#Asmodeus dnd

[shellem15]

This has been commented on many times in this fandom, but I'm using it as a springboard for my own brainrot Raphael really is just like his daddy. There's the obvious stuff—the narcissism, the dramatics, the convoluted plots and just the general messy bitchery—but there's also the stuff under the surface. Both have massive inferiority complexes, both are extremely envious and power-hungry (Mephistopheles in particular for the envy part, but we'll touch on that later), and both act extremely obsessive towards certain tools, goals, and—most relevant to this post—people.

Now Raphael is definitely weird towards Tav/Durge, but it's a bit more ambiguous as to whether he's obsessed with them in particular or just sees them as a means to an end. The situation with Hope, on the other hand, is quite explicit. Raphael is obsessed with her, even naming his home after her, but there's not really anything material he gets out of her. Him imprisoning and torturing her is not a means to an end, he just does it because he's a sadist. He wants her attention, he is entertained by her defiance, he wants to break her—he both loves and loathes her.

And what do you know! Raphael's thing towards Hope is kinda similar to how Mephistopheles acts with his object of obsession—Asmodeus. Now, if you need to know anything about Mephisto's character, it's that he's envious. Envious towards his peers, envious towards his betters, even envious towards his inferiors—he resents that others' have what he does not. Even Martinet, Asmodeus' unflappable constable, thinks so: "Were Mephistopheles to become the King of Hell, it would take him less than an hour to start wondering why he wasn’t also ruler of Mount Celestia." (Guide to Hell, p. 45)

The #1 target of Mephisto's envy is Asmodeus. The man is capital-o Obsessed with him, ya'll.  Asmo is on his mind 24/7, haunting his every thought. He lives rent-free in Mephisto's head.

Mephisto is the silver medal to Asmo's golden 1st place. Eternally living in his shadow, the Starscream to Asmo's Megatron. He is always one step behind him—like, Mephistopheles has been trying to become a god for a while now, and just when he was about to succeed, the spellplague happened and Asmodeus ate the god Azuth like an energy bar, snatching up godhood by sheer luck. And then, of course, Mephisto's godhood plan fell through so now the power divide between them is even greater than it was before.

Bro tries so hard and it just doesn't work. Like, when Mephisto was going through his rebrand phase as the Lord of Hellfire, he changed his appearance to that of the "quintessential devil". But all that ended up doing is making mortals confused about who exactly he is—a lot of mortals straight up think he is Asmodeus. Like, to the point that Asmo just went "you're the manager of my cults now lol", so now the distinction between the two is even more blurry. Also, Mephisto's wife is straight up closer to Asmo than she is to him (see my Baalphegor post), which is just another spit in the face. Bro cannot win. (This ties into another similarity between him and his son; Raphael clearly got the loser gene from him.)

Now, obviously the situation between Raphael and Hope is very different than Mephisto's relationship towards Asmo—Hope is Raphael's captive, while Asmo is Mephisto's boss; Hope's life has been upended and tormented by Raphael, while Mephisto is at most an annoyance towards Asmo (bro has repeatedly told Asmo to his face that he would usurp him and Asmo is just like "whatever, dude")—but the level of obsession is similar. Raphael hates hope but is also desperate for her affection, Mephistopheles loathes and envies Asmodeus but is also his greatest ally. Both are desperate to fu—*ahem* both are psycho-sexually obsessed with them.

So, yeah. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

TLDR: Raphael inherited his psycho-sexually obsessive tendencies from his daddy lol. Also you should really read the lore about Asmodeus and Mephistopheles' relationship because it's actually insane y'all. Like this shit was made for the gays people.

[adinfernumadinfinitum]

Welcome to my silly little fan theory @emmg:

How Raphael is the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3…

…or how I give him more importance than I should.

DISCLAIMER:

In this ‘dissertation,’ I present my take on things based on Dungeons and Dragons 5e lore from the Forgotten Realms universe, along with fandom theories and headcanons where they suit me. This is NOT an in-depth analysis of anything, so I won’t be reciting specific quotes, etc.

I repeat, this is just MY take on things. If a similar theory already exists, feel free to reach out, and I’ll gladly tag the material!

Oh, and there are a lot of spoilers about, well, everything, so read at your own risk ⚠️

I thank the lovely @bitethedevil for allowing me to tag their posts, making it easier on me so I don’t have to write everything out! I also want to take this moment to appreciate their work and contributions to this fandom! ☺️

Introduction

Baldur’s Gate 3 is a brilliant, complex, multi-layered game filled with multiple villains, heroic figures, and a plot that weaves players in seamlessly. That’s why we love this game—at least, that’s why I do—the gripping storyline and its faceted characters.

The game is set in the Forgotten Realms with DnD lore and rules, while still adding and maintaining its own unique features and twists.

But what if we entirely take a look at it from DnD lore perspective?

Section 1: Raphael as the core character in Baldur’s Gate 3

Fans of the Emperor might argue with me here, but oh man, have you seen how many pies Raphael has his fingers in?

This narcissistic little shit of a cambion plotted his grand design to take the Crown of Karsus for over 2,000 years, planning everything with terrifying precision and putting in a staggering amount of effort—all to manipulate Tav or Durge into giving him the crown.

To understand just how far back his scheming goes, we have to start with the fall of Netheril. As Raphael himself tells us, this is where it all began, and when his father seized the crown, it became impossible for Raphael to obtain it himself.

Baator—the Nine Layers of Hell—has its own system and rules. The plane is aligned as lawful evil, and by its laws, anyone who breaks them is punished; in other words, theft is a crime (don’t try this at home edition).

Am I going to explain the system and rules of the Nine Hells? Hell no, or I’ll be sitting here until next Halloween. Sorry, maybe in a separate post sometime (or not) 😭

So Raphael had to get creative if he wanted to get his greedy claws on the crown.

You can read about how much Raphael’s involvement is actually found in the game Baldur’s Gate 3 here.

What’s relevant for this ‘dissertation’ are the following points, which all show how he orchestrates the plot:

1. Raphael, Vlaakith, and the Astral Prism —

Raphael even plots to capture Orpheus. Not personally, of course, but with the knowledge that it could benefit him and would even serve its purpose in the future. This is a crucial detail.

However, I don’t believe Raphael would craft or have someone craft an item like the Astral Prism, as well as the bindings of Orpheus (the mask, chains, and binding crystals) and the Orphic Hammer. It’s more likely these objects already existed in the Hells, with Raphael profiting by dealing with them.

Sadly there is no official information on that, I really find that interesting.

As for why the Orphic Hammer is called Orphic Hammer - why is Orpheus called Orpheus? He’s a liberator for his people, having inherited the power of Mother Gith, who freed the Gith from mind flayer enslavement. The character of Orpheus draws heavily from Orpheus in Greek mythology, a symbol of liberation, love, and the attempt to rescue a soul from the bonds of death. The term “Orphic” reflects this sense of breaking free from constraints or seeking transformation (of course, it has other meanings, too, but this one feels like what the developers were aiming for).

So the hammer’s name has both symbolic depth and a bit of pun, as it’s intended to free the character Orpheus from his chains.

ANYWAY

2. Raphael, Moonrise Towers, and the Gauntlet of Shar —

The amount of interwoven contracts Raphael has made in the Shadow Cursed Lands is suspicious, and each and every one of them is too , an important point.

Isn’t it just a bit too convenient that Ketheric’s misery plays right into Raphael’s hands? The Shadow-Cursed Lands—Reithwin, once ruled by Ketheric, formerly full of Selunite worshippers but ruined by schemes of the Dark Lady who turned a grieving worshipper of her sister into a Shar follower and leader of an army of Dark Justiciars—is a whole breeding ground for contracts and a stage for Raphael’s play.

Hold on, I’m not implying that I believe Raphael had a hand in Shar’s mischief here, but I do think Raphael handpicked Ketheric, a grieving and obsessed madman (a truly tragic character, honestly), to be an unwitting pawn in his schemes, without directly involving himself. To do this, he contracted with desperate beings like the Architect, Yurgir, and the last Dark Justiciar.

To understand why Raphael would even need Ketheric, we have to look a step further.

3. Raphael and my beloved raccoon boy, Gortash —

Raphael buying Gortash from his parents was a calculated move and the final piece in the Netherbrain plot scheme.

I believe Raphael specifically chose Enver Gortash, a boy with potential, for his plans to get the Crown of Karsus.

Look, Gortash is anything but dumb; in fact, he’s the exact opposite. He learned the ropes in Hell, literally imprisoned in Raphael’s House of Hope. All jokes aside about pot-scrubbing duty and overhearing Raphael and Haarlep getting it on, Gortash is a quick learner.

Raphael just had to watch as Gortash escaped the House of Hope with vital information about the crown. With this, Raphael set up an ambitious, cunning man with the drive to steal the crown.

And this is where Ketheric returns to the picture. Ketheric, the chosen of Myrkul; Gortash, the chosen of Bane; and Durge, the chosen of Bhaal.

As for how Raphael might have gotten his hands on Durge? I’ll leave that as the theory’s plot hole.

I could fill it with headcanons—like Gortash and Durge knowing each other even before Gortash was sold—but that feels a bit far-fetched.

Actually, all of this is a bit far-fetched, but hey, it’s my silly little theory.

But hey again, we’re slowly coming to a conclusion how Raphael is the mastermind behind BG3, do you see my vision?

All Raphael needed was patience. The chosen ones, Gortash and Durge, set the stage by planning the Netherbrain coup and, in stealing the crown, executed Raphael’s plan. All they needed was the third chosen, Ketheric, to carry out the rest of the plot: building the Absolute’s army, etc., the rest we know...

So, what was left? Just someone desperate enough to make a deal with Raphael and actually hand over the Crown of Karsus. And how would he pull that off?

✨The Tadpole Gang✨

Every single one of them fits the bill. Especially if the player chooses Durge.

The next question is: how could he manipulate the group if they were under the Absolute’s influence? Well, that’s where the Emperor comes onto the stage.

Because, hear me out one more time: isn’t it convenient that the Emperor, of all people, finds the Astral Prism? A figure obsessed with freedom and manipulation, ambitious and clever, who would serve perfectly as a kind of protection shield from the Elder Brain’s influence for the gang? And to that even a disposable figure as it is a mind flayer who would not be trusted in the end.

(Naturally, in the game the player is the ultimate executional force, making any kind of higher plan or scheme either perfect or useless)

Nevertheless, this is as far as I will dive into this specific pond.

I just think it adds up nicely.

But Björni, if you have a Section 1, what about a Section 2? you might ask. Well, here it comes…

… how this ‘dissertation’ is actually about Mephistopheles being the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 2: Raphael as the Scapegoat

DnD’s lore about fiends—and, specifically, cambions—teaches us that they’re doomed to fail from birth. While they may think they’re in control of their schemes, they’re actually playing into the hands of their fiendish parent.

Ever wondered why Mephistopheles would even bother devouring Raphael if we defeat him? Sure, cambion sons are nourishing (yum yum), but given Mephistopheles’ personality, I’d guess he does it to humiliate his son, even in death, for being a failure—a failure to retrieve the crown for his father.

But wait, Mephistopheles already had the crown—why would he bother plotting all of this just to get it back? Isn’t that a bit over-the-top, Björni?

Bear with me: it’s not officially written anywhere, but it’s more or less canon based on what we know of the Archdevils Asmodeus and Mephistopheles.

Asmodeus rules the Hells, while Mephistopheles, as the Archduke of the 8th layer, Cania, is arguably the second most powerful being in Baator. Mephistopheles has never stopped dreaming of overthrowing Asmodeus, even after repeatedly failing miserably. But if he openly tried to use the crown against Asmodeus, it would be a direct affront, and Asmodeus would have shut it down from the start.

Mephistopheles has other children besides Raphael, and Raphael isn’t exactly useless, he’s actually the complete opposite. Strategically, it wouldn’t make sense to discard such a puppet (call him son)—unless Raphael had done something atrocious. And for someone as mighty as Mephistopheles, controlling his little cambion son would be child’s play. So, then why does Raphael hate his father so much, and why is Raphael ‘residing’ in Avernus?

As we know, Avernus is the armpit of Baator, a plane for exiles and outcasts.

I think Mephistopheles intentionally filled his relationship with Raphael with hatred, so Raphael’s ambition to overthrow his father would ignite and one day serve him. When Mephistopheles got the Crown of Karsus, unable to wield it himself, he set the stage for his son’s scheme—by casting Raphael aside, Mephistopheles set him on the path to steal the crown, with Mephistopheles only indirectly involved in overthrowing Asmodeus. Raphael would do the dirty work—taking over the other layers—before ultimately facing his father, who could then just snatch the crown from him. And yes, I do believe Mephistopheles is arrogant enough to think he’d still be more powerful than his son, even with a god-like artifact. He has that bloated of an ego.

BUT (Nr. 36,252), what about Asmodeus? Wouldn’t he step in and crush the plan?

Here’s the thing: Asmodeus generally doesn’t mind if his archdukes fight for control of their layers, as long as it doesn’t threaten his supreme authority or destabilize Hell’s hierarchy. In fact, he encourages a bit of rivalry and ambition among his archdevils, as infighting serves his purposes.

And can you imagine THE Asmodeus being worried about an over-ambitious cambion?

However, this leads to the TRUE instigator and the true subject of this ‘dissertation’…

… how Asmodeus is actually the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 3: Asmodeus doing things, just because

Joke’s on you—it’s been about Asmodeus all along, because even if he’d lose (not that he ever would—he’s just that powerful), he’d claim at the last minute that it was his plan all along. Losing trusted allies? What a bunch of traitors—perfect excuse to clean house. Losing Baator? Finally, he was sick of the job.

All jokes aside, Asmodeus being the cunning bastard he is, would likely pull off everything mentioned above.

To understand why he’d even bother, let’s take a quick (really quick, this is already getting too long) dive into his background and shenanigans in DnD.

Throughout DnD’s development from 1e to 5e, Asmodeus has gone through quite the evolution, eventually becoming a Greater Deity, the Embodiment of Evil, and one of the mightiest beings in existence, rivaled only by Ao.

While 5e keeps things vague to allow player interpretation, Asmodeus has consistently been the most powerful entity in the Hells—a schemer, strategist, and supreme manipulator.

(Here’s the only quote I’ll reference:) “[…] His sinister machinations could take centuries, if not millennia, to come to fruition, and his master plans extended across the entire multiverse. His labyrinthine, insidious intrigues could seem inexplicable to most outside observers, for Asmodeus let even his own servants stew in fear of his next move. With all the planes as his board, the Lord of Lies maneuvered the forces of evil like chess pieces in his grand designs, slowly and subtly manipulating everyone from deities to, when needed, lowly mortals.”

He’s described as being a thousand steps ahead of everyone. And while most of his plans serve greater purposes beyond even godly comprehension, some things he does just because—just for fun.

CONCLUSION

Of course Asmodeus knew Mephistopheles had the crown. Of course he knew Mephistopheles would never use it openly against him. And of course he knew Mephistopheles would keep scheming to use it indirectly, bringing his cambion son Raphael into the game.

Why would Asmodeus let all this happen, and why am I saying he’s the real mastermind?

Like already mentioned, Asmodeus often (indirectly) encourages and manipulates his archdukes to scheme and fight among themselves as a means to reinforce his dominance, foster survival of the fittest, and test loyalty within the infernal hierarchy. However, he maintains strict boundaries, and any conflict that risks his supreme authority, disrupts Hell’s role in the multiverse, or leads to excessive chaos would be swiftly and ruthlessly quashed. In Asmodeus’s mind, such rivalries are a useful tool—as long as they remain safely under his control.

In my view, the Crown of Karsus was never a real threat to him; this whole plot served his entertainment, tested loyalties, or helped him gauge his chess pieces.

And that’s how Asmodeus is the real mastermind behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Thanks for reading this mass of nonsense ❤️

Why I even bothered with all this shit? It’s one of the key plot points in my longfic, Ah, You Devil!

[drownedrow]

“Mephistopheles was in something of an irritating situation when it came to worshippers, as despite being second only to Asmodeus, he had one of, if not the, smallest followings out of all the Archdevil’s. Mephistopheles had been so effective in making himself the image of the Lord of Hellfire that he had become generic in the eyes of many mortals, frequently confused with and believed to be the same as Asmodeus. Not only that, but further blurring any sense of identity was his symbol, or rather symbols, since he constantly adopted new icons and forms to represent himself. As someone who adored worship as a god, this mistaken identity was frustrating to no end.”

[bardcambion]

Asmodeus. My tav was his priest before the events of the game.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 40

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Well this chapter just kept getting longer and longer. And the epilogue won't be short either, 'cause Raphael's gonna be one literal hell of a busy archduke. ***

In the time that lapsed between Mephistopheles’ death and the arrival of Asmodeus’ envoy, there was no attempt from anyone at court to take a throne that many had long coveted - and which, at least at first, was seemingly vacant.

