#antilia dnd

[bardcambion]

Antilia (daughter of Mephistopheles, sister of Raphael, I've never seen her before and I wish someone else would draw her).

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 16

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: M Status: In progress

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

*** TFW you send your wayward son to serve another archduke to straighten him out, and the guy actually likes him more than you do. ***

While an abandoned watchtower couldn’t really hold a candle to an inn, Durge had to admit it was an upgrade from the caves they’d found refuge in since their arrival to Avernus. 

Raphael would have probably failed to see the bright side, and scrunched his nose in disgust as he tended to do, but he was out like a light as he recovered from the fight. He didn’t even stir when Durge laid him down on the bedroll Halsin had placed on the ground.

“... How close a call was it, Halsin?”

“Very close - I’d say he had moments to spare. The poison Yurgir coats his blade with must be powerful indeed.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to test it. I got a few bottles out of one of his merregons.” Two pairs of eyes turned to Astarion, who shrugged. “I didn’t steal those, don’t worry. I don’t take risks--”

“Astarion. Love of my life.”

“... Fine. I don’t take stupid risks. One of the lot was willing to trade, and I had just won some coin.”

“How did you even communicate?”

“They grunted and I grunted back.”

“Nnmmgh…”

“Yes, something like that.”

Durge glanced back at Raphael, but he wasn’t waking up: just shifting on the bedroll, brow furrowed. It was hard to tell if he was dreaming or just trying to lie more comfortably. 

“I’ll head back downstairs and see how the planning is going,” Halsin said, standing. There was an old table at the ground floor, where Yurgir had placed a map as he discussed with Karlach and Wyll - their party’s experts on all things Avernus, so to speak - how to best ensure they could cross the Styx without incident. “And I think Yurgir could use some extra healing, however much he tries to shrug off his wounds. Although I cannot say I have a salve potent enough to help him should he still be here when Raphael recovers enough to start gloating.”

“Hopefully, he’ll be wise enough not to,” Durge replied, gaining themself a long look from Astarion.

“Durge. My little bhaal-babe.”

“... Fair enough. I suppose we can only hope Yurgir will have left by the time he awakens.”

As Halsin headed down the stairs with a chuckle, Astarion sat with his back against the wall, letting out a long sigh. “Well. Seems the incubus was wrong.”

Still sitting on the ground next to Raphael’s bedroll, Durge blinked. “The incubus?”

“When they said Raphael only ever wants to sleep with himself. I’m pretty sure he’d make an exception for you.”

Durge blinked. Opened their mouth. Closed it when Astarion raised an eyebrow, and finally reached up to rub their forehead. To be entirely honest, the assessment didn’t entirely come as a surprise… although they had not been entirely certain, either, that they were not misreading signs. “Surely, he has more urgent matters on his mind.”

“I had you on my mind when I had the most urgent matter in that mind, love. I can’t say I’d blame him,” Astarion added with a grin, gesturing widely at Durge’s body.

They cleared their throat. “It’s entirely possible all he has on his mind is manipulation,” they said, although they were not certain of that either. “Some misguided attempt to ensure I keep my word when it comes to getting the other half of his soul back from Mephistopheles.”

Astarion shrugged. “A sound strategy. I first seduced you to make sure you wouldn’t turn against me, remember?”

Durge chuckled. “Hoisted by your own petard.”

“Oh, no complaints. I mean, I had plenty of complaints when feelings decided to show up and complicate the matter, don’t get me wrong. But no complaints whatsoever now.”

“Even if I’m dragging you to Mephistar?”

“You make my life interesting, darling. And speaking of interesting, you did specifically ask for Raphael’s form in the House of Hope. Impossible not to take notice.”

Durge groaned and chuckled at the same time, resting their head against the wall. “Almost made Karlach carve her own eyes out.”

“I for one think it was an excellent choice. If one had to pick.”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean I’d--”

“Not necessarily, no. But if you would - understandable, although I must say I’d prefer him with horns - just know that you need not hold back on my account. As long as you tell me how it went, that is. I’m rather curious to find out if it would really take half a moment to finish him.” A pause, then he tilted his head as though something had suddenly occurred to him.  “... Huh.”

“What?”

“Do you think he felt it, when you were with the incubus?”

Durge blinked. “I… ah. I had never thought about it. I suppose he would have. But I had no idea that would happen.”

“Maybe that’s why it took him so long to get back, he first had to take care of--”

A sudden barrage of screams and hollers caused him to trail off, the merregons Yurgir had left stationed outside the tower to keep guard clearly reacting to something. Amidst the screaming there was a voice that sounded very much familiar. 

“Oh come now, that wasn’t nice-- ow! Hey! You really don’t want me to sound this horn now, pretties!”

Durge blinked. Astarion blinked back, and immediately jumped on his feet to look outside through the arrowslit in the wall. He stared a few moments before blinking again and laughing. 

“Well,” he said, turning back to look at Durge. “Speak of the devil, indeed.”

***

“Ah, here you are. I was concerned I’d missed my chance to speak with you prior to your departure.”

Duchess Baalphegor’s voice was not unfriendly - it never was - but it still made something clench in Raphael’s stomach, his fingers slipping as he tried to buckle the final strap of the leather armor he’d been given. He turned, bowing so quickly he didn’t get a real look at his father’s consort. Further back, in the doorway, stood one of the debtors she’d hand-picked as her attendants, but he barely saw her out of the corner of his eye and paid her no mind.

“Lady Baalphegor. I was not expecting--”

“Oh, hush. Let me look at you.”

Raphael swallowed, and looked up. She was closer than he’d realized, brow furrowed as she examined his face; however, the frown quickly smoothed out in yet another of those half-smiles which were never far from her lips. “Well, look at that - not the slightest sign of scarring. You truly made an incredible recovery.”

“I had excellent healers tending to me, Lady Baalphegor.”

“The most excellent healers in Baator could have done nothing for a hellfire-charred corpse. The fact alone that you survived to receive treatment is remarkable.”

“If not for Lord Mephistopheles’ will--”

“Oh, he was being silly over nothing, wasn’t he?” She sighed, and Raphael bit the inside of his cheek. The friendliest smile or the hottest pincers in Baator couldn’t tear a single word against his father out of him, not in his court, not where he could find out. For all he knew, Baaphegor was looking to have him say something which his father could condemn him for.

Loose lips had almost cost him his life. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He almost killed me. He called me son. I’m nothing to him. He gave me a chance. I hate him. I’ll make him proud. 

“... I was disrespectful. No devil of his standing can tolerate disrespect. I am grateful for his mercy,” he replied in the end, gaze still low. “I’ll make the most of the second chance he saw fit to grant me.”

There were a few moments of silence, and already he feared he’d made a wrong move when he heard her hum. “Well then, I’m here to wish you best of luck, and to ask that you deliver a message to the Lord of the First on my behalf.” She held out something - an envelope sealed with wax. It looked mundane enough, but Raphael could sense the arcane power in the seal as soon as he reached to take it. It was clearly meant for Lord Bel’s eyes alone, and Raphael had no intention to find out what may occur if he attempted to open it. 

“Of course, Lady Baalphegor. As soon as we reach Avernus--”

A laugh. “Ah, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not marching with the troops through all the layers from here to Avernus. That would be dreadfully tedious, and this letter is to be delivered quicker than that. I’d go myself, if I wasn’t needed for yet another meeting with emissaries from Minauros. As you’re carrying out an important task for me, you have a one-time authorization to use my outer portal to the Bronze Citadel. You may await the rest of the troops’ arrival as Lord Bel’s guest.”

Truth be told, that was a relief to hear: Raphael had been dreading the march almost as much as the Blood War itself. Every single one among the troops was likely to know who he was and how he found himself among their ranks, and nothing delighted a fiend quite as much as stepping over someone who’d just been brought low. At the very least, he could expect ceaseless mockery; knowing that at least was delayed - and perhaps averted, as the Blood War surely would take most of their focus - brought some measure of comfort. 

“I shall inform the commander at onc--”

“The commander has been informed. No need to concern yourself with him.”

“... Thank you, Lady Baalphegor.”

“Oh no, you’re doing me a favor. No need to thank me,” she replied. Rather certain that she knew precisely what she was sparing him, Raphael bowed his head again.

“I am humbled by the trust you’re placing in me, despite my recent-- shortcomings.”

“Youthful indiscretions are hardly shortcomings. My consort would know as much, if he recalled what youth even is.” She shook her head in a sort of indulgent exasperation that, Raphael knew, no one else in Cania would dare show towards the Lord of the Eighth without severe consequences. “Upon your arrival, make sure you deliver that letter to Lord Bel directly. You are to place it in his hands, and no one else’s.”

“It will be done, Lady Baalphegor.”

“Good.” She smiled, and turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. Next to her, the attendant still stood in the same spot she’d been all along, gaze low. Had he paid attention to her, he may have noticed brown eyes peering at him from beneath a curtain of dark hair, but all his attention was for Duchess Baalphegor as she spoke again, without turning. “And, Raphael?”

“My lady?”

“... You’ll find Lord Bel to be a fine strategist, and a reasonable creature. Use your time at the Bronze Citadel well. If you prove an asset, he’ll treat you as one.”

Rather than as cannon fodder, the unspoken part went; Raphael understood that all too well. “I’ll keep it well in mind, Lady Baalphegor. You have my deepest gratitude,” he said, bowing his head once again. Then the door closed and he was again alone, a sealed envelope in hand and some hope that he may, perhaps, yet survive his service in Avernus.

***

“... And thus I came to find you, to give Raphael this token of Lord Bel’s support and see what I can do to ensure he doesn’t get too horribly mangled in the process of helping you see this mission through. You’re all very welcome. That was by far the worst welcome party I’ve ever had, I must say.”

“That may be because you’re not welcome, incubus. At all.”

“Oh, I’m sure you don't mean it.”

Yurgir snorted. “Believe me, I do,” he replied, only to be utterly ignored by Haarlep. They looked over at Durge instead, and grinned. 

“Ah, I have a few more reviews on your form! I wrote them aaaaall down. Didn’t bring the records with me, unfortunately. Would you like to hear the gist of it?”

“No, thank you,” Astarion snapped, in a way that clearly suggested he meant to give absolutely no thanks. Haarlep tilted their head.

“It’s mostly good reviews.”

“They said no. ”

“They didn’t say anything. You said no.”

“I’d also rather not know. And I’d rather we drop the subject now,” Durge replied, putting a calming hand on Astarion’s shoulder. He glared at the incubus, but he eventually let out a long breath and turned away, back to Yurgir as he spoke again. 

“So, you’re going for Zariel this time? Could have mentioned that.”

Astarion made a face. “Ah, that. We figured it was on a need-to-know basis.”

A scoff. “I won’t go running my mouth. If you can take down Zariel, then she isn’t fit to rule Avernus and Bel may as well get another shot at it. I won’t be the one to get in your way.”

“I know you wouldn’t tell on us, buddy. Just figured it could put you in a shitty position if we got caught, is all,” Karlach pointed out, patting his back. For all her disdain for devils in general - something Wyll couldn’t help but share, to be honest - she seemed to rather like the orthon. He could see why: it was difficult not to like someone who could take a bloody defeat with a shrug, and return it with unwavering respect.

Yurgir stared a moment, and barked out a laugh. “Are you concerned for my safety now?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of a mortal thing to do,” Karlach said with a shrug.

“Hah! No need. I can look after myself, and I will get Haruman out of your way tomorrow - push a big enough horde of demons by his hill, he won’t resist charging through it. The incubus can even make itself useful by letting you know when the way is clear.”

“Huh? Me?”

“Those wings aren’t just there to look pretty, are they? May as well use them to survey the ground from above and report back to them once I get Haruman out of the way.”

A smile, sultry as they come, a brief flick of their wings. “You think my wings are pretty?”

“No. Did you hear a single sentence past that?”

“Report back to them when the way is clear.”

“Mph. Good enough.”

Haarlep nodded. “Well then, consider me well and truly at your service. Tell me what to do, and it will be done. And I am sure you have questions - I’ll be happy to answer all those I can answer at present. But first, I’d like to see how my former master is faring.”

“He’s sleeping upstairs. You may want to try and convince him not to take unnecessary risks. The duel came close to killing him,” Halsin said, entirely ignoring Yurgir’s snort that it hadn’t been close enough. “He only has half a soul. I don’t know if a scroll or spell of resurrection would work on someone in his state. I am not eager to find out the hard way.”

The incubus seemed amused at the request. They seemed amused by just about everything. “I’ll see what I can do,” was all they said, and headed upstairs, Bel’s horn still in their hands.

***

One thing Haarlep had always liked about Raphael’s human form was how small it was compared to the one they wore. It was easy to move, to pick up and bend into all sorts of delightful ways; the skin was so thin, easy to mark and break, and it always flushed so nicely under their ministrations. They always made sure to both mock and praise all those things, loudly, each time they bedded him. Raphael wore that form as often as his other one in bed; perhaps more, come to think of it, especially when he wanted to feel small. 

For someone who loomed so large outside the boudoir, that happened remarkably often.

Haarlep had tried taking his human form, once. And only once, because seeing them wearing it had sent Raphael in a fit of screaming rage such as they’re rarely seen. It wasn’t often that they paid any heed to his threats to draw and quarter them, but that one time it had felt dangerously like he might, after all, go through with it. 

Curious, that. Raphael had never expressed discomfort about his human form; even if it was not the one he celebrated in those tacky portraits of himself, even as he said time and time again it was only meant to put mortals at ease, Haarlep always got the feeling he quite liked it. Yet he did not want to see Haarlep wear it, and had forbidden them to use it, ever.

In a way, he seemed strangely possessive of it - one form he’d hold onto and never surrender even to them. It had made them wonder, sometimes, which form he considered the true disguise. Haarlep was no stranger to disguises, of course. Yet beneath all the glamorous they had collected there was a form that few had ever seen, but which they knew was entirely and unequivocally their own. For Raphael, and all cambions, it was not so. Both forms were his own, which meant that neither truly was if one were to overthink it. And Raphael spent most of his time doing just that - overthinking.

With a sigh, Haarlep set down Bel’s horn next to Raphael’s bedroll and sat on the floor, reaching over to smooth back his hair. It caused him to stir, mumbling something. When he opened his eyes, he still seemed dazed. No wonder, that: a human taking on an orthon alone crossed the line between foolishness and suicidal ideation. And yet there he was, still recovering but alive. 

“Haarlep?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, and they smiled.

“You look well, my little brat. For someone who fought an orthon, that is.”

“How…?”

“The sending stone I left with you on our last meeting, remember?” Haarlep reminded him, and pulled back their hand. Or tried to, because Raphael reached up to grasp their sleeve, and struggled to lift himself on an elbow. Something had yet to heal, clearly, because he stilled with a groan. Haarlep sighed, and reached over to pull him on their lap, cradling him with arms and wings. “There. Be still now.”

Raphael let out a long breath, resting his head against Haarlep’s shoulder. They expected him to ask what they were doing there, demand an explanation of what was truly going on, but he asked something entirely different.

“The debtor who aided my escape,” he murmured, eyes already slipping shut. “Who is she?”

Ah. Well. Now that was unexpected. Haarlep paused a moment before they chuckled, leaning their chin on top of Raphael’s head. “If out of all the questions you must have on your mind that’s what you ask first, I suspect you already know.”

“Tell me.”

“... Yes. She is your mother.”

A long breath. “Is she still-- is she well?”

“As well as one can be as a debtor in Mephistar. She’s watching over your other half. She’s grown fond of him, if you can believe that. She calls him Israfel, and he responds to it.”

“Impossible. I killed him” Raphael murmured, clearly already sinking back into sleep. Or unconsciousness - hard to tell the difference. “He was weak and I ended him.”

“You’re talking more nonsense than usual, pet. Quite a feat.”

A grumble, but he didn’t protest. He only opened his eyes, or tried to. Haarlep could feel the eyelids fluttering against the side of their neck. “Lie to me,” he murmured. 

Ah, that. Not an uncommon order, back when he owned them. Usually uttered once they were done servicing him, as he lay spent and boneless on the mattress. Now that they were no longer sworn to Raphael, they could refuse. Still, old habits were very hard to kill. 

“Oh, with pleasure. I just love your blazer,” they said, and waited for the usual scoff at the impertinence. Yet, the puff of air against their neck felt almost like a silent chuckle. Haarlep blinked, faintly wondering what they’d given him to dull the pain.

“I despise it.”

“Not your style, I have to admit. Clothes as a whole don’t flatter you. I like you best naked.”

“That is not a lie.”

“Ah, are we still doing that? Very well. What do you want me to lie about?”

“You know,” Raphael murmured, in that quiet voice that they only ever heard in the boudoir before - that voice of his that pleaded without pleading. 

Of course Haarlep knew what he wanted to hear. It all always came back to the one lie they told best. And for what was perhaps the millionth time they decided to indulge him, pressing their lips against his hair before speaking it, just as his eyes fell shut again.

“I love you,” Haarlep said. There was no response, and they had no idea whether Raphael had even heard them before he fell back in a deep sleep, but to be honest it didn’t matter. 

They’d have more chances to lie to him. It was their second greatest talent, after all.

***

“Lord Bel. This one says he was sent by Duchess Baalphegor, to deliver a message.”

This one has a name, Raphael thought, but did not speak. At the heart of the Bronze Citadel, surrounded by at least a dozen fortified rings positively crawling with armed devils, Raphael knew it was best not to speak unless spoken to. So he kept silent, head respectfully bowed before the throne where Lord Bel sat in the least regal pose possible, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees to better peer down at him.

Up to that moment, Raphael had only heard tales of the Lord of the First. If other archdukes were somewhat dismissive of him, there were few devils in the Hells who did not dream of doing precisely what he had done - climb all the ranks, from a lemure borne of a mortal soul all the way up to pit fiend, coming to rule Avernus through his own skill and victories.

And, well, some betrayal against his predecessor. But that went without saying, in Baator.

When Bel spoke, his voice was a guttural rumble. Massive and covered in crimson red scales, cut a fearsome figure. “A message? And what it may be?”

Raphael bowed. “I do not know, Lord Bel. I was not to open the seal, and I did not,” he said, pulling out the letter. “I was instructed to deliver this to you personally.”

The archdevil’s flaming eyes narrowed as he looked at the seal. Then, he smiled. Green, steaming venom covered his fangs. “Very well. You can give it to my guard,” he said, gesturing to the armed erinyes standing around them. One of them stepped forward, holding out a hand, and Raphael stepped back. 

“... My apologies, Lord Bel. I was instructed to deliver this letter in your hands only.”

“And I am instructing you to hand it over to my guard. Are you going to obey or not, Canian?”

Raphael bit his tongue, mentally cursing every deity whose existence he was aware of plus a couple more he made up for the occasion. It was plain as day that he was being tested, but whether Bel wanted him to show obedience to him or prove he didn’t waver from an order, he did not know. He had to make a guess, and hope it was the correct one. 

“... Forgive me, sir. I may only leave the letter in your own hands, and no one else’s.”

There was a long, heavy silence. The erinyes who had stepped forward did not move away, and her hand rested on the pommel of her sword; Bel stared at him for several moments, saying nothing. Then, he laughed. It felt sudden and loud as the crack of thunder. “Hah! At ease, Oreasha. You, what is your name?”

Raphael breathed out before he replied. “Raphael, your lordship.”

“Well  then, Raphael,” Bel said, holding out a hand, palm up. “Here’s my hand. You may place Duchess Baalphegor’s letter in it.”

The letter exchanged hands, and Raphael watched in silence as Bel opened it, the seal disappearing in black smoke. He watched him read, then pause; both his eyebrows went up, and his eyes flickered up to look at Raphael before he resumed reading. That the letter spoke of him was an easy enough guess; not knowing exactly what it said set him on edge.

For all I know, she wants me dead and I’ve just given Bel the order to end me. 

He couldn’t think of any reason why she’d wish him dead, but he could think of no reason why she’d help him either. The intrigues going on in the court of Mephistar made even his most elaborate deals with mortals look no more impressive than the theft of eggs out of a chicken coop, and now he was caught up in it, hapless as a mortal. What if--

“Well. Never thought I’d see the day a son of Mephistopheles would grace my halls,” Bel muttered, and the letter in his hands went up in flames with a gesture. Raphael knew better than to try asking precisely what the letter said, and he just bowed his head.

“My parentage is irrelevant. I was sent to serve you, and serve you I shall. If you’ll let me.”

A rumbling laugh, and the Lord of the First stood. He towered over Raphael, over every guard in the room. He gestured for the erinyes to stay put, and stepped past Raphael. “Walk with me, child of Mephisto,” he said. Raphael followed him, through hallways and onto a balcony. 

The Bronze Citadel had few of the lavish luxuries of Mephistar, but it was to be expected. Unlike Cania, Avernus was one immense battlefield; the Citadel was more fortress than palace. From the balcony Raphael could see the barren land beyond the fortified rings, the watchtowers against a burning sky.  “Had you been to Avernus before, Raphael?” Bel asked.

“Only in passing, my Lord.”

The Lord of the First nodded, and gestured to the landscape. “That’s the Styx. Every day, along the River of Blood, demons breach our barriers and pour in from the Abyss. Every day, we repel their attacks. Do you know how many devils are in all the Nine Hells?”

“No, sir.”

“Too many to count. Some will tell you it means infinite, but they’d be wrong. We are not infinite; however, demons are or come damn close to it. Their strength is in numbers - we cannot hope to match that - so I turn away none who’s willing to serve. It would be foolish. And while I do not partake in the political maneuvering your father and his peers are so fond of, I am no fool.”

“... Yet for all their numbers, Avernus has never fallen into demon hands.”

“All that keeps them from spilling in the layers beneath and onto other Planes is that they are mindless hordes. We fight back viciously, and we fight well, but advantage is strategy.” He turned, nodding towards something. A huge table, it seemed… until Raphael approached and saw it was a map of Avernus. Miniature figures representing armies and demonic hordes moved across it, no doubt mimicking the movement on the ground at that very moment. 

Lord Bel approached, placing a hand on the edge of the map. “You’re no soldier.”

“... I can hold my own in a fight. I can--”

“You will not be kept from the battlefield, obviously. Inexperience in battle makes for poor strategists. But I’d rather you play on your strengths instead of trying to prove a point. A sharp blade can slaughter demons; a sharp mind ensures their armies are kept at bay.” Bel gestured widely at the map, at the miniature armies moving across it. “I told you, strategy is everything. Lady Baalphegor says you’re a good learner. So for now watch, and learn. ”

And so he did.

***

“So, there is some sort of plot going on in Cania, and it concerns Raphael in some way - hence why his human half was smuggled out of Mephistar.”

“Yes.”

“But you cannot tell us, or him, what it is yet. Or who’s involved.”

“Precisely. My lips are quite literally sealed.”

Wyll nodded. “I am not unfamiliar with that sort of predicament,” he conceded. “Anyway, there is a different plot to get Zariel out of the way that involves both the previous Archduke of Avernus and Mizora, who in turn ordered me to see it through--”

“Correct again. You are her favorite warlock, from what I’ve heard.”

Wyll made a face. “A dubious honor.”

“I’d be happy to be her favorite anything,” Haarlep sighed, gaining themself a slightly baffled look from Wyll and a groan from Karlach. 

“Eugh,” she said, causing Haarlep to shrug. 

“There’s no accounting for taste, darling. Which is to say, yours is clearly unaccounted fo--”

“Back to the subject at hand,” Halsin cut them off before they got too sidetracked, “you said Raphael was not supposed to get mixed up with the business about Zariel.”

“No. But as he did get mixed up , it was decided it would make a fine test. If he doesn’t survive this mission, it means he never had any hope of accomplishing anything in Cania in the first place, so it wouldn’t be much of a loss.”

“How delightful,” Raphael muttered. Rest, potions and healing spells had restored him to full health, but he was still frowning as they hiked their way up the hill. Haruman’s Hill, although there was no Haruman in sight. There was no one in sight, Durge noted, demon or devil. Somewhere in the distance, west of where they stood, they heard the sounds of a battle.

As though reading Durge’s thoughts, Astarion looked around before speaking. “... Well, this was a lot easier than I thought it’d be. Yurgir wasn’t joking when he said he’d get everyone in a mile radius out of our way.”

Karlach grinned. “Of course he wasn’t. He’s a devil of his word,” she said, causing Wyll to chuckle and Raphael to scoff. 

“Oh, I thought you couldn’t stand devils,” Wyll said. 

“I beg to differ, given how he turned on me despite the perfectly generous agreement we had in place,” Raphael muttered.

Karlach shrugged at both arguments. “What can I say, I like the guy. He’s the one shining exception.”

“Am I not an exception?” Haarlep asked, turning to her with something remarkably close to a pout on their-- well, Raphael’s face. “I was really good at this entire scouting thing. Came back to tell you the way was clear right away.”

Karlach let out a hum, as though considering. “Eh, maybe if you change your face to that of someone less insufferable,” she conceded. Again, her words caused Raphael to scoff. 

“Puerile as her comment is, it would be wise to take a different form, Haarlep,” he muttered. “Most denizens of the Hells are not familiar with my human form, but the one you’re wearing is more widely known. If someone sees it and news that I still live spreads, all of the bounty hunters of the Nine Hells would be looking to capture me and drag me back to Cania in chains.”

Haarlep to shrugged. “On the bright side, my pet, it wouldn't be all that bad.”

“No?”

“You look delightful in chains,” they replied, causing Durge to nearly choke on the water they were drinking from their flask and everyone else to disguise their laughter as coughing fits with… varying degrees of success. Raphael scowled. 

“Once I'm whole again,” he snapped, “my very first act will be ripping out that insolent tongue of yours."

"Of course it will," was the response, not in the slightest concerned, and Durge could tell that did gain them a few points with Karlach… which were then promptly lost when Haarlep chose to take Durge’s form, of all forms. This time, at least, they were wearing clothes. “How about this one, pet? Last time I visited you, I did notice--”

“No!” Raphael barked, so suddenly it caused nearly everyone else to recoil. He looked furious, skin flushed. “Another form, incubus. Now.”

“I do quite like--”

“He said now, ” Astarion snapped, and Haarlep sighed, rolling their - Durge’s - eyes. 

“Very well, if you must all be so dramatic,” they muttered, and changed back into a different devil - tall and with ivory-pale skin, hollow black eyes and an equally black mustache. The horns were on the smaller side, but the wings were admittedly impressive. “There. How about-- huh. Raphael? Are you well?”

Raphael was, quite obviously, not well. He’d stopped in his tracks as though struck, and his jaw clenched before he spoke, his voice tight. “How-- when… ?” he asked, only to scowl and shake his head when Haarlep opened their mouth to reply. “No, don’t. Just change. I hardly think that the Justiciar of Cania is a fitting choice to go unnoticed,” he ground out. 

Whatever the problem was, it was obviously not just that; still, Haarlep asked no questions and changed form again. This time it was a rather nondescript devil with a bluish tint to their skin, who might have passed for a large tiefling if not for the wings. “How about this one?”

“... Suitable,” was all Raphael said, and for the rest of the hike he remained silent, gaze locked dead ahead of him. 

Only as they got to the top of the hill and prepared to cross - Haarlep by flight, the rest of them through dimension door spells - did Durge approach him to speak. “Are you well?”

Raphael glanced back at them, and turned away just as quickly. “... It was not my intention to cause a scene. It’s ancient history; Bele was no justiciar back then. He got his claws in me when I was still foolish enough to slip up, and was quick to report that slip to my father. I was hoping to never have the displeasure of looking at that face again, that's all. I will admit that knowing he had Haarlep as they wore my form does not precisely delight me.”

“Would you like us to kill him when we get to Mephistar?” Astarion called out, searching through the scrolls they’d brought for the one he needed to cross over with Halsin. “It can be arranged for a fee. A small one. Call it a friends discount.”

For a moment, Raphael stared. Then, his lips curled upwards. “Careful, spawn. I might decide to hold you to your word.”

“Oh, please do,” Astarion said, and grinned at Durge, grabbing Halsin’s arm and holding up the scroll he needed for the spell. “See you on the other side,” he called out, and within moments they were gone, reappearing down below, joining the others already on the opposite bank of the Styx. 

“Well, only us left,” Durge said, and placed a hand on Raphael’s shoulder, preparing to cast. Before they could, however, Raphael spoke again.

“... Your concern is unwarranted. I do appreciate the offer to kill him, however.”

Durge smiled. “Do feel free to hold us to our word, if we cross paths with this Bele. No fee required. I am the Chosen of Bhaal no more, but I remain rather good at killing people.”

“You failed to kill me.” 

“And I am glad,” Durge admitted, giving Raphael’s shoulder a squeeze before they cast the dimension door spell. And perhaps it was only their imagination, but for a moment they thought they’d felt Raphael leaning against them a little more heavily than strictly necessary.

***

“So. Are you going to tell me what that was about, my pet?”

“I am your nothing. And I owe you no explanation.”

“Justiciar Bele did seem to have it in for you. It took me a bit to recover last ti--”

“Be quiet.”

Raphael had ordered Haarlep to be quiet many times before; it had never quite shut them up, really. But sometimes it gave them pause and this was one such time. Still, they did not leave: they sat back, watching Raphael tune his lyre at the entrance of the cave they had found refuge in while, further inside, their companions were setting up a small camp.

Finally, they sighed. “I tried to offer other forms, truly. He would not change his mind and I had no intention to raise any suspicion."

“Like you ever needed an excuse to spite me,” Raphael muttered, but he couldn’t bring himself to put much venom in the words. “... I consider the matter closed. Don’t bring it up again.”

“As you wish, my little brat.” Another pause, then, “... You know, back in the House of Hope, the handsome dragonborn over there also asked specifically for your likeness--”

“Agh!”

Raphael’s hand slipped and the unforgiving string he was testing cut into the pad of his finger. He snatched up the wounded hand with a hiss and a curse. “Will you be quiet!” he snapped, trying his best to pretend the cut was the only reason why his voice had almost cracked for a moment. 

Still wearing the likeness of some devil Raphael had never met, Haarlep tilted their head and reached over to take Raphael’s hand. He offered no resistance, only looking away as they brought the wounded finger to their mouth to place a kiss on the cut, then on his palm. To Raphael’s annoyance, it still made his breath catch a moment. He really couldn’t win with that creature, could he?

“You should be more careful, my pet,” they purred against his skin. “This form of yours gets hurt easily, and I promised your mother I’d keep you safe.”

His mother. He hadn’t thought of her existence in the longest time, until the beginning of that entire charade, as though Mephistopheles had made him out of thin air. And now the thought of her haunted him as it did when he was young, as it had haunted her husband.

“I don’t understand. What’s in it for her?”

“I suppose that at first, it was to spite Mephistopheles. Spite is a powerful motivator, no? You always said so. But to be honest, now she’s rather more concerned about you.”

Raphael scoffed. “She doesn’t even know me,” he muttered.

She was in Mephistar all along, and never once sought me out.

“She knows your other half, at least. Seems fond of it.” A shrug. “And besides, humans are odd like that. How many souls did you get that way? So many mortals with unremarkable or even unlikeable children, and yet willing to part with their own souls for no reason but that they loved the bones of them.”

“Mph. Insolent as ever.” Raphael frowned, and cast a quick healing spell on his wounded finger before he resumed tuning the lyre. Her lyre. Maybe he ought to return it to her, once all was said and done. He’d hand it over and say… what could he even say to her?

“Enough with the frowning, my pet. I always told you it would give you wrinkles, and heeere they are,” Haarlep sing-sang, reaching over to rub two fingers over the creases of Raphael’s scowl. Still, when they pulled him close to rest against their chest and folded both wings around him, he did not resist. “Besides, she knows of you.”

“Of course she heard--”

“I told her a lot of things about you. Entirely too much, maybe. She did ask me to stop.”

Ah, he could imagine precisely the kind of things they’d have told her. Raphael groaned. “You despicable creature,” he ground out, only for Haarlep to lean in and kiss the bridge of his nose, right where it always wrinkled in anger. 

“Ah, I could have done worse - I could have shown her. Alas, she was obviously not interested…”

Raphael scowled. “I despise you.”

“No, you don’t,” they informed him, and kissed the scowl again. “You want to hate me, of course. But you never managed to do that.”

Raphael may have hated them for being correct, if not for the fact that they were indeed correct. He’d felt disdain and annoyance as well as anger, and many more emotions in-between, but true hatred was reserved to few beings indeed and Haarlep, for all their valiant efforts, was not among them. “I find you infuriating,” he said instead, taking one last look at the lyre and giving it a soft strum to make sure it was tuned. 

Resting their chin on top of his head, Haarlep laughed. Their hand went down his chest, down his stomach; with their wings shielding them from sight, they placed a hand over Raphael’s groin. He shivered, and did not protest, when they palmed him through the fabric. “Of course you do,” Haarlep chuckled against his ear. “And you’re such a brat about i--”

“Hey, Raphael!” Astarion’s voice cut them off from the back of the cave. “Can you play that thing, or is it just for show? We need some music here!”

Raphael blinked, and turned to look. Haarlep pulled their hand away and helpfully lifted a wing out of the way to let them see what precisely was going on - a dance lesson, apparently. Ravengard seemed determined to show Karlach the ropes of some courtly dances, which in Raphael opinion didn’t fit her any more than they’d fit Yurgir, for the remarkable pirouettes he’d shown himself capable of the previous day. 

“I can do without,” Karlach protested, a good deal more flustered than she was trying to let by. The others were not joining the dance lesson, clearly, and were getting ready to enjoy the show instead. Astarion in particular, as he was grinning, draped over Durge’s lap with his head resting against Halsin’s thigh. 

“But it’s much easier with music to follow, trust me,” Ravengard exclaimed, already poised to start, a hand held out to her. He turned to glance back at Raphael over his shoulder. “Come on, I gave you the rapier that won you that duel. You owe me one!”

Raphael scoffed. “I owe you precisely nothing,” he muttered, but he sighed and leaned more comfortably against Haarlelp’s chest before he picked up the lyre again. “Very well. Let’s say I’m in a generous mood. What do you have in min--” 

“Oh! Do Three Thayvian Roses!” Astarion yelled, causing Karlach to laugh, any embarrassment forgotten. 

“No, no, do Down Another Tankard!”

“The Waiting Grave!”

“Juice of the Vine!”

"And That's Why You'll Hear Johnny Cryin'!"

“Absolutely none of those are any good for a courtly dance,” Ravengard protested, laughing, and turned back. “Come on, you’ve been around since before the fall of Netheril. You’ve got to know a good one.”

Raphael snorted. “I know more songs than you can hope to even name between all of you,” he informed him, and leaned back to start plucking at the strings. Indeed, suspected he knew more songs than humanity as a whole had ever written - too many to pick, and he let his fingers do the choosing. He closed his eyes and only when he recognized the tune did he begin to sing. 

“Alas, my love, you do me wrong, To cast me off discourteously For I have loved you well and long, Delighting in your company…”

It had been years since he’d performed that one, but of course he didn’t misremember a single word, didn’t miss a single note. It was not the type of music he’d compose himself, but there was a soothing quality to it. It was easy to let himself get lost in it. 

“Your vows you've broken, like my heart, Oh, why did you so enrapture me? Now I remain in a world apart But my heart remains in captivity…”

The words rang out in the utter silence inside the cave, and that was what finally startled him out of it - how quiet it was, no sound of shuffling steps, or stumbling, or whatever a barbarian would do while trying to dance. Raphael blinked his eyes open and turned to realize everyone was stock still, staring right back at him. Ravengard was still stuck in his bowing position, his hand held in mid-air; the tiefling was still standing precisely where she was before, jaw slack.

They all looked as though someone had cast a petrification spell while Raphael wasn't looking. Glancing upwards, he realized even Haarlep was staring down at him. He blinked again. “... Is something the matter?”

“Huh,” Karlach replied, not very brilliantly. 

“That’s-- well--” Ravengard echoed, not much more articulate. 

Sitting against the wall, the druid just stared in silence; his gaze seemed a million miles away. Beside him, Durge seemed to shake themself out of some sort of trance. “Good,” they managed. “That-- really good.”

