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It's morning and Licorice is playing with Poemi on one of her rare visits. They've taken up a large swath of the polished marble floor with its gold seams and the hard stone is a little chilly, but the sun shining through the tall windows of the hallway is warm, which means the devil is in a good mood. The weather always seems to match how he feels.
From where they have their toys spread out, it's easy to hear the god and his brother talking in the study. The big dark door, covered in lacquered swirls like Satanick's horns, stands open and sways gently in the occasional breeze that filters down the hallway. Fumus' voice is deeper and rougher than Satanick's, even though they do sound alike in several ways, and to Licorice listening to him speak kind of feels like listening to his father through a distortion filter.
- You should let him come and see me one of these days, says Fumus. Your and Ivlin's brat.
- What'd that be for?
The edge in Satanick's voice is hidden under sticky sweet layers, but even as a child Licorice is attuned to pick up on it.
- You really want a little kid running around messing up your shit? He's a tad bit of a troublemaker when he puts his mind to it, you know. It's always the quiet ones, right?
- I want him to come see how we work on the "other side".
Fumus chuckles a little. Ice chimes in a glass, and Licorice can imagine the scene on the other side of the door without leaning to peer through it: one brother leaning back with a slow sip of alcohol, the other crossing his legs in just as deliberate consideration.
- He's a clever little shit and with that aging-up magic he does he could easily take a throne any time. Just needs the right kind of training, and I would love to see to that personally.
- Uh, well...
It's not often Licorice hears that voice sound anything less than confident, but Satanick sounds strangely reluctant. It gives his voice a younger, softer air almost.
- I don't think he's quite ready for that, but--
Someone's chair pushes back and a second later another one skitters faster across the floor, as if whoever was in that one had gotten up in a hurry. The split second of silence after that feels like the edge of the angel spear Licorice remembers once being allowed to touch had: sharp, hard and very cold.
- Family shares, Satanick. You haven't forgotten that, have you?
- No, duh -- of course not, but --
Spoken too quickly, closed in and small. Fumus' tone has not changed, unless it's even more blase.
- And you remember what that means, don't you, Satanick?
- I'm glad to help you any time, you know, I'd be stoked--
Higher than normal, faster too. He sounds like he's moving away from the door, and Fumus must be following.
- Let me remind you, Satanick.
Soft, but unmistakable even to the ears of a child-- at least, to the ears of a demon child born into a court of war and violence. The sound a throat makes when it's abruptly been closed tight by a hand constricting, slowly but surely and firmly, around it.
Fumus' words fall around the tiny sounds of scuffling like the marching boots of an army, like a clock.
- It means everything you have is mine too, Satanick. Everything I've given you I can take back, if you aren't grateful for it. Everything you do, everything you own, everything you make, can be mine too, Satanick. And I've given you such a lot, when you think about it; I might have to call on those favors sometime if I think I need to. You know?
Nothing but round, hard silence.
- Come on, brother....
Fumus laughs low in his throat. It sounds how the heat that floods the surface of one's face right before vomiting feels.
- ... we're not gonna argue now, are we?
A little choke, then silence. Then chairs sliding back to their places, settling.
- Oh... it's empty. I'll get us another bottle, huh? No need to thank me, it's a little selfish.
Poemi is listening too now, having registered that Licorice has stopped playing and started craning his head further toward the study, but she scoots back right before the door opens all the way and the god looks down at the two on the floor. The sun makes the red roots of his hair shine like fresh blood.
- Nice to see you getting along so well even though you're not real siblings, kiddos. That'll serve you well in the future.
Fumus laughs, ruffles the little prince's hair so it tangles up around his horns and the roots like his, so much like his, are ruffled out like fans, and leaves without acknowledging Poemi. She pouts a little, but quiets whenever she sees whatever look must be on Licorice's face.
He comes back with more than one thick bottle of alcohol and when he enters the study this time, he closes the door.
- Don't wanna disturb your playing with our adults' time, he says, with a smile that doesn't fail to reach his eyes so much as curve them into mocking reflections of it.
Licorice watches the doorknob twist as the lock clicks into place from inside.
It rains for a week after that.
(Licorice plays out underneath it and gets in trouble for putting mud in his hair, but when he says he just wanted to cover up the red, while Ivlis looks confused and more than a little annoyed, Satanick studies him with a look that seems more ashamed than sad and tells him without any of the usual awkward, try-hard baby talk he usually reserves for his younger offspring to wash it out, that he looks just fine.
Before Licorice gets tucked into bed that night he finds a bag of bright purple candies tied with a black ribbon under his pillow.)