and the local governor, and informed the Federal Police.
In addition, a recent investigation revealed that local police officers in Brasília were aware of the dozens of buses of protesters that arrived in the capital, as well as of the demonstrators’ potential to resort to violence.
Continue reading.
9 notes
·
View notes