“What my companions are trying and failing to say,” Astarion supplied helpfully, still on Durge’s lap, “is that you put every harpy who ever lived to shame, and we should find a way to bottle your voice and sell it. Is there a way? We should ask Gale if there is. We could split the profits.”

Haarlep laughed. “Oh, you never sang so prettily for me. Should I be jealous?” they asked, leaning in to nuzzle his neck before whispering, “I still enjoy your moans best.”

Raphael rolled his eyes, but made no attempt to pull away. “... I agreed to provide music for a courtly dance. I see no such dance happening,” he pointed out, causing Ravengard to recoil and immediately turn back to Karlach. 

“Ah, of course! I’m ready, I’m ready!”

Raphael sighed. “The time you’re making me waste,” he lamented, but he did pick up the lyre, and began to play anew. This time, he didn’t close his eyes right away. Ravengard and the tiefling did start to dance in a slow circle; to his surprise, she didn’t stumble on anything. Clearly, they had done it before; they kept their gazes fixed on one another, and smiled.

“Greensleeves was all my joy Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold, And who but my lady Greensleeves…

Still sitting against the wall, the others were listening, eyes closed. Durge’s head seemed to sway a little at the music, as though they were getting lost in it. Raphael turned away, closing his eyes again. Beneath his head, Haarlep’s chest was a solid, warm pillow. He chose to only focus on that, on the strings beneath his fingers and the words coming unbidden to his tongue. No Cania, no Avernus, no Zariel or Mephistopheles.

For a time, there was nothing outside that one cave.

“I have been ready at your hand, To grant whatever you would crave, I have both wagered life and land, Your love and good-will for to have…”

*** Bards gonna bard. The song is a traditional English folk song called "Greensleeves". The author is unknown. Legend says it was written by Henry VIII for Anne Boleyn (that ended up great didn't it) but it's only a myth, as it was most likely composed some time after his death.

***

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[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 10

Illustration (and the art in the chapter!) 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: M Status: In progress

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

*** Raphael is not very happy about the new and improved House of Hope. Karlach is not terribly excited about Raphael's continued existence either. Durge is still projecting like a cinema. This is fine. ***

“What the fuck do you mean, Raphael is here??”

“In the foyer--”

“If he so much looks at Hope, I’ll--”

“They’re keeping him there, don’t worry! Halsin got him entangled in vines the second he began yelling about the decor--”

“Why is the fucker alive and why is he with you? What’s going on? Oh gods, you didn’t pledge your soul to a devil again, did you?” Karlach groaned and grasped Wyll by the shoulders, so frantic she didn’t even seem to realize she’d pulled him off his feet to look him in the eye. “Tell me you didn’t give him your soul!”

“No, no! I couldn’t even if I wanted to, Mizora still holds it--”

“Good! Shit, no, still not good, but-- why is he here?”

“We sort of…” Wyll bit his tongue before he could say ‘made a deal’. It wasn’t too far off, but it was bound to make Karlach frantic. “We sort of came to an understanding--”

“An understanding!”

“I realize it sounds bad, but--”

“It sounds bad because it is bad! All the understanding you got to have about devils is that they’re bad news!”

“I am aware. More than most, really. But--”

“But it’s not all of him there, is it?” Hope spoke suddenly, causing Wyll to trail off and Karlach to look over, still holding Wyll a good couple of inches above the floor. Hope had seemed startled when Wyll had mentioned Raphael’s presence but not, he realized now, scared at all. “There is no devil in the House now. I’d feel it.”

Karlach blinked. “... All right, I’ll bite. What does that mean? Is he here, or is he not?”

Hope looked up, and joined her hands. “He is,” she said, and separated her hands, holding them apart. “And he is not. Not all of him. There is no devil here.”

“... Right,” Karlach said, in the tone of someone who had no clue what in the literal Hells was going on. She turned back to give Wyll a long, very clear look. 

Please tell me you know what’s going on.

“Raphael has ran afoul of Mephistopheles--”

“Yeah, Durge saw it in the ball, I remember. I thought daddy dearest had eaten him?”

“Well, he-- tried. But to make a long story short, his soul was split in two halves. One remained in Cania, and the other found its way to the Material Plane. As things stand now, he’s human. Well, the half of him we’ve got is, at least.”

“... So if I split his skull, he’ll stay down?”

“It would be best if you didn’t split his skull, though."

"Not hearing a no."

"No, Karlach. He knows where we can find something that can kill Zariel.”

“He claims he knows where we can find something--”

“If he’s lying, I’ll make sure to look the other way,” Wyll cut her off, and smiled. “In case your axe slips.”

Karlach seemed to consider it for a moment, then she smiled. No, she grinned. “That sounds good, really. Oh I can’t wait for the moment my axe slips. What does he even want in exchange? He’s got to want something if he’s to help us kill Zariel.”

“... The other half of his soul.”

This time, Karlach laughed - long and loud, putting Wyll down so that she could wrap her hands around her stomach and then laugh some more. “HAH! Good one! Fucker must be desperate if he thinks we’re gonna face off Mephistopheles to get half of his rotten soul back.” One last laugh, and she wiped a tear of mirth from her eye. “Ah, I can’t wait to see his face when he tries to hold us to it and we tell him to fuck off.”

The others may be of a different mind about that - specifically, Durge may be of a different mind - but there was no reason to bring it up now. They’d cross that bridge when they got to it, Wyll decided. “First thing, we need to focus on taking Zariel down.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll enjoy that too.” Karlach grinned, reaching back to stroke the handle of her greataxe. “I’ve been so bored here, you have no idea. No offense, Hope! It’s really nice here now that you run the place. And I’m grateful you let me stay. It’s just-- well-- uneventful,” she added. Hope made a vague gesture with her hand. 

“None taken. I like uneventful, as it turns out. I hope things stay uneventful here for a very very very veeeery long time. But I have a favor to ask you. Two, really.”

“Anything!”

“Please don’t split Raphael’s skull with an axe.”

Karlach blinked, the smile fading like she’d been told that her birthday was canceled. “But--”

“I still don’t know where my sister’s soul is and, technically, he owns it. So the information I need to get her back is in that skull and I don’t think it will drop out as a helpful little note if you split it. I mean, it would be really nice if it did, but I don’t think it would happen. It would be really really great if you could leave it in one piece at least until you can get some answers about Korrilla’s soul. And where it may be. And how to get it back. You know?”

“I…” Karlach worked her jaw a moment, and finally sighed. “Fine, no splitting his skull until I get him to fess up about that. Only because it’s you asking, Hope.”

A bright smile. “Thank you! Oh, and the other favor-- you know that box? The sad one?”

Wyll had no idea what box she was talking about, but Karlach clearly did. She nodded. “Yes, the one you wouldn’t touch? With the lyre and the pendant and all that?”

“Yes, that. Would you give it to Raphael?”

“Why? I get it that you’re nice, Hope, but everything here is yours now.”

“Not that. It’s his sadness. I don’t want to bear it for him, so he should have it back.” A shrug. “Maybe he can make something of it. Maybe it will just make him sad. He kind of deserves that anyway.”

“... I have no idea what all the rest means, but you’ll hear no objections from me on that point,” Karlach said. “Wait just a second, Wyll. I’ll pick the box up, say bye to the souls while I’m at it, and be right back.”

“Sure.” Wyll fell quiet a moment, watching her leave - what a relief to find her safe and well, even if bored half out of her mind! - then turned to Hope. “Thank you again, for keeping her safe. And-- sorry we took Raphael under this roof again. We know you’ve had enough of him for the next several lifetimes.”

A shrug, a wave of her hand. “I’ve had enough of him for the rest of eternity and a bit beyond that, but if I don’t have to see him, it’s fine.” A pause, then, “I’m sorry I can’t come to help, though. I thought I should, but the souls here kinda need me, and with Raphael involved--”

“You have done more than enough, Hope. We’d ask nothing more of you.”

“Will you tell the others I said hi? And that I’m sorry I’m not coming over to say hi myself. You know. Half of Raphael is still too much Raphael for me.” A pause. “Will you do it? Get that other half of him back?”

Ah. Wyll cleared his throat. “Well… I suppose it would be best if we didn’t, don’t you?”

“Ah, yes. Possibly. Maybe. Likely, really. He’d be dangerous again.” A pause, a frown. “... But if it helps get my sister back, you know, I wouldn’t oppose it. I trust your judgment. I just want her back.”

She rejected you at every turn, Wyll almost said, but what right did he have to say as much? He'd sold his soul twice over for the father who cast him out, and would do it a third time if he had to. In the end, he just nodded. “I understand,” he said. He did, he really did. 

He never had a sister, but if he ever did, he knew he’d stop at nothing to have her back, too. *** “... You know, I could use that organ now. To compose music. As it would be my task as the High Cantor and all that.”

“Five more minutes and I’ll give it back.”

“Ah-ha. Say it in Infernal, little duke. It’s about time you practiced that, too.”

“Ugh.” Raphael wrinkled his nose, pulling his hands away from the keys, and spoke again, more slowly. The words did not come as naturally, didn’t slide off his tongue quite as easily, but they did come. And in time, Antilia had told him, they would come effortlessly. “I’d like to practice a little longer, if you please, Lady Antilia.”

That brief, oddly musical laugh again. “Since you asked so politely, I shall allow it while Ionger while I look over my other compositions. Ten minutes, not one more.”

“Thank you, Lady Antilia.”

“Less talking and more playing. If you’re to bar me from using my own organ, you may as well make it worth it,” she said. In the end, however, she let him practice for more than ten minutes. Lady Antilia always allowed for more time, as long as he answered her questions correctly and in Infernal, even if a lot of them were not worded like questions. “Phlegethos,” was all she said now, not lifting her eyes from the music sheets.

“The fourth layer of the Nine Hells of Baator,” Raphael replied, without missing a beat. His fingers did not lose track of the music, either, and he kept playing even as he spoke. “Ruled jointly by Lord Belial and Lady Fierna.”

“Belial’s task?”

“Lord Belial supervises the Diabolical Court on behalf of Asmodeus. Any and all devils can be promoted and demoted there, or sent to the Pit of Flames for more serious crimes.”

“And what makes the Pit of Flames so terrible? Are we not immune to fire?”

That was such an easy question, Raphael may have almost found it insulting if not for the fact it gave him more time at the organ. He grinned, fingers still flying over the keys. The music was somewhat muted now, through some mechanism or maybe magic, to allow them to hear each other over it. “To fire, yes. But that in the Pit is Hellfire, created by Lord Mephistopheles, unbearable even for the mightiest baatezu.”

A chuckle. “Correct. And who--”

“I used it, once.”

“... What?”

Raphael turned, still grinning. He didn’t have many impressive things to talk about, compared to the intricate histories of the Hells Lady Antilia could tell him all about, so it was nice to have at least something to share now. “Hellfire. This one time we were attacked by perytons while traveling through the Starspire Mountains, and--”

“You used Hellfire? Back in the Material Plane?” Lady Antilia’s voice was suddenly sharp, her expression tense. It made the smile fade from Raphael’s face, and he got a wrong note that rang out like a graceless clang before he pulled his hands away from the organ keys. He found himself stammering, a sudden knot somewhere in his stomach. Was something wrong? Had he done something wrong? Raphael stumbled over his reply, wishing he could take that statement back. “I mean-- I think? It burned white-hot, the peryton pretty much melted and died in moments. And one of the guides said it looked like hellfire to hi--”

Lady Antilia stood, and walked up to Raphael’s seat. She crouched, grasping his shoulders  hard, and looked at him in the eye. Something about the intensity of her gaze made Raphael want to shift back, but her grip was too firm. “Who trained you to use it?”

“No one. I’d never even seen--”

“You were attacked, and you summoned hellfire entirely out of instinct?”

“I-- I think it was hellfire, but only once. I couldn’t do it again. I only summoned normal fire when I tried. Am I--”

Am I in trouble, he wanted to ask, but never got to. The heavy door leading to the music room opened, and a voice rang out. It was a woman’s voice, almost as musical as Antilia, but lower, all soft notes.

“Ah, here you are. It seems I missed the latest arrival.  My apologies for failing to welcome you until now, little one. I have only now returned to Cania.”

Both Raphael and Antilia turned to the source of the voice. Raphael had thought Antilia beautiful, and she was, but the devil standing in the doorway, dressed in fine silks of black and deep reds, could eclipse even her the way the sun hides distant stars. She was small - shorter than him, it seemed to Raphael - with long thin horns curling in a corkscrew shape and sharp, striking features. Her skin was the color of cinnamon, her eyes red as her hair, which fell over her shoulders in loose curls.

Her smile was warm as she walked in; still, Antilia quickly pulled away and bowed. “Lady Baalphegor,” she greeted her, and Raphael’s mouth went dry. 

He knew that name: Duchess Baalphegor, his father’s Consort. It seemed some sort of curse, really, that he’d meet each of his parents’ consort while knowing his actual parent through tales only. He’d failed to make a good first impression once before, squalling next to his dying mother; he surely hoped he could make a better impression now. 

So he stood, quickly, and bowed deep, following Antilia’s example. “Lady Baalphegor--”

“Oh, no need for that. Let me look at you, little one.” A warm hand under his chin, lifting up his face. He met her gaze to see her smiling. If she was in any way put off by the fact her consort had sired children with mortals, it did not show. “A handsome young devil if I’ve ever seen one. You look quite a lot like your father.”

The words were spoken kindly, but they opened up a pit somewhere in Raphel’s chest, heart skipping a beat. In the back of his mind he saw Rahirek Starspire gazing at his human form, truly looking at him for the first time. You look like your mother, he’d said.

He knew from the portraits that his devil form looked like his father, or at least one of the faces he wore - but hearing it from his Consort was… different. “I do?” he found himself asking, half bashful and half hopeful. She blinked. 

“Surely, you noticed-- oh.” A pause, a long-suffering sigh. “Lady Antilia, please do not tell me Lord Mephistopheles has yet to meet his son. This boy has been here for weeks, I am told.”

Antilia nodded, her gaze still held respectfully low. “Lord Mephistopheles has been very busy in your absence, it seems,” she said. “Hardly anyone has seen him.”

“Those silly experiments of his again.” Another sigh, while Antilia stiffened in a way that very much suggested no one else in all of Cania, or in all of the Hells save perhaps Asmodeus, would ever refer to Mephistopheles’ work with arcane magic as silly experiments. Ignoring her clear discomfort, Duchess Baalphegor looked back at Raphael. A thumb brushed over his cheek. “What is your name, little one?”

“Lord Mephistopheles named me Raphael, Lady Baalphegor.”

A huff. “If he named you, he should be bothered to properly meet you. Do not worry, Raphael, I’ll ensure that he does soon.” A pause, another smile before she let go of his face. “Your Infernal is excellent, for someone who’s been here so short a time.”

Raphael’s face grew warm, and he was once again thankful blushing did not show on his skin. “Thank you, Duchess.”

A brief, soft laugh. “I’ll take no thanks for stating a fact. I see you’re escaping the lessons with your preceptor to learn music from the High Cantor herself.”

“I have been ensuring he knows what he ought to know about Cania and Baator,” Antilia said, tilting her head. “He’s a bright pupil in both aspects.”

A chuckle. “Of course he is. I doubt a single soul in or outside the Hells could blame you for coming here, Raphael. I’d pick Lady Antilia over the preceptor myself. He is a uniquely unpleasant being.” Another smile, and she took a step back. “Ah, but I’ve interrupted a lesson. Do carry on - I am in need of rest from my travels. Expect your father to see you soon, child.”

“I-- thank you, Lady Baalphegor.”

“No need to thank me. Welcome home,” she replied, and that was it. A smile, a nod at Antilia and she was gone, closing the doors behind her. Raphael looked up, still reeling a little, to see the High Cantor let out a long breath. Something in her rigid posture seemed to relax, but her lips were still pulled in a tight line as she glanced down to meet his gaze. 

“... Until you are certain of your affinity with Hellfire,” she said, “do not speak of it. Not Lord Mephistopheles, not her - no one. And don’t ever tell them you used it entirely by accident.”

“I thought it was something all devils can--”

“You thought wrong,” she cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp. “Archedevils and very few others may hope to wield it. Go boasting about it, and you’ll be seen as too much a threat.”

Raphael frowned. “I wasn’t boasting, and-- I'm not planning to be a threat at all," he protested.

Antilia laughed. Only this time it didn’t sound like music anymore. "But you are, little duke," she said, tilting up his chin, a smile now playing on her lips. "Listen and listen well. You have mortal blood in you, as do I. But we are devils as much as anybody else here, and dangerous by virtue of our existence. As long as you live and breathe, you will be a threat to somebody. We all are. And we all must be. If you cease being a danger to anyone, little duke - if you make yourself harmless and toothless - that is the day you die. But if you show all your teeth, someone will take the chance and strike first. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Raphael thought back of the old story he had read when he was little, the scorpion tearing off its stinger to try and live like a beetle, and of what Lord Starspire had told him over the crackling fire in the hearth, looking at him across a lanceboard set-- You were too quick to get on the defense. Retreat begets regret. Remember that. -- and suddenly he knew what his existence would be, what it had to be, in the Nine Hells of Baator. An endless game with the highest stakes, with every other devil - be it pit fiends or gelugons, his own sire or his own siblings, everyone - a potential opponent. Every possible move, his own or others', would have to be calculated, predicted, accounted for in advance. All of Cania was a lanceboard with infinite pieces, each of them wearing a smile and hiding a dagger under their robes.

“Raphael. Do you understand ?"

He swallowed, and nodded. "I have to be a threat. But not so much a threat that my destruction becomes someone's priority."

Antilia stared a moment, and chuckled. "You learn fast. You may live well, after all, as long as you trust no one.”

“Not even you?” Raphael hadn't meant to sound like he wanted to, but the pleading note made it in his voice all the same. There he was, in his father's court, surrounded by others of his kind, learning music from the High Cantor, welcomed by Lord Mephistopheles’ own consort… and yet he had never felt so alone before. “I thought-- I hoped--”

For a moment, her smile dampened. "You ought to forget all about that hope, for your own good,” she murmured. “And you will.”

“I don’t want--”

“What you want is very human of you, little duke. But do not worry. In time you'll grow out of it, or you won't grow much older. Until then, don't let it show again - to anyone. Not even me," she added, and let go of his face. "You’d do well to mistrust me, and most of all mistrust anyone who tells you that you may trust them." She did not name Baalphegor, but she may as well have. “... Now go. I’ll be needing the organ,” she added with a sharp nod to the door.

And that, love, was that. *** “Release me at once!”

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s for your own good. Hope would absolutely destroy you as you are now. And we wouldn’t try too hard to stop her, either.”

Still struggling against the vines Halsin had cast the moment he’d started screaming and trying to storm in, damn near foaming at the mouth, Raphael didn’t seem to even register Astarion’s words. “What has she done to my--”

“ Her house now. I mean, really, if you wanted to claim ownership, you shouldn’t have named it House of Hope. I will concede, however, that the new decor is positively ghastly,” Astarion said, looking around. The flower beds and birds had to be some sort of illusion, surely, but the scattered art supplies and half-finished paintings looked very much real. 

None of them looked good - someone was trying to build some kind of statue out of broken pottery it seemed - but Astarion supposed everyone had a right to do whatever they wanted with relative, newfound freedom. Even when it meant questionable attempts at art therapy. 

The thought of turning Cazador’s castle into some sort of resort for his victims had never so much crossed his mind, but to be fair he could leave that place, while the souls there… well, the only thing outside the House of Hope was Avernus, so it made sense to stay there with the new management and make the best of it.

Unless you were Raphael, who both wanted to storm in and very much looked like he’d gladly take on Zariel and Mephistopheles at once with his bare hands rather than having to keep looking at Hope’s redecorations. All things considered, they were probably doing him a favor by not letting him see anything past the foyer. Astarion had once joked he’d probably have a stroke if he saw the changes Hope made to the place, but now it didn’t seem that far-fetched anymore.

Unaware of Astarion’s thoughts, Raphael made another useless attempt to break free from the vines and snarled. “I’m going to kill her. I’ll skin her alive and--”

“No, you won’t,” Durge replied, almost conversationally, just as Halsin lifted a hand. Yet another vine emerged from the ground, wrapping itself around Raphael’s neck, tight enough to make him trail off, the growl turning into a startled intake of breath.

“I suggest you pick your battles,” Halsin said, voice grave. He didn’t threaten often but when he meant business, he did mean business. “And I highly suggest you do not pick this one.”

Raphael’s mouth snapped shut, but only for a moment. He glowered at Halsin before turning to Durge. “This is my House of--”

“Not anymore it’s not, fucker.”

“Karlach!”

Raphael and his whining were forgotten very quickly when Karlach burst in and began pulling each of them into a near spine-breaking hug. It had been only weeks since they’d last seen each other, but it clearly had felt like a lot more to her. Honestly, Astarion thought, they were lucky she hadn’t grown bored enough to decide she’d rather brave Avernus on her own.

“Oh I’m so sorry for dragging you back to the Hells, but I’m so happy to see you guys.”

“You didn’t drag us anywhere, Karlach. We were happy to help.”

“I was so fucking bored, Durge, you have no idea.”

“I can imagine. Coming here took a while more than we thought it would--”

“Doesn’t matter though! You’re here and we’re ready to kick Zariel’s ass!”

Astarion cleared his throat. “Almost ready, I’d say. There just is a sword we’re supposed to pick up, but luckily,” he added, gesturing to Raphael, “we have a very convenient guide.”

Still tangled in Halsin’s vines, the very convenient guide glared at Karlach. “I’ve seen dogs greet long-lost masters with more dignity,” he snapped. “If you’re quite done with the moving reunion--”

“Ah, I almost forgot. Hey, Raphael! Catch!”

“Wha--”

A box Karlach had been keeping under her arm sailed through the air and hit Raphael’s forehead with remarkable aim. It got a rather undignified yelp out of him, which turned into a growl when the same vines that had kept him from catching anything kept him from touching his head. “Agh! What manner of joke is--” he snapped, only to trail off when his gaze fell on the box. He stared at it as though he couldn’t understand what he was even looking at. 

Karlach shrugged. “A little something that Hope wanted you to have. She said it’s yours. Consider it a goodbye gift, cause she’s never going to have to see your mug in this place. Now, ready to head out? Cause Zariel isn’t gonna off herself…”

They did leave, and it didn’t escape Astarion how, the vines removed, Raphael did pick up the box and stared at it for several moments, eyes blank, saying nothing. *** Dalah was almost out of the vault, her duty for the day done, when she felt those eyes on her again. No guards were in sight, but she was still wary to risk being spotted together, as they would soon enough realize one of their own was missing and go looking for him. So she turned, and gestured for Israfel to leave.

But he did not leave. He approached her in a curious gait, as though trying to make himself non-threatening if that was even possible, his flames burning low. He came to pause so close to her the heat almost singed her hair anyway, and made those chirring noises again. Dalah hesitated, suddenly reminded of what she’d been saying before they were interrupted.

You were tiny, then.

She remembered it as though it had only just happened, even after so many centuries. She remembered the pain and blood, the smell of the scorched mattress and her own seared flesh; the pain had been so unbearable she’d thought a fully grown devil would burst from her, scattering her entrails across the room like those of a gutted deer. 

Instead, it had been small. The worst of it had passed and she found herself sharing the mattress with the squirming, wailing thing she had brought forth entirely on her own after ordering the servants away with an excuse. He was covered in her blood, but it was barely noticeable on crimson skin. A male, she’d noted in the same detached fashion she’d noted the sharp nubs on his head that would grow into horns, the crinkled membrane of tiny wings, and the tail.

A devil. The price she’d paid so her husband may live, her death sentence. He had killed her for his first breath and yet he used that breath to wail and wail and wail like he was the one bleeding out, small limbs flailing, half tangled in the umbilical cord and his own tail. 

Part of her had expected his sire to appear in a cloud of sulfur and take his accursed offspring to the Hells with him, but no such thing happened. The sky outside began to darken, she kept bleeding, and the child kept screaming. What right did a devil have, she’d thought, to seek comfort the way a baby would? Yet she had wanted those cries to stop. 

She’d reached out, so weak she could barely pull the squalling creature up against her chest, in the crook of her arm. “Demanding, aren’t we?” she’d heard herself murmuring, her own voice barely audible.

She felt cold all over and yet she must have been warmer than the rest of the room, because the child grew a little quieter now, pressed against her. A tiny, bloodied hand had curled around her finger. Even this small, he had claws. 

Almost delirious with blood loss, not knowing that her husband was just now crossing the threshold of their home bearing gifts for her that he would soon place on her grave, Dalah had smiled. Her head rolled against her shoulder, dark hair spilling on the newborn’s brow. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there was the first lullaby she’d ever learned. Half a rhyme, half a warning she’d failed to heed in the end. 

“Then down came the claw,” she’d whispered. “And that…”

“... And that, love, was that.”

Her words sounded even fainter now, amidst the icy walls of Mephistopheles’ vault, than they had on her deathbed that day. Still, Israfel heard, and made a high-pitched, metallic sound in response. Not the same shriek he’d let out when she’d uttered his name last, but a sound of distress nonetheless. Dalah swallowed. 

It was on me, all of it. I turned to a devil, offered him the souls of every servant in the  household for my husband’s life. I’d have bought half a city’s worth of slaves to sell him, if he asked. Even if Rahirek would have hated me for it, it wouldn’t have mattered as long as he lived. But all Mephistopheles wanted that day was my womb for his spawn and I saw it too late. He got his due and I got mine. Only one innocent party in all of it, and here he stands. 

“Do you know?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know who I am now?”

For a few moments, there was no response. He just looked at her, that thing that was her son or at least part of him. Then he made a low clacking noise and lowered himself once more, and that clawed hand once again left long deliberate marks in the ice, like-- like--

Down came the claw. 

Dalah swallowed, feeling as though something was stuck in her throat. She could almost smell it again for a moment, so many mortal lifetimes later - the scorched mattress and seared flesh, and her own blood. 

“How?” she whispered. “How do you-- you were only just born, you cannot remember--”

There were steps, and her voice trailed off. One last look, and she turned away to hurry back before they had another incident on their hands they may not be able to cover up, steps as quick as her pounding heart.

It did not matter either way, she told herself. Any questions she may have asked would go unanswered: Israfel could not answer her, words beyond him. She’d had her chance to speak to him, all of him, when he’d first been brought to Mephistar and in all the years he'd lived at court. Several occasions, and she’d taken none. Each time she tried to look upon him, she’d turned away. 

Her doom, her folly, a price to pay - never her child. There had been no joy in his birth, much less in his conception; she could only remember the agony of it all, the icy touch of his sire on her skin.

This, too, I claim as mine.

Mephistopheles’ son, one of many. He’d claimed him as he’d claimed her womb and her soul, yet none of it had meant a thing for him. Something to claim and cast aside, like the many artifacts in his vaults, experiments started and interrupted and never looked at again.

But Rahirek had kept him, she was sure of it now. He raised him, looked after him, and even now this mutilated half of him still remembered the star-and-spire sigil of a long-extinct family. She did not recall her husband’s face as well as she wished she could, time and grief eroding her memories like water on stone, but she remembered he was kind. She remembered he had loved her. Of course he’d kept the boy, because he was hers. 

Mephistopheles had claimed so much - he’d been claiming and claiming and claiming for time immemorial - and she’d let him take what he would because there was no other choice she could make, then. She stood no chance to change things… until Lady Baalphegor gave her a ring, and told her to save her son.

Dalah did not know what Baalphegor’s plans for him were; she could only hope it would not end with his death. At the very least, she hoped - what an odd thing, hope, after all those centuries - she may meet the rest of him, perhaps see him whole one more time. Maybe they could talk, then, if only once. She could make it be enough.

This, at least, I claim as mine. *** “Here, this is yours. Lord Sunspear--”

“Starspire.”

“Whatever it may be. The mortal humbly requested this was delivered in your hands personally when we came to collect your possessions.”

Chamberlain Barbas was none too pleased to have been asked to run such an errand for a half-fiend spawn of Mephistopheles, and he had no qualms letting it show. Surrounded by piles of his old possessions plucked from the Material Realm - books, mostly, left carelessly in piles across the floor - Raphael bit back an insult and took the box. 

A wooden box, with the spear-and-star sigil on it. Unlike everything else that had been delivered to his room, he couldn’t recall seeing it before.

“I trust you won’t be needing anything else, little duke,” Barbas said, voice dripping with sarcasm at the title, and Raphael found he couldn’t muster the will to look back at him. He just shook his head, barely listening to the footsteps and the sound of a door closing, leaving him alone again amidst relics of a past life he could never go back to. 

Of all his things, he’d asked that box to be handed to him personally. Raphael swallowed, sat on the ground against the wall, and opened it.

Most things inside, he recognized. There was his mother’s lyre, the one he’d learned to play with, all black wood and ivory details; a book titled Rhymes from the Land of the Purple Dragon which too had belonged to her, and which he'd read cover to cover more than once. The black king from the lanceboard set back home, too, he recognized. There were two things in there he had never seen before: a pendant - a locket, decorated with the star-and-spire motif, and a letter. 

He reached in to pick up the locket, but then his gaze fell on the letter, penned in the familiar handwriting of Lord Starspire, and on the very first words on the upper left corner.

Dearest Israfel.

And it was all wrong, because there was no Israfel and there would never be again. His sire had named him Raphael and his will was unstoppable as the tide. He was to be Raphael, and Lady Antilia had made very clear who that would be. A fiend and a threat, mistrustful and untrustworthy and no one’s dearest ever again.

Raphael’s vision blurred, and he dropped the unopened locket back in the box as though it burned him. He slammed the box shut and pushed it away from him, to slide across the floor. He held his knees against his chest and closed his eyes, trying to make himself small.

If they suspect they have something on you, you must not turn that suspicion into certainty. That’s inviting them to strike. Do you understand?

If you make yourself harmless and toothless - that is the day you die.

He’d understood then and he understood now, but tears still spilled and he pressed his face against his knees to muffle all noise, so that no one would hear. *** Camping in Avernus wasn’t all that different from camping in the Material Plane. As long as one ignored the bare rocky ground, the rivers of boiling magma, the sulfur forcing itself in the lungs with each breath, the unnatural flaming yet sunless sky, the screams and hisses and shrieks and clangs that rang out at all times in the distance, from fights and skirmishes somewhere out of sight. 

… All right, so camping in Avernus was very different from camping in the Material Plane, but they had found a cave that looked as close to safe as it could get, and could finally take turns resting before heading off again. There was also something to be said for the magma taking away the need of starting a fire to cook, really. Durge finished the last of their meal, and looked away from their companions to the only person who was not, at the moment, sitting down to eat. Raphael had taken the first turn to watch out for dangers at the mouth of the cave unprompted, but of course he was not looking outside at all.

On the floor, the wooden box was open, and he  held an open locket in his hand.

There was laughter over something that Wyll had said, but Durge’s attention was already elsewhere. They gave Astarion’s hand a brief squeeze, which he returned, and they stood to walk up to the cave entrance; Raphael did not look up from the portrait in the locket, or acknowledge them in any way as they sat by him. Durge chose to allow a few more moments of silence before they spoke.

“... The same woman we saw in the orb.”

“How very perceptive,” was the dry reply. 

“The same debtor who helped you escape, you said.”

“Are you here to ensure your short term memory at least is still working?” Raphael replied, but his voice was too distant for his words to carry any bite. He was running his thumb over the miniature, his brow furrowed. Durge smiled weakly. 

“Had you never seen her before?”

“No.”

“I can see the resemblance.”

This time the corners of Raphael’s lips seemed to curl upwards, faintly, if just for a moment. “I was told as much, a very long time ago. In this form, clearly. The other one is all Mephistopheles, I suppose.”

“Well, I’d say it’s better than nothing. There is no part of me that did not come from Bhaal.”

“Had Mephistopheles had the power or chance to carve a son from his own flesh, I doubt I’m what he’d have chosen.”

Durge laughed. “He’s slowly melting his own kingdom from the inside out. I’d hesitate to consider him a paragon of wisdom. And besides, I didn’t work out too well as a Chosen of Bhaal either. Even his best laid plans did not account for an improvised lobotomy by a scorned sister.”

This time, the sound that left Raphael more closely resembled a chuckle, and he looked up from the portrait to glance at them. “I wouldn’t blame the lobotomy. If I were a betting man, I’d bet you always had a penchant to wreck any kind of plan.”

A fanged grin. “May very well be. We each have our talents,” Durge said, then, “Your mother was bold indeed, risking the ire of the Lord of the Eighth to save you.”

A scoff, and Raphael snapped the locked shut. “I am under no delusion it was her plan, or even what she wanted to do. She was following orders, that's all. Whose, I do not know.”

“I suppose you’ll have the chance to ask her once we get to Cania.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps she is already gone.” A shrug. “Debtors are of no consequence. Whoever used her as their chess piece may have sacrificed her immediately afterwards.”

“One can always hope for the best, no?”

“... Your other talent, it seems, is finding all the wrong words.”

“Yes, that’s usually why I let Astarion do the talking. Still pisses off a lot of people.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Raphael replied in a tone which suggested he could imagine it vividly. 

A brief pause followed. Durge glanced at the burning sky for a few moments, the House of Hope now merely a dot in the distance now, before they spoke. “... Halsin is keeping a bowl for you.”

“If the tiefling doesn’t put poison in it, I may consider the offer.”

“Not her style. She only needs-- well, can you blame her, given her history with your kind?”

A roll of his eyes, and he reached for something else in the box - a letter, it seemed. “She is perhaps three or four generations removed from being one of my kind,” Raphael pointed out. “Still, point taken. Now, you don’t need to stay and guard the entrance. I can do as much just fine.”

Durge may not always be the best at picking up social cues, but they could tell they were being dismissed. They nodded without a further word and went back to join the others inside the cave, leaving him to read the letter in peace.

*** [Back to Chapter 9]

[On to Chapter 11]

[Back to Start]

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 17

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: M Status: In progress

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

*** Raphael's stint in the Blood War was Eventful and needed a full chapter. Well, almost a full chapter. Haarlep refuses to be ignored for long. Also a bit of a heads-up, this chapter contains references to past grooming. No specific events are shown, but what happened is made pretty clear. ***

There were few things quite as impressive, Raphael mused, as watching an excruciarch at work. There was a strange sort of beauty in someone who clearly took pride in their craft. This one had perfected it into an art, the precision of his gestures exquisite. Raphael could watch for hours, which incidentally was what he’d been doing. 

And listening, too.

There were few torturers who could boast making a marilith scream quite as loud as this one did. Her humanoid upper body was suspended from the ceiling, infernal chains at each of her six wrists, whilst more chains secured her much longer serpentine body to the floor of the cell. Both parts of her anatomy had been sliced open, ribs forced apart with crudely fashioned but extremely effective retractors, exposing the pulsing organs to the excruciarch’s blades. 

To his credit, he played her like an instrument… but her screams had yet to form words, and delightful as her pain was, words were what he needed. Forming full sentences, if possible.

“One moment, if you please,” Raphael spoke, and the excruciarch paused, letting his blade drop. He turned to look at him, eyes narrowed behind the blood-stained leather mask. He didn’t seem to think much of him, but he did move to the side to let Raphael step forward. 

He’d been diffident at first, muttering that he needed no halfbreed - little fox, he’d called him with a sneer, clearly no fan of carefully thought-out tactics - to show him the ropes of his work. Still, he had been quick to see that Raphael had a point when he said that some relief should be given, from time to time. As one’s thirst will be twice as fierce after being allowed a single drop of water for their parched throat, a small measure of momentary relief would make the victim all the more desperate for the pain to end when it started again. 

“You torture beautifully,” Raphael had told the excruciarch, “but we need to hear their plans of attack, not screams alone.”

What Lord Bel had said about demonic hordes lacking strategy was not untrue, but it was also a simplification. Some among the demonic hordes had more than enough intelligence to come up with plans, and even implement them. Mariliths were the main strategists, and they could be quite brilliant… although whether the hordes they commanded would stick to their orders, and if so to what degree, was another matter entirely.  

