CXCVIII: AFTERMATH

Morning did not come all at once.

It trickled in the way forgive­ment sometimes did. Slowly, tentatively; as if it weren’t sure of its reception.

A light filtered through the tall panes of the bedroom, a pale and humble light that touched stone and silk without comment. The barrier that Lucifer had erecting the night before dwindled at the edges, the humming embroidery of wards silenced as it relaxed at last, a held breath let go. It was the sounds that came first, the beat of wings out in the halls, the murmur of Heaven adjusting to itself after a night of upheaval.

Allistair woke up to warmth.

Not the consuming heat of chaos or the fever-bright burn of the Book, but the warm press of another body against his own. Lucifer was still there, curled around him as always, his arm slung over Allistair's waist and another beneath his neck as though he fully meant to never let that particular grasp go again.

Then, for an instant, Allistair didn’t move.

He listened instead.

To b