But it was no great surprise. The companies of pit fiends under Hutijin had been decimated by Zariel and Lulu’s strenuous efforts, as they would later learn, and Hutijin himself lay dead in the throne room. The soldiers who had been waiting to ambush Raphael on the road to Nargus under Duke Bifrons’ command had not made it back on time to be of any assistance. 

By the time they reached the gates of Mephistar, it was all said and done. They found a court of fiends just now starting to cautiously emerge from the rooms and halls they had cowered in alongside their servants. 

In the surreal silence that had fallen on the entire citadel - on all of Cania, where the blizzard no longer raged and snow fell slowly, quietly - they all headed instinctively towards the grand hall atop the palace.

Not too long ago, it had been the beating heart of the palace; hymns of praise filled it at all times, rising towards the high vaulted ceiling. Now that too was silent. Mephistopheles’ High Cantor had been gone for some time and the ceiling had been damaged, with parts of it collapsed onto the floor. The snow fell there, too, before the high doors leading to the throne room, barely cracked open. 

No sound came from inside, and none dared approach. Bifrons was about to call on his best men to come forth with him when someone slipped inside the hall and did approach the doors, and then turned to face them all. 

Adonides, Steward of Cania, met Bifrons’ gaze with a grave expression on his face. A gesture, and a rolled parchment appeared in his hand. The seal on it glowed, and the stunned silence broke into a murmur when everyone present saw it clearly - the seal of the Ninth. 

“By Asmodeus’ decree, any of you carrying weapons is to lay them down now. No fighting is to occur as we await for the Lord Below’s envoy to arrive, and settle the matter.”

“What matter, Adonides?”

“... Lord Mephistopheles is no more.”

The silence was back, deafening; confusion turned to incredulity, the mere notion of their lord being gone too much for most of those present to grasp. They stared as though not comprehending what they had just heard, the upper crust of the Eighth. Bifrons obviously struggled to wrap his mind around it, too, and scowled. 

“Does the parchment really demand we lay down our weapons?”

Adonides turned. “Justiciar Bele. Would you read it, to confirm?”

Justiciar Bele looked stunned as he stepped forward, his gait uncertain. He took the parchment, broke the seal, and read in silence. He was much too pale to grow paler still, but he did draw in a shaky breath before he nodded, and looked up. 

“... The Lord Below is aware that the Lord of the Eight has fallen. He is keen to avoid chaos, and a dangerous power vacuum. Everyone present is to lay down arms while his official envoy travels to Cania. Anybody breaking the peace will be subjected to punishment of the utmost severity.”

All eyes turned to Bifrons, who for a moment did not move or speak. Then, the pit fiend lifted a hand and brought it down in a silent order. There was the sound of drawn weapons left to clatter on the ice floor, on the small mounds of snow already beginning to form - and it was then that, at last, someone appeared through the doors. 

Decades, centuries, millennia down the line, there would be as many versions of that moment as there had been fiends to witness it. One such tale, and perhaps the most widely circulated, would speak of a gigantic ascended fiend coming through the doors in a blaze of hellfire and triumph, carrying Mephistopheles’ severed head by the hair, flanked by war devils.

But no such thing happened. The one to step out, accompanied by mere mortals, was a cambion whose face they all knew, clad in a battered and bloodied armor. There was no triumph in the way he carried himself or his expression; he was holding no severed head. 

He stopped just outside the doors, saying nothing, and ran his gaze over the gathered crowd - many of whom had witnessed what should have been his end in that very hall. Any murmurs that may have resumed were hushed, dozens of eyes wide and lost , looking back at him in stunned silence and anticipation. Finally, his gaze fell on the Steward of Cania.

“My father’s body needs tending to,” Raphael spoke, his voice rough, and Adonides nodded.

“... Of course. I shall take him to the vaults, and ensure it’s attended,” the Steward replied, and went to follow, only to pause when someone spoke suddenly - Justiciar Bele. 

“We believed Lord Mephistopheles gone once before by the hands of Baron Molikroth, and it was a ruse--”

“There is no ruse,” Raphael cut him off. He turned towards the Justiciar, but he seemed to be looking through him rather than at him. “He is gone.”

“... I suppose it may be as you say, but if we could see the body, certainly--”

“My sire won’t be paraded for you to gawk at, Bele . ” Raphael’s voice remained calm, but there was something underneath it that was enough for Bele to close his mouth as though struck, and step back into the crowd. Like it would grant him any protection, should Raphael lash out - like said crowd wouldn’t part quickly should that happen, leaving him to his fate. 

But there was no lashing out: Raphael only turned to go back inside. Bifrons stepped forward before he could. “Where is Hutijin? His body was not among the fallen. I know he did not flee.”

It caused Raphael to pause, and glance back. “He’s inside. He did his duty to the end.”

Fool. The only one of us who ever had the might and authority to challenge Mephisto for the throne, and he squandered it. What for?

“... Hph. Of course he did,” Bifrons muttered, and took another step forward. “That being the case, I’d take him to the vaults, too.”

The cambion nodded, and Adonides said nothing. They went inside, and Bifrons followed. The mortals remained at the door, to guard it; the dragonborn with blood red eyes looked fearsome enough to make even fiends think twice, should they consider trying to storm in. But no one Asmodeus’ direct orders, and no one followed them inside.

Hutijin’s corpse was only a few paces from the door; loyal to the Lord of the Eighth to the end, as any who knew him would have expected. He had fallen on his back, eyes still open; his mace lay a short distance away from his right hand. Bifrons paused for a moment - long enough to take that mace, place it over the body’s chest, and fold his hands over the handle. 

Then he stood and for the first time he took in the true scale of the devastation - the half collapsed roof and columns, the shattered wall, the craters in the ground even where magic was supposed to reform the ice. Finally his gaze paused on the far end of the throne room, where indeed Mephistopheles lay, motionless. Raphael stood in silence before it, and so did Adonides.

“... Did you truly do this?” Bifrons spoke, unable to keep some quiet surprise from his voice.

Raphael’s eyes did not so much flicker towards him. He kept looking at his sire, expression unreadable. “Yes. Now go. The Steward will join you soon.”

Bifrons did not ask how, or why. Neither answer was important, now. He went back to Hutijin’s body and lifted it, mace and all. A burst of fire and he was gone with it - a long way below, deep into the eternal ice of Nargus, before the doors leading to the vaults, where Adonides’ own gelugon guards only shared a look with him before parting to let him through.

***

“Where’s Haarlep? My mother?”

“They are well. In my own quarters, for the time being, and safe. Barbas was able to track them down, but they held him off until my arrival.”

“And the chamberlain…?”

“Dead. Do you wish for his body to be taken to the vaults, too?”

“You may feed it to my father’s hounds, if you’re so inclined.”

“I believe I might be,” Adonides muttered, and looked down at Mephistopheles once again. 

There was blood, thick and black with traces of arcane magic still, dripping like molasses from the steps leading to the throne; that showed clearly enough that was there he’d died. Still, the body had been laid out on the ground before it. Snow was drifting down on the body, which wore the visage of the Lord of the Hellfire, but there was no heat left to melt that snow. His hands had been folded over the fatal, gaping wound on his chest. 

The spear of the Reigning Serpent was nowhere to be seen, of course; none could see it, if Asmodeus’ involvement was to remain a secret. There were likely other wounds hidden by Mephistopheles’ robe; one of his horns was broken, but it was the only truly noticeable damage one could see above his neck. His eyes were shut, his forehead smooth. A ghost of a smile seemed to linger at the corners of his lips.

“... As for your sire, do you truly wish to keep him in the vaults?”

“Not permanently, no. But for the time being, it seems the best place.”

“I’ll give word to the attendants to clean off the blood. And I’ll send for one of his finest robes.” He went to kneel by the body to teleport with it, but Raphael put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Wait.” Something was pushed against his palm; the tip of the horn which had been shorn off. “See if it may be reattached. A golden band should do well enough, I believe.”

“He rent you asunder while you screamed, and yet you wish to keep him whole in death.”

“I owe you no explanation.”

“... Then I shall ask no more questions,” Adonides replied, and teleported to the vaults without another word alongside the remains of the Lord of the Eighth - leaving Raphael before the throne he’d won, beneath the falling snow, alone.

But not for long.

***

“Not quite the throne you’d planned to take, is it?”

Durge’s voice was quiet, but it echoed into the devastated room all the same. They had left the others to guard the doors - more for show than anything, as none was going to defy an order by Asmodes - and slipped back inside as soon as they’d seen Adonides leave through the crack in the door they’d been watching from.

Raphael nodded without turning. His back was rigid, his hands balled into fists by his sides. When Durge stepped by his side, he barely turned his head towards them before he spoke. 

“I’d seen myself stepping over it on my way to Nessus - never sitting upon it. Even in my grandest dreams of glory, this was his. He was supposed to live, to see my triumph and to know the humiliation of paying tribute to his bastard son. And yet…” A pause, another glance at the throne, a wide gesture to the ruined room. “Thus far I’ve come, but no farther. I have killed my sire, yet I could never humiliate him. His throne is mine, and I could make him see me, but I could never make him bow. Maybe that’s why he smiled, in the end.”

“Was seeing him bow to you truly what you wanted?”

“... I think it’s best for me not to speak aloud what I wanted. This court would latch on any weakness I show to gain leverage. It is how it is, with fiends.”

“And what of friends, I wonder?” Durge asked. There was a light scoff, the faintest ghost of a smile on Raphael’s lips.

“That was atrocious. My first act as Lord of the Eighth will be to forbid you from attempting word plays at this court.”

“Not an answer, that.”

The smile faded. There was no answer, not aloud, but he turned to Durge and that was all they needed. They reached out to pull him into an embrace, armor and all, and held tight. They heard a sharp inhale and then felt him exhale, slowly, resting his head against Durge’s shoulder for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” Durge murmured. 

“... He’d have never stopped pursuing me. There was no other choice.”

“There wasn’t.”

A nod, another long breath, and Raphael pulled away. A step back and in a burst of flames the armor was gone, replaced by a familiar doublet. The blood was gone, too, leaving only a bruise over his cheekbone barely visible on red skin. He cleared his throat, adjusting a sleeve at the wrist. “I suspect it won’t be long before Lady Baalphegor arrives.”

“So she’s to be the envoy?”

“Who else? She was always Amsodeus’ most trusted diplomat, before she was even my sire’s consort.” A sigh, and he looked at the blown-out wall. “I suppose she’ll want the meeting to take place at the grand hall, so that the entire court bears witness.”

“Yes, I guess it would make sense--”

“Um, guys? I think the envoy is here.” Karlach’s voice caused Durge to trail off, and Raphael to turn to the door, lips pressed together in a tight line. 

“Well then,” he murmured, and stepped past Durge, towards the doors leading to the hall. His strides were purposeful, his head held high. “Let us not keep Lady Baalphegor waiting.”

***

“Duke Adonides said we should stay put--”

“And what is he going to do? Punish the lover and mother of the new Lord of Cania?”

Haarlep had a point, of course, but it was still difficult to wrap her mind around the idea - Israfel on the throne and Mephistopheles gone, the being who’d smiled like a satisfied merchant when he sprung his trap, whose hand had burned both cold and hot on her belly when he’d pulled away after-- this too I claim as mine -- sealing her fate.

For the longest time, she had never dared to think or dream of the day the Lord of the Eighth may be vanquished; it simply did not seem possible. Then there had been a faint hope, but the wish to see him only took shape in her mind when anger won over the utter dread his mere thought caused. She’d envisioned her son standing in triumph over his dead body; with fear for Israfel’s safety gripping her chest, she’d hoped for that outcome with all she had.

As the ice melts upstream, the flood shall come to take its due. Will it bring you joy when it does, and the devil who tricked you is no more?

Dalah had said yes then, and she meant it. Now, however, she was not so sure. She had felt little to no joy in so long, it was hard to recall precisely what the feeling was supposed to be. There was something a lot like vindication, but there had been no impulse to cry out or even just cry, as she’d thought she might. There had only been relief beyond words, like a weight lifted from her, and a sense of numbness that had yet to leave her. 

She certainly felt numb now, as she walked with Haarlep through hallways and staircases, up towards the grand hall; distantly, she noted that every fiend they came across had the same distant stare, disbelief and incredulity but with a hint of fear for what was to come next. 

How many of you mocked him?, Dalah found herself thinking, her gaze moving from one devil to the next while she followed Haarlep up, up to the top of the palace. How many of you jeered when he was powerless, and how many of you are wondering if he’ll be any more merciful than his sire? Many, most of you. I can tell you’re scared. As you should be. 

She did not voice such thoughts, and was quick to avert her gaze before any could catch her staring. In the guise of a pit fiend, Haarlep was saying something under their breath as they led her into the rather crowded grand hall, but she did not quite catch the words. It very much felt like part of her mind was encased in ice, and she gripped their arm without thinking once she saw them - the doors leading to what had been Mephistopheles’ throne room. 

No more. He is gone. Oh, he is really gone!

She did not see Israfel nor the white dragonborn, but his other mortal companions were standing before those doors. They were battered and bruised but alive; they looked at the gathered friends with expressions that made clear there was fight in them yet, should they try to approach. It was the first tangible sign that what Adonides had told them was true. 

That, and the whispers among wide-eyed devils. “Cannot be--”

“A halfbreed, and some mortals--”

“Surely Lord Asmodeus will see them punished--”

“Who’s to rule Cania?”

“Who but the one who won the throne?”

“Usurped, you mean. By what right would he rule?”

“By right of conquest, I’d expect. Of course, if Asmodeus decrees he is to rule--”

“A halfbreed could never, the Reigning Serpent will swat him like a fly--”

Dalah swallowed, and gripped Haarlep’s arm tighter. “He is gone,” she whispered, and the incubus nodded, and covered her hand with their own.

“Why the surprise? I’m rather sure Adonides wouldn't get that wro--”

“Make way for Lady Baalphegor, envoy of the Ninth!”

Speak, quite literally, of the devil. Adonides’ voice rang out from the hallway, and a hush fell on the crowd. Those standing at the back parted hurriedly to let the Steward through; he was followed by two massive pit fiends - and behind them was Lady Baalphegor.

Dalah had seen her clad in more robes than she could recall, many of which she’d embroidered herself; the vast majority had been black with hues of red. There was no red now, or any other color. Only the deepest black, from head to toe; the half-smile never too far away from her lips was gone, too, replaced by detached expression as she walked through two wings of fiends, head held high, long red hair cascading down her shoulders. She looked so very small, for someone whose authority had so nearly matched Mephistopheles’ own. Her gaze passed over her and Haarlep, pausing only one moment before she turned away.

I do hope his demise tastes sweet for at least one of us, she’d said. Dalah was not certain she tasted the sweetness of it quite yet. She hoped to, once the numbness was gone. She deserved to, surely, after so many centuries and what she’d been put through.

Lady Baalphegor clearly found nothing sweet in it, and likely never would. No longer Mephistopheles’ consort, the envoy of the Ninth was nonetheless clad in mourning clothes; it couldn’t go unnoticed by anyone present, yet no one made a sound to comment on it. They stared, transfixed, as she walked up to the center of the hall… and then turned as one as the doors leading to the throne room were pushed wide open. 

That was the first glance most of them got at the devastation inside, and there were a few audible gasps; Dalah could pay no mind to anything but her son, stepping out through those doors. The dragonborn with him came to a stop right outside the door, but Israfel took a few steps further before he stopped and sank on one knee, lowering his head, gaze to the floor. 

“Lady Baalphegor, envoy of the Ninth,” he greeted her. “The Lord of the Eighth is gone by my hand. I submit to the Lord Below’s judgment.”

The hall was silent enough one could hear a pin drop - and everyone certainly heard the sound of Justiciar Bele clearing his throat before he stepped forward. “Lady Baalphegor,” he spoke, his voice not quite as firm as he probably would have liked. “As the Justiciar of Cania-- well, as you know, I often discussed matters of Justice with Lord Mephistoph--”

This time, Lady Baalphegor smiled. It did not reach her eyes. “I am aware, Justiciar Bele. But the Lord Below does not require your counsel,” she replied, a coldness to her gaze before she looked back at Israfel, who still knelt on the floor, head bowed as though under the wright of his own great curved horns. She looked at him as though trying to find something beyond what the eye could see. And perhaps she did, for her tight smile seemed to soften a fraction.

“Rise, Raphael. Even in a palace this grand, the floor is no place for the Lord of Cania.”

In retrospect Dalah would find it almost funny, how he stood just as every member of the court present scrambled to kneel in turn; so did Haarlep not to stand out, pulling her down with them. Even as she knelt, Dalah dared look up - and, for the briefest instant, met her son’s gaze. She saw Mephistopheles in those features, just as much as she saw herself in Israfel’s human face. 