Still, they suspected demons had some sort of plan. There had been fewer attacks, with fewer forces; that they may be building their strength up for something specific was not too much of a stretch. Still, suspicion alone would not do. Capturing a marilith alive had been no small feat: she had taken down a dozen barbazus before she could be restrained, and even then she’d only gone down after being hit by one of Raphael’s Confusion spells. 

He’d found he could fight, after all, as long as he could cast spells and rain down fire on their foes from a vantage point, nowhere near the vanguard. After all, he’d been told to play his strengths - and he’d done precisely that. In the end, the demon had been subdued and dragged to the Bronze Citadel, where he was now charged with making sure she was questioned. Sharply.

If there was indeed some sort of plan in motion, she would tell them. Raphael would make sure of it. He was playing his strengths now, too. 

A gesture, a healing spell, and the marilith’s scream turned into a gasping groan. She dropped her head, breathing heavily, and Raphael smiled. “Shall we try again?” he asked, grasping her chin to tilt up her head. She opened her eyes to look at him with such hatred, he almost felt sorry that her eyes would probably be the next thing to go. Foaming black blood dripped on the floor. “I would really appreciate to know--”

“When this fortress falls,” she cut him off, voice hoarse, “I’ll have your tongue for breakfast, devil.”

The excruciarch let out a barking laugh. “Told you, cambion. She hasn’t been softened enough. Yet.”

Raphael sighed. “Predictable, but disappointing all the same.” He let go of her face, and stepped back. “Do continue-- ah, apologies. I don’t believe I have caught your name.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“Would you mind? You know mine, after all, your refusal to use it notwithstanding.”

A scoff. It was clear this one considered any pause in his work a waste of time. “Yurgir.”

“Very well, Yurgir. I shall rely on your expertise. Do proceed to soften her as you see fit.” He smiled at the demon who was still hanging from the ceiling, breathing fast. He could see her lungs moving frantically from where he stood. “We’ll try again later, shan’t we?”

“If you think--”

Her remarkable attempt at defiance died down quickly, drowned in yet more screams. Still her voice was quite a good deal more hoarse than when they’d started and, through her cries, he heard a knock at the door of the cell. He turned to see it open, a merregon sticking his head in, holding up a letter. Raphael raised an eyebrow and, as Yurgir kept cutting into the prisoner’s pulsing mass of exposed organs in a bid to break her, he took it. 

His name was indeed on it, in a handwriting he recognized - that of the High Cantor of Mephistar. He leaned against the wall, and opened it. Inside it there were several sheets of paper, but only one was a letter.

Raphael, I have heard you have taken part in yet more battles as of late; I suppose it explains your prolonged silence. I was pleased to learn you made it unscathed. I hope your string of good luck holds; I’d hate having to find someone else to argue with over compositions. Nearly everyone else at court who’s in any way musically inclined turned out to be uninspired at best, dreadfully boring at worst. For all the wrong opinions you so confidently hold on whether one should write the melody or lyrics first, no one can accuse you of being either. I must be feeling the lack of truly stimulating conversation, as my latest composition seems to be quite lackluster. The notes flow well enough, but something is missing and I cannot quite work out what should be done about it. Before I entirely scrap it I figured it might help to seek your feedback, which you so enjoy giving whether required or not. You’ll find the music sheets enclosed. Do not try to suggest lyrics, I beg of you. Last you did, my eyes very nearly rolled off their sockets. Hymnals are truly not your thing. And that jape about horn size was not nearly as subtle as you thought it was. Or were you trying to get me exiled right alongside you? If you wish to see me, you only have to ask me to visit. I’m certain I can find the time, sometime this year. Or this month, perhaps - if you can help with this song. I hope to hear from you soon, if you’re not called into battle again. If you are, be cautious. Antilia. 

Raphael held back from rolling his eyes at the jab, but he was rather certain she’d found the suggestion as amusing as he did. Only, of course, she wouldn’t take the risk of work that into an hymnal meant to praise Mephistopheles. He leaned against the wall, reading the music sheets and humming the notes under his breath, trying to ignore the screams as half a liver was cut out of the prisoner’s body. The passamezzo chord pattern worked well for the verses, but not quite as well for the refrain in-between. Perhaps, with a variation to the--

Another scream rose up, piercing, gargling. This time, there was a word. 

“Enough! ENOUGH!”

Ah, a breakthrough at last. Raphael looked up from the music sheets to see that the marilith, now eyeless as well as missing several organs that may have been vital, once, was hanging limply from the chains. When she spoke again, the foamy black blood dripped from her mouth to the stone floor. “Pardon me, I was lost in thought. Did you say something?”

“E-enough,” she choked out. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell, and then you’ll kill me. Swear to me.”

“My dear, I cannot promise you that,” Raphael pointed out, putting the music sheets in an internal pocket before he approached the demon, to keep them from becoming stained with blood should things get ugly. Or, well. Uglier. “If you lie to me, and then I kill you, I’ll be stuck with false information and no chance to renegotiate, so to speak.”

She snarled, or tried to. It came across as more of a groan. “What then?” she managed, and Raphael stepped closer. There was a squelching sound when one of his boots came down on one of her discarded eyeballs.

“You tell me what your ilk is planning, and I heal the worst of your wounds. None will touch you after. If your information turns out to be correct, I’ll be back to give you a quick death.”

He did not say what would happen if she lied. She knew it as well as he did. Raphael did not trust demons, of course - no more than he’d trust another devil - but he trusted one thing: no one wanted to die screaming. So when she spoke, he knew she was telling him the truth… and that he needed to immediately inform Lord Bel. 

Thankfully, the urgency in his voice alone was enough to convince his guard to let him through, that he needed to consult with him immediately.

And the archduke had been quick to grasp the urgency of the situation, too.

“An attack on the Maw. Are you certain?”

“No, my lord. No demon’s word is ever certain - but she had a strong incentive not to lie. And if what she tells is the truth, their assault on the Maw may free every demon lord imprisoned there.” Raphael gestured towards the map. “That is an outcome we ought to avoid at all costs, I believe. According to the prisoner, their forces have been gathering inside the nearby volcano over months, to avoid attracting attent--”

A loud, cavernous laugh cut him off. A massive pit fiend, not much smaller than Lord Bel himself, bared his teeth in a smile of pure malice. “The halfbreed is so full of shit, it’s a wonder he can even walk,” general Shummrath said. “Demons don’t have a tenth of the discipline needed to pull off something like this. Gathering in secret, over months, in small enough numbers each time to avoid detection? Only one tainted with mortal blood could believe any of this for a moment. Are you working with the demons, boy, or are you an idiot?”

Raphael clenched his teeth. “The prisoner was tortured at length, and she knew the consequences should she lie--”

“Demons are too stupid to understand consequences.”

“Demons are chaotic creatures. It doesn’t necessarily make them stupid. Mariliths in partic--”

A snort, and general Shummrath leaned on his gigantic mace, eyes narrowed. “Not yet three decades old, here less than half of one, and you fancy yourself an expert now? I was killing demons centuries before Mephistopheles wormed his way between your mother’s legs and sprayed the best part of you on her thigh.” 

For a few moments, Raphael said nothing. Fury burned in his belly, clawed its way up his guts, to his throat, and tried to force itself through his vocal cords. Holding it all back took a supreme effort of will, but he did. Trying to eviscerate a pit fiend, one of lord Bel’s generals, before the archdevil of Avernus himself, was suicidal to say the least. 

So he forced himself to remain calm, and answered the only way he could - with words. “And in all these centuries,” he said, raising an eyebrow, a bored note to his voice, “you have not thought up an insult I haven’t heard a hundred times before.”

Shummrath’s bestial features twisted in something that was half grimace, half grin. “What a surprise, that a cambion would be arrogant. What do you think it is that makes you so special? Your fancy parentage, or the fact you didn’t have to do a thing to earn the wings on your back as true baatezu do? I’d have half a mind to tear them off. Bel, I say we send this halfbreed back to his father in pieces and--”

“It’s Lord Bel, general. Or Archduke, if you’re inclined to use longer words. You seem to forget my title dreadfully often as of late.”

General Shummrath’s grin disappeared, and for a moment he almost scowled openly… but of course, he knew better. “My apologies, Lord Bel. I simply--”

“You,” Bel cut him off, turning to look at Yurgir. The excruciarch  had been silent through the meeting, but seemed to stand a little taller when the archdevil’s eyes paused on him. “Mariliths don’t give up their secrets easily. How long did you work on persuading her, precisely, before she spoke?”

Yurgir tilted back his head to meet the archduke’s gaze. “The better part of three days. She was tough, I’ll give her that. But I have yet to meet a demon I cannot crack,” he added, a note of pride in his voice. “And she did crack, my lord.”

Bel’s gaze shifted on Raphael, who nodded. “Yurgir did an extremely thorough job. I cannot claim I know for certain that what she said is the truth. But if it is - we cannot ignore it.”

Archduke Bel let out a hum, eyes going over the map. His gaze paused on the huge volcano which stood not too far away from the chasm they called the Maw. Many centuries later, he’d come to reside in that volcano after losing his position in favor of a newly fallen Celestial called Zariel. Bel’s Forge, it would be called then… but as of now, it was nameless. And, if the prisoner spoke the truth, brimming with demons. 

“No, we cannot. Some of their best generals and commanders are imprisoned there. If an assault were to free them… it wouldn’t quite cripple us as they must think it would, but it would be vexing indeed.”

A groan. “Lord Bel, you cannot possibly believe--”

“You’re dismissed, General.”

“WHAT!” he snapped, and the archduke of Avernus raised an eyebrow. 

“I believe I spoke in a clear and intelligible way, did I not? Raphael, what did you hear?”

It took Raphael some effort to hold back a smile. “You’re dismissed, General,” he answered.

“Ah, so I was clear. Just as I thought.”

“Lord Bel, this is--”

“Which part of ‘you’re dismissed, General’ confuses you, exactly?” Bel asked, almost conversationally. “Is it the general part? Do you no longer wish to be one?”

A moment of silence, a long breath. “No, my lord.”

“You’re dismissed, Shummrath.”

The general seemed about to say something, features twisted in fury, but he clearly thought better of it. With one last glare towards Raphael - he should not, he supposed, count that specific pit fiend among his allies - he turned to leave, hand clenched tight on a mace almost as tall as Raphael himself. 

“... Now,” Bel spoke again, looking down at the map once more. “If the prisoner’s confession is true, we have quite the problem on our hands. The volcano was a good choice of hiding place - launching an assault on it would mean losing legions, with no guarantee of success.”

It was always hard to tell whether Bel was thinking aloud or expecting others to give their input. Raphael followed the archduke’s gaze to the map; he looked at the Maw, and then some way west, where the Mirror of Mephistar stood - his lord father’s servants’ means to keep an eye on the First. Did they bother to keep an eye on him too? Did Mephistopheles ask them to? Would he listen to their reports, would he care whether he lived or died or dove headfirst into the Styx to… to forget…

“We’ll add men to the garrison at the Mirror Maelstrom, obviously,” Bel was saying, unaware of Raphael’s thoughts. “And then we need to think of a way to draw the demons out in the open. Perhaps, if we pretend to move the prisoners someplace else--”

“The Styx,” Raphael spoke, and the archdevil looked at him, taken aback. 

“What of the Styx?”

“Forgive me, my lord - I did not mean to interrupt, but--”

“If you have something to say, speak.”

Raphael nodded, and pointed at the banks of the Styx near the Mirror of Mephistar. “This is the closest the River of Blood comes to the Maw. If we were to carve a canal, in a straight line from here to here, we could flood the chasm with its waters.”

“And drown the Mirror Maelstrom in it?”

“No, of course - a dam would ensure we can control the flow of water, so that our garrison is safe. The prisoners, on the other hand, would be subjected to its effects - from memory loss, to a weakened mind.”

Beside him, Yurgir scoffed. “And you think their forces would let us do it? They’d be on us the moment they work out what the canal is fo--” he began, only for Raphael to turn with a smile. 

“Precisely,” he said. “They would never sit by and let us do it.”

A moment of silence, and Bel suddenly laughed. It was the crack of thunder, the rumble of a volcano; the disembodied heads of celestials which adorned his belt each gave a weak, agonizing cry before falling silent again. “Hah! And thus they’d come out in droves, to stop us or to storm the Maw before we can carry out the works.” He smiled down at Raphael, all fangs. “Yes, it is an excellent idea. Do you think you have what it takes to see it through?”

“... My lord?”

“I’ll give you workers to start digging, and a legion to stand by, out of sight. When the enemy comes out to try and stop the canal, or to storm the Maw - whichever they decide to do first - you will meet them in the open field. And you’ll destroy them, or die trying.”

Well. Refusing was clearly not an option - nor Raphael had any intention to try. It was his idea, after all; he’d trust no one else to see it through. And of course, it may be his chance to prove he could win more than a handful of mortal souls. He could win battles. He could win glory.

Earn your own victories in my name, Mephistopheles had said when he’d last spoken to him almost five years earlier, and there will always be a place for you in my court, as my son.

It was time to find out if he’d meant it. 

“... I’ll bring you their heads, Lord Bel,” Raphael finally heard himself saying. By his side, Yurgir spoke up, eyes ablaze behind the leather mask. 

“My lord-- if I may-- I ask permission to go as well.”

Bel raised an eyebrow. “I think they’d hardly need a torturer in battle.”

“I have been an excruciarch for a long time, my lord. I take pride in my skills, but I can fight. I want to fight.”

“And advance in the hierarchy, I take it?”

“If I am ready to. If not, I’ll die in battle and that will be it,” Yurgir replied, and Bel laughed. 

“I do like the way you think,” he conceded, and nodded. “Very well. The Bronze Citadel is protected well enough; we can send some of our garrison to the Maw right away to bolster its defenses. You both leave in twelve hours, alongside workers to start digging the canal and-- what is your name, excruciarch?”

“Yurgir, my lord.”

“You’re now part of the Sixteenth Infantry Legion. Congratulations. Report for duty to Commander Fyrcas and tell her to come to me right away for further instructions. Raphael, I’ll tell her that she is to report to you directly, as this is your plan, but keep in mind - she is an experienced commander and she will have my permission to defy your orders if she deems them detrimental. But it shouldn’t be a problem unless you plan to order our soldiers to jump in the Styx, or something equally moronic.”

Raphael bowed his head. “I don’t plan to, my lord.”

“No, I don’t think you would. If she defies your orders and our forces lose, it’s on her head. If she follows them and we lose, it’s on yours. Return victorious, or do not return at all.”

“Understood. I will not fail.”

“I certainly hope so. You’re dismissed. I expect you to come see me three hours before departure, to discuss the details.”

“It will be done, my lord,” Raphael said, and that was that. But he did find the time, before leaving, to send the music sheets back with his feedback, along with a quick note. 

If I don’t live through this, you’ll at least have a song to remember me by. Least you could do is mention me in it, he wrote, as a jest. 

At least it had felt like a jest when he penned the words. As he left the safety of the Bronze Citadel at the head of a legion of soldiers - plus two hundred guards bound for the Maw and three hundred more devils to be put to work - he was not entirely sure it had been a jest at all. 

If he died on that mission, a song at least would linger. It may live on longer than he did. Maybe Lady Antilia may even miss him, for a time. Perhaps even for a good while - but what was time, to immortal beings living out their entire lifespans?

A few hundred years’ time, he thought, and they won’t even remember me, Mephistopheles least of all. How many more cambions will he have sired by then?

The prospect was daunting, and Raphael knew there was only one way to avoid oblivion - succeed, and survive. He would not, could not fail. He’d return victorious, gain himself a place back at his father’s court. Maybe he’d welcome him back as he said he would, call him son one more time, just one more time, father, please.  

Surely, it wasn’t too much to ask.

***

Haarlep did not, generally speaking, need sleep. 

That didn’t mean sleep wasn’t something they enjoyed: even devils benefited from rest, from time to time. But unlike mortals, they could go a very long time without sleeping - or meditate, or whatever it was that elves did - and it would not kill them the way it would kill a mortal. Raphael was the same way, although Haarlep suspected his human heritage had something to do with the fact he slept more, and dreamed more vividly, than they ever had. 

So vividly, in fact, that from time to time Haarlep had found themself thrown off the bed by a flailing limb or a fluttering wing. They had learned quickly that Raphael only stayed put in his sleep with their body against his own; not necessarily pinning him down - although that was not a rare occurrence - but resting close at least, skin on skin and legs intertwined. Then he’d settle, and his sleep seemed restful at last, for all his complaints the next day on how Haarlep just couldn’t keep their hands to themself.

Haarlep didn’t mind, really. Of course he complained; that’s what brats do. 

He was dreaming now, they could tell from the small twitches in his limbs and face, the movement of his eyes beneath closed eyelids as he slept, back against Haarlep’s chest and head resting against their shoulder as they leaned against the wall in a half-sitting position. 

What he dreamed of, they did not know. Was it one of his nonsensical dreams? Was he whole again, in his mind?

“Do you ever dream of me, little duke?” Haarlep murmured against his hair. There was the smallest sigh at their voice, head turning a fraction, warm breath against Haarlep’s neck. 

The incubus smiled, and decided they didn’t need an answer to a question they’d never ask to his face. So they covered him with a wing and turned their gaze back to the mouth of the cave, looking out for any threats.

***

Raphael’s plan to draw out the demonic hordes hiding in the volcano worked perfectly, right up to the moment he realized exactly how many demons were coming shrieking at them. Then, he wished it had worked just a touch less perfectly. 

Every lesser devil who’d been working on the canal was slaughtered in a matter of minutes, but that was to be expected. They were fodder, nothing more, to keep the massive horde busy just long enough for Raphael to bring the horn to his lips, take a deep breath, and blow. 

The Sixteenth Infantry Legion was there in mere moments, as though the soldiers had sprung up from the Styx itself, and they met the horde right as they attempted to make a dash for the Maw. And then it was carnage and chaos, with no time for Raphael to fall back on his usual tactic of spellcasting from the rear. He was in the midst of it all, forced to fight in close quarters, and he’d have to do his best not to die… but his best was not good enough. 

Raphael never got to see the demon who dealt the first bone-shattering blow, but he certainly felt it when half his ribs caved in and he was thrown back, the firebolt he’d been about to cast fading into sparks between his fingers. He cried out and tried to regain his balance, but there was another blow - the slash of a blade - and blood spilled forth from his throat, his larynx torn open. Wounded, his voice gone, unable to cast - he was as good as dead.

No. No. Please. No.

His knees buckled, and he fell on the ground. When something huge stepped over him - a demon, another devil, who knew in all that chaos? - he felt his spine snap, and lost all feeling in his legs. Raphael ground his teeth and tried to lift himself on his elbows. Before him was a maw demon, fangs glistening, so close he could see the flesh and bones stuck between its teeth, see the darkness down its gullet…

A mace fell down on the demon, and fangs were broken, flesh exploding in so much pulp. Distantly, Raphael recognized the soldier who dealt the blow - Yurgir, the excruciarch so eager to leave the safety of the Bronze Citadel for war. He did not look back at him, however: he probably hadn’t even noticed him there. He turned, and was back in the fray.

No help would come from him. No help would come from anyone. Whether he lived or died was up to him. He needed healing; he needed souls. Raphael ground his teeth, and reached beneath his armor, for the small pouch of infernal coins he was never without. His hand closed around the coins, his will reaching for the souls within, forcing them out of the metal, opening his mouth to absorb them, to heal, so that he may live another day.

There was a rush of power, as always when consuming souls, just as a balor came within his field vision, flaming whip raised, ready to strike. And then--

Then, for a time, everything was flames and blood, mangled flesh and shrieking fury. Try as he might, Raphael could recall little else. He’d remember bone breaking in his grasp, flesh rent by claws and tusks, the taste of something foul in his mouth - mouths . He’d remember heat, almost unbearable even for him, charring and melting devil and demon alike, cracking stone, burning everything in its path, that white flame he’d seen so often in his nightmares.

But none of it added up to a clear picture: it was all noises and sensations, sudden flashes and smells - of blood and rot and fear. He’d remember a roar, he’d remember being only distantly aware that it was his own. And then he was himself again, clad in a half-melted armor and caked in gore, kneeling in a daze in the midst of a battlefield that was a battlefield no more. All around him were only charred corpses, still burning in hellfire. It was everywhere and the demons were gone, every last one. 

Standing a cautious distance away, the legion’s survivors were staring in speechless silence. Few of them had ever witnessed the true devastation of hellfire before, or the unbridled fury of an Ascended fiend.

In the end, what truly snapped Raphael from his daze was a familiar voice. Yurgir’s. 

“Hey, little fox,” he called, voice a few octaves higher than usual. “What the fuck was that?”

***

“Nnnh…”

It was barely a groan - more of a slightly louder exhale of breath - that caused Haarlep to tear their gaze off the burning sky outside. In their arms, nestled between their folded wings, Raphael was twitching slightly in his sleep; if not for their grip, if not for their presence, he’d be doing the entire tossing and turning routine. 

He was still dreaming and, if the way his features twitched was of any indication, it was not a pleasant dream. If they were in the House of Hope still, they would--

“Is he well?”

Ah, Haarlep thought, the wood elf druid. The extremely good looking wood elf druid they hadn’t had the pleasure to properly meet until now. He spoke quietly, as to not awaken Raphael or his other companions, but even so his voice was a pleasant rumble as he sat right by. A healer, this one was. Haarlep couldn’t say they had met many of those.

“Only having a bad dream,” they said, brushing back Raphael’s hair with a hand, running their fingers slowly over his scalp. That always soothed him, and this time was no exception; his features smoothed, for now, his sleep less agitated. “Or a particularly nonsensical one, or both. It usually is both. But nothing that doesn’t fade away on awakening. Don’t you worry that beautiful head of yours.”

“Ah, I see. That’s good. I’ll admit that the duel was a closer call than I’d have like-- what is it?” the druid asked when Haarlep chuckled. 

“Oh, come now. He’s asleep. You don’t have to feign concern.”

“I am not in the habit of feigning concern. None of us is,” the druid replied, an edge to his voice; Haarlep was rather surprised to detect no hint of deception, not the slightest hesitation. 

They stared a moment before grinning. “Ah, of course. If he dies, he can’t show you where the Sword of Zariel is.”

They expected an annoyed look, but the one they got seemed somewhat saddened instead. This one, they decided, was confusing as he was good looking.

“That was not on my mind when I pulled him back from the brink. Nor was it on my companions’ minds - at least, not at the forefront. Is it truly inconceivable to you that we'd care for the fate of someone who fought by our side, sat at our campfire, shared our meals?”

For a moment Haarlep thought back of Dalah, of the entirely unwarranted concern for their safety despite the fact she needed nothing from them. It was a mortal thing, they knew, to show concern for others for seemingly no reason. Raphael had told them it happened a lot in the Material Plane, and that it made for excellent leverage when it came to tricking mortals into signing away their souls; it had never occurred to them, however, that they would go as far as extending that to devils. “It sounds lovely, really,” they finally said. “It’s just not how things work here. Aw, no need to look sad, or I’ll be tempted to turn that frown upside do--”

Another muffled noise, and Raphael turned into their arms, whatever he was dreaming of clearly not letting up. It reminded Haarlep there was another frown to take care of and so they did, tilting their head just enough to press their lips against Raphael’s forehead. It once again soothed him, for now. “Not getting much rest, are you, little duke?” they murmured. 

“... I can stand guard, if you like,” the druid offered, and Haarlep sighed before taking him up on the offer. They did not need sleep, but Raphael was demanding their attention even now. He’d always been such a troublesome little brat, they thought, and took his form again on a whim before they lay on their side on a bedroll, pulling Raphael down with them. 

“Haarlep?” Raphael mumbled against their chest, voice thick with sleep, and they shushed him, enveloping them both in their wings again.

“Here I am, pet. Sleep,” Haarlep told him, and so he did. Peacefully, too.

For a while.

***

Word of Lady Antilia’s arrival at the Bronze Citadel reached Raphael in the midst of celebrations which had been going on for almost three full days, since the moment he’d set foot back inside. Celebrations he’d been greatly enjoying, truth be told, not least because they were almost entirely in his honor.

It still took him under half a minute to excuse himself from the grand hall and head towards the balcony where Antilia had been instructed to wait, trying to smooth back his hair and uncrumple his doublet to an acceptable degree.

Fine silks which were common in Cania were in short supply at the Bronze Citadel, and indeed across Avernus. Leaning on the balcony against the perpetually red sky, looking at the endless battlefield with a cup of wine in her hand, the High Cantor of Mephistar was a dream in green and gold. And dangerous, as dreams are.

“As pleasant a surprise as your visit is,” Raphael spoke, wasting no time on a greeting, “I doubt you’ve come to visit me on your own volition.”

Antilia looked back; from the crinkle at the corners of her eyes, he could tell she was smiling behind the cup. “Would you believe me if I told you I am here out of my concern for your well being alone, and this has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact the current talk of Mephistar is how you leveled half a battlefield with hellfire?”

Raphael laughed. “Certainly not. I may have not lived as long as you have, but I am not a child anymore.”

This time, she snorted in a decidedly unladylike manner. She put the cup down, next to another cup and an open bottle. “I am not that much older than you.”

“Oh?”

“... How old do you think I am?”

“I’ll sooner head back to the battlefield now than venture an answer, if that’s all the same to you.”

“Clever lad,” she said, parroting the voice of an old woman. She turned back to look out, over the fortifications, towards the rest of Avernus, and her smile faded. “Of course I was sent to verify the claims, and report.”

“Surely, this is something his spies could have done,” Raphael said. Through the Serpentine Order, Mephistopheles had no shortage of eyes among the troops in Avernus. And yet he’d sent his High Cantor; no one’s first choice, surely. Did he trust her more than his seasoned network of spies, or did he think their overall cordial relationship would loosen his tongue?

Unaware of his thoughts, she shrugged. “Truth be told, it seems rather unnecessary. There is little you need to confirm. I already knew you have an affinity for hellfire. You never mentioned anything about ascending, though.”

“I was not aware I had that capability until… well. Until days ago.”

“How did you do it?”

“I am not certain. It just happened. I was outnumbered, and absorbed souls out of soul coins to try and gain more--”

“Arcane firepower.”

“Excuse me?”

A faint chuckle. “It’s a thing Lord Mephistopheles says often. ‘Few problems cannot be solved through the application of overwhelming arcane firepower’. It seems that’s what you did.”

“... I cannot argue it’s not effective,” Raphael said, and looked away. In the distance, columns of fire shot up along the river Styx. “I knew hellfire to be destructive, but that went beyond my expectations. It was never his intention to spare me, was it? He had no plans to grant me a chance to prove myself when he forced hellfire down my throat. It was meant to destroy me. He didn’t think I’d survive because he didn’t know I had, as you put it, an affinity for it.”

You knew it, though, the unspoken part went. You always knew, yet never told him, warned me not to tell either. It saved my life.

Lady Antilia was quiet for a moment and then, slowly, nodded. “It seems the most logical explanation, yes,” she admitted, picking up her cup again.

“And when I did not die, he changed his mind so I could be… what? An experiment, to see how much I can actually do with hellfire? Is that what I’ve been for the past five years?”

“... It is not for me to know our liege’s plans. I am but a humble servant.”

“So, what will you report?”

“The truth, of course. That through the use of a handful of souls, you Ascended and used hellfire to single-handedly win Lord Bel’s troops a seemingly losing battle.”

“Flattering.”

“Would you like me to say you did it all with an arm tied behind your back?”

“And blindfolded, if you please.”

“Quite the blindfold, to resist hellfire.” A chuckle and then there was another, longer silence. In the end, Raphael poured wine in his cup, and held up the bottle. Lady Antilia nodded, and held out her own cup for him to pour more. Raphael filled it up, and took a swig 

Was my father impressed at all?, he wanted to ask, Will he let me come home?

But she likely did not know either, so that was not what he asked when he spoke again. For all the letters they had exchanged, this was the first time he and Antilia could speak in person in years. And all along there had been a question on his mind that he dared not write down. 

“... Do you happen to know who it was, to inform my lord father of my-- slip of the tongue?”

“Perhaps I do. You are aware that you cannot trust a word out of my mouth, yes?”

“Let’s say I’m not aware. What would you say, then?

“Then I would tell you it was magistrate Bele.”

It did not come as a surprise, not quite. Raphael could easily imagine the rat’s oily smile while relaying the information to Mephistopheles. It was the smile he always wore, the one he’d had on his face when he’d first approached him, a scarce year since his arrival to Cania. All encouragement and words of praise - the shallow flattery and attention a boy desperate for approval would fall for. And fall for it he had. 

Magistrate Bele had played him like a fiddle; he’d known as much the moment he’d awakened in a bed that was not his own for the first time, but he hadn’t wanted to admit it. There was shame in it, for any devil, to admit to having been played - let alone for a son of Mephistopheles who yet hoped to impress his sire. So he’d told himself otherwise; if he got something - pleasure was something - out of it, then surely he wasn’t the one being played. He was no victim. He could fancy himself a player, an equal, when he so plainly was not.

Raphael clenched his jaw, but he voiced none of those thoughts. Lady Antilia had even warned him, as soon as they’d met, to mistrust anyone who told him they could be trusted. He was not going to tell her now that he hadn’t followed her advice, and paid the price.

“I imagine,” he finally spoke, his voice distant to his own ears, “that he did not admit to being present when those poorly thought-out words were spoken.”

“I’d imagine not. I’d imagine he’d have claimed to have heard it from a reliable source.”

“And Mephistopheles would have believed that?”

“Mephistopheles would not have cared what he was doing when such words were spoken. All he’d have cared about was the fact he’d been disrespected.”

Raphael scowled. “They were just words, ” he snapped, acutely aware of how petulant, how childish his protest had to sound. Lady Antilia tilted her head. 

“There is power in words. You know that - I’d be out of a job if it were not so.” A pause, and she looked up at the burning sky. “Lord Mephistopheles may allow you back after this. It is likely, even. But you seem to have carved a place for yourself here. Why not reconsider whether you truly wish to return to Cania? Lord Bel sings your praises. He’d gladly have you.”

“I haven’t left Cania on my own accord. I left as an exile. I don’t intend to let that stand.”

“And you’d rather return to procuring mortal souls for our liege lord?”

“... I might. I have a talent for it.”

“You do. And it is less deadly than fighting demons, I suppose.” she conceded. A pause, a chuckle. “You know, I only visited the Material Plane once. I cannot say I was impressed. Much too bright. My mother’s people were not especially welcoming either.”

“Ah, I see. Humans can be--”

“She was not human,” Antilia cut him off, causing Raphael to blink. She shrugged, and closed her eyes. A burst of flames, bright as it was short-lived, and when she turned to face him fully he saw that her mortal form was not that of a human woman: it was that of a high elf. She smiled, beautiful in that form as she was as a fiend; her usual braid had come undone, hair falling over her shoulders in a wavy, silvery curtain. “I never knew my mother, of course. I can only assume I resemble her, in this form.”

Raphael nodded. “A fair assumption to make. I was told I resemble mine, once.” He allowed the memory to sit on his mind a few moments before he pushed it away, and emptied his cup of wine. He considered telling her she was beautiful even by elven standards, but he did not. He was too old to behave, again, like a crushing boy. “Did you finish your song?” he asked instead.

“Oh, yes. I took some of your suggestions on board--”

“Not all?”

That musical laugh again, after so long. “Nearly all,” Lady Antilia admitted, and she held out her hands. A lyre appeared in a burst of flames, hovering in mid-air. “Would you like to hear it?”

“I’d love to hear which suggestions you wisely took on board, and which you foolishly did not.”

She ignored his jab, of course. A single, elegant gesture of her hand, and the lyre began to play on its own. Then she extended that same hand, palm up. “May I have this dance?”

Raphael blinked, and made an effort to suppress a fluttering in his chest. Nothing showed on his face, though, or at least so he hoped. He raised an eyebrow. “Etiquette dictates I should be the one to ask.”

“You were not asking, little duke.”

“A grave shortcoming. I hope you’ll forgive me for the slight.”

“So much talk. Did you spend so much time tearing demons apart you forgot how to dance?”

While it obviously was not an activity one got to do often in Avernus, Raphael had not, in fact, forgotten how to dance… although a much smaller dance partner than himself would make it more challenging when it needed to be. However, that was easily solved.

It had been years since Raphael had taken his human form - no use for it outside the Material Plane - but he donned it now, with hardly a thought and not a word. He didn’t have to admit how good it felt, like slipping his hand inside a glove he hadn’t used in a long time to realize how well it still fit. He bowed, and held out his hand. “May I?” he asked.

The High Cantor laughed. “You may,” she replied, and made the lyre start playing anew with a snap of her fingers before placing her hand atop his.

After the utter chaos of the battlefield and celebrations, the dance was a welcomed change of pace. Every step was measured, every movement - each step forward and backwards, each release and rejoining of their hands, each sidestep and turn as they circled each other before coming back together, palm to palm - perfectly calculated as they moved in unison. 

Many of the hardened soldiers of Avernus may have found such courtly dances boring; he, personally, thought them elegant and dignified. The High Cantor was never anything less than dignified, and Raphael found that he wouldn’t have it any other way: the image of her he’d built up in his mind would crumble to nothing otherwise. A childish infatuation had turned into something else, a kind of yearning that he knew would fade if he ever tried to reach out and found out she was not unattainable after all.

So he never did reach out, no more than it was proper. When the music ended and she pulled her hand back, he resisted the impulse to grasp it again and press his lips against it. Something about her look told him she knew, or at least guessed, but she said nothing of it. She closed her eyes and in a burst of flames she was once again in her fiendish form, towering over him. Somehow that, too, felt right. 

“... You know, I have not thought of lyrics for this song yet. It’s yours as much as it’s mine. Perhaps I won’t make it a hymnal after all,” she said, and smiled, smoothing down her green dress. “You may write your lyrics for it, and I’ll write my own.”

Still in his human form, Raphael tilted back his head just slightly to meet her gaze. “To compare them?” he asked, and Lady Antilia, High Cantor of Mephistar, gave that harmonious laughter of hers again. Her hand reached to cup his cheek, and this time he was unable to hide a sharp intake of breath. Again, if she noticed, she did not say.

“Oh, no. We never tell anyone, especially one another, what lyrics we wrote. That’s the entire point,” she told him. Then she pulled away her hand and that-- love -- was that.

***

Haarlep knew that the bout of peaceful sleep was over when they felt something wet against their chest, moments before Raphael’s breath hitched audibly. They blinked, taken aback, and curled a little tighter around that human form of his. 

Beneath the curtain of their wings, they spoke softly against his hair. “What is it, little duke?”

“Nothing,” Raphael ground out. But his hands were clenching on the loose silk shirt Haarlep had on, and his frame trembled. Haarlep had seen him cry many times - made him cry many times, to be precise, within the confines of the boudoir; they had him sobbing loudly more times than they could count, as a matter of fact - but this, they could tell, was different. 

A human heart with only half a soul in charge, Haarlep thought, must be a terrible thing.

“Oh, come now,” they murmured, letting go of Raphael’s waist to tilt up his chin with a hand. They kissed his eyelids, felt the salt in his tears. “Mighty Raphael wouldn’t weep for nothing.”

A long, shaky breath. “I don’t feel mighty,” he finally whispered. “Not anymore.”

“It’s only a matter of time, my little brat. And then you can make true on your promise to rip my tongue out,” Haarlep reminded him, and grinned when they felt Raphael’s lips quirk a moment against their throat. “Unless, of course, you decide to let me keep it for better uses.”

“... Perhaps I will.” A long breath, then, “Lie to me,” he whispered.

Another kiss and then another and another, across the bridge of his nose, his forehead, his cheekbone. “I love you,” Haarlep murmured, time and time again, like a mantra, until Raphael closed his eyes again and sleep claimed him for the final time that night.

***

[Back to Chapter 16]

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[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 14

Illustration (and art in the chapter) 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: M Status: In progress

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

*** I proofread this while well into the second bottle of wine of the evening. You may find typos. You'll probably find typos. ***

“Lord Mephistopheles summons you.”

“Mmmnng.”

“... I would greatly appreciate an indication my words have been heard and understood, if it’s not asking too much.”

