My wings were getting cramped and stiff. I shifted in my chair.

The low rumble of the heavy door was enough to startle me out of my own thoughts. Steady, sluggish footsteps followed. I didn't even need to look to know who it was. 

He ceased in front of me, plummeting down in the seat across the table, releasing a long, exaggerated sigh. 

I thought I made it evidently clear that I wanted nothing to do with him. 

I couldn't care enough to try to understand his intentions. Any attempt to arouse a conversation now was only going to lead to detrimental chaos - and I was sure that he didn't want another altercation in the same night. I was sure his energy had to be just as worn as my own. 

Star had gone back to the Above. That much, I could gather from his return into the dining hall and her absence. I hadn't even bothered to ask because, not only was the silent treatment I was already giving him working, but I couldn't let him know that I cared at all about the situation anyway. 

Besides, I didn't owe him anything, not even my own company.

His motives were baffling, never ceasing to confuse me. One moment, he's throwing me into a brick wall and yelling at me - the next, he's sitting down next to me as if to make casual banter. 

He's lucky I'd even allowed him to sit down. Fortunately for him, I was too exhausted to fight. 

I'd been sitting at the table for so long, fixated on finding the subtle humor in the stone gargoyles on the mantle of the fireplace - even the reason of why exactly the castle's dining room needed a fireplace struck me in some kind of funny way, considering the Underworld was already a sweltering thousand degrees on its own. 

Just another question to the many questions to add to the list.

Not a Prince. Not a brother. Not a demon. 

How could it be so far from the truth yet, at the same time, make so much sense? 

The Lucitor family portrait hung daringly on the wall, just above the gargoyles. 

Prince Thomas Lucitor and his father, King of the Underworld. 

Only son, only successor. 

No other demon prince. 

Left out of the family portrait. 

Nonexistent, gone, forgotten. 

But maybe it wasn't just because I was simply forgotten - I wasn't a part of this family.

Just another thought to distract me from my own stupid existential crisis. If I found another thing to obsess over, I was going to go insane. 

I always hated that damn portrait.

I was still a demon, I had to be. Despite whatever Tom might've told me - I was a demon. 

Maybe not Tom's brother nor a descendant of royalty, but a demon at most. 

But then… who was my real family? 

Did Tom know? 

Did Star know? 

Could she be the answer? 

I guessed I needed another distraction from my rambling thoughts and that, I could thank Tom for being. As long as he didn't try to disrupt the peaceful bliss and silence, then I'd be truly grateful. Maybe, I wondered, he had only come here for the same as me - a moment of calm to reflect and collect his thoughts. 

Yet something of his demeanor was unsettling, disturbing my own calm. He would sit forward, holding his head in his hands and then lean off of the table to slump back in his chair, only to sit up again and repeat the process. 

The fire crackled quietly and appeared to be settling now. Wouldn't be long until the servants came to tend to it again. 

I witnessed Tom squirm once more before I decided to finally speak. His distraction was enough. 

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" His voice was surprisingly dull - a tough and rigid sound. I lifted my heaving head to see that the expression on his face matched the tone in his voice. His eyes remained unfocused, a bleary stare off into the distance. His eyelids were weighing. 

I'd never seen him look so drained, so tired and… raw. He looked exactly how I felt. 

Some time went by, an anchor of silence. The dying fire of the dining hall withered and gave out a last crackle. I watched it intently. 

"Why did you do it?" The question was simple - one that was meant for a simple answer. 

"What do you mean?" His eyes lazily transferred. He deflected the question and I found myself having to repeat it. 

"Why did you erase my mind?" 

He took a breath. 

Something about the confrontation of that night seemed to bother him - stress him. It was almost like the answers were too painful to give - and the wavering worry in his eyes proved it. 

Maybe it was a sort of guilt, a reluctance to speak about the unspeakable events. 

Still, no matter what it was I might've seen in that moment, I had to remind myself to not take pity on him. He didn't deserve sympathy from the victims of his actions. 

I used to have sympathy for Tom.

If it wasn't for my curiosity and desire to know, I would've neglected his presence altogether. Yet intertwining memories still remained tangled and muddled with the more they stirred. I couldn't bear to sit for another second, alone with my own thoughts. 

I needed to understand.

"You… you asked me to." 

"What?" I tried to stifle a laugh but the absurdity he was proposing was too amusing. 

"You… you wanted me to… to take it all away. You said you didn't… you didn't want to remember anything."

"I… I don't…" I combed my hands through my hair, curling and tugging at it. "No, that's not…" 

A laugh escaped me, yet it wasn't the warm, comforting kind. It was a jarring, bitter sound, one that could sting the air - and by the way I witnessed Tom's ears pin back, I knew it had. 

My skull felt like it was going to explode. I felt an ache behind my burning eyes and I rubbed them viciously with my palms. In the end, the pain only spread, even worse than before. 

"No… no, you're lying." My voice was a frail whisper, yet I still wondered if he could make out the hint of hysteria in it. 

"Marco," 

"This is all a joke - it's… it's a fucking joke, isn't it?" My fist collided with the table. It wasn't enough to intimidate or even scare, just a pathetic attempt at anger. I was too sleep-deprived to give a real fight. 

Tom must've felt it too, considering all three of his eyes seemed to stare, no reaction to give. He didn't even seem to be rattled at anything at this point. His exhaustion was causing him to dissociate with the world around him. And when he spoke, his voice was so fragile and small, I couldn't even identify it. 

"Get some sleep, Marco." It was a genuine request - no anger, no sarcasm, no spite.

I watched him slowly rise from his seat at last and make his way into the hallway. I felt as if I was going to cry, though there was no point. To cry over something so stupid now would only prove to Tom that I was afraid - afraid that he was right about me. 

It all made too much sense. The evidence was too overwhelming, playing against me. 

He was right, I was wrong. He had won and I had lost. 

I really hated to say it, but Tom was right. Not just about me, but also about getting some rest. 

But even then, I dreaded that too - the nightmares almost every night. I didn't want to relive it all, not again. 

As reluctant as I was, I found myself getting up and following him. 

Maybe a long, vicious sleep was all I needed to clear my thoughts after all.

And as I entered the hallway, the gigantic, Gothic medieval windows welcomed a warm light in. The screams and groans of agony from the Underworld's inhabitants have died for the night, leaving behind no more than a soft, lulling droning.