The same red skin he’d worn on the night he’d come to ensure she held her half of the bargain, the same slight bump on the bridge of his nose, the sunken look around his eyes… but the eyes, those were nothing like his sire’s. When he wore the form that most resembled Raphael’s, Mephistopheles had what looked like dead white eyes from a distance. Up close, there was something moving within them, like a swirling white mist that just barely hid every horror one’s mind could comprehend and many it couldn’t; she could only bear the sight for a moment, then, before she’d closed her eyes while trying with all her might to think of nothing. 

But her son’s eyes were nothing like it: they were molten gold against black sclera, midday suns in the night sky. They found hers, and held for a moment; his lips curled for a brief, faint smile before he turned back to Baalphegor, bowed, and swore his fealty to Asmodeus for all present to hear. Dalah heard the words, but she was not truly listening. 

She only looked on, and smiled.

***

The casket Baalphegor’s entourage brought all the way down to the vaults was red as the very earth of Nessus, and mostly plain but for the inscription on its lid, glowing a hot red one moment and a cold blue the next with brief moments of bright whiteness in-between. 

“Obviously this is only for transport and safekeeping, until both the mausoleum and the sarcophagus are ready,” Baalphegor spoke as the doors of the vault were opened before them, and the guards stood aside. “It shall not be long.”

“A mausoleum, entirely for my sire?”

“Yes. Close to the rawest flames from the pits of Nessus. The First Flames, we call them.”

“... It does seem fitting. And very generous.”

“Lord Asmodeus knows that Baator would not have been the same without your sire. He is seeking to ensure none who live in it may forget as much.”

Mephistopheles’ body lay on a table of ice, and attendants were just now stepping back, bowing as they saw them coming in. Raphael had never seen his sire sleep; he suspected he rarely ever did, as he had no need for it, and that in such occasions it would not be all that restful. There was always too much going through his mind, all at once, at a speed even he struggled to keep up with - projects and research started and abandoned, the torment of being forever a step ahead of other archdevils and yet two steps behind Asmodeus. Now that was over and he did, at last, look peaceful.

The blood was gone, no bruises marking his skin. Adonides had not lied when he’d said he would send for his finest robe; all dark blue silk, with flames embroidered in threads of gold, silver and and burgundy up the sleeves and over the chest. There were bands of gold around his horns, one of which held the broken horn in place, and a golden medallion at his neck; they had put golden earrings at his lobes, a ruby headband on his brow and sapphires at his fingers, which were wrapped around the handle of his ranseur.

Raphael stopped a few paces away, and found he could not make himself come closer; Baalphegor, however, did not hesitate. She stepped up to the table, and gestured for the pit fiends accompanying her to come closer.

She watched them put the casket on a nearby stand, and only looked away when they went about to put the body in. Raphael did the same, and both their gazes fell on the other corpse in the room, laying on his back with the mace across his chest.

“... I should have expected Duke Hutijin to fall with him. He’d have died fighting Asmodeus himself before he denied him. The only Duke of Cania with power, troops and sway enough to challenge my--” a pause, a sigh. “To challenge Mephisto for the throne, and yet he’d rather guard him with his life.”

“One could argue it would only be fitting for him to continue guarding him in death. Surely the mausoleum will have enough space for both,” Raphael replied, and Lady Baalphegor nodded. 

“And I for one would agree. I shall speak to the Lord Below of it. I’m rather certain an entourage will return soon with another casket.”

“Hopefully I’ll be able to give them a better welcome than what I could give you now.”

A faint smile. “You cannot do worse, I suppose,” she replied, and turned back. The body was gone from sight, inside the casket, and one of the pit fiends was picking up the lid. She stepped forward. “Do not close it yet. Leave us for a few minutes.”

A few silent nods, and they obeyed. Raphael watched in silence as his sire’s former consort walked up to the casket, slowly, and looked inside. Her expression did not change, and Raphael knew he was expected to approach too. A deep breath, and he too stepped closer. 

“I have given you reason to grieve. I know that much. I do wish--” Raphael began, only to trail off when Baalphegor shook her head. A hand reached inside the coffin, to tuck back a strand of long black hair which had become entangled in one of the horns. It lingered for a moment next to Mephistopheles’ face before she retreated it, slowly, and rested it on the edge of the casket. 

“What you may have wished is meaningless, Lord of the Eighth.” She spoke without taking her gaze off the body of what had been her consort long before Raphael even drew his first breath. She looked calm; the only sign of any turmoil was the grip of her hand tightening on the edge of the casket. “This tale could only end with his death, or yours.”

It is the outcome you needed. I am not certain it is the one you wanted, Raphael thought, but did not say as much. He already knew what she would say - that her wants were irrelevant as his own. “I am aware,” was all he said in the end, and she nodded.

“I would have chosen a different death for him. So would Lord Asmodeus, I believe, but this is how it had to be. So make no apologies and rule. You had every right to end his life, but the Lord Below shall grant you none whatsoever to insult his memory. Be the archdevil I know you can be, and none shall dare mock Mephistopheles for falling under your blows.”

Raphael nodded, and bowed. “I’ll strive to make it so, Lady Baalphegor.”

She nodded back, and took a step away from Mephistopheles’ remains. A gesture from her and the lid was lifted in the air; Raphael got one last glimpse of long bejeweled fingers before the lid came down to close the casket with a staggering sense of finality - and that was that.

Outside of Nessus, that was the last anyone would ever see of Mephistopheles.

***

“All this looks valuable, is what I’m saying…”

“Astarion. No.”

“Oh, come on, love. Last time you were here, you raided the vaults.”

“And I think it should be clear by now what a spectacularly bad call that was.”

A sigh, dramatic as they come, as they looked around what had once been the quarters where Mephistopheles must have hosted his most esteemed guests. There was hardly a surface or wall that did not hold some kind of work of art or valuable artifact. 

“Ah well. Raphael agreed to let each of us pick something to take from the vaults, so there’s that at least,” Astarion muttered, leaning back against Durge’s chest. They chuckled, resting their chin on top of his head as they sat with their back against Halsin, who was taking a well-earned rest in his bear form. Some distance away, Wyll and Karlach were asleep on the same bed, limbs tangled and snoring slightly. The two of them were the only ones still awake. 

“I believe I took enough from those vaults as is,” Durge muttered, and felt Astarion’s chuckle more than they heard it. 

“What I’m hearing is that I can pick two things, then.”

“I suppose so.” Durge glanced over towards Wyll and Karlach again. “I do hope Raphael can take Wyll’s soul back for him. My greatest regret is that we could not free him his contract.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will. Mizora may be the new Steward of Avernus, but Raphael is on great terms with her archduke. And when the Lord of the Eighth who just so happens to get on well with your archduke says he wants your warlock, then I’m pretty sure the Lord of the Eighth is getting your warlock. Call it intuition. Or bloody common sense.”

“However good their relationship is, Bel remains a devil and Wyll’s soul is valuable. A powerful warlock with a celestial blessing to boot. There would be a hefty price to pay.”

“A price the Lord of Cania can afford, I’m sure. And he rather does owe us.”

“Fair enough.”

A brief silence, peaceful, before Astarion spoke again. “... He offered to let me decide what happens to Cazador’s soul, you know.”

Ah. Durge had not been aware of that. “Right. It’s here, isn’t it?”

“Being experimented on at the School of Hellfire - Mephisto was very displeased with his failure to deliver him seven thousand souls. Well, the School itself has ceased operation for now, to quite literally stop adding fuel to the fire while they work out a way to strengthen the foundations of the Cania, whatever that means. But he said I can buy it for a pittance. As a servant, as a soul coin - or just tell him to make a lemure out of him.”

“I see. And you’re pondering that?”

A snort. “Gods, no.” He turned in their arms to lean his head against their shoulder. “I’ll admit it is tempting. To even just go there and parade myself in front of him, but then I’d be thinking of that all the time, and maybe wishing to do it again, and-- I’d be thinking of him again, and I’ve spent much too long doing that. The Hells have him, quite literally, and can do what they will with him. I am free and he is not. It’s all that I need.”

Durge smiled, and nuzzled his hair. “I’m proud of you.”

“You sap. But I’m not above telling Raphael to let him know I’m out there living my best life. I’ll do that, when he’s done running around his new palace and deigns to join us for a meal.”

“I imagine this is the busiest he’s ever been. But it seems like a fair request to me.”

“It is, isn’t it? Speaking of meals and fair requests, I won’t deny I am somewhat thirsty…”

Durge grinned, and tilted back their head to expose their throat. “Be my guest,” they said, and held back a low groan when they felt Astarion’s fangs sink in their neck. A hand reached up to cup the side of their head as he drank, and they covered it with their own, smiling. 

As long as blood could flow from a wound, they were alive and it was all that mattered.

***

For all the regalia Mephistopheles would take to his grave, there was far more that had been left behind in his quarters. Raphael supposed he would be expected to wear some of it for his visit to Nessus, when the time came to be officially recognized as the Lord of the Eighth. 

The thought filled him with nearly as much dread as the idea of sleeping in the bed that had been his sire’s. He already knew what most archdevils, bar Bel and perhaps Baalzebul or Glasya, would see - a halfbreed pretending to be a proper devil by wearing his sire’s jewels. 

This is not how I’ll convince any of them I belong on the throne I tore from him. They will test me. I must prove them wrong at every turn. 

Still, the regalia was there to act as a statement and he would not dismiss that either. So he reached for one of the medallions, and put it at his neck. It did not fit him: made for the frame of someone much taller, it hung nearly at his navel. The sight made him feel somewhat ill and he took it off, placing it back on the table next to a comb of silver and ivory. Then he slipped on one of the golden bands around his right horn and it fit perfectly, as though it was made for him. It made him feel worse.

“Oh, you should go naked. You look great naked, if I do say so myself.”

Haarlep’s voice was all that kept Raphael from destroying the vanity right there and then. Through the mirror he saw them standing in the doorway, wearing his own likeness. Raphael breathed out, and let the gold bands still in his hand drop back before he turned. 

“Haarlep. Adonides told me he had you brought to a safe--”

“Rather cold, isn’t it? After all this, you wouldn't come see me. Not that I was expecting you to do that first thing, mind you, but maybe third or fourth…”

Raphael cleared his throat. “I would have, soon. But with all eyes on me as of now, I could take no such risks.”

“What risks would coming to see us pose for y--”

“Not for me, but for you. I have been Lord of Cania for only a matter of hours. I have just now seen off the envoy of the Ninth, Mephistar has hardly any of its guard left, portions of the citadels need rebuilding and I had the School of Hellfire cease operations effective immediate. If the court saw me coming to check on you first thing, they’d have known that you’re--” he paused, cleared his throat. “Should anyone think of you or my mother as a weakness of mine, you may very well become targets.”

Haarlep raised both eyebrows, and pushed away from the door to walk up to him. There was a shimmer and they left behind Raphael’s glamor for their own true form. “A weakness, mh? Is that what you call it?”

“That is not-- you know precisely what I mean.”

“Ah, what happened to all your eloquence just now?” Haarlep grinned and reached to cup his cheek, running a light thumb over a bruise still gracing his cheekbone. “I’m not all that helpless, you know. I can handle court intrigue pretty well. I held up against Barbas in a fight too, although admittedly your mother did help. Her, and several crates of potat--”

The riveting tale was quite abruptly interrupted when Raphael reached out to grab them and pulled them close, tight. Haarlep let out a surprised noise, a cheek pressed against Raphael’s shoulder and wings fluttering haphazardly in confusion for a moment before stilling as Raphael sighed, some tension finally leaving his frame. 

“... When I heard you were being taken to my father, coming in before that could happen was the only thing on my mind.”

“Ah, yes. There is that, I suppose.” Haarlep chuckled, and turned to press their face against Raphael’s neck. “Archduke,” they murmured. “And yet mine still, aren’t you?”

A long breath, a nod. “Yes,” he replied before pulling back just enough to reach into a pocket, and pull out a very familiar ring - the golden band, the light blue stones. He cleared his throat. “I did keep it safe. Of course, there are far more impressive pieces I could offer now,” he began, glancing at the discarded regalia, but Haarlep would have absolutely none of it. 

“I like this one. It suits me,” they cut him off, and held up a hand. From the way they held it, it seemed they had learned enough of mortal customs to know they should not let Raphael get away with pressing the ring against their palm… and he did not try to. 

With a laugh - the first sincere one, he felt, since he vanquished his sire - Raphael did slip the ring at their finger. A proper kiss and some mindless pleasure besides would have not been unwelcome, but Haarlep had enough sense to tell that was not the right moment to cloud Raphael’s mind with lust, wonderful as they claimed the look was on him. So they only kissed the corner of this mouth before pulling back with a grin.

“Well, I’ll go have a look at my new quarters, I suppose. And you… ” They tapped his forehead with a finger. “Go see your mother. Unless you’re too busy already, Lord of Cania . ”

“... I only have one meeting to attend before I see her,” Raphael said, and smiled, knowing full well it did not reach his eyes. “I’d say it’s been a long time coming.”

***

With the throne room in the state it was in - hopefully, Tunchet and his wizards would set about to fix it once the dispatch summoning them reached Nebulat - the first meeting of the new Lord of the Eighth with the members of the high court took place in the rather less grand setting of a meeting chamber.

Well. At least it would have been a meeting with the high court, if not for the fact Adonides had been told to arrive at a later time… and for chamberlain Barbas’ unfortunate passing. 

But Bele, Justiciar of Cania, was unaware of both things. For now. 

“Ah, my lord. It seems I have arrived early.”

Raphael glanced up from the scroll he’d been reading to see Bele in the doorway, bowing so low it was a wonder his nose did not touch the floor. He smiled, and put the scroll down. 

“Not at all, justiciar. It is the others who are late. At least you take punctuality at heart, even with a meeting at such short notice. I thank you for taking part. I realize these past few hours have been-- quite something.”

Bele looked up, and smiled. His smile was not quite as oily as Barbas’ or as sharp as Adonides’, but it could be unsettling all the same, never reaching those hollow black eyes of his. Of course he could also fake meekness, or gentleness; he had done exactly that, when Raphael had only just arrived at court… and he was doing it now. Meek. A gutless coward not entirely certain of his standing, but yet hopeful to maintain it.

Hope burns you in the end. Not always, I learned as much. But when it does, it burns deep. 

“I live to serve this layer, my lord, and its ruler,” Bele was saying, bowing his head before he took a few steps towards the table, to the closest seat. “I do hope both the steward and the chamberlain will be ready to do the same.”

Raphael smiled. “That you do, Justiciar. But then again, you probably had more time than they did to prepare for this day.”

Bele looked up, taken aback. “I did?”

“Oh, no need to be modest. I know that you saw this coming a long time ago. After all…” He lifted a hand, casually. A wall of ice rose up from the ground to cover the door, causing Justiciar Bele to turn in alarm and then back at him, eyes wide with dawning horror. Raphael’s smile widened, all teeth. “... You did call me your Iittle prince, did you not?”

Bele stood abruptly, knocking the delicately carved chair to the ground. “Archduke, I--!”

“I know that you were in the habit of discussing matters of justice with my late sire. I shall not break tradition. I am keen to discuss my own take on justice with you, too. In great detail.”

Then down came the claw and Justiciar Bele screamed for a long, long time.

Until he didn’t.

***

“You know what? I think this is art, my friend.”

“Thank you kindly. It’s satisfying enough for a first, but I’ll strive to do better next time.”

“How many times do you intend to do that, precisely?”

“I suppose it entirely depends on how many members of this court intend to deserve it. But perhaps setting an example will deter at least a few.”

“What the-- what are you doing in the meeting roo-- is that-- Raphael, what have you-- ”

“Archduke Raphael, if you please,” Astarion piped in, just as Karlach guffawed.

“My lord will do just as well, won’t it? Not that I’m calling him that.”

The remark caused Raphael to chuckle. “You did more than earn first name privileges, I suppose. Are you well, Adonides?”

The Steward of Cania did not respond right away; he seemed too busy staring at what remained of Justiciar Bele. His features were still perfectly recognizable, if frozen in an expression of pure agony and terror, head thrown back and mouth open in a scream, arms held up before him as though trying and failing to shield himself. 

And he was quite literally frozen into a statue of ice: Durge had to once again commend Raphael’s skill with the Plume. From his eye sockets and open mouth came white, dancing flames which burned so hot they could feel it from the entrance. Eternally burning hellfire, searing against the eternally frozen flesh of a fiend that could not be burned but felt the agony nonetheless, unable to scream… or make any noise ever again.

Adonides, on the other hand, sputtered. “Why would you--”

“Quite the personal matter and not one I am keen to divulge, I am afraid. But rest assured, you have not committed a grave enough crime to warrant this.” Raphael turned to Adonides. “Incidentally, it seems another spot in the high court has opened up. Do tell, is your current position satisfying, or would you rather try your hand as Cania’s Justiciar?”