With a groan, Raphael blinked his eyes open and lifted his head. Standing by the side of the bed Adonides, Steward of Cania, stared at him with the complete lack of expression that usually indicated his highest disapproval. Through the headache that usually followed a somewhat excessive use of gughalaki, Raphael tried to recall if his approval was something he cared about. 

He came to the conclusion that it was not, and sat upright without bothering to cover himself. Not that he could even if he’d wanted to, with the sheets bunched up on the floor. The empty floor. The bed was empty, too, except for himself. Raphael blinked. 

“Where…?”

“Your guests were quicker to awaken than you were, and have been escorted outside by my guard. Now, have you or have you not heard--”

“My lord father summons me, yes.” Raphael held back a groan, and stood.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he was in a sorry state indeed, with bruises and bite marks across his shoulders and hips and thighs. Purplish bruises marked his throat too, where fingers had squeezed the air out of him, and there were claw marks across his chest. “Do you know what for?”

“No. Lord Mephistopheles owes no explanation to me, or to you.”

Of course not. Archdukes of the Hells owed no explanation to any of their servants, or to the halfbreeds they sired on unfortunate mortals. After all, there was no difference between the two. Through the mirror, Raphael saw Adonides’ jet black eyes run across his body before he averted his gaze. “... Do make yourself presentable, little duke.”

Raphael scoffed, casting a healing spell on himself and, after a moment, one of restoration to get rid of the after effects of… anything he imbibed the previous night. He stretched his wings briefly. “I don’t have to take lip from a glorified butler,” he muttered. 

“Nor I from a glorified salesman who wishes he was a courtesan,” Adonides replied, features now twisting in contempt. “Yet here we are.”

“You can find your way out without my assistance, I trust.”

He could, and did. Raphael allowed himself a bath before putting on clean clothes, a slight scowl on his face as he buttoned up his best doublet. Summons from Mephistopheles were rare enough - once, twice a year, less than that if he became obsessed with some other arcane experiment that would consume his attention for a time, before being inevitably discarded for a newer, shiny project. Which would, of course, be abandoned in turn. 

The Lord of the Eighth was very proficient indeed when it came to discarding things - projects, subjects, devotees and offspring alike. Nothing held his attention, and Raphael had long abandoned any hope he may be an exception; over a decade since his arrival in Cania, the days when he’d nearly stumble over himself in his rush to respond to Mephistopheles’ rare summons were behind him.

If his sire summoned him, it was to give him a task - be it win over a specific soul for him, act as the middleman to forge some specific contract with a mortal of some importance, or observe and report on activities of his slowly growing cult in the Material Plane. At best it would be tedious, at worst unnecessarily complicated, and failure was never an option. Not a problem, that: he never failed. Not that his father had ever deigned to recognize as much.

Raphael finished buttoning his doublet, brushed back his hair, and gave one last look at the mirror before he headed out and towards the throne room, walking at a brisk pace. He may no longer stumble over himself to answer a summon, but it didn’t mean he found it wise to keep Mephistopheles waiting too long, with his bursts of temper legendary as they were. Raphael had never been at the receiving end of one, nor did he ever plan to be. 

But that day, nothing would go according to plan. 

His first inkling of impending doom came to him in the form of the High Cantor, walking away from the ice doors leading to the throne room just as he approached, green and silver robes flowing behind her as she walked.

“Lady Anti--” he began to greet her as he passed her by, only to stop in his tracks when her hand shot out to grab his wrist, holding tight. Raphael raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to ask what may be the matter, only for words to turn to ash in his mouth when she spoke in a fierce whisper. There was no music to her voice now: it was all iron and fear.

“Don’t lie,” she said, not looking him in the eye or indeed even turning to look at his face; her grip, however, did not waver. “Don’t try to lie to him. He’ll know.”

He’s not going to give me a task, is he?

Quite suddenly, any annoyance Raphael may have felt over being summoned was gone, leaving behind only dread, cold as the ice of Nargus. “I… of course I would never--”

“Fall on your knees,” she cut him off, still staring dead ahead, voice low enough so no one who may be watching them could hear. “Beg for forgiveness. Crawl if you must, but never try to lie to Mephistopheles. Do you understand?”

Mouth dry as a desert, Raphael could only nod. Antilia nodded back, a quick jerk of her head, and let go of his wrist before walking past, not looking back once. Raphael did not look back either: he only stood there a few long moments, frozen on the spot, staring at the doors beyond which his father lay in wait. 

His mind rushed to think up several different scenarios, none of them good; the most obvious guess, the only one that made sense, was that this time he’d gone too far by taking five souls for himself at once. Mephistopheles may have noticed, or his bribe was not enough this time and someone informed him. However it had happened, he knew… and he was never the forgiving sort. 

… Or perhaps he didn’t know for certain. Perhaps he had suspicions and Raphael could yet talk his way out of it; perhaps the High Cantor was trying to scare him into incriminating himself before his sire. Had she not warned him herself to trust none, and especially not her?

If they suspect they have something on you, Rahirek Starspire told him, only years and yet a lifetime ago, you must not turn that suspicion into certainty.  

He’d been a boy of twelve, then, sitting by the warmth of the hearth and talking over a game of lanceboard with someone who, he’d known, would never raise a hand on him in anger. Now, as he stood before the icy doors behind which his liege lord sat on his frozen throne, he knew there was so much more at stake.

I can sort this out. I must. And even if he knows, it was but a handful of souls. I am am-- his son -- an asset, he will see it, he must see it.

Raphael drew in a deep breath, chased away the sense of dread and, with a carefully neutral expression on his face, pushed the doors open. 

Lord Mephistopheles sat on his throne as he always did, reading from a scroll as though he hadn’t even noticed the doors swinging open. That day, he wore the visage that most dubbed the Lord of Hellfire - crimson skin like Raphael’s own, pearl-white eyes with no pupils visible, a black beard cropped short on his chin. The resemblance was obvious, when he was in that form; Raphael no longer knew how it made him feel, so he told himself it didn’t make him feel anything and bowed. 

“My liege,” he spoke, voice smooth and confident as could be. “I’ve been told you have asked for my presence.”

“I have commanded your presence, halfbreed,” was the response. His voice was calm, eyes still on the scroll. Raphael bowed his head once again. 

“And I am yours to comman--”

“Come closer,” Mephistopheles cut him off, still in that calm, somewhat bored tone. He put the scroll down, though, and turned those white eyes to him. They reminded Raphael, not for the first time, of a deep sea fish; laying in wait until their unaware prey came too close, was lured too close, and they could snap their jaws on them. 

Come closer, their lure would say, and Raphael had no choice but to comply. He stepped closer, stopping on the spot where Mephistopheles would usually have visitors stop, between the two pits - the column of fire and the column of souls, several paces away from the throne. He looked up to see those eyes narrow. 

“I did not tell you to stop there.”

Dread twisted in his stomach, but he did not let it show. He muttered an apology and walked closer, and closer-- you must not turn that suspicion into certainty, that’s inviting them to strike -- up the steps, until he stood before the throne. Even seated, his father towered over him. Now he leaned forward to look him in the eye; they had never, Raphael realized, been so close to one another… and he’d never so wished he could turn and run.

“I have been told,” Mephistopheles spoke, calm, almost conversational, “that you have developed a few habits some would consider disgraceful for one of my blood.”

He doesn’t know, Raphael thought, the knot in his stomach loosening just a fraction. Was he going to berate him for his sexual proclivities? As much as he wished to believe as much - a humiliating ordeal for certain, but unlikely to lead to a too severe punishment - some of the dread remained. Would Mephistopheles truly personally summon him over that?

Raphael was careful not to let any emotion show on his face. “Disgraceful, my liege?”

Mephistopheles’ brow creased, and reached to lift Raphael’s face, a claw pressing underneath his chin almost hard enough to breath skin. It got a sharp breath out of him, but no protest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought that this was the first time his father had ever touched him. And he was very much aware it may easily be his last, too.

“Don’t play coy with me, halfbreed. True devils, centuries and millennia old and more, have tried and failed. How old are you, whelp?”

Raphael swallowed. “Five-and-twenty, my liege.”

A low laugh, not unpleasant but somehow all the more terrifying for it. “A quarter of a century since you fell squalling out of your mother’s womb, and you think yourself grown. How fittingly human.” The last word was spoken with a casual disdain that made something clench in Raphael’s chest.

“I am not human,” he spoke, hating how he failed to keep his voice collected, failed to keep a hint of desperation from creeping in. But it was true, was it not? He was not human, he was no mortal . He had the blood of an archdevil in his veins, his blood, how could it count for so little in his eyes?

“Ah, yes. You’re a fiend, aren’t you?” A fleeting smile, a flash of white in the blackness of his beard. “Then you have to understand, you are still very much a child. A petulant, self-important, shameless child. Do you think I do not know how you debase yourself behind closed doors? There is hardly a fiend in my court, it seems, who hasn’t had you. One would think I’ve sired you on an incubus, rather than on a mortal.”

The dread in Raphael’s stomach twisted into something else, shame burning hot as embers. 

He was not ashamed of his wants - he was not - but something in Mephistopheles’ voice and gaze made him feel so small, so-- pathetic and pitiful and worthless -- utterly wrong, he couldn’t help but feel it now. 

“My liege, I am far from the only one--”

“Yet you are the one who’s become the talk of Mephistar.” The claw pressed harder against the skin beneath his chin, forcing Raphael to crane his neck with a hiss. Even so, he suspected it had broken skin, for he felt something slide down his neck. Or perhaps it was only sweat. “Entertaining guests with your body and vast amounts of that foul concoction from Maladomini. Larger amounts, I am told, than you should be able to afford.”

He does know.

All strength seemed to leave Raphael’s legs; if not for the claw pressing into his skin, he may indeed have fallen on his knees, any notion of trying to talk his way out of it forgotten. “My liege,” he finally managed, heart beating wildly somewhere in his throat. “For all my shortcomings, I wish only to serve you. And I have served you well. I have brought you souls, bring more every day--”

A twist of Mephistopheles’ lips, almost a sneer but not quite. “I see. And you decided to reward yourself for the service. Was living in my court not rewarding enough?”

“I--” Mephistopheles leaned forward, eyes fixed on his, and Raphael choked on his words.

“What more do you want, whelp?”

“Nothing! My lord, I ask for nothing--”

“DO NOT LIE TO ME! ”

Three things happened in quick succession. Mephistopheles’ hand closed around Raphael’s neck in a vise-like grip, choking the scream that tried to leave him; at the same time the furious face before him seemed to waver, change, shift just below the surface of what the eye could see. Raphael caught a glimpse of something beneath, something ancient and seething, snarling through too many teeth, ready to tear his heart out. 

Then Mephistopheles stood from his throne, lifting him in the air by the throat with no effort, and his face was his own again - but his eyes blazed and Raphael knew, with utmost certainty, that it would be the last thing he ever saw. As his hands grasped the-- down came the claw -- unrelenting grip around his neck, as his wings beat uselessly, he sucked in a breath to try and speak, beg, scream. “My lord--!”

“Perhaps you’d wish to sit on my throne. Is that what you covet, you ungrateful wretch?”

Call me Archduke.

A memory of the previous night, a flash of clarity, and suddenly Raphael knew what it was all truly about. It wasn’t so much about the souls he’d taken for himself, or how many fiends he’d let in his bed. It was all about those words, the ravings of a mind steeped in too much drugs and pleasure to truly understand the magnitude of the blasphemy he was uttering. He hadn’t put any thought in it; he hadn’t meant it; it was no challenge. 

But to Lord Mephistopheles, it made no matter. He never did, never would, suffer insolence. 

“No! Please, I did not think-- I did not mean--”

“Or do you think yourself so important you can show such disrespect to the Lord of the Eighth before an audience, and live to tell the tale? Are you so arrogant to believe you cannot be replaced? You’re inconsequential, halfbreed. None will notice you’re gone but those you whore yourself out to.” Mephistopheles sneered, and held up his other hand. On the palm danced a small flame - almost white, impossibly hot, scorching even for a creature of fire.

Raphael understood at once, and terror gripped his chest, sank its claws in his heart. 

His own claws sank into his father’s hand; he may as well have been trying to scratch through iron. He kicked into the air, beat his wings, and none of it helped. He was but an insect, thrashing uselessly in a spider’s web; a wounded mouse beneath the cat’s claws; the scorpion without a stinger, helpless in the jaws of the snake. 

And still he fought a battle he could not win, desperate to live.

I’d have died for you if you only asked, once, a distant, detached part of him mused. But that was then; now all the rest of him, his mind and body and soul, cried out for mercy. 

“No!” Raphael choked out, trembling in every limb. His heart hammered, his vision blurred. He knew what dying in Baator meant: the eternity before him crumbling to nothing, with death putting a swift end to all he was, all he could ever be. “Father, I beg of you!”

A laugh, cold as the howling winds of Cania. “Did you presume calling me such would soften me? I am your sire, and you’re but a spurt of seed I willed to quicken a mortal’s womb. Your life was mine to give as it is mine to take. For your insolence, take it I shall. Let it be your last lesson.”

Mephistopheles moved snake-quick, before Raphael could utter another plea, let out one last scream. His palm pressed against his son’s mouth and hellfire poured into it, down his throat and chest, incinerating everything in its path. 

Raphael did not scream, not outside of his own mind. He could not, with hellfire reducing his tongue and throat to ashes, charring his lungs. His wings beat wildly for a moment, but it was only a reflex: the agony was too unspeakable for him to give his muscles any sort of voluntary command. Every cell and nerve was burned in flames none could withstand. When he hit the ground he was convulsing, unable to think of anything but pain, of how he needed it to end. 

Had he still had a tongue and vocal cords to plead with, he’d have begged his sire to kill him. 

Hellfire engulfed his insides and began to pour out, too, out of his mouth and nostrils and eye sockets, his eyes running down his face in blobs of melted, boiling viscous fluid. Before that happened, plunging him into darkness, the last thing he could glimpse through the hellfire was the column of souls some way to his left. Without thought he somehow willed his arm to move, held out a hand towards it.

There was something, a surge of power… and then, for a time, there was nothing more.

Nothing, at least, that he’d remember upon awakening.

***

“... And oh! Of course, there are blood fiends.”

“Blood fiends? Why, I’m interested.”

“Don’t be, spawn. They’re creatures of the Abyss that prey on other fiends to imbibe their blood, not convenient sacks of blood on legs.”

“Oh, a shame. So there were demon vampires, too?”

Walking a few steps ahead of Durge, Wyll nodded. He looked just a touch too amused for someone talking about aberrations and demons as they crossed another stretch of desolate land, leaving behind the blood and corpses of a small band of demons they had crossed paths with soon after setting out.

“Absolutely! Sometimes they sneak in the Material Plane. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few found their way into the Hells during one demonic raid or the other, though I have yet to meet one here.” 

“I have met a few,” Raphael spoke, nose wrinkling, as he carefully stepped around yet another tar pit. “Disgusting creatures.”

A laugh. “I must agree with the sentiment,” Wyll said. “I wouldn’t approach one even if I was desperate for blood, Astarion. And this is coming from a man who ate nothing but abyssal chickens for a month straight once.”

Halsin raised an eyebrow. “... Excuse me, you just said abyssal-- what?”

Wyll made a vague, flapping gesture with a hand. “Abyssal chickens. They’re evil manifest, let me tell you, but they do taste… somewhat close to actual chicken. If it was a very sickly and evil chicken.”

“Now you’ve got to be joking.”

“I’m not. Ask the devil.”

“Is he joking, devil?” Astarion turned to Raphael, who shook his head. 

“There is indeed such a creature. Relatively common in Avernus, compared to other creatures from the Abyss.”

“Demon chickens.”

“... Granted, they do only marginally resemble chickens. They  are tolerated for their meat.”

“You devils eat and drink a lot, for beings that don't need to do either.”

“We consider eating an indulgence as any other,” Raphael replied, gaining himself a questioning look from Halsin. 

“Does food feel any different, now that it actually nourishes you?”

“It…” Raphael paused for a moment and frowned, as though to consider the question. They’d come across a chasm, deep but not wide, and they all could easily enough jump across. By the time they were on the other side, Raphael seemed to have thought of an answer. “While the food I’ve been consuming doesn’t compare to what I’m used to feast on, it does feel somewhat more gratifying,” he conceded. “I’d never felt hunger before, and therefore I did not know what it felt like to quell it. That’s not, I suppose, the worst part of the mortal experience.”

Astarion laughed. “Oooh, so you’re telling us you’ll miss this when you’re whole again?”

A scoff. “You, I shall not miss.”

“Doubtful, with that aim.”

“You wish to be turned into a sheep again, is what I’m hearing.”

“Oh no, we already saw that. You should make him dance next,” Wyll grinned, only for Astarion to huff in mock outrage.

“Oh, of course, let’s give the devil ideas. What a bright plan.”

Following a few steps behind, keeping an eye out for any more invading demons, patrolling devils or whatnot, DUrge chuckled at the banter but did not intervene. Frankly, they had made the decision to walk at the back and in silence for quite a specific reason - they were waiting for someone else to speak.

 “Hey, soldier. Got a minute?”

Ah, there it was. Durge turned to glance over at Karlach, and nodded. No point in pretending they didn’t know exactly what it was about. “Of course.”

Karlach chewed her lower lip a moment, eyes darting to the others - several paces ahead, out of earshot as long as she made an effort to speak quietly - before looking back. “... Remember what I told you in Moonrise Towers, about Flo?”

Florenta the Garroter. A half-fiend, the closest she’d had to a friend in the Hells, who’d left some soul coins for her to collect as long as she listened to the tales of woe of the souls within them. Willing to lend you a hand, she’d said, as long as she could crush you with the other. She’d left a letter as well, which Karlach had dismissed as cambion manipulation… but as she read, it was impossible not to notice a pang of something that was a lot like hurt.

That was not how Durge had expected the conversation to start, but they still nodded, and she kept going. “... I told you I always knew not to let my guard down around her,” she went on. “But that’s not entirely true. I mean-- I learned fast not to let my guard down around her. I did, once.” She made a face. “I won’t give details, you don’t need them and honestly, it still sucks to think about it. I let my guard down once. She took full advantage of that one time.”

Ah. Durge was starting to see where that was going. They nodded. “I see. I’m-- sorry. You didn’t need that on top of everything else you had going on.”

Karlach sighed. “I kinda always told myself I did have it coming for being dumb enough to trust a devil.” A pause. “Shit-- not that I’m calling you dumb, or that you deserve to get fucked over when he’ll inevitably turn on your, It’s just-- ugh! Fuck.” A groan, and she rubbed her face. “... Can you ignore the past thirty seconds and let me start again?”

Durge chuckled. “By all means.”

“Great. Thanks. So, about Flo - when I told you about her, you told me a leopard cannot change its spots, and I told you that a devil will never not break your heart. Remember?”

“I recall. But--”

“And I meant it, soldier.” Karlach didn’t break her stride, but she did reach to grasp their wrist and hold onto it. “They will never not break your heart. Whatever he did, whatever he said, it’s just manipulation. It’s got to be, because devils live to do that shit. It’s their bread and butter.”

Durge stared at her hand a moment, feeling the warmth that came from it, and spoke as they kept walking, as they kept looking out for potential threats. “Rest assured, my heart is not in his grasp to break,” they said in the end. Their gaze paused a moment on the others just ahead, and on Raphael’s back. He didn’t seem particularly amused by whatever Astarion was telling him, if his body language was anything to go by, but he kept walking by his side. 

“He recalled some unpleasant memories last night, and came to seek me,” Durge said in the end. “He knows it’s not something I am unfamiliar with. We simply talked--”

“He told you he was upset, he acted like it. But I’ll bet you this tin can in my chest, it was all an act,” Karlach said, a hint of something like frustration emerging in her voice amidst all the concern. “Please, soldier, listen to me. I know you and the others spent time with him in the Material Plane, but I spent that time with the souls of people who made the mistake of trusting him. He manipulated and fucked over every single one of them.”

“... I can imagine.”

“Some of them weren’t the greatest people you’ll ever meet, granted, not like Hope - but none of them deserved what Raphael put them through. Some had been there for centuries. He tried to get his claws into Mol too, remember? A kid! It’s what devils do, cambions most of all. They’re some of the most dangerous, because they know mortals so fucking well.”

“He is no devil now--”

“But he is Raphael. You said so yourself, a leopard cannot change its spots.”

This time, Durge did turn to look her in the eye. “That was before I learned what I am, and what I did.”

They had spoken quietly, no anger in their voice - it was only a statement, a simple truth they both already knew - but it still made Karlach recoil. “Hey, hey, no. Shit, I didn’t mean to bring it up. You’re not--”

“I am still a bhaalspawn. Even with the urge within me gone, I remain a being carved out of Bhaal’s dead flesh. And the things I have done in his name cannot be undone. I butchered innocents. I murderer children. I dreamed of nothing but drowning the world in blood.” A pause, and they sighed, looking down at their hands. In their dreams, they still dripped with blood. “... You know all this, or at least guessed. Every one of you did. And still, you don’t recoil from me. Still, you honor me by calling me your friend.”

Karlach drew in a deep breath, and put a hand on their shoulder. “Because you earned it, all right? You’ve been my friend. You helped save the Sword Coast - all of Toril for all I know - and you saved my life. You’re risking your neck again for me and Wyll. That matters, all of it.”

“Thank you.” A faint smile. “But you know it was not always so. I joined forces with Gortash, the man who sold you to Zariel. I knew what he was and what he did. For all I know, he may have boasted about using you as a prototype for his Steel Watch, and I’d have admired that. I admired him . And as much as I was capable, I may have loved him, even. If--”

“Eugh.”

As Karlach stared at them, face paralyzed in  a horrified rictus, Durge raised the scaly ridge that served as their left eyebrow. 

“... Why is it that out of everything, this is always the last straw for you guys?”

Karlach made a face. “Sorry, just-- ugh. Come on. How? What did you even see there?”

A chuckle. “I may never know. Many memories are lost to me. When we met again, he had remained the same and I had changed too much for that connection to be there anymore.”

“Well, thank fuck. Let me tell you, Astarion and Halsin were both fucking upgrades.”

“Heh. Duly noted.” They smiled faintly, and reached to put a hand on Karlach’s own on their shoulder as they kept walking. “But I need you to understand - I am very much the leopard who changed its spots. And I owe it all to an act of violence from my own blood kin. One that was meant to destroy me, and set me free instead.”

Karlach stared a moment, and chewed her lower lip again. Finally, she glanced ahead. Raphael had taken the lyre off his back and was playing something that Durge recognized as the first stanza of The Knights of Dragon Down. It was rather easy to guess that the request must have come from Wyll. Particularly as he was the one doing the singing. Badly.

“I really don’t think Raphael has any plans to change his spots,” she muttered in the end.

Durge shrugged. “Me neither. But I understand his predicament better than most.”

“Or that’s what he wants you to think, so he can be whole again.” Karlach looked at them. “Please, tell me you see why that would be a terrible idea.”

“... I do, yes.”

“And…?”

“And I believe we should focus on killing Zariel as per Mizora’s orders, and see that she holds her half of the bargain by giving you what you need to fix your engine for good. Then-- I’ll see. It’s entirely possible that once he reclaims the other half of his soul, his only concern would be keeping away from Mephistopheles. I doubt there is any place in the Hells, save perhaps Nessus, where he’d be entirely safe from him.”

Karlach groaned. “Oh gods.”

“What?”

“I know what that means. You’re going to say yes.”

Ah. Well. They were easy to read, it seemed. Durge nodded, their gaze just a little apologetic. “I believe so, yes. Obviously I’ll speak on my behalf only. I would not have you come--”

“Ah, fuck off. I’m not staying in the Material Plane smelling flowers while you risk your ass for the bastard. If you’re going to Cania, I’m coming to Cania. Only I’ll need-- look, we need something to make sure he won’t fuck with Hope all over again once he’s himself again.”

“I’m certain that can be arrange--”

“Because if he does, I’ll split his skull in two.”

Durge grinned. “Sounds good to me. I am trying to be fair - it doesn’t make me a paragon of mercy. If he turns on us, we end him for good.”

“Oh, good. ‘Cause I’ll be very surprised if he doesn’t--” she began, only to trail off suddenly and stop in her tracks, turning her head, listening. It didn’t take long for all of them to hear it, too; ahead of them, the others had stopped too. Shrieks and clangs and screams, getting louder, coming closer - and fast. 

“Demons!” Wyll cried, they all reached for their weapons as a small horde of tanar'ri came charging at them over a rocky outcrop, fangs bared and blades in hand. As Durge prepared to cast, they heard Karlach laugh.

“Poor fuckers,” she muttered, and charged with a cry right into the shrieking horde.

***

“... It is uncanny, I must say. You look precisely as Raphael did then, when Mephistopheles sent him to serve me in the Blood War.”

Acutely aware of several erinyes’ wary gazes on them - Oreasha seemed particularly eager to reach for her sword at the slightest provocation - Haarlep bowed their head in something that was both a nod and a bow. It never hurt to bow before the former archduke of Avernus. 

“Oh, I am certain I do, lord Bel. It was not too long afterwards that I was sworn to Raphael. Such a pretty thing he was, so full of youth! I must say, that has somewhat changed.” 

Seated on something that very much looked like a throne, carved out of the wall of the very volcano they were in, the huge pit fiend bared his fangs in a smile. “He has not changed all that much, if he still lives when his father would wish him dead,” he said. “When Mephistopheles sent him to Avernus, it was in the belief he was sending him to die. Yet that spawn of his has a way of defying expectations. I did not expect him to last long either, but he proved me wrong. A cambion commanding hellfire - never thought I’d see the day.”

Most archdevils - most devils, really - would be loath to admit as much aloud. They’d be loath to be proven wrong, even if it worked to their advantage. Lord Bel had no such qualms; one of his many peculiarities. Haarlep would have honestly loved to find more peculiarities about him - surely he was massive in all ways? - but alas, they were on a mission.

“Raphael was always full of surprises, my lord,” Haarlep replied, bowing their head again. “But his circumstances have never been as dire as now. Half a soul, human to boot, and traversing Avernus with mortals. If he is to retrieve the sword and end Archduke Zariel--”

“She is no true archduke,” Oreasha hissed from the half-light, cutting them off, as though she’d just heard him insult her master. “The fallen Celestial was named such for losing. Lord Bel rose to hold the title through his victories. The rightful ruler of Avernus shall rule it aga--”

“Enough,” Bel cut her off, although it didn’t escape Haarlep that he’d let her run her mouth a few more moments than necessary. The message came through loud and clear: he would not incinerate them for referring to Zariel as the archduke of Avernus, but he wouldn’t be pleased either. Haarlep certainly wanted to please him now; they were about to do just that, only unfortunately not in the way they knew best. “Continue, incubus.”

Another bow. “Thank you, my lord. As I was saying, If he is to recover the sword and infiltrate the Flying Fortress to use it against Zariel, he will need your assistance. I have been advised by a reliable source that you have information which may be of help.”

Lord Bel’s flaming eyes narrowed. “... Your source was not wrong. I know many things that may help hasten Zariel’s fall. What I do not know is why the Lord Below is not demoting her himself, if he’s so inclined.”

Haarlep smiled. “I know not what you mean, lord Bel,” they said. “The Lord Below knows nothing of this. Zariel’s recklessness in battle, and her lack of sound strategies, has led to members of her inner circle conspiring against her, as one does. Not the first time such a thing happens, likely not the last. That is all.”

“Ah, of course.” A laugh, some green venom dripping from Bel’s bared fangs. “This has nothing to do, I am certain, with the fact Zariel has been heard asking questions about the circumstances surrounding her fall. Or that she keeps visiting the damned hollyphant in her dungeons, and returns either in shrieking fury or dazed and taciturn. Which would come first, I wonder, if this was allowed to continue - the remnants of the Celestial within rearing her head again, or the realization of who, truly, caused her to fall when the Ride failed?”

Well. Haarlep had been warned, hadn’t they? Bel was sharp as his fangs, calculating as they come, and nearly impossible to deceive. So they decided not to even try. “I would not know for certain, lord Bel. I am but an incubus. What I do know is that something is indeed underway to eliminate Zariel; Raphael was caught up in it by chance, and plans changed. My source is keen to give him a chance to succeed in this mission before he can be tasked with another, more arduous one.”

There was a snort as Bel rested an elbow on the armrest of his stone throne, leaning forward. Around them, magma kept boiling, the low rumble of the active volcano ever in the background. The guards remained still and silent. “Your source is keen to see if he has what it takes. I rose through all ranks, from lemure to archdevil. I know a test when I see one.”

“... Perhaps it is as you say, my lord.”

“Another task, eh? It doesn’t bode well for the Cold Lord. His consort, too, has left the court.”

“Forgive me, but I only know that which is revealed to me, and may divulge that which I am allowed to divulge. My current task to ensure Raphael gets a fair chance. Even the odds, so to speak, as long as he’s a mortal. Any help you may offer will be gratefully accepted.” 

And, was the unspoken part, kept into account when it came to choosing who would succeed Zariel, once she was the archduke of Avernus no longer. Haarlep did not need to state as much, nor did Bel need to hear it: he knew, and again bared his fangs in a smile. 

“I shall, then, offer assistance. Oreasha - the horn.”

The erinyes - beautiful thing, erinyes, but a little too likely to tear out one’s spine mid-act for Haarlep’s taste - stepped forward, and held out her hands. In a burst of flames, a horn did indeed appear in her grasp, made of bone and infernal iron. “Give this to your master,” she told Haarlep. “If he needs assistance in battle, he needs to blow in this horn, and we’ll come to his aid. I will only work once a day. Tell him to use it wisely.”

Haarlep did not think Raphael had done anything wisely in his entire existence and strongly doubted they could compel him into starting now, but they kept their mouth shut. They nodded, taking the horn. “Your help is gratefully accepted. I’ll take it to him right away.”

“You know exactly where he is?” Bel asked, and Haarlep nodded.

“I left a sending stone with him, when we last met. He still has it, and I hold the other one.”

“Good. Ah, and once he has the sword, he should inform my erinyes. I have information as to when the Flying Fortress is to dock next, and of course I have agents inside. It would be wise to infiltrate it covertly. And I do have a suggestion as to how, perhaps, they may ensure the archdevil Zariel comes to an end without having to battle her for it.”

While Haarlep had precisely no idea what that may entail, they figured it was something they could think over later - well, have Raphael think over later: they had been thinking more than enough lately. It seemed premature to even wonder about it, before they even got their hands on the sword, and-- ah, wait a minute. “If there is a way to bring an end to her without the sword, perhaps there is no need for him to go all the way--”

“No,” Bel cut them off with a sharp gesture of his hand. “He’ll need the sword either way, and retrieving it falls on him. It goes without saying that, in the extremely unlikely case the sword allows him to wield it, he should not do so. I suspect he knows as much already.”

Haarlep stared. Blinked. Tilted their head. “... Apologies, my lord. If the sword allows it?”

A grumble. “I have not gone senile, incubus, if that is what crosses your mind. The sword is sentient, and decides on its own who may wield it. And the mere act of wielding it, attuning to it, will forever change the creature who holds it.”

“A terrible fate,” Oreasha hissed. “White feathers sprouting in blinding light.”

Ah, so the sword turned its wielder angelic. For all the remarks Raphael had made about his human form’s ‘angelic complexion’, Haarlep somewhat doubted he’d set aside his ambition to become archdevil to turn archangel instead. Although they had to admit, ‘archangel Raphael’ had a nice ring to it.

“I’ll make sure to keep his hands otherwise occupied,” Haarlep said in the end, and were rather proud when Bel’s chuckle gave way to a throaty, full-belly laugh.

***

“Wyll! Duck!”

“Where?”

“That was terrible !” Karlach half-yelled and half-groaned, hurling her handaxe towards him. 

The joke was indeed terrible, but even as he uttered it, Wyll did duck without even bothering to turn. The handaxe flew past him and caught a vrock in the neck just as it swept down. It gave an agonized shriek and tried to fly off before it fell on the ground, to be trampled by a charging hezrou coming straight at Karlach. 

“Dolor!”

Wyll’s blast knocked the demon back and away from Karlach, though it didn’t outright kill it. As Wyll ran his rapier through the belly of a wounded dretch which had attempted a last-ditch charge, Halsin easily finished off the wounded hezrou. Even in the heat of battle, he chuckled, taking a moment to elbow Durge in the ribs.

“Ah, look at them,” he muttered, a fondness to his voice, while Durge downed another demon with a well-placed strike of lighting. “They truly fight as one.”

There wasn’t a lot of time to spare focusing on anything but the fight - it wasn’t like demon hordes were keen to politely line up to attack one by one - but Durge still did cast a glance over at Wyll and Karlach. 

They always fought well together, but their months in Avernus had certainly honed their bond and skills. They each seemed to know precisely where the other would strike and how; they were covering for one another, and yet they were never in each other’s way. It was almost like a dance. Wyll ducked effortlessly out of the way of Karlach’s swinging greataxe as it cleaved through demons, and Karlach was never touched by Wyll’s blade or spells. When she grabbed a vrock in mid-air and hit yet another balor with it, he followed up immediately with a blast that sent the balor screaming into a crevice, from which it never resurfaced.

No wonder, Durge thought, that just the two of them could hold their own against all of Avernus’ dangers for half a year. They were a force to be reckoned with. “I could almost wonder why they even need our help to take on Zariel,” they laughed, and turned to see a balor charging at them with a guttural cry, a sword in one hand and a whip of flames in the other. They lifted Mourning Frost, preparing to cast, but it turned out not to be necessary. 

“Impero tibi!”

Raphael’s spell took hold, and the demon skidded to a halt. For an instant it was still and silent, slack-jawed as Raphael’s will overcame its own; then it shrieked and turned on its kind, catching a vrock mid-swoop and tearing out its wings before it turned its flaming whip against the very dretches it had summoned. A useful spell in the Hells, Durge thought, just as another vrock crashed dead mere feet from them with one of Astarionìs bolts through its eye. 

Durge brought up a hand, creating a wall of stone to shield his and Halsin’s side while forcing the next wave of demons into a more narrow path, making them slip on the icy surface created by an ice storm spell. The ice never lasted long in Avernus - already it was beginning to melt - but once it had turned to water, it served them well for lighting spells.

With their side covered and Halsin repelling the next attack, Durge spared a moment to glance over to their left. 

Karlach and Wyll’s synchronicity was a thing of wonder but, they had to admit, Raphael and Astarion fighting back to back were also a sight to behold. Astarion had ditched the daggers for once, opting to rely on spells and a crossbow in each hand. Splattered with blood and with a cut on his forehead, he looked like he was having the time of his life. By contrast, Raphael was casting spell after spell with deadly focus, lips pulled back to show his teeth in a sneer. 

“Barrel-sharp, the wit on you,” he snarled at a particularly miserable-looking dretch whose stone throw had entirely missed the mark. It let out a groan, just moments before the balor bound to Raphael’s will flattened it with a squelching noise, scattering its rotten entrails across the rocky ground.

“Oh, was that as disgusting as it sounded?” Astarion laughed without turning, shooting yet another bolt to down a vrock. Raphael wrinkled his nose. 

“Exceedingly so.”

“Wonderful. Ah, more of those things coming - care to juice me up a bit?”

“Oh, is your aim not as sharp as your canines after all?”

“If you want them in your neck, you only have to ask.”

A scoff, but Raphael did grab the lyre, playing the tune Durge had learned to recognize as that of bardic inspiration. They didn’t keep watching, though: they turned their attention to the upcoming new horde, and lifted Mourning Frost to cast. A single cone of cold did in most of the weaker demons, but their strength was in numbers and yet more were coming. Perhaps they should casting darkness and then make a hasty retrea--

“LEAVE NONE OF THOSE BASTARDS STANDING - BUT DON’T YOU TOUCH THE MORTALS, VERMIN, OR I’LL MAKE A NECKLACE OUT OF YOUR SPINES!”

Durge blinked, and turned just on time to see a swarm of Merregon legionnaires charging down the same rocky outcrop the demons had come from, halberds in hand, shrieking and hollering, leaping across crevices and rivulets of magma. The charge caught the demons by surprise, and most were slaughtered with hardly enough time to react, but Durge didn’t turn to watch the carnage. Their eyes remained fixed on the massive figure standing atop the outcrop, laughing, a massive crossbow in his hands. 

