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DUST TO DUST ❅ EVENT
It will take them time to discern the cause. After all, all the artifacts brought back from the fight with Project Prometheus were deemed safe or at least contained, only able to have their dangerous power unleashed if people were dumb enough to try it.
The altheiometer is not the real thing. It was created by the belief of a child, after reading a certain book series, and therefore is more of a symbolic object, with none of the real capabilities of the device in fiction. Instead, it had other magical abilities. It was not entirely understood by the Project itself, just kept there to be studied and eventually co-opted for sinister use if possible. But it had remained inert in their company.
At the Pole, it passes the magical scan, since it technically is "safe," then finally activates. It works on a child's logic, after all. A child would think daemons are cool but wouldn't think bad people deserved them. A child would think the device should only activate to let good guys have daemons.
In the study containing the safer artifacts, the altheiometer opens of its own accord. Gears turn. The hands start clicking as they move in circles around its clock-like face, rotating back and forth between different symbols. The hands finally stop, clicking as they meet in the same spot, on the symbol of an apple, with a bite taken out of it.
It's all very metaphorical isn't it. The soul can't exist without free will. In some worlds they think free will only exists because of an apple in a garden.
There is a burst of light and sound that reverberates through the Pole. As the floor shakes, everyone sees a brief glimpse of the wave as it passes through walls - and then passes through each of them. Getting hit by it is like getting hit by a storm wave in the ocean, briefly lifting everyone off their feet.
Alongside the sensation of being briefly levitated, there is also the painful sensation of suddenly being aware of something deep inside, briefly made to feel almost like a splinter in their very core.
Then, with all the subtlety of getting attacked with a giant hole punch, the splinter is removed, excised. It does hurt, but there is also a strange relief. Except...whatever it was, it's still here. Next to each of the Guardians. Still attached, just...an externality now.
The wave crashes to the shore. They're all knocked to the floor again.
If they were alone in a room, they aren't now. If they weren't alone in a room, said room's occupants have now doubled.
Each PC now temporarily has a daemon. Daemons are the soul externalized, sentient and able to talk. Taking the form of animals, they often shapeshift and change forms during someone's childhood, but settle into a permanent shape during someone's teen years as the person's personality becomes more concrete and distinct.
- Form: A daemon takes an animal form that represents the person's personality. They usually have a gender opposite to their respective person's, but there are sometimes exceptions, sometimes for entirely unknown reasons, or if the person is some flavor of queer. Daemons will know that they're their owner's soul and be able to tell them that.
- Daemon Selection: Here is a page with interpretations of a few animals and what types of personalities they can represent, but please don't take it as law. It's just possible inspiration. The daemons can be any animal. For characters not from Earth, their daemons can be animals that are entirely made up or ones in their canons.
- Link: Daemons are connected metaphysically to their person through an invisible link, allowing that person to still be attached to their soul. Moving too far from your daemon can cause physical and spiritual agony. Suddenly being ripped apart by a great distance can kill someone. Killing a daemon - which is only as hardy as the animal they are - also kills their owner.
- Personalities: Daemon personalities are often similar to their owner's, but sometimes daemons are more willing to be honest about feelings or subconscious impulses. For instance, daemons often instinctually show affection to the daemons of people their owner is fond of. Daemons will remember everything their owner remembers, and was basically there the whole time they were alive, just integrated. Despite being externalized, they aren't something separate from each person, they were always a part of them.
- Physical Contact: People can touch their own daemons without effects and cuddling their daemon can be a positive experience of self-love. Someone hurting their own daemon can feel like they've caused the damage to themselves, and hurts on a spiritual or almost self-hating level. Meanwhile, picking up someone else's daemon without permission can cause incredible discomfort and pain. Alternately, touching someone's daemon with permission can cause comfort, a surge of happiness, or even pleasure, depending on the context of the contact and the relationship the two people have.
❅ Event Length: The plot will last an OOC and IC 2 weeks before they can figure out what's causing the change and reverse it, making the daemons internal again. During this time, allies of the Guardians will temporarily take over their duties and fortunately no major crises will happen. Players can set their own opens during this time as well as play out anything that happens over the whole 2 weeks in this post.
❅ New Characters: If your character is introing at this time, assume they arrived just in time for the magical wave to hit them, or walked into a cloud of its residual energy.
❅ Opt-out: Anyone that doesn't want to play in the plot or have a daemon can handwave Vasilisa's magical defenses caught on to the power surge and her glowing charms protected at least some people in the Pole from the transformation. You can ignore this and thread as if there's just a little extra chaos around the Pole.