Adonides’ eyebrows went up; it did not escape Durge how quickly he’d stopped paying any attention whatsoever to Justiciar Bele’s unenviable fate. “Quite frankly, my lord, I was expecting to be removed from the high court entirely.”

Raphael shrugged. His eyes were still fixed on Bele’s frozen features, as though he could not get enough of the sight, of the silent agony of it. “You’re perfectly on time to resign, of course. That is entirely up to you, but I suggest you make up your mind before I meet with Tunchet. I’ll need to know what position to offer him.”

At that, Adonides’ frown faded entirely. “A Gelugon in your high court does send a message.”

“And it’s precisely the one I intend to send.”

“I’m certain he’ll be pleased.”

“Only until I order him to work with Quagrem to find viable solutions to the spread of Hellfire beneath our feet.”

Adonides guffawed. “Work with Quagrem! They’ll be at one another’s throat before the first day is out.”

“It does sound an awful lot like our future cooperation is shaping up to be.”

A grimace. “... I do hate to admit you are correct. My lord,” he added, just a touch belatedly. “Mephistar will need--”

“A new name, certainly. But I’ll get to that.”

“... Yes, of course. But it will need a new chamberlain as well. Most pressing of all, Cania needs a new High General. May I suggest Duke Bifrons, at least ad interim?”

“He does seem the most viable choice. Do let him know. He has command of the troops, or what remains of them, at least until we have the time to sit and go over all options. He should keep an eye on the border with the Seventh. Baalzebul may have helped me to spite Mephisto, but he has been salivating over the Eighth for too long a time to be trusted.”

“Of course, my lord.” The words seemed to come a little easier to Adonides’ lips; as for the sour taste they obviously left in his mouth, Durge supposed he’d have to get used to it. Perhaps it would dull, over time. “While not as pressing, for the role of High Cant--”

“No,” Raphael cut him off, his voice suddenly sharp enough to cut. It was the voice of someone who’s just been hit on a still sore wound, and needed all his self-control not to lash out in turn. When he looked back at Adonides, his eyes were cold. “None of that.”

“There is power to words; you know it better than most. As a new Archduke, it would help--”

“I’m capable of composing my own hymns. This court shall never have a High Cantor again.”

Adonides seemed startled, but did not discuss further. Durge held back the instinct to walk up to Raphael, pull him into an embrace again. Such things, they supposed, were best left without witnesses - so that other fiends would not be drawn to a perceived weakness like sharks to blood in the water.

“... Very well. I’ll make that known.” A pause. “I have also been informed that the incubus is settling into the Consort’s chambers. Said they’re theirs now. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes. Make of that what you will.”

“I see.” As Adonides cleared his throat, Raphael turned back to what remained of Bele. 

“Do you happen to know what room Haarlep occupied, when they sold evenings in my form?”

The question caused Adonides to clear his throat. Again. A little more noisily. “Just so you’re aware, I was most certainly not among those who--”

“I am aware, Haarlep told me as much. And they also told me that unlike you, Bele was there quite often. You do know which chamber that was, don’t you?” he asked, and let out a hum when Adonides nodded. He gestured to Bele. “Take this there. Leave it in the middle of the room, if you please. And leave the doors wide open. Better yet, have them taken off their hinges. Everyone who passes by must be able to take a very good look.”

This time, Adonides’ smile did not resemble a grimace at all. “I’ll ensure that my personal guards get that done.”

“Very well. As for yourself, I do need you to take my companions down to the vaults one last time. They may each pick something for themselves, as a reward.”

“Ah. Are you cert--”

“Within reason,” Raphael added, and Durge laughed. 

“No artifact granting the power of a god shall be taken, this time. You’re not the only one who’s had enough harsh lessons to last several lifetimes.”

Raphael smiled. “Very well. I’ll leave you to it, then, and don’t you think I have forgotten I do owe you a supper. I have another important matter to tend to now, but I’ll join you this evening before you return to your own Plane.”

“We look forward to it,” Durge said, and the Lord of the Eighth smiled again, faintly, before he took his leave. Halsin was the first one to speak after he left, heaving a long sigh. 

“I do not like the thought of leaving him on his own here, but I must confess I long to go home. I don’t think I could last one more night in the Hells.”

“You shouldn’t worry about him. He is very much in his element, whether or not he’s aware of it yet,” Durge said, and grinned. “The devil we knew would have been a terrible archdevil supreme. But I think the devil we know now will be an excellent archduke.”

“Whatever excellent means in the Hells.” Karlach sighed. “Can’t believe I’ll miss the fucker.”

“Ah, not to worry. I doubt there is any place in the Material Plane where he won’t find you, should he wish to make contact,” Adonides informed her before gesturing for them to follow. 

Wyll made a face. “Thanks for making that sound so damn ominous,” he muttered, but did not seem to mind. 

None of them did.

***

It took a very long time for Dalah to make herself let go.

Before the desperate embrace in the vaults, she hadn’t held anyone - or been held by anyone - for nearly two millennia. She’d forgotten how it even felt like; she’d forgotten the warmth of it, the safety, the wholeness. Back in the vaults, only the knowledge that time was short could compel her to pull away from her son. 

But now that Mephistopheles was gone - truly gone, dead, his corpse deeper yet in the Hells, his shadow never to haunt her again - there was no reason for her to break the embrace. So she held on and cried and cried and cried, all the tears she had not spilled those long centuries, all the sorrow she’d had to silence. 

My child, she wanted to say, but she had no voice to. Mephistopheles’ own voice rang in the back of her mind, even now.

This too I claim as mine. 

No. No. You couldn’t have him. He’s here with me, we’re free of you and you are gone.

“Mother,” Israfel called out after a time. The word sounded clumsy in his mouth, as though he was speaking a foreign language. The hand on her back, too, seemed uncertain. 

Dalah hiccuped a sob and finally looked up. “He’s really gone,” she rasped, cupping his face.

Israfel nodded. He did not smile, but he did lean into the touch. “Yes,” he murmured. “He is gone. And we’re still here.”

Another sniffle, and she managed a smile for both of them. “Do I belong to you now?”

“... Your soul is bound to eternal servitude to the Lord of Cania. Regardless--”

“So, yes.”

“You’re not to serve anyone ever again. At least one part of me would have died in the vaults if not for you.” A pause, a faint smile, and he stepped back. A burst of flames and there he stood in his human form - the one she’d see when she helped cheat death, the one she could not bring herself to even talk to when they met again before the vaults. “Not your favorite part of me, I suspe--”

This time, she did not let him finish. She stepped forward and pulled him into another tight embrace, a hand running through his hair before resting on the nape of his head.

“Oh, hush. You should have never been split in the first place. I was just--” Overwhelmed. Ashamed. There you stood, with my own face, and I couldn’t bring myself to reach out. “I’m sorry. It shouldn't have taken all this for me to embrace you.” She pulled back, now not much shorter than him at all, and cupped both sides of his face. “I should have done so from the moment you breathed your first. We had but that one moment, and I squandered it.”

Israfel stared for a moment before he averted his gaze. “You have no reason to apologize. You were tricked into bearing me, and you were dying for it. I was hardly born out of lov--”

“But you were,” she blurted, causing him to blink and look at her, clearly taken by surprise. She grasped both his hands in hers and held right. “You were. I was tricked into it, that much is true. But the entire reason why you exist is that I loved someone beyond all reason. Rahirek knew it - he must have, if he raised you.”

Again, he smiled faintly. “Lord Starspire took some time to warm up to me, but he was nothing if not fair. He’d taken me well and truly under his wing by the time Duke Barbas came to collect me.”

That was easy to imagine: for all his gruff exterior, Rahirek had always been kind. “It does sound like him,” she murmured, and tried to ignore the stab of pain in her chest as she said so. Almost two millennia later, after so long trying to keep memories of him out of her mind to just survive, she found she missed him still. She cleared her throat, and squeezed Israfel’s hands. “You should tell me all about your time in the Material--”

“He grieved you to his last day. When he passed, he was buried next to you.”

It was a bittersweet feeling, that: knowing she had been loved so deeply, and that her passing had caused such pain. Dalah drew in a shaky breath. “I do hope he has peace now,” she choked, and Israfel squeezed her hands.

Had she looked up, she might have noticed him opening his mouth for a moment, as though to speak, and then hesitate. But she did not look up until he spoke again, and saw none of it.

“... He grieved you too much to tell me a lot about you,” was all he said  in the end. “He never had a chance to rectify that. I was hoping you might.”

“Heh. My life would make for a dull tale indeed.”

“Please.” 

A request. And such a subdued one, from a being who had power of life or death over her and indeed over near everyone in that layer - but who, right there and then, chose to only be her son. How could she refuse?

So Dalah sat on the small settee nearby, still holding Israfel’s hands so that he’d sit with her, and began to talk of a life she’d pushed so far at the back of her mind, she was amazed she still held any memory of it.

And he listened, hanging onto every word, for a very long time.

***

“Well, this was quick. Tunchet’s wizards are skilled indeed.”

“Yeah, you’d never think we battled it out with Mephistopheles here just, what, yesterday?”

“Just over one day as Lord of the Eighth, and I think I can already see gray in his hair…”

“You are aware that I can hear you, aren’t you?”

“Oh good, so your hearing isn’t going yet. That’s encouraging.”

Durge chuckled at the bantering, but truth be told they were barely listening. They let their gaze wander across the restored throne room - the grand window of glass-clear ice, showing the slowly descending snow outside; the restored flooring and ceiling; the two columns where the pits had been, at either side of the throne.

They were two mighty columns of Plume ice, and within each were in turn columns of hellfire, from ground to ceiling. The throne, too, had been changed - all Plume ice, impossible to melt, encasing hellfire. Ever-burning, never going out, but contained under the ruler’s utter and complete control. As far as messages went, that was a very clear one.

But the one change that truly made Durge pause was above the throne. Mephistopheles’ sigil, the ranseur running through a halo of flames, was no more. Another had taken its place, and it looked familiar. Durge had seen it already, on the box which had contained items from Raphael’s life in the Material Plane and on the locket with his mother’s portrait on it. 

A spire rising up to the skies, to pierce a star. 

“Starspire,” they said, and smiled. “Is that how you plan to rename the citadel?”

A shake of Raphael’s head. “Not quite. It’s how I intend to name the palace.”

“Ah, I see. And the citadel?”

Raphael smiled. “My sire chose my name, when I was taken to the Hells. I made it my own; I do not intend to go back on that now. But Israfel has a nice ring to it, does it not? It seemed a shame that only my mother would ever use it.”

“I’m certain she’ll be pleased.”

“I imagine she will be. But as we’re on the subject of names, if you changed your mind abo--”

“Aww!”

“Mama’s boy!”

“Mommy’s little archduke!”

“Are you quite done--”

“With you? Never.”

Raphael seemed about to protest when Haarlep’s voice rang out from the entrance. They walked up to them with a spring in their step. 

“Ah, here you are! Easy to find. All I had to do was follow the sound of mockery. Surely you didn’t think of leaving without letting me say goodbye to my favorite mortals, did you?”

Halsin laughed. “Of course not.”

“Oh no, we do like you.”

“Probably better than Raphael.”

“I actually have a gift for you,” Astarion announced, and took one of the hand crossbows off his belt. “Picked a new one from the vaults, anyway.” He’d hoped to find something that may let him walk in the sun, truth be told, but there was no such thing in the vaults; he’d shrugged it off muttering it was worth a try, but Durge knew he’d felt the string of it. “This one is called Ne'er Misser - I pilfered it from a Zhentarim. Might be of some use to a novice like you.”

Haarlep took the crossbow, looked it over, and grinned. “Oooh, is that a challenge I hear?”

Astarion scoffed, waving a hand. “Please, don’t embarrass yourself. You could maybe pose a challenge if you keep practicing for another century or two.”

“Give me a decade.”

“Hah! Deal.”

Karlach chuckled, and glanced over at Raphael. “So, when is it that you have the meeting with all the bigwigs?”

“I am not certain it is proper to refer to the archdevils of the Nine as such, but-- tomorrow. Asmodeus seems keen to settle the matter quickly from an official standpoint.”

“You sure you don’t need us to stay, or…?”

Raphael shook his head. “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I believe I’ll manage. If not, I’m not cut out to be archduke of anything and I’m better off hiding away in the Material Plane.”

“Heh. Perhaps you could join us, and find out if you’re a better fit for the adventurer’s life,” Durge chuckled, but their voice was serious when they spoke again. “Should you need anything, though, don’t hesitate to--”

“Approach you ominously by a broken bridge in the wilderness? Of course.”

“I mean, we’d also appreciate something less ominous.”

“Like showing up at a tavern and paying for all our drinks.”

“Or just a message through a sending spell will do, really.”

A quirk of his lips. “I’ll consider it.”

“Also - remember what you promised about Hope and Korrilla’s soul, all right?” Karlach spoke quickly. “And, uh-- Wyll’s.”

“I’ll keep my word, on all accounts. The matter of Rave-- Wyll’s soul will need some negotiating, but given some time I am certain I’ll be able to come to an agreement with Bel.”

“What of Mizora?”

“Bel’s word is her command. She will be entitled to compensation once I have convinced the Lord of the First to relinquish your contract to me, but it’s nothing I cannot settle.”

Wyll nodded, breathing out as though a weight had been taken off his shoulders. “... Right. I-- well. Thank you.”

“I’ll take your thanks when I return the contract to you. Now, on the subject of returns - where on the Material Plane do you wish me to send you?”

“What, you can send us back just like that?”

“I did so before. I fail to see how that’s surprising.”

“Right.” Wyll turned to Halsin. “Well, how about Reithwin Town, then? I wouldn’t mind a few days’ walk to reach the Gate, and Halsin has been away from his nine wagons of kids much too long already.”

A smile, brighter than any other Halsin had been able to give in the past months. “I’d be more grateful than words can say.”

“It’s settled, the--”

“Wait,” Durge spoke up, searching through the bag of holding. They found what they were looking for quickly, cold as it was against their fingers, and pulled it out. “Here. I bet all archdevils will be carrying something, and so should you. It’s no Ruby Rod, but it seems a fitting pick for the Archduke of Cania, no?”

The Mourning Frost gleamed, the air around its freezing cold crystal crackling icy cold. Raphael stared at it for a moment before he chuckled. “You did owe me a new staff,” he muttered, and took it. He stared at the crystal for a moment before he nodded and tapped the staff on the floor, clearing his throat and lifting his chin. “Thank you, mortals. For this gift, and for the services you rendered to the Lord of Cania--”

“Oh, fuck off. Group hug!”

“Absolutely not--!”

None of them listened and frankly, if Raphael had truly been opposed to becoming the centerpiece of a mass of intertwined arms he’d have put a lot more effort into getting out of it. If any of the others thought anything of the fact Durge was the last one to let go, they said nothing of it. “You are absolutely insufferable,” Raphael grumbled, only for Durge to grin. 

“We’ll be waiting to hear from you. And, well. Of you, Lord of the Eighth.”

Raphael’s lips quirked. “Likewise, saviors of the Sword Coast. I look forward to hearing more tales of heroics when we next meet,” he said, and tapped Mourning Frost on the floor, once. 

Everything - the restored throne room, Haarlep, Raphael himself - disappeared in a flash of blinding light. When they opened their eyes again they were standing in the middle of a forest clearing, the sun having just dripped beyond the horizon, the distant sound of laughing children drifting to their ears carried by a warm breeze.

***

There were seven letters awaiting Raphael when he made his way into what had been his father’s chambers, and which he now would have to make his own.

The proclamation in Nessus would take place the next day, but word had already spread and archdevils from Avernus to Maladomini had sent word. The tone varied; it went from cold acknowledgement from the Second - penned not by Dispater himself but rather by his nuncio Titivilus - to the rather enthusiastic congratulations from Lord Bel. 

Mammon’s congratulations bordered on groveling, as dignified as a doormat; Lady Fierna had written both on her own behalf and on Belial’s, each word full of barely contained curiosity; one of Levistus’ avatars had penned a polite note of acknowledgement, and Baalzebul’s own letter oozed so much satisfaction he could barely stomach it. 

But what truly gave him pause was the letter from Lady Glasya. Ruler of Malbolge, daughter of Asmodeus, Princess of the Hells… and something of a goddaughter to his own sire, although Raphael was not privy to how that had come to be. 

He only knew that she would address Mephistopheles as her dearest uncle more often than not; it may have annoyed him, but he’d never done a thing to make her stop - most likely because there was nothing he could do, he supposed.

The envelope was different from all the others. Most of them were addressed to the Lord of Cania, or the Lord of the Eighth; Glasya’s was not. Little Cousin, was all the envelope read. Raphael stared at the words for a moment before he scoffed and broke the seal on the envelope. The note was short, penned in a delicate hand, and smelled distinctly like flowers. 

Congratulations will be in order tomorrow. For now, do accept my condolences.