Durge knew that hulking figure well. They knew that laughter, too; they’d last heard it atop the Netherbrain, as its owner dealt a final blow on a red dragon, fighting by their side.

“Well. Hello, little rabbit. It’s good to see you again.” Yurgir grinned, baring tusk-like teeth. Then his eyes shifted and the grin widened.

Wait. Shit.

Durge turned to see Raphael staring back, wide-eyed and pale-faced behind Astarion, just as Yurgir spoke again, cocking his crossbow.

“And I see you’ve brought me a gift.”

*** Halsin, watching Karlach and Wyll fight as one: "ah, true love" Durge, watching Astarion and Raphael fight back to back: "hot damn" ***

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[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 11

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: M Status: In progress

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

*** I honestly don't know what Raphael was expecting his first audience with Mephistopheles to be like, but the answer is still probably 'Not This'. ***

Despite Avernus being-- well, Avernus, Karlach had recently found it had a few features that made it… not too unbearable, all things considered.

First thing first, it didn’t make the engine in her chest overheat to the point of explosion, which was a plus. Until that tin can had started overheating in the Material Plane, Karlach hadn’t even thought she could count ‘my heart isn’t threatening to literally explode’ as a blessing, but there she was. Secondly, while being pretty much the definition of a hellish landscape and a near-infinite battlefield where demons or devils or both could show up any second, it had a surprising amount of deep, easily defensible cave systems where they could set up camp in relative - very relative - safety after clearing out of their occupants, which were generally either imps or hellsboar. The latter were pretty tasty roasted on a spit, too. 

And third, of course, there was the company. She loved-- well. Most of the company.

The devil tagging along - who may not be a devil anymore on a sheer technicality but was still a fucking devil as far as she was concerned, the monster who’d tricked and trapped and tormented all the souls she’d spent the past weeks with and who of course tortured Hope for no damn reason but his own amusement - had been a surprise. And not a pleasant one. 

If they really needed him she could bear his presence like she’d been able to bear Mizora’s at their camp half a year earlier… but that didn’t mean she had to like it. When her turn came to stand guard at the entrance and she walked up to him, she had to really struggle to ignore the urge to grab her greataxe and give him… just a little tap on the top of the skull with the blunt edge. But, as her greataxe actually did not have a blunt edge, she didn’t. 

Instead she stopped a few feet from him, tilting her head to see what he was even doing. The box she’d thrown to his hea-- given him was open on the ground, the letter he’d been reading earlier folded and placed back inside. Next to it was the Spider’s Lyre, but the strings were gone and Raphael was tinkering with the black lyre that had been in the box. Karlach frowned, and stepped closer.

“The fuck are you doing?”

The only response she got at first was a scoff. Raphael didn’t even look up, still working on the lyre. “I may be consuming the souls of the innocent, or stringing a lyre. I’ll let your intellectual prowess lead you to the answer.”

Ah, the bastard. Good thing she was there to take his place watching out, because the idiot would probably get them all killed. Half an army of Orthons could walk past him while he was focused on the stupid lyre. “You’re supposed to be watching out for dangers.”

“I cast a glyph of warding on the ground just outside. If anything steps on it, it will trigger.”

Karlach rolled her eyes, and went to sit at the entrance as well. “Oh, great. I’m sure fucking glad wings are not commonplace here,” she muttered. “Does it trigger when flown over?”

“Do feel free to launch yourself outside and find out.”

“Don’t tempt me into launching you out.”

“Perish the thought. I’d hate to tempt anyone.” Raphael sneered, like he hadn’t tempted countless into far worse fates, still not looking up. This time, Karlach’s hands really itched to grab her weapon; still, she only glared… and saw something glinting at his neck. She recognized it immediately: the locket with the star-and-spire motif on it, the one with the miniature portrait. She sneered right back. 

“Kinda brazen, isn’t it?” she muttered. “Wearing a portrait of your first kill.”

Raphael’s hands stilled for a moment, still holding onto the string he was fastening, and his features twisted… but then they smoothed over again and, with another scoff, he resumed stringing the lyre. Something about his calm demeanor pissed her off even more. Just earlier that day, she’d watched souls - people - she’d learned to know flee deep into the House, cowering as far away as they could from the foyer. They all trembled, some stuttered pleas to be left alone - any peace they had managed to painfully regain ripped away by Raphael’s mere presence.

His sadness, Hope had called the box, but he didn’t seem nearly sad enough, nowhere near as sad as he’d made countless souls over godsdamned millennia. Nowhere as hurt as the souls in the House of Hope had been, as Hope herself had been… as a kid called Enver Flymm must have been, not too long ago, trapped in Raphael’s own slice of Hell.

This bastard fucked him over, and Gortash fucked others over in turn. Fucked me over sure enough, sold me to a damn devil like he was. Maybe none of this would have happened if Raphael never bought him. He’d have never grown up in Avernus, never met Zariel, never sold me to her. I’d still have my own heart and I wouldn’t be here now. But he did and here I am, and this bastard was the start of it all. Gortash is dead but the devil is still here.

Unaware of her thoughts, and probably uncaring either way, Raphael just spoke again. “As you’re so familiar with the fate that befalls any mortal mother of a cambion,” he said, voice even, “you’ll no doubt know I had no awareness of what was happening, and certainly no intention--”

“What does it matter? The plague doesn’t mean to kill anyone, but it’s still the fucking plague.”

It was a cruel remark; heartless, some might say, and very fittingly in her case. This time, she hit a nerve. Raphael winced as though struck, and the string he was securing to the lyre cut deep into his hand, near the base of his fingers. He hissed, and let go of the lyre to grasp the injured hand. Blood dripped on his trousers, on the lyre; Raphael stared at his bleeding hand for a few moments before breathing out, somewhat shakily. 

Karlach expected some kind of response - a temper tantrum, maybe, or a show of indifference again - but at first there was none. He wiped blood off the lyre as well as he could with a sleeve, put everything back in the box with one hand before he picked it up, awkwardly, and stood. 

“I’ll leave you to be our guard dog for the night. I trust Zariel has trained well enough for that at least,” he finally ground out, and turned away without another word, back inside the cave, a trail of blood in his wake. Fitting, that. 

She found herself staring at that blood for a few moments, and sneered… or tried to. She had wanted to get a rise out of him, but now the smile felt forced on her lips. Much like when she’d taken down Gortash, it didn’t taste like triumph. It didn’t taste like anything. She’d hit the mark and made him bleed, and he’d deserved it, yet it gave her no joy whatsoever.

Karlach sighed and turned her gaze to the burning skies outside, wondering if beheading Zariel with her own hands might, at last, do the trick.

***

“You’re wounded.”

“How very observant.”

“If you need healing--”

“Vis medicatrix.”

Ah, of course he could heal himself; Halsin had almost forgotten about it. He watched the cut on Raphael’s hand close up, and held out a clean towel when he began looking around for something to wipe off the blood. 

“Here,” he said. He kept his voice low enough not to awaken the others, who were asleep a few paces away from the fire where he sat. He was not quite tired enough to sleep yet, and had been whittling away until Raphael had come to sit by the fire too. When he replied, his voice was almost as quiet.

“... At least it’s passably clean.” He took the towel somewhat stiffly, and used it to wipe his hands before he opened his box and wiped the lyre clean as well. Half the new strings were on, the rest yet to be put in place; it was easy to tell now how the wound had come to be. The lyre cleaned, Raphael turned his attention to the blood on his trousers and sleeve, nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Cold water,” Halsin, who was rather certain the devil did not know the first thing about laundry, spoke.

“... Excuse me?”

“To get those stains out. You’ll want to use cold water and soap, before the blood can clot.”

A pause, a small sound that may even, with some effort, pass off as a chuckle. “And here I thought a druid would be more inclined to use stains as an excuse to do away with clothing entirely.”

“I will not deny I find clothing restrictive, but--”

“I know someone you might just get along with.”

“--You do learn how to take stains out of clothes when looking after a few dozen children.” 

“A worse torture than I ever could have engineered, and you do it voluntarily?”

Halsin chuckled. “I spent time untold wishing I had a chance to become a father. I am grateful to be one to so many, now.” A pause. “... I could help, if you’d like. With the blazer. Change into your camp clothes before the blood dries and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Suspiciously helpful.”

“If you’re wondering if it’s an excuse to get you to strip, no. I’d be far more direct, believe me,” Halsin quipped, and this time Raphael’s lips actually curled into a faint smile before he nodded and went to his tent to change.

It wasn’t too bad, really: the blood was still fresh enough that some cold water, soap, and a good rubbing did the trick. After putting the blazer to dry, Halsin was satisfied to see he got all the blood out. He sat back next to Raphael, and resumed whittling. “It’ll be fine to wear come morning. If… we can tell when it’s morning. Does the sky outside always look like this?”

“Yes.”

“And the natural the cycle of day and night--”

“No such thing.”

Halsin frowned.  No surprise, he thought, that Karlach had missed the stars so much. “That sounds dreadful.”

“Some would even venture to say it’s hellish,” Raphael commented. He’d resumed stringing the lyre and, by the looks of it, he was almost done. “You do get used to it, though. Or it drives you insane, I suppose. But I believe our vampiric friend,” he added, tilting his head towards where Astarion lay, head resting on Durge’s shoulder, “has reason to prefer this to daylight, at least in his current state.”

“... He does miss sunlight. I can understand. I spent years as a-- guest in the Underdark.”

“I’m going to assume you were a guest the same way Karlach was a guest in Avernus.”

“More or less. I was not forced to fight, but--” Halsin paused, and cleared his throat. “Well. I’ll never forget the moment I stepped into the sun again. I hope Astarion can feel it again soon.”

“I’d focus on getting out of here alive in the first place.”

“Heh. Fair enough,” Halsin chuckled, and said nothing more. For a time, everything was quiet again except for the crackling of fire and the steady breathing of their sleeping companions, Wyll sleeping with his rapier close at hand and Durge and Astarion sharing a bedroll. Halsin was halfway through whittling yet another duck when he saw Raphael put the lyre aside, clearly having decided to wait until morning, or what passed as morning, to tune it properly.

“You should have some soup. There is just enough left.”

“I am not particularly hungry.”

“Your body needs nourishment,” Halsin pointed out. He took the last ladle’s worth of soup out of the pot, and into a bowl. He pushed it in Raphael’s hands without waiting for a reply. “Do pretend I’m a decent cook. I’ll consider this your thanks for getting blood out of your blazer.”

“... Mph. Worse deals have been made, I suppose,” was the response, and he did drink it down, slowly, staring into the fire as though he could see something in it that Halsin could not. Halsin resumed whittling and they stayed like that for another while, without speaking, each lost in their own thoughts. 

Until Halsin looked up from his work to see that Raphael had fallen asleep, back against a boulder, the healed hand holding onto a locket he wore around his neck. In the open box, next to the newly stringed lyre, there was a folded letter with some dark splotches on it, as though something had dripped on the ink.

And it was not, Halsin could tell, blood.

***

Dearest Israfel,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you’ll forgive me for using the name I’ve always known you by: it is the name your mother chose for you, with her last breath. I feel I’d do her wrong by not using it. 

I hope the Hells are the home I know you always wished they would be to you, and that you never have reason to look back in regret. I wish there was advice I could give you, more than what little I could impart to you, but I am no devil and I am under now delusion that I may even begin to understand the workings of the Hells. But I do know you learn fast, and I trust you’ll do what needs doing to thrive.

I also hope that you did not take the few words I spoke when you left for coldness. There was more I wished to tell you, yet words failed me as they often do. There is a reason why you could talk circles around me since you were a boy of ten, after all. I had known the day would come that you’d be taken to your father’s court, and it still caught me unprepared. Until you can visit us, then, this letter will have to suffice.

There is much I hope you can find in yourself to forgive me for. Our time together was always meant to be short; I am but a human in his twilight years, and you are an immortal being barely at the beginning of life. However, I was foolish enough to shorten it further. Ten years you lived under my roof before I so much acknowledged you. It should not have taken me that long - should not have taken your mother’s features in your human form - to truly see you.

I’d have seen Dalah in you much earlier if I had. The penchant for rhymes, a sweet tooth, the way you scrunch your nose when angry. (I know it annoys you, when it’s brought up; you’re doing it right now, I am sure. For this, too, I hope you’ll forgive me.) 

I saw her first, and only then did I finally see you. It was my failing, not yours. It was out of grief and guilt, never hatred, but it was a grievous failing nonetheless. In a different world, I would have been proud to call you my son. I am sorry this is no such world. 

I hope I could teach you something of use in the few years we did have; for the rest, I hope you know Nan, and everyone else, loved you greatly even when I could not. They still do, and we all hope to see you again soon.

I took the liberty to send you a few things I thought you’d like to have - your mother’s lyre and her favorite book, and a locket with her portrait. Only once you’d gone I realized I never showed you a portrait of her, or even so much talked about her. Again, my grief bound my tongue, but it is no excuse. I did you wrong, and I hope I may yet have the chance to rectify that mistake. When you visit, we will talk about your mother. 

Until then, I hope you are safe, and happy.

With deepest affection,

Rahirek.

***

By the time he stepped before the high doors leading to Lord Mephistopheles’ throne room, Raphael was certain of two things: he was not ready, and he was about to throw up. 

“Lord Mephistopheles demands your presence,” he’d been told, and that was it. Five words to answer a plea he’d repeated almost daily for… weeks? Months? It was hard to tell, with each day exactly like the last and a perpetual snowstorm hiding the skies outside. The preceptor had taken him there and left , telling him he’d be allowed inside shortly.

“If he can even understand what you’re saying, with that dreadful pronunciation,” he’d muttered on his way out. “Speak clearly, or he may make a meal out of you. He does not suffer fools gladly.”

For his sanity, Raphael had decided to take that warning as an exaggeration, and gathered up the courage to walk closer to the doors behind which his father sat on a throne of ice. All that waiting, all that yearning, and here he was. He should have been elated. Instead, he was terrified.

The towering pit fiend suddenly stepping before the intricately carved doors with a mace in hand and eyes glowing like fire did not help, either. His voice was a gravelly growl, and he had fangs easily as long as Raphael’s forearm. It took him an effort to look away from those formidable teeth and into the fiend’s eyes. They were not a much more reassuring sight; knowing who he was did little to help.

“Who goes there?” he asked, eyes narrowing. 

Raphael cleared his throat, hoping fervently that words would come out right, and bowed. “Duke Hutijin,” he spoke carefully, praying whoever or whatever could hear him now that he hadn’t mispronounced his name. “It is a privilege to meet you. My name is Raphael. I have been summoned by Lord Mephistopheles.”

A few moments of silence, but that mace did not come down on him, and Raphael supposed it was something. Another gravelly sound he identified as a chuckle, and he dared look up. Duke Hutijin had lowered the mace, and was leaning over to better look at him. 

“Ah, the new one. Let me have a look at you.” A huge hand with a dagger-sharp claw lifted his chin, and the pit fiend laughed when he saw him swallow. “Fear not, I’d never spill my liege’s blood unless he ordered me to himself. And no such order has been given today.” A pause, a tilt of his head. Those flaming eyes stared, but whatever he thought of what he saw, he did not say. “Well then, go meet your father. Do try not to piss yourself, little duke. You’ll find him in a fair enough mood.”

Raphael wanted to protest at the insult, say that he was not that scared, but he could tell that talking back to what was probably the most powerful pit fiend in Cania - and lying to him to boot - would probably not be a clever course of action. So he lowered his eyes, nodded, and went to the doors. A touch on the surface - ice cold, despite the warmth inside the citadel - and slowly, they opened. 

The throne room was so vast it may have felt as though he’d stepped outside if not for the domed ceiling above and the columns on both sides - each of intricately carved ice, and ice was the floor, the ceiling. Two pits opened up in the floor on either side of the throne; from one rose a column of roaring fire, and from the other a stream of swirling green wisps that, he’d learned, were mortal souls. They rose up to the ceiling and fell back down into the pit, slowly, endlessly.

And on the throne at the back of the room, beneath a banner bearing the sigil of a three-pronged ranseur piercing a halo of flames, sat Mephistopheles.

He was tall, more than any mortal Raphael had ever met, and of most devils too. Even if he did not tower the way Duke Hutijin did, Raphael knew this was but one of the forms he could take. This form of his was reminiscent of the portraits he’d seen of the Cold Lord, with deep blue skin so dark it almost looked black near the base of his four ram-like horns. The horns curled backward, golden rings around each. His hair was so black and so long it was hard to tell where it ended and where the void-black cape he wore began. 

And there were the eyes, pale blue, fixed on him.

For a moment, Raphael forgot how to breathe. He’d imagined meeting his father since he could understand what a father was, and why he did not seem to have one. When he was very young, he’d imagined that a stranger would approach him one day at a crossroads - it was always crossroads, in the stories - to reveal himself as his father, tell him he’d come to take him home. Until recently he’d had no notion that his sire may be an Archdevil, and that meeting him would need to wait until he could find the time for an audience.

Now he had that audience, and his tongue was coated with lead. For a few moments he could only stare, heart in his throat, feeling like an utter fool.

He does not suffer fools gladly.

Panic reared its head, and still Raphael stood frozen on the spot. For a few moments Mephistopheles’ features remained still, his face expressionless… then, slowly, his lips curled upwards and he let out a low, rumbling chuckle. Maybe Duke Hutijin was right, and he was in a fair mood after all. 

“You asked to see me with such insistence my own Consort requested I grant you an audience, yet you seem to have misplaced your tongue,” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone. “Am I not as you imagined?”

The calm tone was balm to Raphael’s nerves, and he finally managed to regain his speech. He bowed quickly, and deep. “My liege,” he said, and this time Infernal slid off his tongue with practiced ease. “It is an honor to stand in your presence. I deeply apologize if my earlier insistence caused annoyance.”

A hum. It sounded neither pleased, nor displeased. “You did not answer my question.”

Raphael looked up, and swallowed. He could feel the weight of that gaze, even as no true emotion showed on his sire’s face. “I have seen portraits, my lord, of this form and others.”

“Ah, of course you’d have seen those. Were you hoping to be met with the visage that most resembles your own?”

“I wouldn’t presume it’s my place to make such requests, my lord.”

Lord Mephistopheles tilted his head, just slightly, in what may have been an approving nod. “No, it is not,” he agreed, and lifted a hand to beckon him closer. Raphael did step towards the throne on somewhat shaky legs, gaze respectfully low, until his sire’s voice rang out again. “That’s close enough.”

Standing between the column of fire and the column of souls, Raphael dared look up again. Lord Mephistopheles was looking down at him, eyes narrowed. When he spoke again it was still in that calm, even tone. “You’ll have to remind me - where and when was it I sired you?”

“In Tethyr, sir, just over thirteen years ago. My mother’s name--” he began, only to be silenced with a chuckle and another wave of that hand, as though to chase a fly away.

“You can’t possibly expect me to remember the name of every mortal who received my seed,” Mephistopheles said, obviously amused. Like the mortal who’d received his seed hadn’t also borne his son, and died for it. “But where you were born matters not, as now you’re just where you ought to be. I have been told you have a proclivity for music and poetry. Is that so?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Hm. Songs of praise are always welcome here, but I do have a High Cantor and more than enough musicians, so that skill of yours is of no use to me.” A vague gesture of his hand, that unnerving gaze still fixed on him. “So tell me…” a pause, a chuckle. “Ah, but I forgot. What is your name again, boy?”

Something sank in Raphael’s chest, cold as the ice around them. 

You named me, he wanted to cry out. You took away the name my mother gave me to impose another, and still you can’t recall it?

Still, he knew better than that. He swallowed the ache, and tried to keep his voice as firm as possible. “You named me Raphael, my lord.”

“Very well, Raphael. What else can you offer to serve me?”

For a moment, Raphael found himself speechless, raking his mind for a response and finding none. What could he offer? He was well-read and learned fast; he had a good memory and, back home, people always said he could have sold ice cubes to Auril herself if he wanted. But with his sire’s gaze on him, he struggled to think of a way he could put those skills to use. 

I can use hellfire, he thought, but he hesitated to speak those words too. Antilia’s voice rang in his head, the warning as dire as it had sounded when she’d uttered it. 

Until you are certain of your affinity with hellfire, do not speak of it. Don’t ever tell them you used it entirely by accident. Go boasting about it, and you’ll be seen as too much a threat.

It seemed almost absurd to think, that Mephistopheles could consider him a threat… but Raphael had already heard tales, whispers, of how he’d destroyed far lesser devil for little to no reason but-- well, the word they used for it was caution,  but the tone made the meaning clear enough - paranoia . Lord Mephistopheles could undo him with a word and, he saw it now, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

Maybe Lady Antilia lied, part of him thought. Maybe he would be pleased to know I can wield hellfire. She did tell me I shouldn’t trust her either. But to what end?

“Come boy, speak,” Mephistopheles spoke up, his voice now curt, and colder. “Surely, you would not have insisted on being in my presence without something to offer.” 

The underlying threat was unmistakable, and Raphael swallowed before forcing himself to speak again. He could keep his voice from shaking, at least, and spoke in fluent enough Infernal as he lowered his head. “As of now, my liege, all I have to offer is my utter loyalty,” he said. “But I’ve been studying as much as I can, so I can find a way to serve you.”

“Mmh.” A pause, and he rubbed his chin. Again, he sounded neither pleased nor displeased; he was simply considering . “I see. I can extend you some grace, on account of you having but thirteen winters behind you. Still, my patience is not endless.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Many of my blood possess an innate talent for arcane magic. Do you?”

Raphael looked up. “Yes, my liege. I have been able to cast spells since I was--”

He had no time to finish the sentence. Mephistopheles gave a smile that did not reach his eyes, and lifted a hand. “Show me,” was all he said, and he snapped his fingers.

With a drum-shattering shriek, two imps leaped out of the column of fire, fangs bared and yellow eyes glowing with malice. One swung a clawed hand, and Raphael scrambled back just on time for the claws to miss his flesh and only tear clothes. He fell back with a cry, landing hard on the ice, head spinning.

He’s never been in a real fight before and, aside from the encounter with perytons not too long ago, he’d never struck anything but some targets the master-at-arms back home had set up for practice, when it had become clear he wasn’t meant to hold a sword. He’d been getting good at hitting those, but they were just that - targets. Static, and very much not trying to claw his eyes out.

With another shriek, one of the imps threw itself at him. Raphael cried out and instinctively held up his hands, grasping the being’s head to keep him away. Claws still sank into his arms, tearing clothes and skin, and… and…

Flames erupted from his hands and the imp’s head was all but gone, all burning flesh, scorched bone and brain matter as it fell back motionless on the floor. Raphael choked back a cry and tried to stand up, but he slipped on the ice and fell back with a grunt. Above him, there was a furious shriek. The other imp had lifted itself up in the air on tattered wings and dove down on him, fags bared, claws out, stinger dripping venom. 

What came next was, again, pure instinct: he rolled to the side and, when the imp landed with a crack on the spot where he’d been until an instant earlier, he threw out a hand. 

“Gela!”

In retrospect, it was a mistake: he was too close to his target, and the result was predictable. The ice knife hit the imp square in the chest and exploded in shards, knocking them in opposite directions. Raphael could hear the imp shrieking over his own cry of pain, shards of ice cutting into his arm, his shoulder, his face. He ground his teeth, tried to ignore the smears of blood his hand left on the floor, and lifted himself on one knee before looking up.

The imp was wounded, ice shards through its chest, but still alive. It writhed on the floor, features twisted in a snarl, glaring at him but unable to stand, to fly, to attack. It was defeated. It was helpless. It was weak, and Raphael had never hated anything more. He stood with a snarl, and again he acted without much thought at all. He lifted a hand and so did the imp, in a last futile attempt at a defense. It was an easy mark, now. One Raphael would not miss.

The splash of acid hit true, and the imp screamed. It was a cry of agony, and short-lived; it had been barely clinging to life, and the acid did the rest. The creature fell back, sizzling, and moved no more. The acrid smell of flesh melting away filled Raphael’s nostrils, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from the corpse. His wounds hurt and his heart pounded in his chest; still, he smiled. The things that hurt him were dead, and it felt good. He wished he could bring them back and kill them again and again and again, hear those screams over and over. He wished--

A chuckle snapped Raphael from his thoughts, reminding him where he was, and with whom. He looked up to see his sire was leaning his chin on his hand. “I would say that was adequate enough, for a halfbreed just plucked out of the Material Plane,” he conceded, then, “was it your first kill?”

Raphael looked up, still breathing heavily. When he spoke again his voice was rougher, honorifics entirely forgotten. “No. I killed a peryton, once.”

Mephistopheles raised an eyebrow. “A peryton? That is indeed a greater feat than defeating a pair of lowly imps. Perhaps I should have given you more of a challenge.” His lips quirked upwards, barely. “How did you kill it?”

Do not speak of it, Antilia’s voice rang in his head, and he didn’t. Not all of it. “Fire. I burned it.”

“And how did it make you feel?”

Raphael closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall. He hadn't truly realized he'd killed the creature until the screams died down, until he saw the corpse. Until that moment there had only been his stepfather’s heartbeat against his ear, the protective embrace that seemed to last forever. He swallowed. “Good,” he whispered. “It felt good.”

“And this?” A gesture towards the half-melted, charred corpses on the ground. Raphael looked at it for a few, long moments. 

“It feels good,” he replied again, and it was no lie this time either.  I wish they screamed more, he thought.

He expected another question, but there was none: just a nod again. It gave Raphael the distinct feeling he had passed a test of some kind; not with flying colors, perhaps, but he'd passed it all the same. 

“I see. If you find no other way of serving me, you may serve well in the Blood War.”

The Blood War. Raphael had learned of it, of this endless war spilling rivers of blood, from devils and demons alike, every single day in Avernus. His preceptor had made a point to let him know many halfbreeds would go on to become cannon fodder in it. For all the pleasure Raphael had taken in this kill, the prospect of being sent to the front lines was enough to make him balk. “I-- my lord, I--”

“You’re wounded,” Lord Mephistopheles cut him off, and gestured towards the slow streams of souls, which floated up to the ceiling and then back down in the pit. “You may consume a soul, if you wish.”

Raphael stared at the souls, stepped closer, and held out a hand. They were incorporeal, of course; faintly glowing wisps, all that remained of mortal beings. There was a faint warmth to them as they weaved through his fingers - each of them once a mortal life, swayed or tricked into becoming this, the most sought-after resource in all of the Nine Hells.

“Souls,” Raphael whispered, and finally looked up. “I can-- I will get you souls, my lord. I know mortals, I know how they think. I can learn all I need to learn about contracts. This is how I can serve you.”

A nod. “Ah, yes. Your kind often has a queer attraction towards mortals. It places you well to procure souls, if you’re clever enough.”

They said I could sell ice to Auril herself, Raphael thought. I am clever enough. I can be of use. I can make you proud. 

His path forward now clear, Raphael breathed more easily. He turned his attention back on the souls dancing around his palm, focused on one, and willed it to come to him. No one had ever instructed him as to how to consume a soul, but it came as naturally as magic ever did. He breathed in deeply through his mouth and it flooded him, cool and soothing and electrifying at the same time - healing his wounds, feeding his powers, amplifying his senses. When he tore out the last shard of ice from his shoulder, Raphael felt no pain. There was only that sense of euphoria, the clarity that comes with finally seeing a path ahead after wandering blind for so long. 

Above him, unseen, the Lord of the Eighth bared his teeth in a smile.

***

“In my world there is order, he said!”

“I specified I was talking about my--”

Raphael’s protest was cut off by Karlach’s cry as she swung her axe, cutting a spinagon in half and sending its blood and guts to spray across the ground and, well, across Astarion. Who, as a response, only yelled louder, just as he drew his bowstring to put another arrow through an imp. “WE BRING THE CHAOS OF OUR WORLD IN HIS, HE SAID!”

“I WAS TALKING ABOUT MY HOUSE!”

“YOU ARE NEVER GETTING TO-- ah, nice shot, love, thank you-- NEVER WHINE ABOUT CHAOS IN THE MATERIAL PLANE AGAIN, DEVIL!”

Raphael snorted, and cast a cloud of daggers that annihilated a pair of nupperibos before they could so much as attempt an attack at Halsin’s unprotected back. The only surviving nupperibo of the trio was promptly blasted back by Wyll, into a pit of boiling tar, and didn’t resurface again.

“This entire layer is a battlefield and I would have stopped all this with the crown, spawn!” Raphael snapped, glaring at Astarion and entirely missing the spinagon trying to dive on him from above. 

Durge groaned, and dispatched it with a ray of frost before speaking. “I don’t think this is the moment to air grievances--”

“This is your doing and I’ll air all the grievances I please!”

“Oh please, let me cut him in two.”

“No, Karlach," Durge muttered, and to their relief she went to cut an imp in two instead. 

All things considered, they had to run into devils or demons sooner or later; it had been a small miracle that they’d been able to go from the House of Hope to the cave they’d chosen to rest the previous night without meeting anything but a couple of hellsboars. Raphael was right when he described Avernus as one huge battlefield, and running into foes soon after setting out for the day's march was perhaps inevitable.

Luckily, they were all rather weak. Unfortunately, there was a swarm of them. 

“We’ve been pretty lucky we didn’t run into these while next to that lake of lava!” Wyll yelled over the screams of a couple of spinagons trapped within the blackness of a Hunger of Hadar spell. “That would have made a dismal battlefield.”

“Oh, how lucky that we’ve met them in the middle of these delightful pits or tar and quicksand instead!” Astarion yelled, and drew his bowstring again. The arrow found its target in the throat of yet another spinagon just as Durge’s frost breath downed a couple of imps. “What were you planning to turn this spot into, Raphael? An archdevil resort?”

Raphael scoffed, downing another imp with an admittedly well-placed ice knife spell. “I’ll have you know that before the Blood War, this layer was the most wondrous thing you’d ever set your eyes on!”

Astarion laughed, almost dancing under an imp’s swing of a scimitar before gutting it with a single, swift strike of a knife. “Gods, are you that old?”

“It is a well known fact for anyone with even a modicum amount of knowledge, and I’d have restored its former glo--”

“FIREBALL!”

Halsin’s warning cut through the sulfur-saturated air, through the shrieks and clangs of the battle. Durge looked up to see that indeed, one of the fireballs that were ever streaking Avernus’ sky had taken a sharp turn downwards and was coming… directly at them. 

“Shit-- we got to take cover!”

“I’ve got this - get over here, everyone!” Durge called out, and lifted a hand. “Veni et iuva me!”

The Globe of Invulnerability shimmered into being around them, and Astarion immediately leaped in. Raphael and Halsin were quick to follow, though Halsin took a  moment to create a gust of wind to knock back the spinagons trying to follow. 

“Oh that’s a handy one!” Karlach laughed, nearly barrelling right through the globe and skidding to a halt just inside it. “Both the globe and the fireball, I mean! There was this one time we were in deep shit, fuckers everywhere, but then this fireball came down and fried them. Remember, Wy-- Wyll?”

With a sense of dawning horror, they all looked back to see that Wyll was some distance away from the globe, one leg stuck in quicksand up to his knee, struggling to pull free while the fireball plummeted down towards the ground. 

“Shit! No! Wyll!” Karlach cried out, and tried to run out towards him. Tried to, because they all could tell there was no way she could get to him and back on time, even if she could pluck him out from the quicksand at the first try. If she went, the fireball would strike both. Durge, Halsin and Astarion held onto her as one, and even then they struggled to hold her back. 

“Karlach, wait!”

“Karlach, no!” Wyll cried out. “Stay back! Please, keep her back!”

A scream, holding all the anguish in the world. “No, no, no! Let me go! Wyll! WY--”

“MOVE ASIDE!” 

Raphael’s voice was a roar, loud enough to drown out Karlach’s own screams. He stepped forward, almost to the edge of the globe, taking the lyre off his back to play a few notes on it, eyes fixed on Wyll. And gods, it worked: the next moment Wyll, with a grunt of effort, was able to free his leg from the quicksand. He stood, and lifted his hands to cast; Durge could recognize the gesture to cast a Dimension Door, and it was the last thing they could see at all before the fireball became too close, its light too bright, and they had to close their eyes. 

“Quod dico face!” Wyll cried out, then for a time Durge could hear nothing else: the explosion was loud enough to cancel out all other noise. Around them, the world shook, stone shattered, enemies burned. Even within the globe they were thrown to the ground, trying to cover mouths and noses to keep out dust and debris with varying degrees of success. 

When the dust finally began to settle and they could blink their eyes open they were still beneath the globe in the middle of a smoldering crater, faces and clothes black with dust but still all in one piece.

And among them, grinning widely, half-drowned in Karlach’s embrace as he made no attempt to pull away, was Wyll. 

“Wyll! Are you all right? Are you wounded?”

“I’m good, really! Only thing that’s wounded is my pride.”

With a sigh of relief, Karlach pulled back. “Oh, thank the gods.”

Another laugh. “Afraid I’ve got to thank the devil for this one, don’t I?” He turned to look over at Raphael, who was still coughing while Astarion helped him back on his feet. “That was bardic inspiration, then? Never been on the receiving end of it before. Not bad at all.”

Another cough, and Raphael rasped out, “I told you I have no need to wield a toothpick in battle, did I not?”

Durge had no idea what that was about, but it made Wyll laugh. “Ah, I suppose you really don’t. Your spells do serve you well enough, point very much taken. Thank you for saving my skin.”

“Yeah, that was-- good thinking,” Karlach muttered, crossing her arms and looking awkwardly to the side. Her compliment, half-hearted as it was, seemed to give Raphael pause, but in the end he scoffed and said nothing. 

“Well!” Astarion spoke up, clapping his hands once to break the sudden silence. “Here we are! All in one piece, enemies vanquished, ready to celebrate before we get going again. And I think we could all use a shower right about now. Halsin, if you please?”

Rainfall in Avernus had to be a rare thing indeed - a never event, most likely - and Durge enjoyed every second of it. As they glanced to the side they noticed that so did Raphael, eyes shut and face tilted upwards, palms up as though to welcome the rain.

*** [Back to Chapter 10]

[On to Chapter 12]

[Back to Start]

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 9

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: M Status: In progress

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

*** Well it took only 50k words but here we are, time to go to Hell. It's probably not going to be smooth sailing from here is it. ***

For the first few weeks in the Hells - in Mephistar, he’d been told, the citadel from which his sire ruled Cania - Raphael read and read and read until he felt as though his eyes would fall out of their sockets. And then he’d read some more. 

Back-- home -- in the Material Plane, he’d thought he’d done a good job at learning all he could about the Nine Hells of Baator. Direct sources from witnesses who returned to tell the tale were admittedly rather scarce, for several good reasons that started and ended with ‘it’s the Hells’, but if any books or scrolls on the subject existed, he’d read them.

He’d learned of the nine layers and their differences, the many kinds of fiends that inhabited them, who ruled each layer. He’d learned of the Lord Below Asmodeus, of the Frozen Prince Levistus, the Iron Duke Dispater and the other Archdukes - including, of course, Mephistopheles. Second to Asmodeus alone, Lord of the Eighth, Archmage of the Hells, Lord of Hellfire.

Raphael had known his many monikers, but he had never in his wildest flights of fancy imagined the Cold Lord of Cania, of all devils, may be his sire.

As it soon turned out, there were many things he did not know. His knowledge of the Hells, which had seemed so impressive, was nothing compared to what he had yet to learn. He’d been shown to his rooms, with a window outside which he could see nothing but icy mountains; he’d been given books, and told to learn. Even what Infernal he had managed to learn back-- I want to go home -- in the Material Plane did not suffice. It was a variant used by lesser baatezu, he’d been informed with a scoff, and unsuited for Mephistopheles’ court. Of course, the variation that was required just so happened to be a great deal harder to master.

A preceptor, a tall and thin devil who looked as though a stiff gust of wind may knock him over and whose name sounded very much like the noise a cat would make while retching, came every day to check on his progress, and answer his questions. Of which Raphael had many, but one above all.

“When will my father see me?”

