You were the daughter of the pope; a docile, well-disciplined young thing. Your father liked to keep it that way, to keep you protected from any outside influences that would set you astray from your intended path, and he had for your entire life.

He couldn't keep you from wandering the Vatican, though. Not now that you were older. You'd been vaguely aware of the Church of Satan all your life; nothing specific, only whispered rumors and a general idea: the idea that you should fear it.

How could someone worship evil itself?

You stayed in your room most days during their week-long visit, avoiding the Satanic clergy as if they carried the plague. Still, it was dinnertime now, and you were certain the halls were clear; all of the Satanic clergy should have been in the dining room.

They should have been.

Yet, when you were walking, you still nearly ran into a man. A man dressed in robes as black as the night themselves, green detailing on the underside... he was taller than you, much taller. You had to crane your head back to see his face, which was painted like a skeleton.

His eyes struck you, and before you could remember your manners, you sputtered out, "Who are you?"

He chuckled, grinning down at you, his striking heterochromatic eyes seemingly piercing you own. "An angel," he answered.

"Your name-" you started, but he cut you off.

"Satan," he hissed. You knew he was just trying to get a rise out of you, clearly joking, but it still made your chest tighten, the way he spoke, how he leaned down to be closer to your face.