A choked answer bubbled on Belial's tongue, but he had no words to put to the meaning. His jaw ached with the overflowing emotion. It was a journey of footsteps, one after another, spanning the sandy, desolate wastes of his existence. A trail through the desert, droplets of water drying, clumped dun pearls, in the sand; he could hardly explain to Gabriel how each memory and hope had kept him sound and sane for so long.

"Gabriel," he said, a name more beautiful in their milk-tongue than any mortal language. It was painful to heave the celestial sounds from his throat, his body and being unable to grasp the task it undertook, but they were melodious and flowed like oozing honey. "The Father created hate, created avarice, created death. Lucifer did not invent sin."

Closing his eyes, he shook at Gabriel's touch. His knees dug uncomfortably into the floor and his mouth was dry. Shoulders hunched. "There can be no suffering that does not make the bite of happiness more keen."

Belial bit his lip, weighing his words carefully. "Love was the one balm granted to me for what pain I needed endure. Lucifer could not remake me, in that, no matter how he tried, with all his strings and wires and nimble fingers. It is my blessing and burden to know this love."