The answer would always come after a few moments of silence, and with a contemptuous look that told him clearly he should know better than to ask. “Lord Mephistopheles will call upon you when the time is right, little duke,” he said, using a moniker that, Raphael had quickly picked up, was meant more as mockery than as a true honorific. He wasn’t truly a duke of anything.

Still, after a few weeks, he’d tried to protest. “But he gave orders to bring me here. Surely he wants to see me?”

“It is not up to you to presume what Lord Mephistopheles wants. He will make his wishes clear when he--”

“But I’m his son!”

This time, there had been no attempt at feigning respect: his preceptor had just laughed, an unpleasant barking sound. “You’re but one of many whelps. The Lord of the Eighth shall see you when he wishes to. His right to collect what’s his doesn’t entitle you to his time. Now,” he’d added, pushing the open book towards him again before standing to leave, “do keep trying to make yourself worthy of his attention. Your pronunciation of Infernal is still woefully lacking.”

When he left, however, Raphael made no attempt to pick up the book. He huffed and pushed the door of the room open, to wander outside and distract himself from his own building frustration. Despite the howling wind and ice outside as far as the eye could see, the inside of Mephistar was heated, and the luxury all around made Fort Starspire look like a fisherman’s hut by comparison. The carpets, the tapestry, the statues - it was almost dizzying. 

And then there were the portraits. 

There were so many on nearly every wall, and many of them had the same subject - his father, Mephistopheles - but not two of them looked exactly the same because, he’d been informed, his sire could change his visage on a whim and that whim took him often enough. 

Still, there were two portrayals he saw the most. One showed a devil with huge ram-like black horns, the same crimson skin as his own, long black hair, and a pointed beard on his chin. He wore an unnerving smile as he seemed to stare back at him from the painting with dead, white eyes. Most times he was shown holding out a hand, palm up, white-hot flames dancing upon it. The Lord of Hellfire, the plaques beneath such paintings read. 

The other visage of Mephistopheles he saw portrayed the most was the one with blue skin, deep blue horns that looked more like jagged peaks, and pale blue eyes with blood red pupils. The long black hair was the same, but he lacked the beard. In these portraits, he sat upon a throne of ice. The Cold Lord, as the plaques declared.

Both portrayals were terrible and fascinating to behold, and Raphael often struggled to tear his gaze away. Especially from the former, where he’d often find himself looking for familiar features, carefully going over every small resemblance… but not that day. That day, he’d wandered among mostly empty corridors, ignoring both the mortals souls who fretted about - debtors, he’d been told, no need to address them unless you need their services - as well as the curious gazes of devils talking amongst themselves in that strangely melodious version of Infernal he so struggled with. He pretended not to notice the sneers from those who clearly knew who he was, too, even as he felt embarrassment and frustration turn to anger. 

It was all wrong. This was supposed to be his home. He was supposed to belong here, in a way he never did in the Material Plane, and yet it didn’t feel like it at all. 

Why take me here if he won’t see me? 

“It's time to join your kind,” Chamberlain Barbas has said, but Raphael had never felt more out of place, he who'd been out of place from his first breath.

At least they wanted me, in the end, he thought. Something burned in his eyes, and Raphael was quick to shut down that line of thought, because he’d open a window and throw himself off the glacier before he let anyone see him cry. 

Just as he began to think he should head back before he got lost and made a fool of himself, he suddenly heard it - a music he’d never heard before, played by some kind of instrument he’d never heard before in his life. It was a rich sound, now bright and now dark, the music trying to soar like a bird only to be shot down the next moment and flutter onto the ground, the sound now solemn and almost mourning - and then taking flight again, defiant and imperious. 

The closer he grew to the source the more he could feel the power of it, until he could think of nothing but finding out what it was that could make such a sound. Finally, he found the richly decorated double doors of the room the music was coming from, and pushed them open without thinking, just as the music faded.

The room inside was not small by any means, but much of it seemed to be occupied by the largest… something Raphael had ever seen. It looked something like a harpsichord, but much bigger and with pipes that took most of the wall. On the floor and on every surface of the room there were scattered music sheets, and on a seat in front of the instrument, hands still on the keys as the music began to die down, sat the player. Raphael opened his mouth to call out, but the door behind him closed loudly before he could, causing her to wince and turn.

Raphael did not know enough about his own kind to know exactly what they would consider beautiful, but he found she certainly was, with high cheekbones and delicate features, her hair all silver. Her skin was red as his own, her eyes pale green irises on black sclera, and her horns a paler red than the rest of her. She looked young, but… well, most devils did.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Raphael said, or at least he tried to, with very little success. Infernal was still clumsy on his tongue, the cadence all wrong, and he didn’t remember what Infernal for ‘interrupting’ even was. All that came out of his mouth was a cacophony of grating noises. He trailed off, biting his tongue, rather thankful he was no longer in his human form. Flushing did not show on crimson skin, at least. 

There was a startled pause, then a chuckle. The devil cocked her head to better look at him, moving the long braid of silvery hair from one shoulder to the other. Finally, she smiled in a way that didn’t seem to hold any of the scorn he’d seen up to that point. 

“Ah, but I have heard about you,” she said in his own language, with only the slightest hint of an accent, and Raphael breathed a little more easily. “The little duke from Tethyr. Don’t you have the most lovely set of horns,” she added, causing Raphael to blink. His horns were not something anybody had ever thought to compliment before; in the Material plane, the fewer people saw them, the better. He was again very, very glad his skin could not visibly flush.

“Thank you,” was all he could muster, feeling rather stupid. Someday not too far in the future he’d be able to let words slide off his tongue like silk on skin, no matter in what language, and the right words at that - but not just yet. Still, he had enough presence of mind to remember he should bow his head and introduce himself. “My name is Isr-- Raphael,” he said, bowing his head. If she noticed the slip, she said nothing of it. “Very much at your service.”

Another chuckle, oddly musical itself, and she turned fully on the seat, hands folded on her lap. She had long, elegant fingers. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Raphael. I am Lady Antilia, High Cantor of Mephistar. Although,” she added with a sigh, turning to glance at the instrument she’d been coaxing notes from. “I may not hold the position for long, if inspiration keeps escaping me.”

“I-- heard the music. I think it was beautiful.”

“Thank you, little duke.” For the first time, the moniker was not spoken like a mockery. “But I fear it is not quite enough. Writing hymns falls to me, and your lord father is a difficult master to please. You certainly have gathered that by now.”

I might have if he bothered to see me, Raphael thought, but he knew better than to voice his thoughts. Instead, he turned his attention to the instrument she had been playing when he let himself in. “What kind of instrument is this?”

“It is an organ. Are you not familiar with it?”

“I have never seen one. I can play the lyre and the lute - the harpsichord, too,” he added. He’d started to get a hang of the violin as well, but he had yet to learn how to get a decent sound out of it, so he didn’t mention that.

Lady Antilia chuckled. “Ah, another musician at long last. Well then, come sit with me,” she said, moving to the side and patting the seat. “May as well learn how to play another instrument, no? If you know how to play the harpsichord, then you’ll be able to play the organ as well in no time.”

He wasn’t supposed to accept: he wasn’t supposed to have left his rooms without finishing the day’s lesson, he knew. Still, he didn’t so much look back at the door: he nodded, thanked Lady Antilia profusely, and went to sit by her. For several hours he listened, mesmerized, as she coaxed music out of the instrument that seemed to fill the room, reverberating in his chest, the high notes and the daker, lower ones. He watched too, the movement of feet on pedals, and fingers running across the keys so effortlessly. Such a delicate touch, and such powerful music. 

He did not learn anymore Infernal that day, but he did learn to play the organ.

***

The irony of the two of them sharing a tent - the devil who used to be a man, and the man who once was a devil - was not at all lost on Wyll. 

It was a little crowded, although probably not as crowded as the other tent they had left, where he suspected Astarion may have ditched the bedroll entirely to lay down on Durge and Halsin. Still, it wasn’t too bad. Raphael was determined to ignore him - seeing his horns seemed to particularly displease him - and that was fine by Wyll, who was happy to settle on his side of the tent and ignore him right back.

Until the devil who was no longer a devil began tossing and turning and muttering in his sleep, of course. Most of the words he uttered were grating noises that he recognized as Infernal, even if he could not catch the words, much less their meaning. It was when the mumbling turned to a low, keening noise that Wyll entirely gave up on the idea of catching some sleep and sat up. 

“Raphael?”

No response, only a choking noise. Wyll frowned and reached over to grip his shoulder and shake him awake. He’d barely touched him when he muttered the first, clear sentence since whatever dream he was trapped in had begun. Or at least as clear as a sentence can be when choked in one’s sleep into the pillow.

“I want to go home.”

Wyll knew that giving him the House of Hope back was entirely out of the question; Karlach was going to have enough issues with their unexpected new companion without adding in the mere idea of putting Hope back in his grasp, which none of them was going to allow in the first place. And he certainly could not understand how anyone could miss the Hells - any layer of the Hells. But desperately wanting to go home… well, that was something he knew more about than he’d have liked.

And he’d dreamed of home too, of course, especially during that first year on his own. He’d missed the familiar sights, his friends, the father who’d so loved him and yet had turned away when he’d seen the mark of the Hells on him. In his dreams he could speak the truth of what happened, he could explain. In his dreams, Ulder Ravengard embraced him, thanked him for saving the city, and welcomed him back as his son. 

But then the dream always, always changed. The smell of sulfur replaced the familiar scents of the city, his father’s embrace turned into an unyielding grip, and Mizora laughed against his ear. Leathery wings enveloped him, blotting out all light, and he’d wake up with a scream in his chest and a lump in his throat. And sometimes, depending on how far he’d allowed himself to sink into the illusion that all was well again, with tears on his face.

Another muffled noise from the man who was a devil no longer snapped Wyll from his recollections. He sighed, waved goodbye to any chance to go back to sleep, and grasped Raphael’s shoulder.

“All right, you had enough sleep. Wake up.”

“Wha--?”

It took Raphael a few moments to regain the bearings of his surroundings. Wyll sat back and waited as he did, pretending not to notice the quick gesture with which he wiped his face on a sleeve, and grinned as soon as he turned to scowl at him. 

“What, pray tell, was that supposed to be about?” Raphael snapped, only to blink when Wyll held out a rapier for him to take. He raised an eyebrow. “If this is an invitation to skewer you with it, I shall be happy to oblige after you have held your half of the bargain and--”

“Get up. We’re having a sparring match.”

“... Surely you jest.”

“It always takes my mind off things.”

“I am beginning to question whether you have a mind to take off anything.”

“We’ll be heading into the city come morning, and then it’s straight to Avernus,” Wyll reminded him. They had arrived in Rivington in the middle of the night, and had agreed to get a few hours’ rest before heading to Devil’s Fee as soon as the sun rose and the shop opened; Astarion would wear a cape and hood for the remainder of the way, and they’d keep to the shade for good measure.

Wyll wished he could spare the time to visit his father, or see for himself how the rebuilding was going, but it would have to wait. Now the thing he was most eager to do was get back to the House of Hope and see Karlach again; he only hoped she hadn’t keeled over and died of sheer boredom in the time it had taken him to gather their available allies and come back.

Unaware of his thoughts, Raphael scoffed. “All the more reason to let me rest,” he bit, as though he was having any good rest at all. Wyll shrugged. 

“Surely, you want to be ready to fight your way through it with us, no? One more chance to practice is not something you should let pass by. Go on, take the rapier.”

“I can fight well enough without the aid of toothpicks . I’m a spellcaster. I have no need--”

“Well, this kind of toothpick is always useful. Even when you’ve run out of energy for spells, it still works to skewer the opponent. You should take at least a dagger. Even Durge carries a shortsword, and they’re the finest sorcerer I’ve ever met.”

“You haven’t met many sorcerers, I see.”

Wyll raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that downplaying the power of the one who bested you reflects well on you?”

“They hardly bested me alone,” Raphael snapped, but he did snatch the rapier and got out of the tent with a huff. “... Very well. If you insist on sparring, we shall.”

Wyll sighed, and followed him outside. There was probably little more than an hour left until dawn, so at least he got some rest. He could tell from Raphael’s grip on the rapier alone that the sparring would do little to help him fight - he was really much better off relying on spells - but it was a way to pass the time, he supposed. 

Plus, watching him fumble with a rapier while trying to look like he knew what he was doing was a lot more entertaining than listening to him crying out in his sleep.

***

Dalah knew that the-- thing was there before she even turned from the already perfectly clean artifact she was dusting. There was the noise of course, the crackling of flames and scraping of claws on ice, the oddly mechanical clicking and chirring noises it made as it stalked the hallways of Mephistopheles’ vault. 

Except that now it-- he was not not stalking the vault’s rooms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him standing by the doorway, staring at her with entirely too many eyes set deeply in the fused misshapen skulls. He followed no one in particular, as far as she could tell - he was there to guard, and guard he did - but whenever he came across her, he did come to a stop. Even if she hadn’t called that name again-- Israfel -- he still paused to look at her, as he was doing now.

He made no noise other than the fierce crackling of the flames that shrouded him, the occasional clicking and skittering of claws on the ice floor as he shifted, as though craning his neck to see what she was going - cleaning, what else? - without getting too close.

Dalah paused for a moment, looked around to make sure they were alone, and turned slowly. He was still a vision of horror, but knowing she could stop him by just speaking his name had made the terror fade. “You can’t talk at all, can you?”

The creature looked back, with those fixed and thoughtless eyes, and-- wait. Was it her, or - had that been a shake of its heads? Dalah stilled, staring, before she wet her lips with a nervous tongue and tried to address him again. “Can you understand me at all? Can you… do something, if you understand?”

A long pause, long enough to make her feel foolish, then the creature seemed to nod, chittering and clicking without so much moving his gaping maws. He crouched and a flaming, clawed hand raked across ice, leaving deep marks on the icy floor; the ice magically began to freeze again within moments, erasing them, but the message was clear. It was too slow a gesture, too deliberate, to be an accident. Do something, and he did. 

He understood. How much he understood was debatable - it may be very little - but despite Barbas’ boasts of having turned the devilish half of Raphael’s soul into a mindless, perfect machine made to think of nothing but maiming trespassers and thieves, it was obvious that something else was still there. Something intelligent. Something that could respond . 

Her work entirely forgotten, Dalah dared step closer. “... I’m sorry if hearing that name hurt,” she heard herself saying. “Was it… did Rahirek call you that? Did he keep you?”

A chirring noise, and the creature seemed to nod before he lowered a claw to the icy floor once again. This time, he used only one claw to crudely carve something in it. A line, then more intersecting lines at the very top, like… like…

The spire. The star. Her husband’s family crest - she had almost forgotten what she looked like, after so many centuries. But she recalled it now, on his armor the day he’d left and on the brooch he’d gifted her on their wedding day, when they were but two strangers thrown together by his widowhood and her father’s political calculations. Starspire, after the mountains that towered above Rahirek’s ancestral home.

She had loved those mountains since the moment she’d laid her eyes on them: they reminded her of the Storm Horn Mountains back home, in the land that would one day become Cormyr. As soon as she’d arrived, before she’d learned to love her new husband in that quiet, desperate way that would be her undoing, they had made her feel at home again.

“We always pretended they’re named after our family, but it’s the other way around,” he told her with a chuckle on their wedding night. He did not touch her, then. He never would touch her, not that way, until months later when she reached out for him first, and found him willing.

Dalah’s eyes burned, and she wiped them quickly as the drawing faded. “... I should have known he would. He was a good man,” she murmured, and looked up again. The creature-- Israfel -- kept staring at her, heads tilted. She drew in a shaky breath. “... Do you know who I am?”

A chittering sound, and a shake of those heads, flames dancing as it moved.

She managed a weak smile. “No, you wouldn’t. We only met once, so to speak. But you were tiny, then. I saw you from afar when they took you here, though, a few times. You were taller than me already, I think. I am not sure, I didn’t want to look at you. We never--”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Dalah recoiled and stepped back to see a devil - one of the cambions who kept an eye on the debtors cleaning the vault, as if any of them would dare steal, as if an ascended fiend wasn’t enough of an incentive to do their work quietly and quickly - stepping closer, a scowl on his face. He paid no mind to Israfel, and why would he? Barbas had been clear, he had been conditioned to obey the guards. He would not intervene if not by his order. “I was just--” 

The guard scoffed, walking up to her, and raised a flail as if to strike her. “You’ll go back to work now, if you know what’s--”

He never got to finish the sentence. A shrieking mountain of fire, claws and sharp thorns of black bone was on him the next moment; the devil had no time to force out a scream, or even to fully turn. There was no fight, and all was over the second it began, flesh torn apart by claws, throat ripped out by tusks. Steaming dead flesh and guts littered the ground, all that remained of a devil, but that was not there for long either. Fiends had no need to eat, but they had appetites all the same - and this one was no exception. 

Within what felt like less than a minute, nothing remained of the guard but a pool of blood watered down by melted ice, and flail burnt to a crisp. Only then did Israfel turn to look at her, bloody jaws clacking and wings fluttering a moment, hesitating as his flames dulled. 

She could see why: he’d broken protocol and there would be punishment, surely, when they found out what he had done. 

If they find out. 

“... Get that blood off your face-- faces. I’ll hide this,” Dalah heard herself saying, walking up to the bloody pool and causing Israfel to step back, claws clicking on the ice. Mopping up the bloody water was painfully cold on her hands, but once that was done and the ice reformed, no trace of blood remained. The flail broke apart into ash the moment it was touched, and once she scooped that up… well, no one could tell anything had happened there.

Low level guards did defect, sometimes. Not unheard of. As long as nothing was missing in the vault, they would look for him outside Mephistar, and not too hard. Dalah breathed out, and turned. Israfel was still staring at her, head tilted as though waiting for something. When she met his eyes, he made more clacking, echoing sounds.

“Won’t tell if you don’t,” Dalah said, and found herself smiling faintly as she looked down at the pulverized remains of the guard had lifted against her. She had spent a long time knowing she ought to fear every devil, no matter how low-ranking, for any of them could end her on a whim. One powerful enough strike and what remained of her would be lost, bursting into blood and guts to let out some sort of hellish creature. 

To see one who’d so much threatened to harm her annihilated in instants had felt… good. Even if somewhere, in the back of her mind, she wondered whose son that cambion had been, what mortal had died to give him life. Some, she knew, did so willingly. 

“... Thank you. Now go, before someone notices you’re no longer patrolling.”

Israfel hesitated, but there were steps and he did not wait to see if it was another guard or a debtor. One last look and it left the room, through icy corridors, ever patrolling - his presence alone enough to strike terror into every soul bound to endlessly cleaning the vault and its contents.

Almost every soul.

Only later would Dalah pause and realize that, when he turned to her with his victim’s blood still dropping from his jaws, she had not for a single instant felt fear.

***

“Give me a good reason why I should open any portal for you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Astarion’s voice was full of indignation. “We’re going to pay you, is that not reason enough?”

Standing behind the counter, Helsik scoffed. “You were also supposed to pay me last time, if you recall, with the Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength you took from the House of Hope.”

“Were they now?” Raphael asked, arms crossed. Of course, he didn’t look like himself now: revealing his continued survival to a warlock of Mammon liable to immediately relay the information to anyone who may care for the right amount of coin would be, to put it mildly, sheer idiocy. A simple disguise spell had turned him into an unremarkable enough half-elf, and thank the gods Helsik seemed none the wiser. “I may have heard of those gauntlets. Extremely rare indeed. And what, pray tell,” he added, shooting a pointed look in Durge’s general direction, “has happened to those?”

Fervently hoping Raphael would shut his damn mouth before he gave the rouse away, Durge shifted a little. To be entirely honest, keeping them had been Astarion’s idea, but… well, they hadn’t protested too much, either. “It’s, you see, we figured we may put them to good use, they fit Karlach really well--”

“So they broke our deal,” Helsik spoke, her own arms crossed, and looked back at Totally Not Raphael, who was still glaring at Durge. She seemed glad to have found someone who sounded as outraged as she did. “They went ‘I just killed a devil, do you really want to argue’ at me, and just kept the payment for my services. Can you believe it?”

“I can, actually. They rather make a habit of it, I see,” he replied, his voice flat in a way that clearly suggested he had carnage on his mind, and was really quite cross that he could not enact it. He seemed about to add something else, but Astarion suddenly threw his arm around his shoulders with a laugh, cutting him off. 

He also stomped on his foot, discreetly but hard, causing him to yelp. 

“Yes, yes, it was very naughty of us, and we’re sincerely sorry.”

Helsik narrowed her eyes. “Does that mean you’re giving me the gauntlets?”

“Oh dear, we’d love to! But, they’re currently with our friend in Avernus,” he added, gesturing rather meaningfully towards the floor. “See, if you open us a portal, we can retrieve them…”

“Try again.”

“Hey now--”

“It’s an upfront payment. Forty thousand.”

“FORTY--”

“Twenty thousand for the portal I opened last time, and twenty thousand for this one.”

“We need you to open two portals this ti--”

“That will be sixty thousand, then. Upfront.”

Astarion let out a noise of pure distress. “You can’t be serious!” he protested, only for Helsik to raise an eyebrow. 

“Do I look like I’m joking to you?” she asked. She did not, in fact, look like she was joking. 

Astarion scoffed, obviously scandalized at the notion the diabolist would demand upfront payment for her services to someone who scammed her once before, and turned to the others. Before he could voice what would probably be his suggestion - ‘let me drain her a bit and see if it mellows her’, Durge suspected - Raphael stepped forward. 

“I do understand why you’d mistrust these miscreants, as they already took advantage of your services without paying their due,” he said, gesturing towards them. “However, I hope you can extend me some grace, as I have done no such thing. I have a proposal.”

“I will hear you out, nothing more. And you are…?”

“Israfel will suffice. I’d rather not disclose my business in the Hells, as I’m sure you understand. It will not matter either way. Once I’m there, the two of us will never have laid eyes on each other, as you will have had no part in getting me there.”

Helsik nodded curtly, arms still crossed. “Good to see you know the rules,” she said, “but I have yet to hear your proposal.”

Raphael nodded. “Of course. The gold we have at our disposal to pay is, in total, thirty thousand gold. It is enough to cover the debt for the services you provided last time but, I understand, not enough to open a second portal now. Let alone a third.”

“Sound math. Still waiting for the proposal.”

Clearly disappointed by the refusal to play along, Raphel sighed. “As direct as your patron, I see. Very well. While these-- people owe you a great deal for your services, I believe you’re overlooking something that comes quite close to canceling out that debt.”

Helsik’s eyebrows went up almost to her hairline. “Oh,” she droned. “Am I now?”

“Indeed. You did not ask to be indebted, yet indebted your are.”

A scoff. “And what, exactly, do I owe them?”

A smile, and Raphael leaned against the counter, turning to gesture at the collection of artifacts all around them. “Why, isn’t that obvious? The continued existence of this fine establishment of yours, of course. The reason for their previous visit to Avernus was the retrieval of an artifact which, as it happens, was vital to their goal of taking down the Netherbrain. Had they not succeeded in the endeavor-- well. Baldur’s Gate would be no more, along with much of the Sword Coast, and your establishment with it. Of course, you could have set up shop someplace else if you managed to escape - but how many of these treasures around us would have been lost? I am certain you have a very good idea of what the answer would be. The answer, and the cost.”

For a few moments, Helsik said nothing. She ran her gaze across the shop, obviously running the numbers in her mind, then turned that gaze on Durge. A frown, but not quite the glare they had given them before. In the end, slowly, she nodded and turned back to Raphael. 

“... Very well. Duly noted. Your proposal?”

Raphael smiled. “My proposal is, we hand over all of the thirty thousand gold in our possession for you to open a portal to Avernus, and as payment for services rendered previously,” he said. “I do understand this means a significant discount on your usual rates, but it would be thirty thousand gold more than you’d get otherwise. And, I believe, it does account for the role they unwittingly played in keeping the Devil’s Fee in business.”

“Hmm.” Helsik seemed to think it over, and glanced past Raphael. Astarion smiled, and held up two bulging sacks of gold; she stared at them a few moments before nodding and turning back to Raphael. “You said you need two portals opened. I will not do it for thirty thousand gold.”

“But, for thirty thousand gold and the gauntlets you’re owed?” Raphael countered, smiling. “If we don’t survive our little vacation in the First, you’ll be thirty thousand gold richer. If we do survive, we will come back and hand you over the Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength currently in the possession of our dear friend trapped in Avernus.”

There was a sound much like a barely restrained laugh from Wyll, and Durge almost chuckled himself. Karlach would not be pleased to hear Raphael, of all beings, had referred to her as a ‘dear friend’. She wouldn’t be happy to see him at all, most likely, and much less to learn she’d have to bear his presence until they either died or completed their mission. She’d have many good reasons to be displeased, of course… but needs must when the devil drives. 

Quite literally, in that instance.

Unaware of their thoughts, Helsik was nodding. “I see. If you come back, and hand me the gauntlets you promised, only then will I open the second portal for you. It makes sense.”

Raphael’s borrowed face opened in a smile. “I knew you’d see reason.”

“And where would this second portal need to lead?”

“Cania. Mephistar, to be precise.”

“Ugh, again?” A sigh, a shake of the head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Since the gentleman over there and the late Lord Gortash raided the vault, Lord Mephistopheles has upped the magical defenses. I have been trying to find a way around them for months, but so far I’ve had no success. I cannot open a portal anywhere in Cania as of now.”

For a moment, the features of Raphael’s borrowed face twisted in aggravation; it was almost funny, really, how even in this disguise he scrunched up his nose. Then, as quickly as anger had come, it faded. “... Well then, we shall content ourselves with the closest you can get us to it. The second portal will be to Maladomini.”

Helsik raised an eyebrow. Hard to tell whether she was impressed by the boldness, or unimpressed by the madness on display. “Lord Mephistopheles and Lord Baalzebul are hardly allies. You really think you can sneak from the Seventh to the Eight and keep your life?”

“My friend,” Raphael said, smiling, “I cannot possibly overstate how little I have left to lose.”

Another pause and, finally, a shrug. “Hmm. None of it is my business as long as I’m getting paid, so-- very well. Avernus first and, if you live and give me the gauntlets, Maladomini it is. I’ll go fetch the necessary items. You wait here - but first, the gold.”

“Half the gold now,” Raphael countered. “And half once you hand over the items we need.”

“Distrustful, aren’t you?”

“You shan’t take it personally, I hope. You may consider it practice for the Hells.”

“With the company you keep, you have reason to be distrustful in any plane.”

“I am well aware, believe me.”

The first half of her payment taken, Helsik disappeared in the basement. As soon as she was gone, Wyll let out a low whistle. “All right,” he conceded, “that was really good.”

Raphael scoffed, walking away from the counter and right past him. “It was a child’s play. But I had no doubt it would impress you.”

“... Still mad because I knocked the rapier from your hand thrice this morning, huh?”

“Don’t be absurd. As I believe I made plain, I don’t need to carry a toothpick in bat--” Raphael began, only to trail off suddenly, freezing mid-step. He was staring at something on a table, and it took Durge only a moment to see exactly what it was.

The Orb of Infernal Envisioning. Last they had gazed into it, Durge had seen Raphael himself, covered in blood, dangling above Mephistopheles’ maw. Now, however, they saw something else. It was still Raphael in the Orb, or at least his ascended form, wreathed in flames, standing amidst walls of ice. It towered above a human woman who stared up at it, making no move to run. On the contrary, she was reaching up, as though to touch the creature.

“What is it?” Astarion spoke up somewhere on their left. “I can’t see anything in it. Halsin?”

“Not a thing.”

“I see Mizora,” Wyll said, stepping closer. “She’s holding some kind of contract, and… bowing? There is someone else there, but it’s just a shadow. I can’t see their face… are you seeing this too?” he asked, only for Raphael to ignore him and Durge to shake their head.

The Orb shows you what is fitting for you to see, Helsik had said once. It seemed they were not all seeing the same thing, after all - even those among them who could see something in it. Durge frowned, and looked back at Raphael. “... I see your Ascended form, and a woman. Inside Mephistar’s vault, I believe. A debtor, perhaps. Is that what you see?”

Wordless for once, eyes fixed on the orb, Raphael nodded. The two of them, it seemed, were indeed seeing the same thing. “I… have seen that mortal before. It’s the debtor who helped me escape,” he murmured. Slowly, he lifted a hand towards the orb, as if to touch it… and then there was the sound of a trapdoor to the basement being pushed open. Raphael pulled his hand back as though burned, and they all turned to see Helsik was back, a bag in hand. 

“Here’s all that is needed, and you know your way upstairs. Remember, you have never been here. Now hand over the rest of the gold, and scram.”

Gold changed hands, despite Astarion’s slightly pained expression, and Durge took the bag. “Before we go, we could use some supplies,” they said, and held up their bag of holding. Collecting just about anything they came across in their travels did pay off; by the time they were done trading, they were… reasonably well-equipped to survive Avernus. Hopefully. They closed the bag, and nodded towards the stairs. “All right,” they said. “Time to go to Hell.”

“Not a moment too soon,” Raphael muttered, and headed upstairs first without another word, a stiffness in his back that wasn’t there before.

*** If you're wondering who Antilia is:

*** [Back to Chapter 8]

[Back to Start]

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 12

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: M Status: In progress

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

*** We all agree that young Raphael slept around a lot in Mephistar, right. Why else would Mephistopheles send an incubus to keep him distracted I mean come on. ***

“Uuuuuungh.” 

When Raphael opened his eyes with a groan, his head was pounding so badly he almost didn’t notice, at first, that the wall of his room no longer had mouths. Or ears. Or eyes. And it was no longer bleeding, come to think of it. Of course it had never really done any of those things, but it had looked very much real the previous night. 

For what was probably the hundredth time, Raphael told himself he’d stop taking that much gughalaki. For the hundredth time, he knew it was a promise to himself he was not going to keep. With a grunt, Raphael tried to stretch his wings, only to find he couldn’t. He blinked again and finally realized that gravity had not, after all, doubled. There was someone’s body on top of him, naked as he was, probably feeling the after effects of gughalaki about as badly.

“Get off me,” Raphael grumbled, pushing himself up and getting the other devil - an harvester devil whose name he really couldn't be bothered to remember - off his back.

He rolled on the mattress with a groan which Raphael entirely ignored: he just unfolded his wings, shook them briefly to uncrumple them, and sat up on the bed. He also chose to ignore the ache in rather unglamorous places beneath his tail as he did so, and looked down. 

Snoring away on the floor, on top of a heap of clothes, was another harvester devil. Raphael couldn’t remember his name either. Or when he’d rolled off the bed, if he’d been invited to his bed at all. Had he fucked him too? He stared for a moment, wondering if he cared to find an answer to any of those questions; the pounding in his head told him he didn’t, and he just stepped past him on his way to the dressing table. 

Raphael splashed some water on his face - he’d need a proper bath, he mused, to get the dried come and stale sweat off himself - and looked into the mirror. Around his neck was a collection of bruises, none of them dark enough to be all that visible on his skin; the bite marks he could see on his shoulder and collarbone had barely bled, too. He scoffed. Someone had made a show of choking him while he was under the influence, apparently, and hadn’t even bothered to make a decent effort.

“Next time you take the liberty to mark me,” he muttered, not knowing or caring which devil was responsible, or if both were, “you may at least act like you mean it.”

The devil on the floor barely twitched, and snored louder. On the bed, the other one finally lifted himself on an elbow, and spoke in a groggy voice. “Up already, lordling?”

“I have souls to bind. You may leave my room at your earliest convenience, as long as your earliest convenience is within the next five minutes,” Raphael replied, just as he noticed with some annoyance that his last jar of gughalaki was now empty. He’d need to pick some up at his first chance; it seemed the only thing that packed enough of a punch anymore. It had been years since Infernal wine had done anything for him.

But it would have to wait. First, he had to head out to the Material Plane to get more contracts; seven years since his arrival in the Hells, it had become rather clear that was the closest he had to a true calling in his existence. And he was good at it - better than most, truth be told; he’d lost count of the souls he’d bound to contract, bound to his lord father.

Not that he got any thanks for it. Mephistopheles cared for nothing but his experiments, for the artifacts in his vault, and Raphael wouldn’t catch his attention if he brought back the soul of the Archmage of Eileanar himself. Sometimes he’d wondered if he should have told him that he could use hellfire on their first meeting, if he’d hold him in more regard if he had. But of course, he now saw that the High Cantor’s warning hadn’t been without merit. It would have given him attention, sure enough, but the wrong kind. 

He knew now that what he’d done that day in the mountains was supposed to be impossible. At worst, Mephistopheles would have dispatched him to the School of Hellfire for Quagrem to study, even if it meant tearing him apart to find answers. At best, he may have decided the ability would make him useful on the battlefield and dispatched him to serve in the Blood War. Nevermind that, in the years since, Raphael had never successfully summoned hellfire. Perhaps he never would; perhaps it was never hellfire and he was mistaken, or perhaps it had been a fluke. 

Of course it was. Everything noteworthy I ever do seems to be just that. Little fluke, they ought to call me.

With a scowl, Raphael looked over the report that had so very conveniently appeared on the enchanted parchment. His eyes scanned it, and paused.

A drought in Tethyr, reducing the populace to despair. Raphael rather enjoyed droughts - few things made mortals desperate enough to enter an Infernal contract than the threat of imminent starvation - but this time, his eyes paused on the place. 

Tethyr. He had not been there since he’d left the Material Plane for the Hells. He’d tried not to think of it, either. But now he did, and there was a pang of something in his stomach that had nothing to do with the previous night’s exertion or drugs. 

Maybe it was a sign, he mused, that his work would take him to Tethyr that day of all days. Twenty years exactly since his birth; it meant nothing there - it certainly meant nothing to Mephistopheles - but it had meant something back-- home -- in Fort Starspire. A day of mourning that the mortals who’d raised him still made an effort to celebrate in his presence. 

It’s a surprise, birthday boy. What kind of surprise would it be if I told you?

This was gathering dust in the crypt. You may as well use it, but it will need new strings first.

The crypt, of course. His-- Lord Starspire would be there, surely, as always, to stand watch next to his late wife’s grave on the anniversary of her death. Perhaps, Raphael thought, he could make a stop there on his way to his targets. 

You’re loved here, promise your Nan you’ll remember that. Come back see us.

By the time he set the parchment down, kicked the still sleeping devil on the floor in the side and snapped for both of them to leave, his mind was made up.

Seven years later, it was time to pay that visit after all.

***

“Hey, Raphael?”

“Wha--”

“Voco arvina!”

“Agh!” 

Raphael threw out his arms, trying to grab onto anything as his boots slipped on the puddle of grease the thrice-damned vampire spawn had cast beneath him, and found nothing. The only thing that spared his back a painful meeting with the rocky and greasy ground was a Mage Hand grasping the front of his blazer, leaving him suspended in mid-air.

“Ah, you didn’t think fast enough,” Astarion was muttering, and Raphael craned his neck to glare at him, choosing to ignore the hyena laugh of the tiefling some paces ahead. He had little enough patience for such antics as it was, but this was turning into an extremely aggravating habit - particularly with Karlach taking such delight in watching him fall for it.

“What precisely are you trying to achieve, spawn?”

A smile. “Just a little fun, and teaching you how to be alert on the side.”

“You’ll find your fun quite spoiled when I decide to turn you into a sheep,” Raphael muttered, shifting his gaze towards his hair. “If anyone could tell the difference.”

A gasp, a hand over his heart. “Love, are you hearing this?” he exclaimed, all faux outrage. “The thanks I get for trying to help!”

A chuckle, and the bhaalspawn gestured for the Mage Hand to bring Raphael closer, away from the grease puddle. “It would be best to try helping with spells that do not spread around flammable materials,” they pointed out, tilting their head towards the rivulets of lava running just a few feet away from where they stood. Not that Raphael was precisely standing, as the soles of his boots were still greased and he slipped the second the Mage Hand set him down. This time, however, the bhaalspawn was close enough to catch him. 

Of course that was when it struck, a sudden jolt of pleasure up his spine, a stirring in his groin, the unmistakable sensation of someone grasping the base of a tail he no longer had--

No, no, no, no, no. Not now.