Raphael stared at the words for a long time before he put the letter down, slowly, and turned to leave the chambers. He’d sleep there, eventually; he’d make it all his own. But not yet, he thought. 

Not just yet.

***

Haarlep was not at all surprised when Raphael came to their bed.

He’d always sought their comfort after a long day, and that had perhaps been his longest day yet. That, and they suspected it would take a long time before Raphael would spend a night in what had been his sire’s chambers. Clearly, joining Haarlep in the Consort’s chambers was the less loaded option. 

Fair enough, that; they didn’t mind at all. Nor did they mind when Raphael made the rather unusual request for them to fuck him slowly, make it soft, and draw it out. 

He’d rarely been one for gentle lovemaking, but from time to time the need to be pampered during sex as well as after it had to win out, they supposed. That worked just fine for them, really. They took their time, took their pleasure, and gave Raphael exactly what he asked: slow deep thrusts, reverent touches and languorous kisses. 

They watched him groan in bliss, throwing his head back against the pillow, groaning for them to keep going long after his orgasm.

“My archduke,” they whispered, rolling their hips, their long red hair falling around him like a curtain. The request to take him while wearing their own true form, too, had not been unwelcome. They leaned in to kiss him again, swallowing his next moan, hands roaming across his body. “My beautiful brat. Mine, mine, mine - aren’t you? You may rule the Eighth, but you’re all mine. ”

Raphael groaned deep in his throat and opened his eyes to look up at them, gaze unfocused, lips parted. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”

“Go on, tell me what you want.” They stilled within him, and laced their fingers with Raphael's, keeping his hands pinned above his head. They kissed his brow, the bridge of his nose, trailed their lips across his jaw. His skin was slick with sweat, eyes glazed over with desire, hair tousled. He was perfect. “Tell your Haarlep what you want.”

A long, shaky breath, and he wet his lips before he spoke. “Would you tell me your name?”

That caused Haarlep to blink, admittedly a little startled. “My name? You gave me--”

“The one you had before.”

It was a loaded question, that; an incubus’ first name was usually an even more private matter than their true form, and one thing no contract could oblige them to reveal. And there was no contract whatsoever between them now; Haarlep could deny him an answer, if so they wished… but they found they didn’t. 

He was theirs, after all… and they were his.

“It is mine, Raphael, in every sense of the word. One thing I claim as mine alone; none but me and Lady Baalphegor know it, and even she only ever spoke it once. You may not speak it either, even when we’re alone. But I will whisper it to you now. Once and never again.” A thrust, slow, making sure he felt the drag of their cock pulling out before they pushed back inside. Raphael groaned; they could feel he was once again hard against their skin. “Our little secret, hmm?”

A shiver, a moan. “Yes,” Raphael panted, chest rising and falling with each breath. It made Haarlep smile before they leaned in to nibble at Raphael’s earlobe and whisper their name in the shell of his ear, following it up with a roll of their hips, another deep kiss on that pliant, sweet mouth.

They were true to their word: they whispered it that one time, and never again. Raphael was true to his, and never spoke it. 

But now he knew it and that, too, they didn’t mind at all. 

***

[Back to Chapter 39]

[Back to Start

[honeyandmahogany]

Mephistopheles cock

I completely agree with this statement, that's exactly what I need right now.

Forgotten Realms wiki has me in an absolute chokehold, I had no clue I had a thing for hot archdevil's until reading more about them.

Asmodeus as a highly honorable mention, my two beloved boys! ❤️‍🔥

[lawful-evil-novelist]

10/10 to the FR wiki for suggesting that the second he was not constantly watching her, asmodeus' daughter remarried the ex he told her to stay away from.

[yeehawpim]

Thinking about gods since watching Critical Role: Downfall

[junorsky]

Commission for @talenthiel!

[gravitycosplays-solarflareart]

“Orym, I pai-“

After drawing The Kiss, I absolutely had to draw Braius. I love Sam’s peak comedy and timing 😂

Update: prints are now available and part of the sale on my website

[oolong---latte]

mephistopheles and asmodeus.

[shellem15]

The Case of Baalphegor

So, in DnD lore, there's this one character who gives me a lot of brainrot: Baalphegor, the she-devil consort to the Archdevil Mephistopheles. (For my bg3 girlies, this would be Raphael's stepmother!) As you can imagine, she isn't really talked about much, but what we do know about her is super cool!

(Note: Though I don't subscribe to their theories, @inaconstantstateofchange has a pretty good compilation of some of the lore and sources I'm using here.)

Baalphegor is an archdevil who's been around since the beginning of Hell (Baator), described as a skilled diplomat, tactician, and unmatched sorceress, as well as an inventor who's created a ton of artifacts and techniques used in the Hells. She's well-respected, and has many allies among Hell's upper echelon (Pit Fiends in particular).

So already, she's got a lot going for her (we love evil women in STEM). But here's where things get interesting:

Baalphegor is, apparently, extremely respected and valued by Asmodeus himself. So much so that he lets her live with Mephisto, and is one of the major reasons why Asmo tolerates him and his constant scheming. Now this is crazy, considering Asmo and his Big Fuckin Massive Ego™ and general lack of respect for anyone he considers "lesser", which is everyone.

Baalphegor toes the line between the two archdevils, keeping her goals "to herself" and being minimally loyal to Mephisto, while also maybe vying for a spot at being Asmo's new consort (or at least getting closer to him). Mephisto tolerates this because of the protection she gives him, but I imagine that he's not too happy about it. (Also she's gone missing? Which isn't really relevant to this post but is still something to note).

All of these details combined suggests to me that she has way more sway over how things are run in Cania (the 8th Hell) than we're told, perhaps even more so than Mephisto! The devil behind the throne, whispering into her arrogant consort's ear. I think this is neat, and makes Mephisto even more of a girlfailure, which is funny as hell (pun intended).

Small sidenote: in the lore of Hell, there's these guys called the Ancient Baatorians, the original rulers/inhabitants of Baator (Hell). These guys were pretty much all murked by Asmo and his devils when they conquered Hell, but some remnants of them survived: In the Dogai (assassin devils), who were transformed into devils; in the nupperibos, which are their larval stage; in more grown ancient baatorians called life stealers (an invisible monster which eats light and your life-force). These more mature forms are only really found in the cave systems beneath Malbolge and Maladomini (the 6th and 7th hells), places which even devils don't enter. There are also some of these guys trapped in the ice of Cania, as well. (Lore about them is compiled in Power Score RPG's Blog here.)

Why did I bring up the Ancient Baatorians, you may be asking? Well, some people on the internet really think that Baalphegor is an Ancient Baatorian. The original ruler of Cania, even. Now, I've looked and there seems to be no lore basis for this at all, but its fucking awesome so I've decided to include it here.

Additional Sidenote: So Asmodeus (and the Hells, by extension) has a lot of origins stories, all of which are iffy at best. One of the origin stories is that he's secretly a giant evil snake called Ahriman who, along with his goodly snake-sibling Jazirian, created the universe and the planes out of the primordial soup with the power of Law™. They disagreed on where to center the universe, and in the resulting conflict Ahriman fell into the Hells where his body now lays wounded at the bottom of Nessus. Ahriman eventually disguised himself and now rules the Hells  as Asmodeus, biding his time and eating the souls of atheists to heal his wounds and eventually rule the cosmos.

Now I don't particularly like this origin story (I find it just makes Asmo less interesting), but the idea of a big giant snake being the original ruler of Hell is sick, so I propose we take a page out of Pathfinder's book and give it to someone who's not Asmodeus. Who, you may asking? Baalphegor, of course!

…

The frozen peaks of Cania hold many dangers, but none so insidious as its dark mistress, the Lady Baalphegor. Consort to the Archduke Mephistopheles, Baalphegor takes a backseat role in the rulership of Cania, but is by no means unimportant—she is, perhaps, the smartest devil in all the Hells; A trait which has seen her rise to a position of great power.

Baalphegor holds immense sway and influence in the Nine Hells. Preferring diplomacy over brute force, her power is subtler than her consort's explosive dramatics—but has far greater reach and longer-lasting impact. That is not to say she is physically weak—she is an unmatched sorceress in the Hells and beyond—but that she'd rather make a friend than an enemy. A rare trait in the Hells, indeed.

Much like her husband, Baalphegor is an inventor, one who has created many of the profane artifacts and diabolical techniques used throughout the Hells. Her knowledge is as vast as Cania's great glaciers, collected over many eons with perfectly preserved clarity. Her spellcraft is precise and calculated, in contrast with Mephistopheles' volatile magics. In addition to her role as the Lady of Mephistar—Mephistopheles' great citadel—Baalphegor oversees the operations of the various libraries and laboratories in the frozen citadel. It is said that she can recite, by word, all the texts and tombs found within Mephistar's halls.

These traits have earned Baalphegor a position of great esteem in the Hells, so much so that she is respected by even the Archduke of Nessus, Asmodeus himself. The Lord of Lies counts her as a great friend and ally, often seeking her advice and counsel in matters requiring a more delicate hand. Rumors persist that Baalphegor's influence is one of the major reasons why the Lord of the Hells has not deposed her unruly consort.

In any case, an understanding exists between the two that Mephistopheles is not privy to, a fact which ignites much jealousy and insecurity within the Cold Lord. Despite the tensions between them, Baalphegor manages to walk the fine line between the two Archdukes, appearing loyal to both her consort and her King without making a distinction between the two.

Baalphegor's talents and connections have made her an invaluable asset to her consort, but also a grave threat. If she so chose to, she could quite easily overthrow the Lord of Hellfire. Luckily for Mephistopheles, however, Baalphegor has no current desire for usurpation, content with being the power behind Cania's icy throne.

While all in the Hells know Baalphegor to be an old and powerful devil, few are aware of the true extent of that fact. The entity known as Baalphegor is an ancient being—older than the Hells, older than Asmodeus, older than the Outer Planes itself. A serpent as vast as a galaxy, devoid of any light save for the stars in its belly. A devourer of suns and stars, one who feeds off of light and life and hope itself.

Somehow, this great serpent found itself trapped in the depths of Cania, long before any devil stepped foot in the realm. It found kin amongst those strange and incomprehensible Ancient Baatorians, the original rulers of Baator. This state lasted for countless eons, until the arrival of the Heavens' greatest angel, a young Asmodeus.

Before his fall, the Lord of the Hells discovered the plane of Baator on one of his many expeditions to the Abyss. Intrigued, he ventured deep into the bowels of this dark realm, until he found the great serpent in its nest. Instead of devouring him, the serpent hosted the Son of Light, sharing with him secret knowledge and long-forgotten truths of the cosmos. Asmodeus left the serpent's nest with his life, and, more importantly, a newfound friend.

When Asmodeus returned to Baator with his infernal host, he entreated the serpent for its aid in his conquest over the plane. The serpent agreed, on condition that the favor be repaid at the time and place of its choosing. This is the only debt that the Lord of Nessus still yet owes.

The serpent donned the guise of Baalphegor, and served as Asmodeus' advisor in his war against her former kin. With her knowledge, the Lord of the Hells vanquished his foes and seated himself upon the throne of Nessus. He rewarded her with a position of power in Cania, but cleverly did not grant her the title of Archduke, instead bestowing it to the obstinate yet controllable Mephistopheles. Baalphegor was made consort to the Lord of Cania, a station she holds to this day.

The truth of Baalphegor is only known to herself and Asmodeus, a secret well-kept and well-hidden. Only the lady herself can say what her true goals are, but for now she bides her time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

[fluorescentbalaclava]

Last thing you see before you fail the dexterity saving throw ✨

My girlie Elysen, gif made by me 💖

[drownedrow]

[sharess-festhall]

I wanna fuck Raphael's Dad Mephistopheles... Maybe even in front of Raphael..........

Also, Asmodeus.... Maybe both Asmodeus and Mephistopheles at once.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 39

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** This has got to be the longest chapter I have ever written. Proofreading took forever. I think I can hear colors. The art at the end of this chapter is by @sabbathism! ***

Dalah had never held a paring knife before her death.

Back when she still drew breath, she’d never had to prepare her own meals. Her family was relatively minor nobility but that, if anything, was all the more reason for them to keep up appearances. So they had servants for all menial tasks, and she was expected to do few things: learn how to dress and smile, how to bow correctly and to think pretty things. She was taught how to talk and - most importantly - how to keep quiet.

She was taught to sing, to play an instrument, and to dance; she enjoyed playing the lyre more than singing and certainly more than dancing, but she was never particularly good at it. That had been the pattern, from the start. She was a passable musician, but not a talented one; she was pleasant enough to look at, but not beautiful. She could hold a conversation well enough, but few would say she was particularly brilliant in her responses. 

She did not disappoint, but she did not impress either; just about good enough, as her mother had once said. 

Weaving and embroidery had been the only things she’d excelled at, a natural talent. She just let her hands do the work for her, listening to whatever music someone was playing, whatever tales were being told, her mind thousands of miles away. Then she’d be startled out of it, a finished piece in her hands that rarely failed to draw impressed glances.

It was perhaps her one true talent and, when she’d exhaled her last breath to find herself in the Hells, Lady Baalphegor had seen it quickly enough. Over the centuries she’d embroidered more clothing than she could recall, woven more tapestries than anybody else ever did; it was easy work to her, and it kept her confined to the same few rooms, out of harm’s way most of the time.

Most, but not all. Being Baalphegor attendant meant being her eyes and ears in Mephistar, lest one wished to lose her protection entirely. The devils at court hardly looked their way, and let an astounding amount of information slip before indebted souls. So she had to be able to take on other tasks if needed, to blend in, to go unnoticed either cleaning the halls or in a kitchen, cleaning the court’s mess or preparing their food. 

She was not a fast learner, but she did learn. She learned how to butcher all manners of carcasses in minutes, to portion the meat for cooking; she’d learned how to cut through the joints, slice through muscle and sinew. She had never turned the blade to anything living; she had not once thought a knife would serve her against a devil, let alone a duke powerful enough to destroy her with a gesture if he wished.

And Barbas almost had done just that: the only thing keeping his fury in check now was Haarlep’s ruse, and it would not keep him much longer. 

“I saw her flee and followed, of course,” they were saying now, their impression of Bele’s voice just as perfect as the glamor. It could almost distract from the clothing, far simpler than anything the Justiciar of Cania was known to wear… but only almost. “I too saw this mortal summon Zariel, but you should not do anything rash. She might have information. We ought to take her in custody--”

Dalah did not see Barbas scowl, but she heard it in his voice. “I did not see you upstairs. And you look unharmed,” he added. Even his robes were torn, probably by his own hand as he tried to pull some of the cloth over his head and face, to protect himself from the holy light. It left the back of his hooves uncovered, the goat-like arched legs he usually hid with silks.

“I was some distance away, luckily enough, and a column shielded me from the celestial’s light. Terrible business, what has happened. This soul has much to answer for, and I have plenty of questions for her. I shall take her--”

“And I did not see you on the way down,” Barbas cut him off, his voice raspier than usual. He did not notice Dalah shifting slowly, pulling herself up on her elbows. 

Of course not. Devils of his ilk seldom deigned to truly look down - but that served her perfectly well. She ground her teeth, and inched closer. The upper crust of Mephistar loved to watch their servants crawl, so crawl she would. Just a few more inches, just a little more…

If Haarlep saw her moving, they gave no sign of it; their gaze did not shift on her for an instant, and remained trained on the Chamberlain of Mephistar. They shrugged, in a gesture of the utmost elegance. “I watched them go down from a window, and took the stairs.”

“Ah, I see. Is the wing injury still bothering you?” Barbas asked, straightening himself. On the palm of his good hand something began to form - a faint shimmer in the air and then something dark, gathering into the shape of a dagger black as the deepest void. 

A trick question. Bele has no wing injury.

“Only somewhat,” Haarlep replied. “It’s well on its way to heal--”

They were cut off by a scream when Dalah moved, the paring knife slashing through the air in a perfect, precise arc. The knife was a small blade; it was no great weapon, and she was no fighter. She never knew how to wield a dagger or sword, and had never drawn any blood but her own. She did not know how or where to strike to kill someone, let alone a devil such as Barbas - but killing him was not her goal. 

She’d portioned meat before, goat meat as well. She knew exactly where to slice, and then it did not matter how ridiculously small the knife was, how small she was, or how silly her attempt had to seem against Barbas’ power. There was one thing on her mind, a simple truth that no power of the Hells could change: a severed tendon is a severed tendon.

Duke Barbas let out a cry and his leg gave out, causing him to almost collapse; he had to steady himself against a crate with his good arm, and the dagger he’d conjured fell to the ground, disappearing in a burst of swirling darkness. His eyes found Dalah, two pits of pure malevolence, and his burnt features twisted in fury. 

