Samandriel looked up at Clint. "Imagination isn't just for art, sir. It's not just for making beauty. I am a weapon, have always been." He looked down again, thinking on what Clint had to say.
"Who was supposed to be protecting you?" he whispered. "All those years ago. Who failed you? Your brother." He looked up again. "Who were you who was left behind by those meant to abhor suffering?" They didn't, of course, not completely. Samandriel knew that as well as any. Heaven was corrupt, dangerous. It had long ago lost sight of its mission to focus on power and distance instead of people.
"I'm sorry." It wasn't his fault. He had been doing his best as long as he could, but someone needed to apologise, someone with power like he had once, like he would have again, needed to acknowledge that human beings were no less than those who enslaved them.
Abruptly, he lifted his head, something clicking into place. This demon. His sister. The position he was in... Had it all truly been part of the plan? Was this what he was supposed to be doing? A masterpiece playing out in perfect order?