❅ Jack Frost: There will also be a network post with Jack explaining what Vasilisa has magically discerned has happened. It will take time to find the source, as the altheiometer is very good at cloaking its readings and registered as "safe." (Technically, it is safe, it's just...inconvenient.)
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"You couldn't keep up with me, hen." It's not quite visible behind the glasses, but Crowley resorts to rolling his eyes at her. She's a worse flirt than he is, apparently, or maybe she's just not shy about liking attention.
Talking about souls is actually preferred. "Very poetic, if you ignore the fact I've not even got a soul. Not made of remotely the same stuff as you are, but you'd never tell it from the look of her."
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"We've been keeping with Geralt all these years, and for the first few he didn't even want us there. And he had a horse," which put Jaskier at quite the disadvantage, being on foot.
He wonders what Geralt's daemon would be if it were here. A white wolf seems the obvious choice, though a bit self-important, but he suspects it's more likely to be an ill-tempered mare named Roach. Maybe Roach is actually Geralt's daemon and Jaskier has been tricked into assuming she's nothing more than a simple horse.
Jacenty pokes at his scalp with his beak, causing Jaskier to jump a little, but accomplishes the goal of prompting him to tune back into the conversation as his daemon begins to speak.
"You might not have whatever 'souls' are where you come from, but we could be working on completely different parameters. You've got a heart. Wants and dreams-- hopes and fears. We may be made up of some sort of... essence of being rather than any material component."
"If we're using 'soul' as a term of art, you may be right," Jaskier adds. "But if we're talking about the soul as a concept, you're just as much in possession of one as anyone else. Passion, spirit, vivacity-- whatever you want to call it, Lady Asteria is the quintessence of your personage. We do not know what it is that separates man, or demons,-" he makes sure to add "-from mindless beasts, but it's far less concrete than a simple biological difference. We are capable of something beyond instinct. Consciousness, reasoning, abstraction-- call it whatever you like, but it's something."
"We think that that's as good of a description of a soul as any," his daemon finishes.
Just in case anyone forgot Jaskier is not only an extremely talented bard, he is a well-educated Master of the Seven Liberal Arts from Oxenfurt Academy.
i'm making up my own theology, come fight me about it neil
Crowley snorts, apparently forgiving her for her betrayal, and reaches up to lazily scritch her ears as they listen to Jaskier and Jacenty's thesis on the nature of souls.
"Those are very pretty words, they'd have certainly loved you in the salons," A tragedy of the passage of time, he can't take Jaskier to a Parisian salon to discuss philosophy and theology all night. "But I'm using it quite literally. Angels are energy and grace, that's what God made them out of, and demons are that, only —"
There's a hesitation, and Asteria takes over as Crowley turns his attention to her, so he doesn't have to look at Jaskier. That wound has been reopened too recently. "Only with the grace ripped out. Transformative but not generative. Only God can make angels. God made the first humans, but now they make themselves, souls included. We weren't part of that committee, we made the stars, not the humans or the beasts, but there's a link between the flesh and the soul, at least until death."
"S'different, is all," Crowley's found his voice again, even if he's frowning slightly at Asteria for having revealed quite so much, "Not good or bad, just a fact. Demons and angels don't have souls like you lot do."
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"Well, I don't come from your world with your special kinds of souls and I've still got a daemon. I don't know how long you've had this form but..." Jaskier trails off because he's unsure if they will want to hear where he's going with this. The space between them is small but he feels like Anthony is unreachable in this moment.
"You said they can be made," Jacenty continues when the silence of Jaskier's indecision goes on too long. "Who says humans have to be the ones who make them? If you've got that space inside you, is it possible it's been filled with a soul of your own?"
"And I didn't think you were being metaphorical. I was just suggesting that whatever manifested the daemons doesn't work within the same rule you're used to," he adds as an afterthought.
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He's even less sure how to navigate any of the rest of this conversation, to the point where his strongest impulse is to leave.
It's a little like being shot, how the words hit him. Crowley knows how to keep his expression fairly neutral, but Asteria whines, ears pinned back as she slips off the table to tuck herself under the bench near his feet, following the impulse that Crowley can't, or won't, because stronger than any impulse is millennia of practice at pushing them down out of necessity.