“You--” he seethed, turning, and Dalah scrambled back just as his eyes lit like furnaces, and he began to speak something in Infernal - a spell or a curse, she did not know and in the end it did not matter. A crossbow bolt pierced the back of his neck and stuck out the front, drowning any and all words into the gargling of blood. A swipe of claws sent him stumbling down on the floor not half a pace from her. He fell on his knees, reaching for his throat with his good hand, just as Haarlep - again in the form of a tiefling - held out a hand to help her up. 

“Well, change of plans. We really should get out of here.”

“No argument from me,” Dalah managed, and took that hand, standing on shaky legs. They dashed to the stairs and they were almost, almost out when Barbas lifted a hand, gargling a snarl through the blood. A wall of fire rose up to engulf their only way out. 

“Ah. That is annoying,” Haarlep muttered. 

The heat was so intense it caused Dalah to take a step back, eyes wide, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Trying to go through it would destroy her; she was sure of that. Haarlep, on the other hand, would hardly even feel it. “Go,” she heard herself saying. 

The incubus turned, stared at her a moment, and then laughed. “Ah, don’t be silly now. I cannot leave you here. I promised Raphael I’d--”

“He barely even knows me. He needs you.”

That gave them pause, and they seemed to give it thought, working their jaw for a moment before they shook their head. “No. Get behind me,” they said, and pulled Dalah behind them by the arm without giving her a moment to reply. With a shimmer, they changed form to a familiar one - her son’s. 

Dalah could hear the smile in their voice as they spread their arms, a crossbow in each hand. The wings spread out, too, to shield her. “Hello, Chamberlain,” they sing-sang as Barbas stared, too stunned to move. “I heard you’ve been looking for me.”

***

Raphael held no memory of his first ascension. 

It had been no conscious decision; it was as instinctive, a desperate bid to survive despite all odds, against the hellfire devouring him from the inside. A drowning mortal will reach for the surface and draw in a gasp of air; a dying devil will reach out for souls. He’d done that and he’d awakened in a bed, barely alive, unaware of all that had happened - including his own transformation. 

His second ascension had been on a battlefield; that, too, was a matter of self-preservation. But he held memories at least of what transpired between the moment he’d realized he was about to die and the one when he’d found himself kneeling amidst burning corpses, covered in their gore. Few and confused - screams and blood, fire is his belly and flesh coming apart in his claws - but memories nonetheless. 

To ascend was a terrible thing, but the power it granted could not be denied. So he’d done it again and again; each time it was like exercising an atrophied muscle, gaining more control over it, retaining more memories once back to his own form. Retaining full control for the entire ascension required a will of iron, but that too he’d mastered.

What he never could entirely control was the agony. To ascend was to hurt, something within him screaming and rebelling against it, that thing he forced upon himself. He’d assumed it to be the price to pay for it alongside the souls consumed, until he’d spoken of it with the Hag Countess of Malbolge, not long before she met a gruesome end and Glasya took the layer for herself. She’d given that grating laugh of hers before shaking her head.

“Moloch could ascend, and never once did he say there was pain. Oh, he was a prideful fool, and he may have lied - but I would have known. No, Steward of Avernus, ascension does not hurt a full fiend the way it does you. But what else would you expect? You’re half mortal. Part of you will always flinch away from the rest, and whenever you ascend it attempts to tear itself away. You may hear its shrieks in your very bones, if you listen, but I’d advise you do not. Agony is the price you, and you alone in the Hells, pay for your heritage. Worth paying, if you ask me.”

And pay it he did, time and time again, until that last time in the House of Hope - when even ascension had not saved him.

He did not recall what Mephistopheles had done to him, to his fiendish half, to force him in a state of perpetual ascension. Whatever arcane magic had been used allowed the ascension to continue without consuming a single soul, but it did nothing to take away the agony of it. Even with no humanity in him, the empty nothingness where half his soul had been remained a source of suffering. Every moment, every step, every breath, every instant was pain. 

When he’d faced his human half again, the torture had become excruciating enough that perhaps he’d have attacked it even without Mephisto’s order, anything to make it stop. The agony of it had been unbearable, and he’d remember it to the end of his days. 

But now, it was gone. 

Ever since he’d become whole again ascension had come without pain, as natural as breathing, leaving his mind clear in a way it had rarely ever been while in that form. No shrinking in his bones, no torment to mark his every movement, no part of him trying to shrink away from the rest. There was just him. One. Whole.

And he fully intended to remain whole, thank you kindly, his father’s attempts at tearing him to pieces notwithstanding. So he stepped into the hellfire, ascended, and fought with all the had. 

And it was almost not enough. 

His ascended form had grown taller and more powerful, burned more brightly. Even so Mephistopheles’ own ascension towered over him, his roars shaking the very foundations of the palace, of all of Mephistar, of the entire glacier the citadel stood on. A beat of the wings sent hellfire surging across the throne room, a wall of scorching heat and death; his every cry brought forth a burst of white-hot flames. None of it could harm Raphael - not anymore - but it was beginning to take a toll on his companions, who were not always able to seek refuge behind a wall of infernal ice or beneath one of the globes of invulnerability they had summoned with scrolls. 

Without the resistance Asmodeus had granted them, they’d have all died already. Even with it, they struggled. Halsin was casting healing spell after healing spell, sparing none for himself; only occasionally he’d take a swig from a potion before he went back to the fight. Healing may be his true calling, but he was nonetheless fierce in battle; when he did attack, his spells rarely missed. 

This time was no exception: Mephisto was hit by his blight spell, and then by Raphael’s swipe of claws; he roared, steam rolling off the mouths of both skulls, and slammed against him before Raphael could try to get out of the way. They clashed amidst burning hellfire for what felt like an eternity, all claws and fire and tusks and roars; two beasts out for blood, one another’s blood, the same blood, even though it looked so very different, Mephisto’s own thick and black, rotten through with corrupted arcane magic.

All around them hellfire burned, ice froze over it, the winds howled. The grand window had been shattered when a well-placed blast from Ravengard had thrown Mephistopheles back against it, letting in the howling blizzard. There were more spells, crossbow darts, arrows; in his single-minded focus to destroy his son, Mephistopheles did not attempt to evade any of it. 

Jaws snapped only inches from Raphael’s own skulls, and there was a terrible impact when his back hit a column, cracking it, causing chunks of ice to rain down from the high vaulted ceiling. One struck his shoulder, but Raphael took no notice, straining to keep Mephistopheles’ jaws off him, to push back. 

“I warned you, did I not?” His voice boomed in Raphael’s own mind, yet another roar. “I was never going to hesitate to destroy you, son of mine.” 

Raphael roared, pushing him back. It took all his might, every limb straining; he may have crumpled then if not for something washing over him, a spell of resistance, and he held. With a snarl, he lifted his head to look up - through all four eyes, whole again - at his father’s fangs, at the six dead white eyes.

“You should have killed me the first time you tried,” he replied, his own voice a snarl directly into his sire’s head, and he gave one more mighty shove, the flames that wreathed him burning higher. Mephistopheles slid backward a few paces, then pushed back - but only for a moment. Then they were deadlocked once again, hatred and anger burning hotter than the hellfire they shared. “But perhaps you did not finish me for the same reason why you did not dare use the Crown of Karsus against Asmodeus. You did not have the stones.”

A growl. “Nonsense. The netherstones were always in my--” the thought trailed off, and there was another roar. “YOU INSOLENT LITTLE--”

“RAAAAAGH!”

“Dolor!”

An eldritch blast struck Mephistopheles’ side just one instant before something else entirely was thrown against the side of his head - the Orphic Hammer, seriously? - with enough strength to crack bone, turning at least two eyeballs into so much gore. Mephistopheles roared, his focus faltered a moment, and Raphael shoved him back. This time, he got him exactly where he wanted him - with his legs sunk into a slurry of melted ice. 

Raphael’s rightmost eyes glanced sideways to Durge. They were wounded badly enough that they had to lean on the staff, a hand against their side; but they saw him, understood, and held up the staff . They staggered, only for Astarion to immediately appear by their side, holding them up. The staff shimmered, channeling the Plume, and Mephistopheles let out a cry of fury when the slurry around his legs froze into ice which hellfire would not melt. 

He would break free eventually - that was certain - but not right away, and it was enough. It would buy them just enough time. Raphael dismissed the ascension before Mephistopheles could react, making himself smaller, and was able to slip from his grasp; a swipe of the claws barely grazed him, the armor taking most of the damage.

“The globe, quick!”

The last Globe of Invulnerability left was not far, but Durge was obviously about to collapse and Astarion was not faring much better, staggering under their weight as he tried to help the storm sorcerer walk. He turned to him, wide-eyed and panicked. He did not show fear when he’d let loose an arrow against the flesh of an archdevil but he was terrified now, with Durge’s limp body against him. 

“Raphael--”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Raphael had strength enough to carry Durge to the globe, and so he did; not a moment too soon, because they were unconscious by the time he made it beneath it and lay them on the ground. Halsin immediately set about to heal them while Astarion drank a potion of healing. He offered one to Raphael, who took it with a nod and turned back.

All the while, Mephistopheles had shrieked in fury. Now Raphael could see that his entire form was engulfed in hellfire as he tried - uselessly - to melt the ice trapping him, thrashing to break it. 

Ravengard and Karlach reached the globe next; the warlock turned, breathless, to Durge. He was on his last leg, too, and Astarion promptly shoved a healing potion in his hand. He did not drink, not right away. “Where…?”

“Here.” Durge sat, Halsin’s healing already taking effect, and pulled something out of the bag of holding - the runepowder bomb. They held it up with both hands, and Karlach snatched it. She looked at Raphael, and grinned. She was covered in blood and sweat, and she looked as though she was having the time of her life.

“Mind if I do the honors?”

“By all means. I shall not deny you the pleasure.”

She laughed, and stepped just out of the globe. The bomb was heavy; far from easy to throw a great distance, but she made it look so very easy. She grasped it with both hands, made a half-turn with her entire body, and threw it before leaping back inside the globe and covering her ears. They all did, and closed their eyes for good measure. 

Raphael, on the other hand, did not. He watched the runepowder bomb hurtle through the air in a perfect arc, across the half-demolished throne room, towards the mass of flaming hellfire that was Mephistopheles. And not a moment too soon: Raphael could hear the crack of ice breaking, could see his sire starting to move away from the spot.

But he never got to teleport, or even to take a single step. The runepowder bomb disappeared into the flames and, quite literally, hell broke loose.

***

The explosion shook the entire citadel.

The walls shook, tapestries falling from the walls, furniture tilting over and falling alongside everything they held. Part of the spire above the throne room collapsed, down below onto the denizens who lived in the lower levels of the citadel; no part of it was spared, but that would only become clear later, when someone would actually go survey the damage. 

That someone could not be Duke Hutijin, who found himself quite busy as things were. The explosion caused the ground to tremble and him to fall; he stood quickly, and saw that the mastodon too had fallen, and the celestial had to beat her wings to keep herself upright, looking upwards in clear confusion and concern.

Whatever that was, it came from the throne room. I must get to Mephistopheles. I must.

Of all the pit fiends and guards who’d closed ranks to fight the celestials who’d appeared before them, he alone remained. All others were dead, or as good as dead: those who fled would be dealt with later, he swore it, and painfully. But that would have to wait.

Now, he had one goal and one goal only. 

Duke Hutijin spat out a tooth, lifted his mace, and charged again with a cry before the mastodon could stand. His mace fell and it would have dented the creature’s skull, at least, if not for the sword that came down to meet it. Its steel hummed, painfully bright. “Yield,” Zariel spoke. Some blood marred that angelic face of hers at last, drenching the blindfold. 

Hutijin sneered. “Never.”

“I can respect a warrior. I can respect loyalty. Yield now, and I shall spare you,” she replied, only for Hutijin to laugh. He struck out at her with his tail, forcing her back, and took a step backwards himself. 

“Your kind truly should leave the tempting to us. You’re shit at it,” he replied, and lifted the mace. Flames sprouted from his hand, covering the entire weapon. “You wouldn’t take your own offer, would you? Break your oath to live in shame?”

“... No. Not a second time.”

“Then I have nothing else to say,” Duke Hutijin replied, and let his mace do the talking for him.

***

Barbas had his good hand at Haarlep’s throat when, without warning, the ground shook. 

It was a blessing - a rare thing in the Hells - because Haarlep was truly in trouble, losing blood and with both crossbows on the ground. He’d clawed Barbas’ forearm to ribbons, but the furious chamberlain’s grip did not slacken. 

Burned by radiant light and with an unusable arm, made lame in one leg and with crossbow bolts sticking from his gut and chest, a Duke of the Hells was still a force to be reckoned with; Dalah had known from the start that Haarlep would not be able to hold him back for long, not while also trying to shield her in any way they could.

“How very quaint. An impressive display from a glorified whore,” Barbas had snarled, and tightened his grip around the incubus’ throat. He could have killed them quickly, but of course he relished the act. One could trust a Duke of the Hells with few things but this: they never failed to be cruel if they could. Barbas had laughed at Haarlep’s attempt at kicking away, and held up the injured arm with a hiss. “I’ll take your eyes first, and then--”

The words had turned into a grunt of pain when Dalah had grabbed one of the crossbows and shot, almost blindly in her terror, praying whatever god may still be willing to hear her that she wouldn't hit Haarlep. 

She did not, but she didn’t land much of a blow on Barbas either: the bolt  had grazed his shoulder and buried itself into the side of a crate. Barbas had turned to look at her, eyes aflame, and bared his teeth in a sneer while she fumbled. He turned Haarlep to face her. They were gripping weakly at Barbas’ arm, struggling for breath.

“Ah, yes. Thank you for the reminder,” the chamberlain of Mephistar had laughed. At the fingertips of his wounded hand, sparks began to gather. “Before I take your eyes, you’ll get to watch me crush this insect. You should have ran while you still--”

He never got to finish the sentence. 

There was the sound of an explosion above them, many floors above but still loud enough to dwarf the most powerful thunderstorms she’d witnessed as a child on the Storm Horns. The ground shook, everything did, and it threw all of them off their feet. 

Haarlep took the chance to roll away, back towards her… and not a moment too soon.

There were plenty of things Dalah had never seen coming in her existence, many of which had occurred in the past few months specifically. After summoning and speaking to a celestial that day, she did not think she’d see a more stunning sight for a long time to come. 

But when a pile of precariously stacked crates gave way, spilling their entire contents on Chamberlain Barbas, she had to stand corrected. A resplendent celestial appearing at the court of Mephistopheles alongside a golden mastodon was a sight to behold, but somehow it seemed to pale next to a Duke of Cania disappearing beneath a seemingly endless cascade of potatoes.

If not for the utter confusion as to what had happened, she may even have found it amusing. 

Haarlep stood beside her, or tried to, wounded as they were and trying to walk through a carpet of potatoes. Dalah held down a hand and they took it, letting her pull them up before turning to look at the scene - Barbas groaning on the floor, dazed, surrounded by potatoes.

“... Well. Whatever you did, good job.”

“I didn’t do anything. There was some kind of--” Dalah trailed off when she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that the wall of flames barring the exit had vanished when Barbas’ focus had been broken. She grasped Haarlep’s wrist. "Come, quick!”

“Ah, that’s usually Raphael’s specialt--”

“Stop talking and move!”

They did, thankfully - and they both were through the door just one instant before a fireball hit the spot where they’d been standing moments earlier, with Barbas’ screams of rage following them up the stairs.

***

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank you, Wulbren Bongle.”

“Ugh.”

“Ew.”

“Don’t say that.”

The general dissent caused Astarion to shrug. “It is what it is. That’s his work right there,” he muttered, and turned to hold down a handh, helping Durge up. Now recovered reasonably well, Durge took that hand and stood before they turned to survey the damage. 

Mephistopheles’ palace was made from magic as well as ice - an extension of its ruler indeed - and even the might of runepowder did not level the entire structure as it might have done with others built by mere mortals. It was that, or Wulbren and Barcus had both rather exaggerated its destructive potential - but that seemed unlikely.

Still, there was extensive damage. The explosion had blown out an entire wall of the throne room, opening it up to Cania’s bitter cold, the shrieking winds and snow. There was a crater on the floor, the ice slowly reforming to close it out of sheer magic, and debris everywhere; several columns had been taken down by the blast, chunks of the ceiling had fallen down onto the ground. The pits at either side of the throne were destroyed, too; only the throne and the steps leading to it still stood, surely protected by more arcane magic. 

And most of all, there was no trace of Mephistopheles. Durge stared a moment, and turned to glance at Raphael. He’d summoned his lyre, and was playing a few notes; there were a few sighs of relief as the benefits of the Song of Rest took hold, and Durge nodded their thanks before they spoke, looking at the devastation all around. A scene from which Mephisto was notably missing. “I don’t suppose…?” they began, only for Raphael to shake his head.

“Of course not,” he muttered, something like outrage in his voice, as though personally offended by the suggestion. “Surely you don’t think my sire is this easy to kill.”

