Devil's Worship [ManxMan]

Chapter Thirty

"We must accept finite disappointment. But never lose finite hope" - Martin Luther King JR

~•~

THIRD PERSON • POV

Grimm felt like his blackened heart was about to burst; it was beating so hard inside his frail chest he feared his rib cage would shatter into one million pieces. The small demon stood anxiously off to the side of Castiel's bed, out of the way of the other angels who crowded around the sturdy, wooden, artisan crafted frame.

The grand bed chamber was dark aside from a small, yet powerful glow emanating hauntingly from the centre of the bundled sheets, casting shadows from the angels and their fluttering wings across the vast, white walls.

Grimm's view of the bed was obscured by their towering frames, but he knew all too well what lay there and the desperate heartache he felt intensified.

Aciel rumbled softly as though the intelligent lion knew it was important to remain silent but couldn't subdue his attentive nature all the same. He bumped up against Grimm's hip, showing the Reaper comfort and companionship as he acknowledged Grimm's terror.

Aciel was larger than Grimm, his massive head haloed with his bright white mane just about inline with Grimm's own height of around five feet. But the powerful lion's long, broad, muscular body and swishing tail made him a formidable beast, and Grimm almost stumbled from the lion's affections.

Though he was grateful all the same.

Since Castiel had disappeared, Aciel had become attached to Grimm and Saiph, never leaving their respective sides and Grimm had become acquainted with Aciel's demanding, magical presence. He was even grateful for it.

With Saiph's dire condition and being the only demon in heaven, he was pitifully lonely and outcast even if he was treated well enough by the others. Aciel's affections we're most definitely welcome.

Especially now.

Grimm shifted on foot to foot, anxiety stealing his breath away as the angels began to chant. It was low, harmonious humming at first, but steadily it grew louder, the rumbling voices of the Archangels, the Seraphims and the Council Elders coming together, singing in an ancient language Grimm couldn't understand.

It must have been native to Heaven, the same way Hell had its own ancient language adapted over millennia.

Shivers pricked the Reaper's skin, raising goosebumps along his thin, grey arms as he listened to their choir. He subconsciously lifted his hand, snagging boney fingers through Aciel's thick mane, needing something to hold on to as hope tried to take over the terror within him.

Saiph's soul, the source of the warm glow, began to throb and flicker, somehow affected by the chanting of the angels. That meant that it was working, right? The ceremonial ritual of resurrection was working...

Grimm prayed to the raging fire of the underworld that it was true. That Saiph was finally coming back to him after so many failed attempts to revive his body and return his soul to its rightful place.

He could just about see Saiph's headless form on the bed, now covered with a white sheet to mask the decay and combat the smell of the mutilated body.

Titus had reassured Grimm that it would mend and heal once his soul was back where it belonged, right beside its loving companion, the heart. Grimm hoped this would be the case.

As a Reaper, he was not afraid of death and decay. He was not afraid of the decomposing flesh, of the pungent smell of acidic bodily fluids and the disturbing sight of stale blood. But he missed Saiph's beaming smile. He missed his goofy laughter, his warm hugs and the way he always seemed to thrive with buzzing, excitable energy.