It isn't about the soul itself, whether or not he has one, it's the idea that he could — make something like that for himself. That he isn't beholden to continue being the thing God turned him into so long ago. It's a complicated well of emotions and he has no idea how to label any of them, let alone process them. All he knows is how heavy and uncomfortable they are, and how terrifying that is when his emotions are on full display.
He has to say something, though, as if he can make any attempt at pretending he's fine, when Asteria is currently hiding under the table licking her metaphorical wounds. It's still better than just sitting in silence.
"You're probably right. Different universe, different rules. Who knows what they're made from." If his voice is tight, that's his business.
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While Jaskier remains trapped in the no man's land between him and Anthony, his daemon has no such hesitations. Jacenty waddles after her. Anthony's arm lays in his path on the tabletop, but he pays it no mind. He walks over it like it's nothing-- a display of trust that makes Jaskier inhale sharply. There's still the barrier of clothing to prevent real contact, but it's close enough that it makes him a little dizzy to think about.
Jacenty flutters down to Asteria and will bully his way into her personal space to be pressed against her chest.
Jaskier, propelled by the courage of his soul, closes the distance between him and his friend. It's a firm clasp to the shoulder-- the only kind of touch Geralt tolerates most days. Jaskier's out of practice when it comes to meaningful tactile support, if he was ever in practice in the first place, but he is determined not to make that Anthony's problem. He's burying his nerves under an obstinate determination to not fuck this up.
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Crowley stares at the spot where Jacenty walked over his arm, an unpleasant lump in his throat, while under the bench, Asteria puts up only a token protest before allowing the songbird to cuddle up to her.
It serves as enough of warning that he isn't startled when Jaskier reaches out for him, though the few seconds of preparation he had result in very little progress in how to respond.
"S'fine, s'nothing." It isn't, but he doesn't know how to explain it and being comforted is just as horrifying as having the tangled mess of his emotions on display in the first place. "Not sure why she's making a fuss."
That's more true, in that he doesn't know why the statement hit him quite so hard, just that it did, and now he has to handle the aftermath.
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Which is to say, it's something. He may not know what, exactly, because this seems to be beyond the matters of mortal men, but he knows better than to believe such a weak dismissal.
"If Lady Asteria is reacting, then I suggest you listen to her. Melitele knows one of you needs have gotten what little good sense you possess, and it's certainly not you."
Bold words from a man who lacks any sense whatsoever and with a daemon not far behind.
"Soul or grace or something completely different-- I've missed you these past few days. Jacenty insisted on singing this horribly mournful tune every few hours. I was about to pluck his feathers and roast him over a spit when you finally showed your faces."
Jacenty doesn't bother protesting even though Jaskier was right there with him, harmonizing with his lamenting leitmotif. He just burrows his head deeper into Asteria's fur.
It's a distraction if Anthony wants it. He could talk about whatever this something is and get into all that emotion he's trying very hard to pretend doesn't exist, or he could take the generous opportunity to further tease Jaskier and his daemon.
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He doesn't see Asteria lift her head, but he gets a sense of what she's about to do and tips his head down to address her, "Don't."
But she's going to, because she's not as scared as him, because she's his soul but not his experiences, not really. She's closer to the being who flitted about amongst the stars, a very long time ago. Not the one who had to learn to bite down on his emotions just to survive the depths of Hell.
"It felt like falling, me coming into existence." Her voice is soft, almost as though she's speaking only to Jacenty, but it's loud enough for Jaskier to hear the words as well. Crowley's jaw is clenched tight, as he scowls at the tabletop. He can't bear to look at Jaskier.
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He removes his hand from Anthony's shoulder to replace it with his arm. He gently tugs his friend closer so he can hold him properly. In for a copper, in for a crown, as they say.
"Something wronged you very terribly," he says quietly. "And took you from yourself. You're allowed to want it back. Even if you feel like who you've become is better, it doesn't make it hurt less."
He thinks of long stone corridors and mindless recitation and red welts and splitting skin. He thinks of drops of blood on a silver ring.
Then he thinks of Jacenty-- of flight and song. He thinks of an open road and tall grass and babbling brooks and warm fires. Blisters on heels, rocks under bedrolls-- towns that smell like shit and people who treat him like it. A vicious horse and a taciturn witcher. Always being too warm or too cold, too dry or too wet.
The sunrises. The sunsets. The stars and moon and clouds and sky. Music as far as the eye can see.
Freedom.
"Whatever this is... it's a gift. One that matters, and I think that means it hurts."