“Easy is not precisely the word I’d have chosen,” Halsin muttered, while Wyll lifted his rapier.

“He is right. I don’t believe he’s gone for a sec--”

Before he could finish the word, three things happened in quick succession: the globe of invulnerability petered out and faded, its duration over; Raphael turned suddenly, eyes wide, and opened his mouth to cry out a warning; and a cloud of ash came together in a burst of flames a few steps from them. From those flames a three-pronged ranseur shot forward, swift and lethal, aimed directly at Halsin.

Thinking back later, they would think that it was not a surprising move. It was advice everyone had heard at least once, and for good reason; advice which Mephistopheles had ignored in his fury, but which he clearly intended to follow now - kill the healer first.

Mephistopheles’ ranseur was a formidable thing; it would have pierced easily through Halsin’s armor, had it met its target, but it did not. Karlach was quicker than any of them; quick enough to shove Halsin out of the way. Not, however, quick enough to avoid the blow. 

The favored weapon of the Lord of the Eighth went through her like a knife through butter, running her through from one side to the other. She gargled, her blood steaming hot as it rushed forth, and her knees folded.

“KARLACH! NO!”

Wyll’s scream as he caught her before she fell was covered by Mephisto’s laugh. He now stood before the once again in his habitual form. Of course the runepowder bomb had not killed him… but he was wounded, far more obviously than before, if still a long way from going down. He lifted a hand, and the ranseur piercing Karlach disappeared in a burst of flames to reappear in his closed fist. 

“Your tricks won��t save you,” he seethed. His eyes were blazing fire and icy cold at the same time, but he didn’t ascend again yet. “She was the first to die. Who will be next, I wonder?”

“No. No. She is not dead, she is not--”

But she was; for all of Wyll’s desperate pleas, the wound was such that it had killed her instantly or almost. It had left her no time for a last cry, a last word, a last touch. Her body was limp in his arms, her eyes glassy, jaw slack. Halsin knelt by her, whispering something to Wyll that Durge could not catch but could certainly guess.

Durge and Astarion turned as one back to the Lord of the Eighth, fury burning hot as a furnace, grip tightening on their weapons. As for Raphael, he had never looked away. He said nothing to his sire before he spoke, still sneering. 

“Thus dies Zariel’s old guard dog. But do not worry, you shall join her soon. Unless you decide to hand over my spawn, in which case I shall grant you a quick--”

His next words were covered by a scream of blackest fury, by a blast of cold wind. Not just any cone of cold - Wyll was using the Plume, and fury seemed to give him the edge he needed to wield it with something close to mastery himself. Mephisto’s laugh was cut short. He stepped back, hissing, when the attack found its mark. Had they had half a mind left for it, Durge may have wondered what that felt like to suffer cold for the first time in eons. 

But they did not: all they could think of was Karlach’s blank gaze, Wyll’s cry of anguish when he threw himself, alone, against the Lord of Cania. So they ground their fangs just as Astarion let loose an arrow, and stepped forward. 

Raphael grabbed their wrist. “Don’t let him reel you in,” he hissed. “Protect Halsin. There is hope for Karlach yet - but if he dies, it’s all over.”

“Raise a wall,” Halsin spoke. He was focusing on Karlach’s body, hands held over her and trembling with the effort to cast such a powerful spell. “It will protect me well enough as long as you keep him away. Go help Wyll.”

There was much that could go wrong, but at that point there was hardly a choice. Wyll was going head to head with Mephisto like he’d done against Zariel, both out of fury and to give Halsin enough time to bring Karlach back, and for all his power he could not last long without their help. So the wall of hellish ice was raised with a gesture of Raphael’s hand, and back into the fray they went. 

What followed would forever be a blur in Durge’s memory, and not solely because of the brain damage they’d suffered well over a year past. Everything was ablaze with magic - spells and counterspells, crackling electricity and arrows bringing forth bolts of celestial light, unforgiving ice and burning hellfire; their spells missed more often than they struck, but they had no choice other than to keep going. 

Even so, some moments would remain seared in their mind; Wyll’s scream when he reached the very limit of his powers to open a blade into reality itself was one such moment. He sent the planar rift hurtling against Mephistopheles, and the archdevil’s scream of rage and surprise when the blade-shaped rift cut deep into his side was one Durge would never forget. The Lord of Cania staggered back, stunned and outraged in equal measure, and lifted an arm to cast - only for the planar blade to strike again at Wyll’s gesture, cutting one of his horns clean in two.

For a moment, Mephistopheles stilled to watch the detached horn fall to the ground, as though stunned by the sheer audacity of that mortal, daring to disfigure him in such a way.

“Someone pick that up!” Astarion yelled from his cover behind a fallen chunk of the ceiling. “I bet it’s valuable!”

“Does it seem like the moment--!”

Mephistopheles looked up and snarled, unfolding his wings. Durge cursed under their breath and reached for a scroll as the air around the Lord of Cania began to heat up, ready to unleash the full force of a hellfire blast that Wyll could not possibly survive. They saw Raphael cry out a warning and lift his hands to cast - but he was hurt and he was far, too far--

Something crashed against Mephistopheles’ face, a vial of acid that shattered on impact. A howl of pain and he was clawing at his face, the shimmering heat around him dissipating. Behind Durge, there was a hoarse cry. 

“About fucking time one of those hit!”

“Karlach!” Giving one’s back to any enemy was unwise, let alone an archduke of the Hells; but blinded as Mephistopheles was for at least a moment, Wyll easily ducked under his swipe and ran back to her. “Oh, thank the gods!”

Standing before them, entirely healed and rested as though she’d only now entered battle, Karlach grinned. “Thank Halsin, that took a lot out of him. I don’t think he has enough juice left to do this again, though, so--” she trailed off when Wyll grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her down in a kiss. Karlach hummed, reaching to cup his cheek before breaking the kiss and resting her forehead on his. She grinned. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

A smile, bright as the sun. “I wouldn’t have it any other wa--”

“HEY! How about you get a room once the Archduke of Cania is down?” Astarion called out, and shot another arrow towards Mephistopheles.

It hit him almost the same instant as Raphael’s dagger of Plume, and the archdevil staggered backwards a moment. When he turned, the right side of his face was sizzling and his teeth were bared in a snarl, eyes filled with hatred. Durge didn’t wait to find out what they might do. It was time to find out if the scroll they had found in Sorcerous Sundries was truly as powerful as Gale said it was. They just held it up, and cried out the incantation. 

“Pario!” 

There were six blasts - each of them looking unnervingly like a ghostly skull - as the scroll disintegrated between their fingers. Each of them found its mark, knocking Mephistopheles back several feet with their sheer force - right within Raphael’s striking range… but he never did get to strike. 

A gesture of Mephistopheles’ hand countered the spell he tried to cast, and then the Lord of Cania moved almost too quickly for the eye to follow. He was the archmage of the Lower Planes, a wizard with few rivals in recorded history; magic was where his true might lay, and there were no tales of martial prowess about him. 

Yet, he held a ranseur and he could use it. Three swift strikes were all it took. 

One aimed at Raphael’s head only hit his invisible helm, knocking it off his head; another was blocked by Raphael’s armored forearm. But the hit was powerful enough to stagger him, and Mephistopheles struck again, snake-quick, when Raphael instinctively held out his arms to grab onto anything to avoid falling - burying all three prongs of the ranseur into his son’s throat.

There was a gurgling noise, and nothing else. Raphael crumpled on the ice, uselessly trying to stem the flow of steaming blood that fell down his armor, and Mephistopheles laughed. He stepped back a few paces as though to better admire his handiwork, the blood spreading across the ground. 

“I told you, son of mine, that overreaching would be your end. All this is on your head.”

There were cries, and a barrage of attacks aimed at Mephistopheles - but the archdevil was still sneering at his dying son as though feeling little to none of it. Raphael tried to speak, but he only brought forth more blood, limp on the ground. His head turned to the side, away from the sight of his sneering sire, and his eyes found Durge, wide and terrified. He tried to speak again, and only spat out more blood.

No, Durge thought, desperation cutting through the icy cold that had stilled them for a moment, and which had nothing to do with the winds blowing snow into the throne room. For a moment they thought back to their own blood leaving their body, spreading across the stone floor of his father’s temple. It should have been their end… and then it was not.

No, this is not how it ends.

There was no Withers now, but they were there and it would have to be enough. So they lifted their staff and cast a spell they had only learned in theory, and never got to truly try before. It was time to find out if it worked as intended. 

“Tempus interiectum!” Durge cried out, and just like that, within that throne room, time itself stood still.

***

When it came to most of the upper crust of Mephistar, Haarlep truly had no strong feelings one way or the other.

They’d known many carnally, but that had been about it; a brief interaction, or a business transaction followed by a few minutes or hours or days of bliss, depending on how much they were willing to pay. Some were particularly unpleasant - Bele paid well, but hurt almost more than it was worth when they wore Raphael’s likeness; clearly there was some history there that their little brat had never told them about. Most were just… forgettable. 

Haarlep had never had much reason to be particularly pleased or displeased to see any of them, in any setting. But this time they were very, very happy indeed to see Adonides almost as soon as they burst out of the door leading to the pantry, and ran into the empty kitchen. 

Adonides did not seem equally glad to see them: all Haarlep saw on his face was confusion, then annoyance. “You were supposed to stay in the--”

“Come back here!”

The bellow caused Adonides to blink, and turn towards the pantry. He blinked, quite obviously recognizing the voice.

“... Barbas?”

“He followed us,” Dalah managed, her voice still shaking, and Adonides frowned. He seemed about to say something when Barbas burst into the room, dragging his wounded leg and looking, quite frankly, like he’d just been through the digestive system of one of Maladomini’s giant centipedes. Haarlep supposed they could take some pride in that. 

“You! You cannot escape-- Adonides?” The chamberlain of Mephistar stilled, staring at the steward of Cania with a wild, confused look on his face. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Duke Adonides raised an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same. What are you doing here? What has happened to you?”

“That’s the incubus! The one who belonged to Raphael!” Barbas snapped, and lifted a bloodied arm to point at Dalah. “And that mortal summoned the celestial!”

“An indebted soul, summoning a celestial? Are you out of your mind, chamberlain? Victim of a confusion spell, perha--”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAW! DETAIN THEM!”

Adonides sighed. “Very well,” he said, and snapped his fingers. Something appeared on the ground around Haarlep and Dalah, a circle glowing red with a script Haarlep didn’t bother to read. They felt Dalah tense and they put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze to try to convey the instruction to wait. 

“There,” Adonides was saying. “They are going nowhere.”

That seemed to calm Barbas a great deal, for he breathed out and limped closer. “Good,” he rasped. “Our lord will be very pleased--”

In retrospect he should have seen that coming, he truly should have. Dukes of the Hells made stabbing one another in the back one of the most common pastimes in the Hells. Of course, this time the stab in the back was only figurative. In the more literal sense, Adonides stabbed him in the chest with a blade of ice he conjured by just flicking his wrist. 

Barbas tried to scream, but his wounded throat turned his cry into a rough gargle. His hands gripped Adonides’ robes as he looked up at him, eyes wide, features frozen in pain and dawning horror. Adonides smiled. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a very, very long time,” he said, and twisted the knife. One last gargle, and that was it - Barbas, Duke of Cania and chamberlain of Mephistar, fell to the ground and never rose again. Adonides made the knife disappear with a flick of the wrist, and snapped his fingers. 

The circle around Haarlep and Dalah disappeared. Adonides turned back to them, and to Dalah specifically. He crossed his arms. “A celestial, really?”

“I had a--”

“You summoned Zariel in Mephistar.”

“You told me to create a diversion. I did.”

“I most certainly did not tell you to summon a celestial and her war mount--”

“You did not tell me not to.”

A groan. “By the Pits, it’s like talking to him. How did you even…?”

“Isra-- Raphael gave Haarlep the means to summon her, and they let me have it.”

“And neither of you thought to mention to me that you had the means to summon Zariel?”

Dalah blinked. “I assumed he did--”

“Raphael wouldn’t tell me if my robes were on fire,” Adonides cut her off with a groan, rubbing his forehead. He breathed out. “Well. It did work to our advantage. Now, we can only wait.”

“That explosion before,” Haarlep asked. “What was it?”

A hum. “I am not certain, but it did come from the throne room. It seems your brat is putting up quite the fight indeed,” Adonides conceded, looking all the world like he’d swallowed a lemon. 

Haarlep grinned. “Of course he is,” they said. They couldn’t hold back some pride - and a hopeful feeling that perhaps Raphael would come out of battle victorious after all.

***

Raphael was dying.

Durge was no healer, but they had seen - and given - death too many times not to recognize the signs of its coming, not to tell at a glance that someone was just barely clinging to life. Once they restarted time, Raphael would die within moments; a simple health potion or the few healing spells still available to Halsin would not be enough. 

Kneeling next to Raphael’s still body, Durge looked away from the horrified expression frozen on his face and glanced across the rest of the room, where everyone else - Mephistopheles still sneering, Wyll with a hand lifted to cast, Karlach mid-throw of a pike, Astarion about to loose an arrow, and Halsin already running towards Raphael - stood motionless. 

Time would restart, whether they willed it or not, the instant they did anything that affected any of them. Still, they knew what they had to do. It was the only thing they could do: create a globe of invulnerability to protect Raphael and give him their potion of Angelic Slumber, giving him a chance to heal completely and have his powers restored before rejoining the battle.

And yet…

He can call down a meteor swarm. We need a globe of invulnerability, Raphael had warned, but the meteor swarm had not been summoned yet and it had taken all their scrolls, he suspected, to even just survive to that point. It was terrifying to think of - they were barely holding up despite a Song of Rest and several globes of invulnerability, while Mephisto had not yet been hurt quite enough to resort to his most powerful spells. 

Durge still had enough magic in them to cast one more globe, and then that would be it. If Mephistopheles used that spell after the globe faded, they’d have no protection from it unless they used Asmodeus’ amulet to counterspell it - which would in turn leave them entirely unprotected against the Wish spell. 

That would mean their doom either way… but without Raphael to fight by their side, Durge suspected they wouldn’t even last long enough for Mephisto to need those spells. 

And, of course, they had no intention to let him die. So Durge lifted a hand, summoned their last globe of invulnerability around them, and reached into their bag for the potion. They lifted Raphael’s head, poured it into his mouth, and the spell was instantly broken - the eerie silence shattered by screams and clashes and the crackle of magic again.

Within the globe, Durge didn’t so much look up; they just made sure Raphael swallowed the potion, even if it had to be alongside his own blood, and leaned his head down. 

“Rest. We need you,” they said, and could have sworn Raphael’s gaze held some understanding for a moment before his eyes slipped shut and he fell into a deep sleep, safe in the midst of chaos, as the potion began to take effect. Durge picked up their staff, stood and, still within the globe - they could not lose concentration now, everything depended on it - they lifted it to call down more lighting on the Lord of the Eighth.

***

By the time Zariel’s summoning came to an end, Hutijin was barely standing. 

The grand hallway they’d fought in was only a field of dead bodies and debris; the mastodon was still alive but exhausted, back to its smaller form to recuperate behind Zariel; and the solar herself too seemed to have tired, her movements less precise and fierce, more sluggish.  

When she brought down her sword after causing him to fall backwards, Hutijin barely had the strength to hold up his mace with both hands. He groaned through his fangs, arms trembling with the effort to keep that blade away from his flesh; above him, Zariel seemed to shine less brightly. “You have fought bravely, and you have fought well. But it was your last fight, Duke Hutijin,” she spoke, gaining herself a glare that would have made most devils of the Hells fall on their knees and beg for forgiveness he would not give. 

“Fuck off,” Hutijin snarled, and tried to kick her back - but his foot never made contact. There was a burst of light - two bursts of light - and both Zariel and her damned pet were gone, back in Celestia or wherever it was they lived those days. 

He did not know, and did not care; all he knew was that the way was clear; he had to reach the throne room, and his master. Duke Hutijin stood, painfully, and began to limp towards the stairs without even waiting for his regeneration to kick in.

***

The battle was still raging when Raphael awoke, fully rested and all his wounds healed. 

It was no slow awakening, with the potion of angelic slumber; one would be asleep one moment and perfectly awake the next, ready to stand and fight. And by the looks of it, his companions desperately needed him to do just that. 

Only Karlach, recently revived to full health, was fighting Mephistopheles at close range; it was clear that what protection against hellfire Asmodeus had granted her had been put to the test, because the burns and damage her armor bore left little doubt on the nature of the attacks she had withstood. 

Still, she did not retreat an inch - and that was the best possible strategy, all things considered. A melee fighter at close range is the bane of any spellcaster.

Inside the globe with him, Durge was casting another Plume-based spell against Mephistopheles, and Astarion was firing arrow after arrow from his bow imbued with celestial light, to nullify his regeneration powers; right by them, Halsin was pushing through his obvious exhaustion to cast one more regeneration spell and restore Ravengard’s left leg; it had been severed above the knee by what must have been a vicious blow. 