Raphael clenched his teeth, but even so he was unable to hold back a moan, and his knees buckled; had the bhaalspawn not been already holding onto him, he’d have crumbled to the ground. Instead he grasped their arm, and shuddered. 

“What-- oh. Right.”

“... The incubus?” the vampire spawn asked, all amusement gone from his voice. 

Raphael may have wondered about that - unlike him, letting such a chance for mockery pass by - if he’d had half a working mind to wonder about anything. Instead he could only clench his teeth, trying to smother his next moan and only partially succeeding. Whoever Haarlep was with was holding nothing back. It was far from the first time it happened - he doubted there was a single fiend left in the upper floors of Mephistar who had not sampled his body through Haarlep - but there had been fewer instances since he escaped, and usually at night.

“Of course I can’t entirely refuse to use your likeness all of a sudden, you understand,” Haarlep had told him when he’d last seen them in his tent. Their voice had been almost a purr as they curled around him, bare chest to his naked back, lips brushing his ear. “Can’t have a particularly perceptive one think anything’s amiss. But I’ll try to sway them towards other forms, little brat.”

Apparently, this one couldn’t be swayed. “I’ll skin them alive,” Raphael ground out, not quite knowing who he was thinking of - Haarlep, or whoever was with them. He squeezed his eyes shut, face burning, just as Ravengard’s voice called out. 

“Hey, is all good back there?”

Don’t let them see, Raphael wanted to say, but another shudder ran up his spine, and he could form no words. Astarion, on the other hand, could and did. 

“All good! The old man slipped, that’s all. Durge’s taking care of it,” he called out, and walked off to meet the others, so that they wouldn’t come closer. Raphael let out a shuddering breath, sinking against the dragonborn’s chest, faintly wondering when they had knelt down.

“It should pass soon. It usually does for me,” they said, and tightened their grip around his shoulders just a fraction. A phantom grip clenched on Raphael’s throat; it was not enough to choke him but if he felt it so clearly, it was certainly enough to choke Haarlep. 

Raphael shivered. “Well, it doesn’t for me,” he ground out. “What do you do to make it end?”

“Er…”

Ah, of course. Raphael swallowed, choosing not to wonder what, precisely, had just caused that sense of heat in his groin just then.

“Astarion usually helps--”

“Never-- ugh-- mind. I believe I can… guess.”

An awkward clearing of their throat. “Well, sometimes we also talk about something else. To distract me.” A pause, then, “... You once mentioned you know what my old name was.”

Raphael nodded, eyes shut. He tried to focus on the words, on the steady heartbeat against his ear rather than his own thundering one. Their scent reminded him of iron, with the faintest hint of ozone that often stuck to storm sorcerers. “Yes. Have you changed your-- mind, bhaalspawn?”

“No. I don’t think I want that name back. But… would you happen to know who the people who took me in were, before… before the Urge, before the Cult of Bhaal?”

Raphael blinked. It was not a question he’d expected, and not one he could answer. “I fear not,” he said, his voice now a little firmer. The phantom sensation of touch, heat and pleasure-pain lingered - the echo of claws raking down his back; Haarlep would be bleeding, surely - but it was starting to grow fainter, and collecting his thoughts became easier. “I did not learn anything from your early life. I know nothing of those who took you in.”

“Ah.” A pause, a sigh. “Well, it was worth a try.”

“Do you wish to track them down?”

“I don’t think that’s an option. I butchered them all; that much I can recall.”

“... I see.” A pause, a long breath. It was not as shaky as before, the heat beginning to fade. “I suppose it makes sense.”

“Part of me mourns them, but do I even have the right to?”

Somewhere in the back of Raphael’s mind there was something, a darkened crypt and hands on his face, weathered fingertips tracing his features. He shut his eyes tighter to chase the memory away. “That makes no matter,” he said, his own voice distant. “No point in mourning someone who was always meant to die. The first sacrifice on your father’s altar. They had to go for you to join your true family.”

“It was not a family worth joining.”

“Few are, I find. Yet--” a pause, a shuddering hiss. “Yet they stake their claim on us, and we can but obey.”

“I could have chosen to defy Bhaal all along. I did, but too late. If I had done so earlier--”

“You defied him and died. If you had done so earlier, no ancient god would have been there to bring you back to life.” A scoff. “Not everyone has a very convenient seneschal at hand to ensure survival when they run afoul of their father, bhaalspawn.”

A chuckle. “Fair point. But you lived to tell the tale, too.”

Raphael shook his head. “Barely,” he said, bitter as bile. “A mutilated relic of what I was.”

“You should only consider yourself temporarily inconvenienced. As Wyll would say, where there’s a Wyll, there’s a Y.”

“... Don’t make me regret saving his life any more than I do already.”

The bhaalspawn laughed, and Raphael opened his eyes. At last, with the ghost of a shiver, all sensation that was not his own faded. He allowed himself a long breath before pulling away. It took more effort than he was willing to acknowledge.

“I… I believe it’s over.”

“Need help to stand?”

“... If you please.” When the phantom sensations that came with an incubus using one’s body faded, all effects were gone quickly; that at least Raphael could count as a mercy. A quick brush of his clothes and he looked ahead, where the rest of the party had paused. 

They all were giving them their backs except for Astarion, of course, and it was no coincidence: he’d placed himself in such a way they’d turn away to look at him as he spoke, in a rather clear act of misdirection. Whatever he was saying, it had the other three laughing. 

When he and the bhaalspawn joined them, they seemed none the wiser… or at least, the tiefling and the warlock did. The druid’s look of concern lasted a few moments too long for Raphael not to suspect he had guessed something; he may very well be more familiar than the others with the effects of an incubus using one’s likeness, close as he was to the bhaalspawn. Still, he said nothing of it. 

“Are we ready to continue?” he asked instead, and Raphael nodded, looking towards the salt flats ahead. On the left, a massive volcano loomed - Bel’s Forge. The former archduke hated Zariel enough he might happily help them in their mission, but at the same time Raphael was wary of making his continued survival known to any fiend if he could help it; through the MIrror of Mephistar, his father had spies across Avernus… and a simple disguise spell would not fool Lord Bel for long, either. Perhaps he could consider an alliance later, but for now, getting to the sword seemed the best bet.

“Yes. We cross the salt flats to the Styx’s riverbank. Then we follow it to Haruman’s Hill--”

“Ugh,” Karlach muttered, making a face. “That’s a bastard I’d rather not face.”

“... As much as it pains me to agree with you, me neither,” Raphael muttered. “But we need to cross the Styx, and that’s the narrowest point - one where a Dimension Door or a spell to grant flight will suffice to cross with no need for a barge. And crucially, one without standing watchtowers when I last looked.”

A hum, and she crossed her arms. “Yeah, that’s right. Makes sense.” She clearly found admitting as much as pleasant as having her teeth pulled out, but she did not argue. “And with some luck, Haruman won’t be there. It’s not like he’s stuck on the hill all the time.”

“True enough. Besides, we’re unlikely to reach the hill until at least another couple of days’ walk. We should first concern ourselves with getting there.”

Astarion made a face as they resumed their march, looking over at Karlach. “Well, in case we’re unlucky-- who’s Haruman, exactly, and what should we expect?”

“Oh, he’s a nasty piece of shit, first of all. He’s a narzugon - they also call them hell knights - and apparently he used to be a paladin, until he came here with Zariel…”

As they proceeded through the salt flats, keeping several eyes out for possible threats, Raphael found himself making a very conscious effort not to look in the bhaalspawn’s direction, not to think of how pulling away from them had felt far more difficult than it had any right to be. But of course, the more he tried not to think about it, the more he did think abou-- 

“Hey, Raphae--”

“Oh no you don’t !”

Looking back later, maybe he shouldn’t have been that quick to react with a spell - but as the saying went, once bitten, twice shy. For a moment the entire group stopped in their tracks and fell silent, eyes shifting from Astarion to Raphael, and then back to Astarion.

From his part, Astarion was glaring at Raphael. Or trying to.

“Baaaa!” he protested, somehow sounding just as outraged as a sheep as he did with the wherewithal of speech. 

“... Huh.”

“... Heh…”

“Pffffft--”

The tiefling was the first one to crack, her cackle turning to a full-bellied laugh within moments. She had to lean forward, holding her stomach, and the ensuing ‘baaaaaa’ of protest was enough to make the others crack as well, however unwise it was, standing in the open in Avernus and laughing. The bhaalspawn and the druid were trying at least to keep their amusement down to chuckles; the same could not be said of the other two. 

“Hah! Oh gods-- sorry, Astarion, it’s just-- hahahaha! Oh, your hair hasn’t changed at all!”

“Yes, it still looks good! No need to be sheepish!”

“Do you - hah! - do you still have fangs, or…?”

“Baastarion, the world’s first vampire shee-- ow!”

Astarion’s decision to take out Wyll Ravengard at the knees with a well-placed headbutt brought forth more laughter, not least from Ravengard himself. Raphael kept staring at the scene, somewhat baffled, until the bhaalspawn dropped a hand on his shoulder, causing him to recoil.

“You know,” they said, chuckling. “I think he only meant to ask you to play the Song of Rest this time. But perhaps that should wait until he’s back to normal.”

“Ah,” Raphael muttered, and looked back at the sheep. Finally, he smirked. “It seems you didn’t think fast enough, either.” 

The sheep looked back and snorted, loudly. Somehow, even like this, Astarion was able to convey an extremely annoyed ‘fine, you win this time, but watch your back’. With a chuckle, the druid stepped forward and picked him up. “Fear not, I’ll carry you until the effects pass,” he declared, sounding just a touch amused, and carry him he did as the journey resumed. 

Astarion looked back towards Raphael and the bhaalspawn over his shoulder; it was the first time, Raphael mused, he’d ever seen a sheep looking smug. They were only minutes into the walk when, with a chuckle, the bhaalspawn leaned over to Raphael. “I’m ready to bet he’ll get Halsin to keep carrying him even after he’s turned back.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow. “Bet what, if I may enquire?”

“If he doesn’t get Halsin to keep carrying him, I’ll give you a pair of Wondrous Gloves. If he does, you quit calling me ‘bhaalspawn’, and resign yourself to calling me Durge.”

“You drive a hard bargain. I’d say the fact I no longer call you rat is overly generous as is,” Raphael muttered, only for the bhaalspawn to grin, all fangs, and elbow him on the side.

“They’re great gloves for a bard.”

“... Mph. Fine. I suppose I may get used to an idiotic name.”

“I also have a Cap of Curing--”

“No.”

“Good for bards.”

“I know what it is. I will hold onto what dignity I have left by not putting that on my head.”

“Choosing style over practicality, you of all people?”Astarion’s voice rang out, causing both to look up and see him back to his usual self, grinning at them over the druid’s shoulder. “I am positively aghast!”

Raphael stared at him for a few moments, then sighed. “Very well,” he muttered, “ Durge it is.”

A grin. “Much obliged,” they said, and fished into their bag of holding to give him the gloves anyway. “May as well put them to use,” they added, and Raphael took them without a word.

***

“What happened? Are you all right?”

Submerged in hot water to their neck and still wearing Raphael’s likeness, Haarlep cracked their eyes open and turned to see Dalah had slipped in the room, shutting the door behind herself. She looked… rather close to terrified, really. Haarlep blinked again. 

“I’m rather well,” they said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie; they would be well soon, either way, even if that bath did not have the healing properties of the restoration pool back in the House of Hope. They could take quite a lot but even by incubus standards, but the client who’d just left had been… something. Raphael had few friends at court, if any, but none seemed to both loathe and desire him quite as much as Bele, Justiciar of Cania. 

Their little brat must have felt that one quite clearly for sure. “As for what happened-- well. The usual,” Haarlep finally said. “I am not certain you mean to ask for details, though?”

A long breath, and she seemed to calm herself. “I see. When I saw the Justiciar leaving…”

Ah, of course. Haarlep chuckled, making a vague gesture with their hand. “Rest assured, he was here for the only reason anyone visits an incubus. You have no reason for concern. When it comes to important matters, Bele remains none the wiser.”

“... I see. So, he’s-- safe?”

“Well, safe as one can be in Avernus. Still, no threat to him from Cania yet, and he’s in more than competent company. That’s as good as it gets for now, I’d say.” 

A sigh of relief, but when her eyes fell on the marks on Haarlep’s throat, she pressed her lips together. “Can I get you-- something? For that?”

“Ah, there should be a healing potion in the cabinet on your left, if you’d be so kind.” 

Admittedly, the potion did help. Haarlep gulped it down, breathed out, and leaned back against the side of a tub with a sigh.

“That’s much better, thank you,” they muttered, and turned to the human with a grin. “I heard that one of the guards in the vault deserted his post.”

To her credit, her expression remained impassable. “... Yes, I heard so too.”

“Heard, or saw?”

“They will not find him.”

“I didn’t think they would. Raphael’s Ascended form was always volatile, even when it wasn’t running on half a soul. If someone crossed him, they wouldn’t even find the bones. Was it an unprovoked attack, or…?”

“He had raised his flail on me.”

“Oh.” Well well well. Look at that. Haarlep rolled their shoulders and grinned. “He responds to his old name, and intervened to protect you? I could almost believe he knows who you are.”

“He does. He remembers… things. There was this rhyme--”

“Down came the claw.” Haarlep hummed, and splashed some water on their face. Well, Raphael’s face, technically. “Yes, my little br-- Raphael was always fond of that one. Clearly, this half of him is not nearly as mindless as they like to believe they made him. It may play to our advantage, when the time comes.”

“When the time comes for what ?”

“You know I cannot tell--” they began, only for her to cut him off, pale-faced.  

“Please, Haarlep.”

A pause, a sigh. Mortals really were as stubborn as Raphael always claimed. “I cannot tell you a thing. But if you can make a guess, I may tell you if you’re wrong.”

Dalah nodded, slowly. “... Is he to be some sort of sacrifice, in some grand scheme? Did Baalphegor save him so he may die at a more convenient time?”

Haarlep smiled. “Wrong,” they replied, and the relief on her face was impossible to miss. 

“Good,” she whispered, and licked her lips. “She wants him to be whole again.” Haarlep said nothing, and she swallowed. “... I see. And does this mean-- all of this, is it to remove Mephistopheles as archduke of Cania, now that Baalphegor’s control on him has slipped?”

Stubborn and annoyingly perceptive. Haarlep met her gaze, and did not tell her she was wrong because she was, indeed, not wrong. Instead, they sighed. “If you’d been half as clever in life and you are now,” they pointed out, “you wouldn’t be here now.”

A familiar scrunching of her nose, a bitter laugh. “We can but learn,” she muttered. “... I heard you’re leaving for the Material Plane. To collect more bodies.”

“Ah, yes. I did tell a lot of people that, didn’t I? So much gold to spend, may as well make it a holiday of sorts. It should keep me upstairs for a while. In the Material Plane, of course.”

“Of course.” A brief hesitation. “... Will you help keep him safe?”

A chuckle. “I could almost believe you’re worried for him, Mother of No One,” they muttered, then, “I’ll see what I can do. As for you, do try to make sure deserting guards don’t become a pattern in the vaults. Someone might ask questions. We need all of him to be safe.”

Somehow, that made her chuckle. “Now you’re the one who could almost sound worried, incubus. Or am I wrong?” No reply, which of course was a reply in itself. The lopsided smile faded, and suddenly she was laying a hand on Haarlep’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “... Be careful up there. I’d rather see you both come back.”

Haarlep stared for a moment. They were not often taken aback, but they were now. It wasn’t something that generally happened to his kind, being touched willingly by someone who, they could tell, didn’t arbor a single shred of sexual desire towards them. Slowly, they nodded. “You too. I think I’d rather find you both still here when I return.”

“... I’ll see what I can do,” Dalah replied, and let go of them to leave without another word. It suited Haarlep just fine.

They didn’t know what else to say, really.

***

Raphael realized he hadn’t thought of anything he could say only as he paused before the iron doors leading to a family crypt he’d only ever seen from outside, at the foot of the hill Fort Starspire stood upon. Highly unusual, that. He always had his speeches prepared ahead of time.

Would Lord Starspire even recognize him, now? Would he be glad at all to see him, with the scent of sulfur sticking to him no matter how much cologne he put on, a subtle sign of what he truly was even as he wore his human form? Would he have to look up at him, now that he’d grown, or would he refuse to gaze upon him at all?

Did he miss me? Did anyone?

One thing one had to get used to, in the Hells, were the lies. Everyone lied and lied and lied; he wouldn’t have trusted a member of Mephistar’s court if they’d told him there was snow outside. But mortals could lie, too. Pathetically simple lies for the most part, and he could see right through them now… but could he, as a boy? 

Perhaps what affection he’d been shown was a lie as well. Perhaps his departure had not been mourned. Perhaps there had been celebrations, after all, once he was gone and the years-long pantomime was finally brought to a close.

… Perhaps he should just get in the damned crypt and find out.

He knew at once that Lord Starspire was not there yet: the doors were locked, and he cast the spell to open the lock with hardly a thought. It was early in the day; surely he’d be there soon, and he may as well wait for him inside. He pushed the door open, lit all the torches and candles inside with a wave of his hand, and stepped inside.

The air was stale, full of dust, and that alone gave Raphael pause halfway down the steps. It was not right; he knew that Lord Starspire had the crypt aired out and cleaned fortnightly at least, and fresh flowers brought in each time. He could tell now that no one had been there at least for months and he knew, suddenly, instinctively, that Lord Starspire would not descend those steps to visit that day, or any other day.

Lord Rahirek Starspire was already there.

Going down the last few steps and crossing the entrance took instants, yet it felt like hours. The air suddenly felt thick, like he was walking through water. He ignored the alcoves further ahead, the sarcophagi to the sides, to focus on the most recent ones before him. He had never laid eyes on his mother’s grave before, but he’d known that her remains were in a marble sarcophagus; he’d heard of the words inscribed on it, too.

Dalah Starspire, it read, most beloved wife. Until the last star burns out.

And right beside it was another sarcophagus. Newer. Raphael’s eyes shifted to read the inscription in the candlelight, no expression on his face. His skin felt cold, and his mouth was dry as a desert. 

Rahirek Starspire, the inscription read, beneath the sigil of his house. Last of his name.

For a time, Raphael didn’t move. He didn’t so much blink. All he could do was stare, taking in the realization that he was late, he’d come back too late, and Lord Starspire was as out of his reach as his mother had always been. If he’d come earlier-- if he’d found the time, if only--

“... Is someone there?” 

There were steps, slow and cautious, accompanied by the gentle tap of a cane on the floor. Raphael recognized that voice, knew who he’d see before he even turned. 

Nan had already been ancient when he’d left, for a human, and seven years had not changed her all that much. Fewer strands of white hair stuck stubbornly to her skull, and she leaned more heavily on the cane; her eyes had aged the most, now a cloudy milky white. She must be able to see light and shadows at least, because she still made her way towards the grave, and squinted. 

“Who’s here? Fabien, is it--” she trailed off suddenly, as though she’d caught a whiff of sulfur in the air. She stilled before her withered face opened up in a wide, toothless smile. 

“Israfel? My boy, is it you?” she called out, and dropped the cane as well as all the flowers she was carrying. She held out her arms as she took another step, her gait uncertain. Raphael acted on instinct, striding forward and reaching out to steady her. Her gnarled hands found his arms, his shoulders, his face. Her fingertips brushed against it, traced his features, and her unseeing eyes seemed to light up. Her laughter sounded like that of a much younger woman. 

“Oh, look at you! You’ve grown handsome, of course. You were always beautiful, even as a boy. We don’t call good looking men ‘handsome devils’ for nothing, do we now? Oh, you’re here, you’re really here. I can die happy now.”

A thumb brushed against his cheekbone, and Raphael’s vision grew blurry. He blinked, and something dripped on her hand. “Nan…” he choked out, and her smile faded.

“Oh! No, my boy, don’t cry. Don’t cry,” she said, but tears were spilling forth on her face too, across wrinkled, spotty skin. She cupped his cheek again, and he leaned into the touch. “He did not suffer, my sweet boy. He went in his sleep, not long after you left. We found him in his bed in the morning, peaceful as they come, on the last day of winter.”

Raphael wasn’t certain if that helped or made it worse, knowing he died so shortly after he’d been taken to Mephistar and long before he had the ability or permission to travel between planes. He hadn’t come too late: there had never been a chance for them to meet again. 

It’s high time you visit the capital. I’ll take you next spring, he’d told him, but he hadn’t lived to even see that spring. He never would have taken him to Zazesspur, even if Barbas had not come to collect him then. Raphael closed his eyes, and swallowed. “I-- I see. The fort, and the others…?”

A sniffle, a smile. “A distant cousin of his took the seat. A decent man, and he let all those of us who wished to remain stay. Don’t you worry about us. But you, my boy - how are you doing?”

I’m home. It’s the Hells. I spent most of my life thinking myself a devil among mortals, and now I find most devils barely see me as one at all. I am both and neither, forever and never. My sire hardly looks my way. I can trust none and none trust me. I am a bane to mortals and a joke to my father’s court. Part of me is wondering how easy it would be for me to swindle you out of your soul just now, and that part will grow and grow until there is nothing else left. I can hardly wait for the day that happens, and yet I dread it. 

He could have said all that, and spoken the truth. But Raphael was no longer in the habit of speaking the truth. “I’m fine. I’m doing fine.”

A smile. “Oh, I’m so happy to hear that. Come, let this old lady give you a hug.”

She was so small, her back so bent with age, that her head hardly reached his chest. It hadn’t always been so. It was hard to believe that once she’d cradled him, fed him goat milk when no amount of gold could pay a wet nurse to feed a devil’s spawn. She'd let him sit on her knees when he grew a little older and told him stories, as long as he behaved himself.

“Don’t be silly, the boy won’t burn you. He’s perfectly well behaved,” she’d say to those who still would not approach. As though it had always been so, as though he hadn’t been a shrieking terror prone to bursts of temper and flames none but her could tame. 

She had taken a hellspawn none would touch and loved him into something else, into a boy called Israfel who could no longer be. He’d been everything Antilia had warned him against, harmless and toothless. If Raphael was to thrive in Cania, the boy this foolish old mortal had raised had to die - and only now did Raphael realize he hadn’t . He’d been holding onto him, too, onto what he should never be again. And in turn, that boy had been holding him back.

What you want is very human of you, little duke. In time you'll grow out of it, or you won't grow much older.

Raphael breathed out and held her back, a hand reaching up to rest on the back of her head. He fixed his gaze on the flickering flames of a candle.

“I should have come earlier,” he whispered. “To tie loose ends.”

Nan chuckled, cheek pressed against his doublet, the arms that once cradled him still wrapped around his waist. “All that matters is you’re here now,” she said, then, “I’ve missed you dearly, Israfel.”

“He missed you too,” Raphael said, and closed his eyes.

She did not see it coming, and she did not feel it happening. A shudder as electricity coursed through her, and that-- love -- was that. She went limp without a sound, her body so light it seemed to barely weigh anything at all. Raphael knelt to lay her across the floor and, after a last long look at those clouded eyes fixed on the ceiling, he closed her eyelids. He stared at the body for a few long moments, at the phantom of her last smile still curling her lips, and stood. He waited to see if he’d feel something, anything.

And he felt nothing.

Good.

Raphael shed his human form in a burst of flames, and turned to cast one last look across the crypt. He looked at his own shadow over his mother’s grave, at Lord Starspire’s inscription in the flickering light of the candles. He bowed his head, once, in silence.

Then he snapped his fingers, and all light went out.

***

“Wh-- oh, it’s you. I didn’t think it would be your turn to keep watch for at least another hou-- Raphael? What is it? Are you well?”

Sitting at the mouth of the cave they had found refuge in to rest, Durge hadn’t taken their eyes off the horizon for the past hour; but they did now, and the thought of any possible threat from outside was quickly forgotten when they saw Raphael walking - almost staggering - towards them. He was trembling and wide-eyed, face pale, hair disheveled. He paused a few steps away, staring in silence as though he had no idea how they’d come to be there. It was… concerning, to say the least; certainly worse than Haarlep using his form.

Durge stood, and cast a quick glance past him. Their companions were still asleep and unaware; nothing seemed amiss. Whatever was wrong, it had to do with Raphael alone… and it only took them another look to understand. They’d been there, too, several times. 

“Dream or memory?” they asked, quietly, as Astarion would ask them in such cases. Raphael drew in a long breath, and looked back. Even now, he seemed to be looking through them rather than at then.

“Both,” he whispered. 

Durge nodded, and put a hand on his back. “Come sit,” they said. He did sit and, when Durge offered some water, he took it. He handed back the flask with a hand that was only slightly less shaky, eyes shut, leaning against the wall of the cave. Durge put the flask away and sat by him, wondering how to ask, what to ask. In the end, they didn’t have to break the silence.

“... When you killed the people who took you in,” Raphael murmured. “Why did you do it?”

Ah. Durge paused for a moment; part of them would always wish to turn away from the truth, but they'd sworn to never do so again. So they answered as honestly as they could; in the back of their mind they saw the blade, the dripping blood, their adoptive mother’s eyes.

Sweetheart, please. This isn’t you. We can fix this. My little boy, listen to me.

“I could say the Urge came over me. And it did. But when it passed, and I saw them dead, I wanted to see more blood spill. It all seemed so right, like I had found my calling.”

“It was easy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Easy as breathing.”

A brief silence, a long breath. “And how did it make you feel?”

“Does it matter?”

“Indulge me.”

Durge looked away, at the perpetually red skies of Avernus. Somewhere in the distance, a jet of hot gas sprayed up and something shrieked. “Powerful. Elated. Free. I was exactly--”

“What you were meant to be.”

“... Yes.” Durge tore their eyes from the sky to look down at their hands. “A blight unleashed upon the world. Someone my father could take pride in.” They turned to see that Raphael was squeezing his eyes tighter. They watched him swallow, and draw in another long breath.

“This is laughable,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “It was a worthless mortal with one foot in the grave. It’s been almost two thousand years. She’d be long dead either way.”

It did not take too much guesswork for them to understand what this was about. Durge knew that someone had looked after him, once. Now they knew that same someone had died by his hand… and he’d come looking for the only being at hand who could understand. 

“It’s that how you felt?” Durge asked, quietly. “Free? Powerful?”

“It was how I thought I’d feel. But I felt nothing. I stood over her corpse and I felt nothing .  Just that I’d done what needed doing to be--”

“What you were meant to be.”

Raphael’s features twisted, and he opened his eyes. They glistened, but nothing spilled just yet. A hand was clutching the shirt he had on, over his heart, as though he wished he could tear it out. “It didn’t work. It didn’t work, ” he snapped. “What I strove to destroy is still here, damn it all, it’s all that there is now, everything wrong with me. I can’t stand it. I… I…”

“Raphael.” Durge reached over, and put a hand on Raphael’s shoulder, causing him to recoil and look back. They could tell him many things now - that perhaps it was for the best, that losing the part of them that had come from Bhaal was the best thing that had ever happened to them, that it would get easier… but their situations were not, after all, quite the same. 

Durge did not know what it meant, to live with half a soul while struggling with the full burden of a long-silenced human nature. What they did know was a simple truth: that two halves of the same soul would always cry out for one another. So, in the end, they said, “You only need to hold on a little longer. We know where the other half of your soul is. We’ll head there next.”

A shuddering breath, an attempt at scowling even as he struggled for control. “I was half expecting,” Raphael choked out, “to hear some manner of speech about retribution, and how well-deserved this is.”

This time, Durge couldn’t hold back a snort. “If you wanted a preaching on just punishment, you should have turned to a cleric of Tyr. You’ll hear no such thing from me. I regret what I did in Bhaal's name and those who love me will say I have atoned, but have I? I put an end to what I started, nothing more. True atonement would have meant turning Illithid; yet I let Orpheus bear that burden and never once regretted that. For all the suffering I caused, I strive every day to be happy - I don’t care if I deserve it or not. If there is anyone alive who cannot fault you, it’s me.” You know that. That’s why you turned to me. “... We’ll get the rest of you back. And your mother, if she’s still there.”

“I--” A scoff. “I never said I care to find her. And I fail to see why I should take your word. Any deals with you are not worth the breath--”

“It’s not a deal. It’s a promise.” A squeeze. “Now stop fighting it. It hurts worse if you fight it.”

“I did not-- ask for advice--” Raphael tried to snap, but his voice broke and he did, in the end, stop fighting it. He bowed his head, his back shuddered, and that was that; for all his usual theatrics, his tears were almost completely silent at first. Dignified, one could say - until the first sobs wracked his chest and he turned to press his face against Durge’s shoulder, to muffle them, hands gripping their robe.

Durge hesitated only a moment before they put an arm around him. They said nothing; just kept an eye out for threats and let him weep himself into exhaustion - and, finally, into a slumber.

This time, at least, there were no more dreams.

***

[Back to Chapter 11]

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[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 32

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.

*** When 'a lot of therapy' is not available, your local gaggle of imbeciles will also work as long as they have vast amounts of wine. ***

“Raphael.”

Still kneeling on the bloodied patch of snow, clutching the body of a half-sister he’d known nearly his entire existence and yet hadn’t truly known at all, Raphael did not respond. 

He’d screamed loud enough it must have hurt his throat. Wordlessly at first, then he’d cursed Mephisto’s name, he’d cursed all of Cania and everyone in it, before his cries had turned wordless once more. Finally those too had died down to sobs he had been unable to stifle, and then to exhausted weeping. Now that too had died down, and all sound but the howling of the wind had ceased. For a time, none dared break that silence. Durge found themself unable to speak, let alone move - but then again, Raphael seemed beyond hearing anything. 

He did not even seem to hear Haarlep’s voice when they called their name, did not react when they finally moved to step closer, and crouch by him. What did make him recoil with an audible, shaky intake of breath was the touch of a hand on his shoulder. 

“Mast--” Haarlep began, but seemed to think better of it. Another moment of hesitation and then they shed the glamor they had been wearing, for a form Durge had only seen once, when they’d come to rescue Raphael outside the Iron Fortress. A smaller fiend than Raphael’s true form, with cinnamon skin and long, red hair that whipped in the wind as they reached to cup Raphael cheek. “Love. Look at me.”

Slowly, still holding onto the body, he did. He stared at Haarlep as though he didn’t know how they’d come to be there. His skin was ashen pale, and there was still the imprint of bloody fingers across his lips. Haarlep sighed, and ran a thumb over it to wipe it off. 

For a moment, it looked as though Raphael was about to say something. His lips parted a moment, trembled, but in the end he remained silent. He turned back to look at Antilia’s pale, pale face; still, he did not protest or pull away when Haarlep put an arm around him and lay a hand on his wrist. When they spoke, their voice was quiet. “Come. You need healing.”

“We can’t leave her here. Not in Maladomini. She deserves better than-- this,” Raphael rasped in the end.

Haarlep nodded before pressing their lips to his temple. “We won’t. Now come to me.”

“I ought to-- I--”

“... We’ll pay her our respects,” Karlach spoke in a low voice. She pressed her lips together tightly when Raphael let out another trembling breath. She did not speak her thoughts, but she did not need to. Even without the tadpole, it was an easy guess. A devil will never not break your heart, she had said. A statement first, then a warning to Durge. Now she could say as much to prove she’d been right all along… but she did not. She didn't look at all happy to have been right. “Just let her go, soldier. It won’t hurt her. Nothing’s hurting her anymore. Let Halsin have a look at those wounds.”

Let Halsin heal what can be healed.

Slowly, at long last, he did let go. Antilia’s body was laid on the snow, and Haarlep pulled Raphael against their chest, letting him burrow his face against their throat. They cradled the back of his head with a hand before turning to look at Halsin. Durge watched him go to them, sighed heavily, and turned their gaze to Antilia’s body. 

“... I should have something in my bag to wrap her in,” they murmured, and began to dig through their belongings, looking for something better than just some old blanket. In the back of their mind there was a memory of blood, bone and gore - all that remained of Orin, a faceless pile in the Temple of Bhaal - but they made an effort to chase it from their thoughts. 

As Wyll and Karlach went to remove the sword, Astarion put a hand on Durge’s wrist. “Are you all right?” he asked, in the quiet tone of someone who already knows the answer.

Durge gave a weak smile. “I will be,” they said, fervently hoping it to be true, and busied themself finding the fine silk they had stored somewhere in the chaos of their bag of holding.

***

Raphael had always enjoyed irony. Tragic irony, specifically, was his bread and bloody butter.

And Korrilla Hearthflame choosing to use her newfound freedom to enter an Infernal contract was the very definition of it - particularly as Raphael suspected she may have yet chosen otherwise, if not for the fact her sister had been so annoyingly insistent she should not do it. 

First a servant to protect her sister, and then a servant again to spite her. Delightful, truly. 

Still, she was competent enough that Raphael didn’t think he’d ever have to make her regret signing the contract. Calling him a kind master would be a stretch, but he was fair to those who could follow orders and deliver results. Once signed, he made the contract vanish with a snap of his fingers. It was teleported to his archive, really, but the snap of fingers and a burst of flames made for a better show than handing it to an underling or putting it in his pocket. 

“As always, it is a pleasure doing business with you.” He gestured towards the wine on the table, two cups already full alongside a plate of roasted meats. She did not hesitate to take one, and lifted it in a silent toast before drinking. Raphael smiled and leaned back, drinking some himself. “I don’t presume your sister will be very happy.”

“My sister’s an idiot,” Korrilla scoffed. “Acts all high and mighty like her own power doesn't come from a higher power who doesn’t give a damn about her. Clerics are full of it. I have no reason whatsoever to listen to her.”

Raphael could have protested at the comparison. Much unlike Lathander or indeed most gods, he always paid attention to the souls of those sworn to serve him… although that was not necessarily good for the soul in question, of course. He decided not to argue that point. 

“... Of course. I don’t imagine she had any place telling you what to do, after all the sacrifices you made for her. She should at the very least be grateful for what you endured for her sake.”

A snort. “Yes, you’d think that, wouldn’t you? Twenty years of shit to keep her safe, and as soon as I have a chance for something better she keeps bleating on and on about what a bad idea it is. Never saw her helping before.”

Of course she had not helped: she hadn’t known help was needed. Mortals - dwarves in particular, stubborn as they were - had the curious tendency to say nothing of their troubles… but then it was not rare for them to grow bitter when no help came. There was very little logic to it; but then again, if mortals worked purely on logic, Raphael’s work would be far harder. As long as it worked in his favor, he did not mind. 

“Perhaps she’ll see how wrong she is, and accept the offer to serve me as well.”

“Doubtful.” A snort. “She thinks she’s too good for that. Always thought she was better than me. My fault,  probably - I just let her keep believing that.”

An unfair assessment; Raphael did not mind those, either, when they very much worked in his favor. He just smiled. “She may change her mind, once she sees how well you’re doing.”

“As if she ever noticed how well I am or am not doing.” Korrilla sighed. “I tried to tell her it was a smart move. Lathander didn’t save any of his own monks from the githyanki, either. Sure didn’t step in for either of us - but you did. She wouldn’t listen. Had a few choice words for you, too.”

“Not overly gentle ones, I suspect,” he said, and sighed as she shook her head. “What one gets for saving a life without asking for anything in return, I suppose,” he lamented. Korrilla stared at him for a moment before chuckling.  

“I don't believe you did that out of the kindness of your heart. I'm not as stupid as my sister seems to think - you're a devil l and I expect you to be a devil. That's fine by me. I'm well aware I haven't taken up service with Ilmater,” she pointed out. Raphael laughed. 

“A good thing you didn't. I promise I'll never expect you to take on other people's suffering.”

“Good to know.  I've had enough of my own,” Korrilla replied, and that was that.

For a time.

***

In the end, they made camp in the cave.

They all needed rest, they'd reasoned, before they ventured onwards to Cania. Halsin had created a stone wall to block the entrance to the cave on one end, and Durge had done the same with an ice wall before the portal, to shield them from the winds as well as any possible attacks from that side. They were all resistant to cold one way or another, and once they got a fire going and started to set up camp, it wasn't a bad spot to stay at all. 

Of course, it was quieter than usual, none of them much in the mood to talk - Raphael least of all.