There's a part of him that thinks that Asteria must be the return of something Anthony had lost all those millennia ago. A piece of himself he thought was lost forever, that now has found its way home. Maybe he even had it all along.
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He can't recall the last time someone actually tried to – comfort him like this; even with Aziraphale, it's been a brief hand hold or just comfortable silence, nothing as bold as trying to hug him, and Crowley has no idea what to do with it. He allows Jaskier to pull him closer, but his posture is stiff, shoulders tense because he can't quite force himself to relax enough to accept it.
In an ideal world, he'd be able to say that he doesn't want it back, that God can take Her love and grace and keep it for the rest of eternity, but he doesn't trust himself to be able to sell that particular lie. There's no ignoring the hungry, yawning void that was left behind when he fell, and making peace with it only covers the wound. It won't ever truly heal.
Maybe there's nothing he can say, not without giving in to the instinct to be cruel so that Jaskier will leave him damn well alone. He knows Asteria senses that particular instinct when he feels a paw against his leg, her claws pressing into the fabric of his jeans in a silent warning to not be an asshole to someone just trying to be kind.
"What's done is done." Being created, falling, and now this, none of it was a choice and and none of it can be controlled. "There's no reason to get hung up on it, s'fine, really."
It isn't, but the truth is that he sees no purposes in continuing a discussion about something painful that can't be changed. All it does is reopen the wound.
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Jaskier can see Anthony trying to close himself off. He knows that, if he lets him do so, his friend will do everything he can to make sure this never comes up again. He is suddenly desperate to keep him talking. He has selfishly hoarded every scrap of information, every minor detail, that Anthony has dropped about himself and the idea of losing this thread forever is absolutely unacceptable.
But he can’t push, because that will just cause him to shut down. But he doesn’t have many more tools at hand. He usually pushes and pushes until he gets rejected. He can never tell when the line is crossed— when he it stops helping and starts being too much, going too far. He really doesn’t want to risk that. He can’t afford to.
“Do you know what my first thought was after Jacenty explained things?” Sometimes vulnerability must be returned in kind. Anthony and Asteria have been wrenched open for them to see, the only fair thing is to bare their own wounds.
“'Finally, someone who couldn’t leave me even if he wanted to.'”
He’s familiar with what it means to be used and discarded. He tells himself that it’s a bard’s lot in life, to experience everything but keep nothing, but he knows it was happening long before he started his career. There’s a unique torment in living your life at the mercy of others— especially when you only learn after it’s been rescinded.
"Which is ironic considering that I'm usually the one walking away from others, but that has more to do with a lack of a permanent residence than who rejects who."
Some days it's all Jaskier can do convince himself that Geralt even tolerates him, much less enjoys his company. Other people enjoy him as a novelty, a pretty song and a pretty face-- good for a night's entertainment, but never good enough to ask him to stay.
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She starts purring softly as Jaskier speaks, the kind of low rumble that's intended to comfort rather than express contentment.
Crowley doesn't have any shortcuts for offering comfort, and even if he did, it's possible he wouldn't want to use them anyway. All he can do is listen and frown and grow more than a little furious with the damn Witcher who's either too stupid or too cruel to realize that he's been stringing Jaskier along for decades.
"You don't have to do this, buttercup." It's a bit gentler, now. He doesn't want Jaskier to feel obligated to share some of his own pain just because he's caught Crowley wallowing in his. "We can just leave it. Move on. Plenty of other nonsense to talk about."
He does not, of course, realize that's the opposite of what Jaskier is looking for right now, because he can't imagine wanting to dwell in anything unpleasant like this.
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Jacenty nuzzles closer to Asteria. He enjoys the vibrations of her rumbles. He takes the comfort and projects as much of it to Jaskier he can without making it overwhelming. He hopes the other two are doing the same.
"And how many times have you talked about this in the last, oh, millennia?" Jaskier's pretty sure he knows the answer.
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He equally doesn't feel much like being comforted, so he's both ignoring Asteria and making a half-hearted attempt to shrug off Jaskier's arm. Frustration and annoyance are easier to deal with than whatever awful, hurt thing was loitering in his chest.
"What's there to talk about? I fell, it's done, there's no undoing it." Whether or not he'd want it undone isn't the point, because it's impossible. "Talking about it changes nothing."
So there's no point to that, either. It's all categorically pointless. Exhuming the hurt doesn't serve any purpose except to make the pain worse, and he's dealt with it for long enough that keeping it buried seems so much easier.
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He loosens his grip around Anthony but doesn't let go. If he wants to actually move he can do it himself-- none of this half-hearted squirming.