Ravengard’s face was ashen, but he ground his teeth and did not make a single pained sound. If anything, he managed a smile through clenched teeth when Raphael stood. “Welcome… back. Hope you don’t mind if we had some fun in your absence.”

Raphael smiled back. “Not at all. But I am keen to make up for the lost time,” he replied, and Durge gave a barking laugh.

“By all means, be my guest. But keep in mind, this is our last globe of invulnerability.”

… Well. That was important information indeed. “Did he call down the--”

“No.”

Raphael pressed his lips together, and turned back to his sire. He watched him parry a blow from Karlach and turn, his lips curling in disgust when he saw Raphael was once again standing on his own two legs. Oh, not just disgust: it was anger. His sire was furious to see he still drew breath, and was in full health to boot 

You make mistakes when you’re angry, Durge had told him once, and Raphael supposed it was time to see if he had indeed fallen that close to the tree. 

“Your tricks won’t save you. This shall be your tomb,” Mephistophele was growling. “None lives who dared to cross me.”

Raphael sneered, and with a few beats of his wings he left the globe to land to the far end of the room - right by his father’s throne, which was somehow unscathed through magic or luck. He leaned against it before he spoke. “Magadon Kest begs to differ, I believe,” he replied, his voice rotten honey. “What did it feel like, holding godhood for a moment before it was ripped from you?”

“Like you are the one to talk, whelp --”

“Oh, I never went as far as to hold the Crown. But you? You had the fraction of Mask’s divinity you sought. It was yours, Lord of the Eighth, and it still was not enough.” He smiled, and slowly, deliberately, sat on the throne. “All that work, all those schemes, such power you boast - and you are no god. You’re not even the Lord of the Nine. How come?”

The entire palace seemed to tremble at Mephisto’s fury. “SILENCE!”

“How come you keep failing, time and time again, where Asmodeus succeeded?”

“ENOUGH!”

He never called down his next blow; with his rage so great and his power so vast, his will alone sufficed. The white skies of Cania, visible through the blown out wall and the holes in the roof, lit up a faint orange, growing more vibrant by the second; every falling snowflake, every hurtling particle of ice, seemed to light aflame. 

Raphael stood, and took flight at once.

“In the Globe! Now!”

Karlach may have not made it on time, if not for the haste spell that Durge cast on her; she immediately dashed to the left and jumped into the protective globe just as Raphael dove down, hitting the ground a little harder than he’d have liked in his rush - but still avoiding annihilation by a mere seconds.

A Meteor Swarm was a massive display of raw power, and it would have without a doubt spelled their end if cast once the globe was gone. In his blind fury, Mephisto had foregone all thought, all strategy. 

Mephisto and yourself are more alike than either of you would perhaps like to admit, Asmodeus had said. How annoying, he mused, to concede both him and Durge had been entirely correct. 

Raphael turned to tell Durge they were forbidden from bringing that up, but the words never left his lips. In the blinding orange glow, in the last few instants before the spell struck, he saw the debris before the broken doors to the throne room were blasted away and someone was stumbling in - limping, bleeding, but holding onto his mace still.

Duke Hutijin had survived the onslaught of a former archdevil, only to die at the hands of his own master. Raphael may have laughed, if he’d had the time to find it amusing. 

Then the swarm struck, and for a time he could see and hear nothing but all the fury in the world crashing down around him.

***

Duke Hutijin did not see his death coming right away. 

For a few moments after he finally, finally made it into what remained of the throne room, all he felt was relief. Lord Mephistopheles was there, wounded but far from beaten; of course not, Hutijin had never truly thought that might happen. He stood against the backdrop of Cania, hair whipping in the freezing winds, eyes alight and arms lifted to cast. The Lord of the Eighth, about to crush his enemies as was his right. 

Good, Hutijin thought, stepping closer. And if any was left standing, he would do his duty and-- 

A distant roar like thunder halted Hutijin’s thoughts, and he finally saw it - the unusual hue lighting up the skies outside, the skies above. His relief turned to concern, to alarm, to realization. He knew what was about to happen, that he had no escape, that it was his end.

“My Lord,” he called, directly into his mind. Not to plead for salvation, there could be none with the spell already cast, but so that the Lord of Cania would look his way first, so that he’d know that he had tried. He’d been loyal to the end. He was there.

And Mephistopheles did turn. With meteors hurtling down, casting their light on his features, he saw his expression turn from fury to surprise, and then stunned realization.

“Hutijin--” he called out, and held out a hand too, as though to try and cast again, to give him protection, to undo what he’d done. He could do none of those things, but he tried. He tried. And sometimes that’s the most even great lords can do.

The meteors fell and Duke Hutijin, Shield of Mephisto, knew now more.

***

For a time, they could not hear nor see a thing. 

Beyond the globe they were huddled in there was nothing but fire, the crashes of meteors destroying what was left of the roof and crashing down around them, tearing holes even in the magically protected floor and hitting the globe of invulnerability with deafening bangs. 

Durge ground their teeth, squeezing their eyes shut and covering their ear holes; it did little, and they suspected that the ringing sound in their ear canals was not going away anytime soon. 

But as long as they were alive to hear it, they’d bear it gladly. 

By the time the swarm passed, everything around them was a ruin - craters several feet across opening up in the floor of blackened ice that even the arcane magic the citadel was imbued in struggled to repair; the roof was entirely gone, columns collapsed, debris everywhere. 

Amidst all that devastation there was Mephistopheles, still shrieking in fury, flames rising around him… but he was not looking at them. Some distance away, amidst the rubble, lay the unmoving corpse of a huge pit fiend. 

“Duke Hutijin. He will truly hold nothing back now,” Durge heard Raphael mutter, and suddenly he was summoning something in his hands - his mother’s lyre. 

“Really? You just have to play a little song, now,” Astarion asked, voice a couple of octaves higher than usual, but Raphael did not listen. It was a rare thing to find a lull in a battle which would allow for a Song of Rest, as long as the globe held it seemed the best thing to do. 

Karlach was holding up well after her resurrection, Raphael was as good as new, but the rest of them desperately needed even what little help a short rest could give them. 

When the notes rang out, there were several sighs of relief - the worst of their wounds healed, some of their power restored. Halsin downed a potion of healing just as Karlach helped Wyll stand on his newly regenerated leg. 

Raphael let the lyre disappear in another burst of flames, and turned to Durge. “Be ready,” was all he said, and he didn’t need to add anything more. 

“YOU!” 

Mephistopheles' cry shook the entire layer; it was all the howling winds of Cania, the roar of hellfire beneath the surface of collapsing glaciers, the arcane magic singing through every stone. He turned back to them just as the globe of invulnerability shimmered once, and faded away. There would be no more protection, from now on. Only one last clash, their last chance to bring the archmage of the Hells low enough to kill. 

The Lord of the Eighth’s features twisted once more; they blurred, letting that truest nature of his show through for only a moment before he opened his mouth to speak - and the amulet around Durge’s neck hummed.

A Wish spell was unlike most other spells; the most terrifying, perhaps, allowing its caster to rewrite reality. The caster could wish them all dead, and die they would; he could undo what had happened, change the outcome of that battle entirely. Durge could feel it, the sheer wave of pure malevolence coming off him in the split instant as he prepared to speak. It was a split instant only, but it felt like so much more; once again time seemed to slow, the air seemed to thicken, a hum of anticipation in the air…

… And the hum of the amulet at their neck, singing in their veins and in every nerve ending as Durge lifted their hands, and spoke the words to counter the spell. The surge of power that followed was their own and yet it was not, something unmistakably infernal to it - the very power of Nessus, the evil of it, the malice, the inexorability. All of it surged within them and then was cast at Mephistopheles in one single beam of dark light. 

And the Wish spell combusted into Mephistopheles’ mouth in a burst of even darker flames. 

The words turned to a scream of outrage as the Lord of the Eighth staggered back, choking on the thick black smoke which rose from his mouth. He seemed to gag on it, hand reaching for his throat, and Raphael brought up a wall of Plume ice only a moment before Mephistopheles howled his wrath. 

A surge of hellfire roared across what remained of the  throne room, forcing them to dive beneath the wall just as Mephistopheles’ voice rang out, again, across all of the Eighth. It was recognition and unbridled fury. It was an outraged accusation, it was hurt beyond comprehension, a threat and a plea. Most of all, it was horror and utter disbelief - disbelief that it was happening, disbelief that he had not seen it coming .

“ASMODEUS!” 

There was no response to that cry which shook the sky itself. The Lord Below had heard; of that Durge was certain. But he did not respond; he was not there. The Lord Below had sent his own blood to kill him, and did not even deign to be present. One’s most powerful servant is, after all, still only a servant. 

And the master needs not be present when a servant is replaced.

The hellfire surrounding Mephistopheles engulfed him, and the scream turned into a roar when he ascended once more; Durge felt the heat of Raphael’s own ascension a few paces away. They turned to see him looking back at them with their leftmost eye; his voice rang in their head, as clear as if he’d been talking. 

“Hold fast. We’re almost there,” he said, and with a deep, guttural roar he charged at the ascended archdevil one more time.

***

Raphael would never quite know how long the battle had lasted, in the end. 

Entirely too much, he’d think, almost beyond the limits of what any of them could endure; and yet entirely too little to be a fitting ending to a reign which had lasted for so many millennia that memory of a time before then was all but lost. Eons upon eons coming down to this: two beasts clashing before a melting throne, up close and personal, all claws and teeth and magic.

Even with his newfound energy and spells restored, even with his sire as gravely wounded as he was, suffering from the drawbacks of a failed Wish spell - even as some of the most powerful mortals he’d ever known rained blows and spells on him - Raphael was almost overwhelmed. Almost.

“The spear alone - the venom in it - will allow you to end your sire for good,” Asmodeus had told him that day on Gelineth. “But only once he’s been brought low enough.”

“How will I know when that will be?”

A quiet, long look. “You will know.”

And he did. In the midst of carnage, locked in a vicious struggle, he felt something within his sire falter. When Wyll Ravengard screamed the power word to inflict pain , his sire cried out rather than brushing it off - and his next spell failed.

It is time.

Raphael may have faltered, if he’d had time to think, but he did not. As Mephistopheles turned to try to counter the barrage of attacks coming at him with renewed vigor thanks to Halsin’s very last mass healing, Raphael dismissed his ascension and held up a hand. Something hurt in his side despite the armor and he could not move his left arm above his shoulder, but it did not matter. When the spear materialized in his grip, the deadly venomous fang at its tip, he could only focus on one thing: striking. So he brought back his arm, and did just that.

He tried, at least. Mephistopheles turned suddenly, snake-quick, and lashed out with a clawed hand. It struck the spear’s shaft, and even the might of infernal iron could not withstand it. The spear snapped, and the tip was thrown amidst flaming debris several paces away; Raphael stumbled back and could swear he’d seen the skeletal jaws of his father’s ascended form curl in a smile before he lifted another claw to strike. 

“DOLOR!”

A well-placed blast hit the side of Mephistopheles’ head first, followed an arrow and a pike that pierced his arm; it caused the ascended archedil to rear back, just as a moonbeam was called down on him, tearing another hoarse cry from his throat. 

Raphael had barely enough time to roll out of striking distance and stand when they felt Durge grasping his shoulder. 

“Come.”

They cast a Dimension Door, and took him through it - right where the tip of the spear had fallen. It was not difficult to find; something about it called to him, and Raphael had it within moments - more shortsword than spear, but it did not matter.

As long as Asmodeus’ fang was on it, it would do what it had to do. 

I don’t wish him dead, he thought, but it’s much too late for that.

What came next was as easy as breathing. Raphael looked up to see Mephistopheles had been backed up towards the throne, which against all odds still stood, and was rearing up to strike down, or to summon yet more hellfire.

Raphael gave him no chance to do either. 

Teleportation took no more than an instant and he was before his sire, beneath him, in a burst of fire. Flames danced between the exposed ribs of bone, but he knew there was flesh there too - and that was where, with a cry, he sank Asmodeus’ fang.

Mephistopheles roared again, a cry that seemed to shake the world, and pulled away - but it was too little, too late. Raphael watched, his mind oddly blank, as the flames around and within his sire petered out; as the ascended fiend took two shaky steps before collapsing against the stars leading up to a throne he’d occupied since time immemorial. He convulsed once before going still, and thick black smoke rose, the venom consuming what power he had left.

Outside, the winds fell and the ice storm stopped; everything became so very still, and so very silent - a layer of the Hells holding its breath as something so unfathomably ancient came to an end. 

The smoke rose up and then it was gone, leaving behind no flames. Only a bloodied, crumpled form in torn robes upon the steps leading to his throne, breathing in gasps and with the fang still buried in his chest, long black hair spilling onto the ice. The veins in his neck bulged, black with venom.

Raphael could barely believe he was truly looking at his sire. He recalled him as he was the first time he’d seen him, atop the throne in whose shadow he lay dying now. It had been so long ago. He had seemed so much more powerful, and so much taller. He had not worn the likeness which resembled him most, then… but he did now, at the end of everything.

Father, Raphael wanted to call, but his mouth was dry and his tongue did not obey him, not right away. So he swallowed and just took a step towards his fallen sire.

Then another.

***

The first thought on Durge’s mind when they saw Mephistophele was that, beneath the blood, the resemblance with Raphael was unnerving. They had begun their fight against the Cold Lord, with the dark blue skin and the pale eyes; now dying before them was the Lord of Hellfire, with the same crimson skin as his son and unnerving, dead white eyes. Those eyes were now struggling to stay open, looking up at the skies through a ceiling that was no more. 

His left hand opened and closed by the broken shaft of the spear still embedded in his flesh, but he made no attempt at pulling it out. The venom was in, and that was it. He knew it as well as they did. Through Raphael’s hand, Asmodeus had dealt a fatal blow.

Standing above him, Raphael seemed to hesitate a moment before he scowled and changed forms, standing at the heart of Cania in his human form for what was perhaps the very first time. He crouched over his sire as though to make sure he’d see that face of his - his mother’s face - before he died.

“Down came the claw,” he rasped. “And what, love, was tha--”

Mephistopheles made a choking noise that could barely be recognized as a laugh and, in a last burst of strength, he reached up - grasping the nape of Raphael’s head and pulling him closer. 

Somehow, that forced Raphael to revert into his cambion form with a sharp gasp. He stared down at the dying archdevil, eyes wide, and Mephistopheles bared his teeth. It almost looked like a smile. 

“It is true,” he whispered. “We do share a face.”

“What…?” Raphael fell silent for a moment, staring as though not quite comprehending the words he’d just heard. Then something terrible twisted his features; his moment of triumph taken, like a rug pulled away to reveal a dark chasm beneath that no corpse could fill - not even one as grand as Mephistopheles’. He shook his head, still in his father’s grip. 

“No,” he choked out. “No, no, no. You can’t--”

He didn’t get to say anything more. Mephistopheles was an archdevil, the second most powerful being in Baator, but his end was not marked by shaking ground, collapsing glaciers, or columns of roaring hellfire. There was only that surreal silence, the winds no longer blowing as he died the way most creatures do: with an exhale, his eyes falling shut even as he kept them fixed on his son. 

His grip slackened, and the hand grasping the nape of Raphael’s head slipped off. It dragged across the side of his face, almost a caress, before it fell limply to the ground - and Mephistopheles, Archduke of Cania, Lord of Hellfire and Archmage of the Lower Planes, did not move anymore. 

Durge swallowed and turned to look at the frigid wasteland outside, waiting for the blizzard to resume. It never did. In the silence,  there was only Raphael’s voice, on the verge of breaking up. “... No,” he choked. Durge turned back to see he was shaking, eyes wide and face wet, still staring at his fallen sire. They swallowed. 

“Raphael--” they began, but never got to say more before Raphael screamed.

“No. NO! You cannot do this! YOU DON’T GET TO SAY THIS NOW!” He fell on his knees and grasped his father’s torn and bloodied robes, as though he could shake him back to life, make him open those eyes and look at him again. “Look at me! Face me, damn you, and tell me-- come back and face me! Come back! Come back, come back, come back --!”

But that was not to be. The body remained limp; the Lord of the Eighth’s eyes remained closed. Raphael shook the corpse one last time before he gave the long, wordless scream of someone who just felt something within them shatter. It caused Durge to instinctively step forward, but they paused when Astarion rested a hand on their forearm. 

“Give him a moment,” he murmured, and Durge nodded, looking away once more.

There would be time to talk. There would be time for many things - for whatever had to happen when someone took over a layer, for official announcements, for Raphael to sit on that throne. There would be time for Archduke Raphael - but later. 

For now, they just let a son scream and cry and curse his father’s name, still holding onto him as one would to an anchor in a world suddenly adrift.

***

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