"If it hurts this much after all this time not talking about it, don't you think it might be worth a shot? Worst case scenario is you just feel miserable about it, and it seems like you're doing a fine job of that already. What's there to lose?"
It's like draining an infected wound. Anthony's been hoping that it will go away on its own, but now it's got all that pus and gross shit built up. There will be no healing until he excises his pain. Leaving it will just allow it to fester. (Jaskier is the biggest hypocrite in the Continent.)
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Crowley opens his mouth, but Asteria hisses at him and his teeth click as his jaw shuts, shoving past his worst impulse despite how easy it would be to end this discussion.
"If I'm feeling miserable about it, that's 'cause you're digging your blasted fingers into the wound." They could have just moved on! Jaskier said something that would've sat heavy in Crowley's chest for a few days before he processed it quietly by himself, and he could've figured out some plausibly deniable way to thank Jaskier, and that would've been that.
This is only serving to make him feel worse.
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"And you two were holed up in your rooms for what reason, exactly?" Jaskier snipes back. He isn't going to let Anthony blame his shitty emotions on him just because he said something he doesn't like.
"Our daemons are currently snuggling under the table. I don't think fingering's the problem, here." Dammit, he didn't even mean to make an innuendo that time.
...Jacenty thinks that Asteria may have the right idea and leaving his human to have this conversation unchecked might've been a bad idea. It's unfortunate-- he's far too comfortable to be bothered to move now.
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"Stop touching me, Julian." He doesn't want to shove him off, he needs Jaskier to move away of his own accord, because he needs to exert a tiny bit of control back over the situation.
He shouldn't be surprised, really, and it's likely for the best, anyway; proof that he was right about not wanting to get into this with someone who apparently can't even take it seriously.
Once the arm is gone from around his shoulders, he rises to his feet, while Asteria jumps up into the space he left behind to shove her head into his hand. She doesn't look at Jaskier, either.
"I've known you for a blink of the eye, in the grand scheme of time. What makes you think you're entitled to any of my story?"
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He's not Julian, hasn't been for years, and has no desire to be. He thought his friend understood the importance of the name he chose for himself. To hear it now sends a chill down his spine. It hurts in a way he wasn't expecting, especially from Anthony's mouth.
"I-" He cuts himself off, because more talking always seems to make things worse. He doesn't know what he did wrong and he doesn't know how to fix it. He raises his arm as Anthony stands and moves away, like he wants to reach out, but doesn't follow through. His hand is just hovering in the air.
Jacenty takes a few steps in Asteria's direction, but doesn't chase her when she jumps to her demon's side. He wasn't expecting her to pull away. He thought-
He just wasn't expecting it.
"I don't..." another failed attempt at a sentence. Why does his tongue always fail him when he needs it most? The bard can't argue with Anthony's point because he's right, what place does he have in any of this? He is mortal-- fleeting and inconsequential. It's bad enough with Geralt and his extended lifespan, but Anthony is a whole different creature.
Jacenty lets out a mournful trill and flies to the tabletop.
Jaskier pulls his raised hand back to his chest and curls in on himself. He looks down at his daemon, then straightens up. The confusion and hurt is gone from his expression, but he's betrayed by how he's keeping his head ducked down and can't bring himself to look directly at the other two for longer than a moment.
"Right." He's trying to keep his voice neutral, but there's a warble of suppressed emotion. "You're right."
Jacenty chirps in protest. It's a pathetically distressed sound. A glance at the daemon tells Jaskier that he is displaying all of the emotion that the man is trying very, very hard to push down right now. He keeps looking back and forth from Crowley and Asteria, back to Jaskier. His wings twitch with anxiety.
They sit there and wait for Anthony to ask them to leave.
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"I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to properly think about it," His voice is carefully measured, most of the anger tucked away because he's too old and tired and hurt to hold onto it when faced with someone he considers a friend. He wants Jaskier to really think about this, not just give the most placating answer he can think of. It's too important. "Was it really about making me feel better?"
It isn't an accusation, because he doesn't think Jaskier is necessarily being malicious, he's just human. That's the problem, of course, about allowing humans to get too close, because even if they aren't cruel, they're curious and self-centered and too bloody persistent for their own good.
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Which doesn't matter, because that's not the question that Anthony's actually asking. He's asking Jaskier if he was doing this for his friend or for himself.
It's an impossible question, because selfishness and selflessness do not only work in opposition to the other. They're inosculated-- grown into each other to the point of being indistinguishable.
He wants to know Anthony. He wants Anthony to feel better. He wants to be liked by Anthony. He doesn't want Anthony to hurt. He wants Anthony to trust him. He wants Anthony to stay. He doesn't want Anthony to leave.
"That's not a fair question," Jacenty protests. "It's not that simple."
Jaskier shushes him, because even if it's the truth it's unlikely to help. He leans back in his chair.
It takes a few moments, but he slips back on the mask of Jaskier-the-Bard. He needs that safety, that distance, if he's going to get through the rest of this. Jaskier-the-Bard is ignorant to insults to his person. Jaskier-the-Bard gets distracted by every pretty face he meets, but never gets tied down. He's mirrored glass-- a blank slate for others to project onto, whether that's love, hate, pleasure, or pain.
He's a fool, and Jaskier-the-man feels very foolish.
"I'm not trying to use your pain for material, if that's what you're asking."
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"It's part of what I'm asking." If he's asking for honesty, he ought to give it in return, and he won't pretend that the thought didn't cross his mind. It's what Asteria was stopping him from saying, it's what inspired the paranoia that the innuendo only seemed to confirm.
But he appreciates that Jaskier doesn't try to deny any selfishness.
"When I was an angel, I asked too many questions. I didn't understand why the Earth was destined to end, why some angels were more important than others, why God was drawing further away from us. Lucifer, the Morningstar, seemed to have the same sort of questions that I did. He was asking out of jealousy and hatred, of course, but I was naive, stupid, foolish, whatever you'd like to call it, and when the war came, the Morningstar handed me a weapon, so I fought." Asteria looks as miserable as a cat can look, her head tucked into Crowley's side, despite the fact he can keep his expression and voice blank. He does have to pause, though, summoning and lighting a cigarette in one motion, to give him something to do with his hands, an excuse to breath in and out. "Don't remember much of it, if I'm being honest. But I remember Michael's voice announcing God's decree. I remember falling. I remember landing in what would become Hell. I remember God's love and God's grace burning out of me in the pit of sulfur until the only thing left was instinct and pain."
That could be the end of it, and he nearly leaves it there, but it feels — incomplete, ending the story in the worst part.
"Turns out if you toss a bunch of angry, hurt and terrified fresh demons into a pit together, they'll take it out in each other. Never was much of a fighter, so I learned to be clever, and how to make friends in the right places. When God set the first humans on Earth, Lucifer already liked me well enough to send me up there to make trouble. The rest is history.“
That's a better ending point, and he takes a slow drag of the cigarette, blowing out smoke after a moment. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"
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Jaskier doesn't bother answering the question. Anthony feels exposed and raw and is doing what he can to feel in control.
He pities the demon in front of him. It likely shows on his face, but it's not from a place of condescension. It's true sorrow for the irremediable pain his friend went through. There's a deluge of thoughts pouring through his head, most of which he can't express without the risk of further agitating Anthony and Asteria.
Jaskier knows what its like to be used and discarded-- he's made a career of it. He's traveled for long periods of time without escort and has not come out unscathed. The scale of his struggles may be smaller but he suspects that, for all of the demon's claims to be an Other, the root emotions are the same. Anthony acts so damn human, sometimes.
There's nothing the man or daemon can say to make this better. They can only feel honored at the display of trust, because Anthony and Asteria could easily have just left the room. For all their protests, they chose to share and Jaskier isn't going to diminish that.
While Jaskier is still trying to figure out the safest sentiment to express, Jacenty speaks.
"I don't think I like your 'God' very much." Jaskier winces at the admission but can't disagree. She seems cruel, especially if She's as omniscient as the stories claim. There's no excuse for throwing Anthony in with the likes of the Morningstar.
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"You should hear what She did to Her son." That one will always stick in his throat, how much Yeshua loved God and people and life and how he suffered for a mistake that God practically forced humans to make. Crowley never had the heart to ask Aziraphale what became of him. It's hard to picture Yeshua amongst the arch angels; Crowley always hoped he was allowed into the human part of Heaven, to tend to his flock.
"Imagine someone took your music away. Couldn't hear it, couldn't make it, couldn't even see the notes on a page." This seems the best way to make someone like Jaskier understand how painful it was to lose his grace. It wasn't some nebulous concept, it made up the entirety of his being, and it was all he'd ever known until suddenly it was gone. "That's what falling is like."
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cw: child abuse, physical abuse, corporal punishment
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