He'd allowed Halsin to heal him, and he'd watched them wrap Lady Antilia’s body in silken sheets before Karlach leaned her on an ice-covered stone slab at the end of the cave, so that she at least wouldn’t be resting on the ground. He was still there, standing in silence before it, eyes fixed on the body and his expression blank. 

“Leave me be,” he had said, disentangling himself from Haarlep’s grasp, and they’d all respected his request, stepping away in silence to give him space and time. But it had been hours, and he had scarcely moved; he sat now, too tired to keep standing, but he was still at the same spot, alone. The others glanced his way as they sat around the fire, their expressions grave and sometimes openly concerned - Durge and Haarlep especially, even as they did keep away as told.

Halsin was just mulling over whether or not he should try to convince him to come eat something when he saw the lyre on the ground, where Raphael had let it drop when Antilia’s charmed song had ensnared him. On a rare moment of talkativeness on the subject, he’d mentioned it used to belong to his mortal mother.

“The box must have been enchanted, clearly,” he’d said, “if its contents didn’t crumble to dust over the centuries.”

Halsin had never been musically inclined; a few rather embarrassing attempts with a flute back in his youth aside, he’d always been content with listening to the sounds nature had to offer. Even so, when he picked up the lyre he could tell it was a fine thing, polished black wood and ivory details. He checked it over to make sure it was undamaged and then finally, without thinking it over too much, went to Raphael. 

If he heard him coming, he didn’t show it. Halsin sat by him, bowed his head briefly towards the body, and handed the lyre to Raphael. “... I figured you’d like to have it back.”

Raphael turned to glance at it, and at first he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he reached to take it. He brushed a thumb across the ivory, not touching the strings. He said nothing but neither did he ask to be left alone again, and Halsin found himself speaking. “It seems you shared the musical inclination, as well as your blood,” he finally spoke. “That tune she sang…?”

“I helped her compose the melody.” Raphael’s voice was distant as he clutched the lyre. “A long time ago. Fitting, that she’d lure me with it to end me.”

“Perhaps she’ll remember it, in her next life. When I was a child, I always dreamed of salt and sea. There were shanties. I once saw the Moonshae Isles in winter, clear as I see you now.”

That caused Raphael to finally turn to him, and stare for a moment. His features twisted in bitterness. “There will be no next life. A devil who dies in Baator is gone for good.”

“But a cambion’s soul is more than just devil. You are proof of that yourself.”

“I only live because Mephistopheles snatched up my soul when I fell. And he did so because I was foolish enough to give myself up to the mercy of the Lord of No Mercy.”

“Her mother was an elf, was it not? Elven souls are immortal. Perhaps--”

“She was Mephisto’s daughter first and foremost. She was no more elf than I am human.”

Halsin shook his head. “You know all of souls, and you know there is no such thing as half an elven soul. With every half-elf, it’s said that they have either an elven soul or a human one. I see no reason why it should not be so with your sister, even if her father is a fiend. Perhaps she did have an elven soul. Perhaps it is in wait for her new start, or perhaps she’s living through a new beginning as we speak. And perhaps she will remember you, in her new life.”

“Or perhaps she was entirely Mephistopheles’ creature, and she is gone for good.”

“... Yes, it may be so. Yet there is hope that is not the case,” Halsin replied, reaching out to put a hand on Raphael’s forearm. He tensed under his touch, but did not pull away. 

Finally, he let out a long breath. “Hope,” he rasped. “Such a foolish endeavor. I ought to curse you, for giving me any.”

“You may curse me to your heart’s content, if it helps. I’ll leave you to it. But once you’re done, know that we’re keeping some stew and mulled wine on the fire for you,” he said. A light squeeze and he stood, leaving Raphael on his own again, silent, still holding onto the lyre.

***

It took bravery, Raphael had to admit, to try stealing from him. It took a great deal of foolishness, too, to think - to hope - that there was any chance to succeed. He'd known that Hope had all of that in abundance; what she did not have was the ability to lie convincingly. 

Not convincingly enough to fool a devil, at any rate. As much as Raphael would have loved to believe she had accepted his invitation because she was truly considering serving him - getting this incorruptible cleric of the Morninglord to serve him was becoming a bit of a fixation for him, perhaps; but did Asmodeus not take great pride in the corruption of Lathander’s sworn sword? - he had known better. He had expected her to try something. 

He had also expected that something to be an attempt at getting her hands on Korrilla’s contract, and of course he’d been correct.That tragic irony, again; now it would be her turn to endure torment for her attempt at saving a sister who was not going to be very grateful at all… and, unless she was so kind as to break quickly, it would far greater torment than a drunken dwarven armorer could ever dish out. 

“I must say I am disappointed, my dear. I had thought you’d at least have a better plan than trying to grab it from my archives. Did you truly think I was so foolish I would have no security measures in place? A gross misjudgment of my character.”

Held down by guards - mortal souls, once, now given a new fiendish form - Hope lifted her head to glower at him. “Not the first time,” she spat, “as I also thought you to be a good man.”

Raphael smiled. “Ah, a common mistake on both accounts. I blame my angelic complexion,” he said, gesturing to his human visage before he changed, in a burst of flames, into his fiendish form. “But I was perfectly civil, you have to give me that. Offered you a fine dinner--”

“I’ll give you nothing . Give me my sister back!”

“Oh, are you suggesting a switch of places? I don’t think she’d be willing.”

“Let her go, or else--” 

What cut her off was not Raphael, not one of the guards; it was the crackle of electricity from a bolt of lighting, which caused her to seize and scream. Raphael did not need to turn to know who had hurled it; her furious voice rose the next instant, if any doubt was possible. 

“You idiot. I’m not coming with you, I won’t be given to you! I made my own damn choice and you don’t get to undo it behind my back. How dare you!” Korrilla stepped forward, furious. One of the guards made to move to stop her, but stilled at a gesture of Raphael’s hand. He watched, a smile tugging the corners of his lips, as Korrilla came to stand before her sister. “All those lectures about selling my soul, and then you think you may take me as you please!”

“I-- Korrilla, no! Please, I am trying to free you! I am sorry - I’m so sorry I didn’t know what Craric was doing to you! But that’s why I had to do something! You were finally free!”

“Free to do what? Live in obscurity next to your light?”

“You can’t trade one master for another!”

“Says the cleric of a god who let an entire monastery be butchered,” Korrilla spat. 

“This devil would leave you to die, too, if it suited him better than keeping you alive!”

“Yes, he would. But you know what I like? He is honest about it.” A scoff. “And since we’re on the subject, I am honestly tired of being in trouble for your sake. You came to steal from a devil. You can deal with the consequences.”

“I--” For a moment, Hope was silent. For a moment, the certainty that she could get herself and her sister out of there - that absurd hope against all reason - wavered. Raphael saw his chance and smiled, crouching before her to be at the same eye level, or almost. 

“They say that pride is the greatest sin of all. And I believe that’s precisely what keeps you from seeing that serving me is your best option. But this doesn’t have to be your end, Hope. Throw your pride away and serve me. You can have riches. You can have it all. Why serve the Morninglord, when you could have the sun ?”

Hope met his gaze, and suddenly - so abruptly that it caused Raphael to rear back - she laughed. Long and loud, right in his face, unbreakable in the absurd belief-- hope -- that she could not be tamed. “Hahahahah! Oh, I see it, I see you!”

“What--?”

A smile through clenched teeth. “I see you as you are at last. Here you are, all of you, and you’re pathetic. All this to feel like you’re not, but gods, it’s so obvious. ”

Raphael had not meant to rear back, but he did all the same. He stood and for a moment, he had to fight back the absurd urge to turn and flee. It made no sense - he held the power, he held all the cards in his own House, the House of Hope, he put his claim on hope itself - and yet it took an effort of will to stand his ground before the bound, helpless dwarf before him. 

“I will never serve you,” she spat. “Better to die than to sink so low.”

The surprise fading, and that absurd sense of unease with it, Raphael sneered. 

I’ll break you. Hope cannot endure in the Hells. I won’t let it. You cannot hold that which I cannot have. I’ll break it, and I’ll break you, and I’ll laugh when you beg to serve me at last.

“Oh, my dearest Hope,” he finally spoke, his voice low, seething. “You’re going to wish I was so kind as to kill you.”

Then down came the claw and that, love, was that.

***

Durge had almost decided to ignore Raphael’s request and go check on him when the first notes rang out. 

It caused all of them - still sitting around the fire, sharpening weapons or repairing armor, or just quietly staring at the flames - to recoil, and turn. Raphael had not moved from his sitting position before the slab where his sister’s body lay, wrapped in fine silk. But now his eyes were shut and his fingers were plucking the strings of the lyre, coaxing a melody out of it. 

And it was familiar. It was the same he’d played for them in Avernus, and the same Antilia had sung before her death - but he did not sing. There were no words: only notes, that melancholic tune filing the cave over the faint echo of the wind and the crackling of the fire. 

By the time the last few notes rang out and the echo of it faded, Durge found they could barely breathe. They only stared, something aching in their chest, as Raphael finally stood. He stared at Antilia for a long moment before he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and turned towards the campfire. He walked up to them with slow steps, putting the lyre on his back. 

He did not speak at first, and neither did anybody else. But Haarlep moved aside to let him sit, and put a wing over his back like a blanket when he did, almost cradling him in it. Raphael leaned against them just slightly before he cleared his throat and spoke.

“If there is any left,” he said, his voice hoarse, “I think I’ll have that stew. And the wine.”

Several hands reached for a bowl and yet more for the ladle, colliding with one another and causing a few somewhat awkward chuckles; and perhaps it was a trick of the flickering firelight, but Durge could swear Raphael’s lips had twitched upwards for a moment. In the end it was Halsin to hand him the bowl of stew, just as Wyll pushed a cup of mulled wine towards him. For good measure, Karlach poured something in it from a bottle.

“It’s better with an extra dash of firebrandy. Trust me,” she muttered, not meeting Raphael’s gaze. On his end, Raphael just nodded and looked down - at the bowl in his hands, at the cup of mulled wine, at the small sack of candied almonds Durge had, admittedly, not very sneakily slipped in front of him. 

They saw him swallow a moment and work his jaw as though to speak, but no words left him. Yet he ate and drank, and his lips even quirked upwards for a brief moment when he took the candied almonds; Durge supposed it was something, at least. When Haarlep leaned in to press their lips against his temple, he closed his eyes and leaned into it. 

Still, when he spoke, it was not to Haarlep. “... I talked with Bel before we left Avernus,” he said. His gaze flickered briefly towards Karlach. “Concerning Korrilla’s soul, and the House of Hope. Especially concerning the House. The deal I had with Zariel to claim any part of Avernus as my own is obviously no longer valid, as Bel is the ruler and I am no fiend - he could quite easily claim it. But he has agreed to leave it be as a personal favor, for the time being, and to keep a hold of Korrilla’s soul on my behalf. Until I am whole again, and we may make a-- permanent deal of it all. I’m likely to take residence in Avernus, as Bel suggested. He may be able to shield me from Mephistopheles in exchange for my service, after all.”

Karlach blinked. “Ah,” she said, clearly taken aback, before clearing her throat. “I mean-- that’s-- good?” she half-stated, half-asked. Durge could not blame her for being hesitant; deals with devils, and among devils, were seldom straightforward. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“It didn’t seem important.” A long silence. He did not elaborate on why that may have changed, but then again he did not have to. Haarlep’s wing seemed to wrap a little tighter around him, pulling him closer to their side. It did not escape Durge how the wing was also blocking his line of sight to Antilia’s body, but it wasn’t needed. Raphael did not turn back. 

“What kind of deal are you thinking of?” Karlach asked, earning herself a shrug. It did not come across as dismissive; it only made him seem tired. 

“All going well, I’ll retain ownership of the House.”

“You said--”

“A mere matter of bureaucracy. I shall not set foot in it again.” A pause, and he emptied his cup of mulled wine. “... Korrilla’s soul is bound to me, as per our contract. I’ll send her to the House, as you asked. I question your assumption that she’d welcome the decision, or indeed her sister’s company, but we did make a deal. You keep your word, and I shall keep mine.”

“Right.” Karlach cleared her throat, and seemed to hesitate a moment before she reached to take his cup. “More?” she asked, and Raphael nodded. She poured more mulled wine in it. 

“... More than a dash of firebrand would be appreciated, too.”

“Three dashes?”

“Seems a fair amount,” Raphael replied, and three dashes it was. He drank deeply before he looked back into the fire and then, finally, at Durge. His eyes were dry and he spoke clearly, but he still looked so very tired. “You were right,” he said in the end. Something in his voice was still raw beneath the tight control. “To be chosen by my father is to be owned.”

Durge sighed, and reached over to press a hand on Raphael’s own, to give it a squeeze.

I am sorry she could not be saved. I hope we can save you.

“I am sorry,” was all they said. Raphael just held their hand back a moment, saying nothing.

***

Outside the grand window the storm howled, hurling snow and ice through white skies as they had for time immemorial. 

Immemorial to most, at least. Mephistopheles remembered well how it had been before, when all of Baator had been naught more than a bleak and featureless plain. Theirs now, to fill with the souls of those who strayed from the paths set by the gods, as per the Pact Primeval… but bleak and empty nonetheless. 

“This place has nothing,” Dispater had lamented, and Mephistopheles too had turned to Asmodeus in dismay. 

“What have you gotten us into?”

It was amusing to think of the beings they were then, celestials no longer but not quite fiends just yet. Certainly, the beauty they’d once held had been lost. 

We have blackened ourselves so that you can remain golden, Admodeus had told the gods, and no truer words were spoken. But when he’d turned to smile at them that day, something of his old beauty had shown for a brief moment, and probably for the very last time. 

“Just you wait, little brother,” he had said. “We shall make this place our own.”

And indeed they had; as more and more souls drifted to them, on their own accord or thanks to some corruption from their part - truly, the gods should have known better than to sign a contract without reading the fine print - Baator grew even within the confines set by the Pact. Down and down it went, nine layers of it, drawing its power from the divine energy of mortal souls… and using what remained of those souls to grow their ranks with more baatezu yet. It grew, and it changed.

The Eighth layer had changed quickly, once Mephistopheles - a new name, to replace one now lost to time - had taken it as his domain within the Hells. It was said that each layer would always be a reflection of its archduke, almost an extension of them; thus Mephistopheles recalled his surprise when the featureless land had turned icy, winds blowing ceaselessly over glaciers and snowy mountains which rose above deep crevasses as far as the eyes could see. 

Ever since he’d shed his old life on Mount Celestia, ever since the war to impose the order of law against chaotic demonic hordes had changed him-- we have blackened ourselves so that you can remain golden, and yet you’d cast us out? --he’d been a creature of fire. He’d have expected his layer to become a land of fierce volcanoes and rivers of lava, rather than a frozen wasteland.

He had fashioned one of his visages to match it, to become the Cold Lord, but even then it had seemed backwards. His kingdom was supposed to reflect him, not him the kingdom. He’d known from the beginning that something escaped him, but he could not tell precisely what it was. Until he’d found it, of course, through endless study of the most obscure arcane magic. The power beneath, the very essence of Baator, which he had found a way to channel it into raw destructive energy - hellfire.  

It made sense, then. Who but him to reveal the arcane firepower beneath the ice, give it a way out, give it life? For the first time Cania felt truly his and nothing had been the same again. His kingdom, not enough but sufficient for now, with power enough that he may, one day, take Admodeus’ seat as the ruler of all Baator. 

And perhaps of Mount Celestia, and other Planes yet. Would it not be delightfully ironic, if he were to move war and conquer the very Plane which had cast him out for following orders, for doing his duty, for bringing order to chaos? 

This, too, I claim as mine.

But not yet, not just yet. He was patient, and he’d bide his time; his idiotic son thought himself patient over plans spanning a few centuries. What did he know of weaving webs and plans which spanned millennia, dozens of millennia? Of a game of chess which started long before he was born, and would continue long after he’d be dead by his hand? He had some cunning, but he remained a fool. 

A halfbreed with more intelligence than sense , not unlike the foolish creature who’d once soared the skies. Patrolling borders he’d someday be barred from crossing again, wondering what was down below, what knowledge may be far out of his reach in the lower planes, long before war became their business and changed them into something altogether different, something new, something more.

The creature he’d been knew nothing worth knowing, but at least was aware of  it. His foolish son knew nothing, yet believed he knew everything. It would be his undoing.

“Bifron’s troops are in ambush position.”

Duke Hutijin’s voice was a gravelly growl, one that could strike terror in the hearts of nearly everyone in Cania and indeed across the Hells. Mephistopheles was not blind to the fact the pit fiend held enough power, and commanded a vast enough number of troops, to challenge him for Cania’s rule if so he wished. And perhaps even win, if others followed him in rebellion.

But neither was he blind to the fact Hutijin was a singularity among baatezu, as he was a creature of unwavering loyalty - and one loyal to him alone. His power and the military forces under his command were entirely at Mephisto’s service; should Asmodeus himself move against Cania, Hutijin would turn his troops and mace against the Lord Below in his liege’s defense, and not yield until death.

None of it went unnoticed, nor unappreciated. Which was the reason why he could walk in the throne room without being called upon, and speak to him without bowing and calling him lord first . Up to recently, his consort had been the only other creature to be allowed such. 

He wondered, not for the first time, where Baalphegor may have gone; none of his spies had been able to hear word of her presence anywhere in the Nine Hells, which Mephisto supposed left Asmodeus’ own layer as the most likely place for her to have gone. An honored guest at Asmodeus’ court in Malsheem, most likely. 

Perhaps I’ll soon get word that she replaced the late Bensozia as his queen. She certainly did not weep when I told her she was to leave my court. 

It had vexed him, sure enough. She had to leave before she could uncover all that had been stolen from his vaults and report as much to Asmodeus, and she was expected to obey that order… but he’d thought, perhaps hoped, that she’d try to argue her case to remain, that she may wish to remain. She had not; she’d bowed, wished him well, and left. Her chambers had remained empty since and so had his own, much of his time spent in his laboratory. 

“... My lord?” Hutijin’s voice rang out again, snapping Mephistopheles from his thoughts. It was only then that he realized he had begun to scowl, glaring at the howling nothingness outside the window. He shook his head, and turned to Hutijin. 

“Very well. Tell Bifrons to ensure that they remain hidden within sight of Nargus until the High Cantor--” a pause, and he glanced out of the window again before he chuckled. It was time, he supposed, to begin calling her otherwise. “... Until my daughter gives the signal to move.”

A pause, and Duke Hutijin chortled. “Ah, it seems I have a bet to collect from Bifrons as well as a message to relay to him,” he commented, causing Mephistopheles to arch an eyebrow. 

“Did yourself and Duke Bifrons truly place bets on her parentage?”

A grin, all fangs. “Not at all, my lord. We placed bets on whether or not you’d acknowledge it.”

Mephistopheles scoffed. “You’re skirting the line towards insolence, Duke,” he warned without teeth, and only turned back to the window as the huge pit fiend bowed his head and left. Once alone again, Mephisto tried that word on his tongue again - daughter - and smiled.

He found it did not displease him.

***

“Your wine, Duke Adonides.”

Pausing halfway through the letter he was writing - a tedious task, but necessary; he was to keep in constant contact with the leaders of Mephistopheles’ cult in the Material Plane and beyond - Adonides spoke without looking up from the letters he’d just penned, a frown creasing his brow. “I have ordered no wine.”

“My master was very insistent that I deliver it to you right away, as a gift.”

Ah. Adonides stilled, and finally put down the quill. He turned to see a mortal woman at the door, holding a tray with the wine and a cup. She was easily dwarfed by the gelugons who guarded him at all times. They were always ready to strike, but he did not give the order.

“I see. Well then, do bring it inside,” he said, and gestured for his guards to return keeping watch on his door. Once the door closed, and the spell of silence that kept all sound from leaving the room was active again, Adonides stood. “I take this to mean he reached Cania.”

The mortal soul who’d been Raphael’s mother nodded, placing the tray on his desk. Adonides had had few chances to see Raphael’s human form - quite frankly, there had never been any love lost between them -  but he could still see the resemblance, now that she lifted her gaze to look him in the eye instead of keeping her head down as any and all indebted souls should. “He did. She said you should meet him, and take him to the agreed place. Haarlep is with him, and they have a sending stone - this is how she knows they have crossed into Cania. You are to use the matching stone to find them.”

“And the matching stone…?”

A quirk of her lips, as if the situation - knowing something a devil did not - amused her. Oh yes, there was the resemblance, clearer than ever. “The cup.”

And indeed, the cup had been fashioned from a sending stone of all things. Adonides stared at it for a moment before he chuckled, and reached to take it. The magic within hummed, waiting to be activated. “Very well. I am expected to leave for the Material Plane today, so it shall come as no surprise if I do leave Mephistar. And no suspicion, I shall hope.”

“She told me to let you know there are troops at the foot of the glacier. They are laying an ambush of some kind.”

“... I see. I don’t suppose we need to wonder too hard who it is that the Lord of the Eighth is looking to ensnare.” A sigh, and he drank a couple of mouthfuls of wine directly from the pitcher. It was a good, strong red - pleasant to the taste, but no Infernal wine. “Your son has always been such a headache to deal with, before and after he left court,” he sighed. “How does the other half of him fare?”

“He’s well. Unsettled, I think, but hasn’t lost control again.”

“Good. Whatever arcane magic was used to make it more powerful is likely to work to Raphael’s advantage, once he is whole again. Especially if his human half has also grown in power. He may stand a sliver of a chance, then.”

“A chance at what? What is expected of him?”

Duke Adonides did not reply right away. He gestured for her to follow him, away from his desk and before his window. Through the usual ice storm he could look ahead to the School of Hellfire - all green Baatorian steel and the occasional blaze of white flames. No snow nor ice clung to the structure, beaten back by its sheer heat, and the ice was melting all around too. 

Further below there was an entire zone of Mephistar which was barely visible, covered in toxic clouds which descended from the School. Toxins were embedded in the ice, and were released yet again as it melted. And melt it did, there, and across Cania - ice melted and glaciers collapsed, and below the ice only the uncontrolled blaze of hellfire. 

Unstable and dangerous, like its master. Too dangerous, now, even for the Lord Below.

“I believe,” said Adonides, Steward of Cania, “that you already know.”

***

Devils did not have much in terms of mourning rituals.

If one of theirs died a violent death, the only kind they could die, the general understanding was that they had it coming - either because they had angered someone more powerful than themselves, or because they had failed to prevail against the treachery of someone weaker. As a general rule, dead devils were not mourned; the body would be left where it had fallen unless inconvenient, in which case it would simply be destroyed.

Yet Raphael found that the thought of leaving Antilia in Maladomini, or to risk her body being found by some creature who may feast on it, was unbearable. He could not bring himself to destroy it, either. A grave was needed, and a grave she would have.

Digging one in snow and ice was no easy feat; in the end, it had taken Ravengard’s wall of fire to melt off enough of it - and even that had barely had the time to create a deep enough hole before the fierce gales howling around them snuffed out the flames. But it was enough; a small mercy, in a Plane where precious little of it could be found. 

They had stepped back, then, to let Raphael place the body in the grave. They found a spot for it near the base of a mountain, not long after stepping through the portal into Cania; near the base but still high enough to oversee the valley below and, in the distance through the snow and wind, the shape of Mephistar against the white sky. There was the view, if anything. 

Raphael didn’t want her to be in its shadow ever again. 

She was laid in the grave still wrapped in silk, with her violin and the sword, and the longbow beside her. There should be music, it would feel right, but trying to make any notes heard through the snowstorm would butcher any melody. 

Silence is better than any half-baked hymn, she had said often, and silence it would be. 

Raphael said nothing when he climbed out of the grave; he said nothing when Halsin held up his hands and conjured water to fill it; he said nothing as that water froze in moments, entombing her in thick, clear ice; and he said nothing as snow began to cover that ice, hiding the grave from sight. He said nothing when Karlach began to place heavy stones in a pile, to mark the spot as though that, too, wouldn’t be soon hidden in a thick blanket of ice and snow. 

It was Durge, in the end, to break that silence.

“Wait,” they said, and stepped forward. They held a sending stone, small enough to fit comfortably in the palm of their hand; they placed it amidst the pile, and nodded at Karlach to place the last rocks on top. Then they turned, and pushed the other sending stone of the pair in Raphael’s hand. “To find it again,” they said, “should you wish to.”

“... And to think sending stones were considered rare, once. It seems everyone has them these days,” Raphael found himself saying, smiling with no mirth. Still, he put the stone into his pocket. It was only then that he realized there was hardly any snow falling on him: Haarlep was holding up one of their wings over him, to shield him from the worst of the snowfall. As Karlach finished constructing the mound of stones to mark the grave, he cleared his throat and turned to his left, to the outline of Mephistar in the distance.

“So. You’re home,” Astarion said, his voice graver than usual. It was the voice of someone who once, too, had to return to his master’s palace to take back his own life. He narrowed his eyes against the snow, to look across the landscape and at Mephistar, carved into a glacier, the spire of Mephistopheles’ palace towering over it all. “Well, almost.”

“Yes,” Raphael replied, quietly. “I suppose I am.”

“How does it make you feel?”

It was bad form for a devil to speak a downright lie; inelegant, when twisting words to obscure the truth was a feasible, much-preferred option. But Raphael found he was too tired to twist anything, and a downright lie it would have to be - whether or not it would be believed at all.

“It doesn’t make me feel a thing,” he said, and began the long trek down the mountain.

Or at least, he tried to. They had moved no more than a few hundred paces when suddenly Haarlep was grasping his wrist, pulling him back. “Wait,” they said, holding up something - a sending stone of their own. Another. “We have to stay put. Someone is coming to meet us.”

“Define someone. ”

“Would that I could, my pet, but alas my tongue remains tied. I have not been given leave to speak yet, and as you know--”

Whatever they had been about to say next was lost as the wind picked up, suddenly and unnaturally so. It focused into a whirlwind a few steps away from them, almost screaming in its intensity - a funnel of ice and snow. There were a couple of yells, the sound of weapons being drawn; then the funnel was gone, exploding outwards in a fine icy mist. 

And standing in the snow was a devil with deep blue skin and pitch black eyes Raphael knew well. Before them Duke Adonides, his father’s steward, bared his teeth in a sneer as his black hair whipped in the storm. “Ah, the little duke finally returns. Greetings, Raphael, son--”

“Impero te!”

“--ofabi--! ”

“Ooooh no. No no no no-- Raphael-- Raphael, stop!” 

As Adonides glowered at him, trapped into his restraining spell, Haarlep reached to grasp both of Raphael’s wrists before he could hurl any other spells in the face of his father’s thrice-damned steward. Around them, the rest of the party remained on alert… if exchanging rather confused glances. 

“You’d do well to keep your pet in line, incubus,” Adonides spat, and Haarlep groaned. 

“Do I or do I not have leave to talk?”

“Hph. Very well. You may not speak of the agreement, and I suggest you do it fast. ”

“Right! Fine!” Haarlep pulled Raphael closer and did indeed speak fast, looking him in the eyes. “You have to listen to me. He and Duchess Baalphegor conspired to get you out of Mephistar. He was the one to approach me for help. He procured the ring that Duchess Baalphegor handed to your mother. Duke Adonides is not here as an enemy. He was in on it from the start.”

“... Duchess Baalphegor? Was she not cast out of court? I heard the guards--”

“She is a succubus, my dear, even if most at court have long forgotten that fact. She is even more of a master of disguise than I am. If anyone at court could fool every fiend at your father’s court, and indeed your lord father himself, it’s his long-time consort.”

Raphael had spent no small amount of time wondering what Haarlep may reveal once their pact of silence was over and they would be at liberty to tell him all that they’d had to keep a secret. He’d known someone at court had pulled strings to help him; he’d suspected that at least some of what was going on had to do with the will of the Lord Below himself. 

He should have suspected by extension that Lady Baalphegor - his father’s consort, and most of all one of Asmodeus’ most loyal diplomats - may indeed have a hand in it. But what he would not have guessed, no matter how many nights he spent wide awake mulling it over, was that Adonides would be in on it. It was stunning and, frankly, the thought he owed anything to him was more than slightly annoying. 

“Am I supposed to believe that my father’s own steward is working against him?” he finally asked, turning to look at Adonides. The steward in question, still struggling against his bounds, returned his glare with an equally cold one. 

“That is not my title, is it? I am the Steward of Cania. My loyalty is to the layer, not the ruler.”

“Ruler and layer are one and the same.”

“That is only true when there is balance between the two, but that balance has broken beyond repair. His own throne is melting beneath him, and yet he’ll refuse to see the truth of it until all of Cania collapses on Nessus.” A scowl, a pull, and he finally broke free from the holding spell. He stepped forward, breathing a little faster from the exertion. “The obsession with hellfire has become a madness in your father, as did his penchant for keeping dangerous artifacts in his vaults. One theft nearly brought all the Planes to the brink of ruin.”

Several pairs of eyes flickered briefly in Durge’s general direction, but by some miracle they each had enough sense not to say anything. Durge cleared their throat.

“... It does sound as though something needs doing,” they said, clearly hoping Adonides would not bring that up again. “What I fail to see is how aiding Raphael’s escape fits into that. Surely there are other ways to undermine the Lord of the Eighth.”

Adonides smiled amiably. Like everyone at Mephisto’s court and indeed most devils, he did that often and seldom meant it; it never failed to make Raphael wish he could rip his entire face off. “I shall let Lady Baalphegor explain all the finer details. I am to take you to her now.”

“So, we’re supposed to just follow you? No questions asked?” Astarion spoke, skepticism palpable in every word.

Adonides narrowed his eyes. “You may ask questions if you wish, but following me is indeed the only wise course of action.” He looked back at Raphael. “Lord Mephistopheles knows you live, little duke, and the order is to take you to him alive. Word is that there are soldiers laying a trap close to Nargus. If you and your little party try to approach on your own…”

“Yes, I am aware he expects my arrival. He sent the High Cantor to lead me right into his trap,” he spoke, ignoring the ache in his chest. Taking him to Mephisto alive would guarantee a far worse fate than death and oblivion; she must have known that, when made her stand.

Today, you die or I do.

Before him, Adonides’ sneer turned to utter confusion. That, it seemed, was information he was not privy to. “The High Cantor…?”

“She served as his double spy in Maladomini. Did you know she was also his daughter, or was that kept from you as well?”

“It is the first I hear of this,” Adonides admitted, stunned. Raphael was inclined to believe him, because admitting ignorance pained the steward of Cania like pulling teeth. “Where is she?”

It depends. Do you want to know what I fear, or what I hope?

“Gone,” was all he said. “She is gone.”

Adonides stared at him a few moments, chewing on his lower lip for a few moments before he spoke. He still looked shaken by the revelation. “... Duchess Baalphegor will need to be informed. This is unlikely to change things, but still a factor she may need to consider. She awaits at the Shattered Castle; I am to take you there, so that you may finally meet and discuss the next step - getting you to the vaults, namely, so you can reclaim the other half of your soul. It is faring well enough, according to your mother.”

So, she lived still. Raphael breathed out slowly, trying to ignore the way those words had caused something to clench in his stomach. He cleared his throat, and nodded. “... Very well. Do take us to Baalphegor, then. It is high time we had some answers.”

“Uuuh… we sure it’s a good call?” Karlach spoke, and Raphael sighed.

“It does not appear we have much of a choice,” he said in the end. He could see no logical reason why Adonides would turn him in to his father if he’d truly been part of the conspiracy from the beginning. Haarlep squeezed his shoulder, and met his gaze when he turned. 

“I know it’s a lot to ask of you now,” they said, “but I need you to trust me.”

Raphael swallowed, and turned away. “... It is not as though we have a choice,” he repeated in the end, and that was that. A snap of cold fingers, another whirl of snow and ice, and everything disappeared from sight. 

The wind kept howling over the mountain peaks for a long time after they were gone.

***

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[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 31

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.

*** Family reunions in Cania sure are to die for. (Also there's art of chapter 7 and chapter 14!) ***

Haarlep was not certain they liked what was going on.

It wasn’t just that Raphael had always, and quite obviously, been infatuated with his sire’s High Cantor. No doubt someone in a jesting mood may have suggested they were jealous if they’d voiced their concerns about the situation, which would not be true at all. 

Jealousy obviously not in their nature; as long as Raphael remained their little brat, he could bed others to his heart’s content - and frankly, it would do him good. He could bed the Lord Below for all they cared, and that was something they certainly would pay for the privilege of watching. 

But they knew Raphael like the back of their hand and they knew that was not quite it, not with Lady Antilia. He’d met her as a boy, and before her he would always be that boy; the infatuation endured because she was unattainable. He could build her up all he wished in his mind, and never have to see that image of her crumble as long as he did not reach out to take her. So he would not touch her at all; that was never the issue. 

The issue was that he hadn’t once questioned her sudden appearance in Malagard, nor her motive to help; both things he’d have questioned right away had it been quite literally anybody else - let alone anyone from his father’s court, let alone any other devil. But Lady Antilia was altogether different in his eyes; an infatuation of almost two millennia, and he believed her because he wanted to believe her - not just because they had very little choice.

Devils always had quite the contentious relationship with truth; successful devils weaved webs of deception so intricate, those caught in it had no more escape than trapped insects before the spider. Raphael was one such devil - but he would sometimes find himself almost as tangled as his victims, wrapped in his own lies, falling for his own disguise. 

The illusion of a young, powerful version of himself, sneering above him - archduke, he’d call them. The absolute control he sought to hold over everyone through endless scheming to be shed alongside his clothing only in the boudoir, where he could lose himself into the bliss of letting go of it all and be thoughtless and powerless, a thing to be ground in the dirt. Defile me, he would say, and in the next breath he’d be asking for lies of love. 

Raphael only loves Raphael, Haarlep remembered thinking after one such instance, carrying his bleeding and bruised form into the healing bath, pressing their lips against the marks ligatures had left on him until those too were gone. Because who else in the Hells may love him back the way he needs?

All knew what he wanted, few what he needed - least of all Raphael himself. He’d stand in the House of Hope, his self-made shrine, grandiose as few other things to be found in the Hells - hiding the rotting food and corpses under an illusion spell. Hiding a mortal woman who was not supposed to be there, trying to torture her into signing a contract against all the rules of Baator because he could not accept that failure, he could not accept he was not the master of bargains he thought himself to be - such a poor devil that a mortal could laugh in his face. 

Talking of her like she somehow was hope itself, rather than a mortal with an unfortunate name, like he needed to break her to rid himself of the very concept of something that did not belong in the Hells, and that did not belong to him. Even though he had tried to twist it into something of his own, claim it by naming his grandiose house such. 

Raphael could twist the truth like few others, he wanted like few others, and what he wanted he reached out to take. But for this one, for the High Cantor of Mephistar in her green and gold robes, he yearned. And that, Haarlep feared, made him dangerously blind. 

They had no reason not to believe that Lady Antilia was on their side, but they had no true reason to believe she was, either. They knew it and so did the others; there had been an unmistakable tenseness beneath their smiles, as though they were ready to fight if needed.

Haarlep could only hope, for Raphael’s sake most of all, that it would not, in fact, be needed.

***

“You look like you may need a heavier drink than that, dear.”

Raphael’s voice caused Korrilla to wince and look up, only to breathe out when she saw him. She glanced down at the beer she’d been nursing for quite some time, to make it last. It was easy to tell, only going on how flat the drink got. “I was starting to think you would not come.”

“I am a busy man.”

“I’m not quite certain that you are.”

“Busy?”

“A man.”

Raphael chuckled, and gestured for the maid to bring him the wine list, although he knew full well what he was about to order. “Careful, there. I'm rather certain many would take offense at such a statement.”

“I'm rather certain you know what I mean.”

Raphael hummed, leaning back on his seat. “There’s something you ought to know about knowledge, Korrilla. What has been learned cannot be unlearned.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Oh?”

“A strong blow in the head will do that. Or a memory spell, or a shot of Weatherbee’s Whirler...”

“That does not sound like a brew I am familiar with. What does it--”

“It’s a kick. In the face. From a horse.”

Raphael laughed. “How concisely put,” he said, taking the wine list with a nod at the maid. He idly went through it, but his attention remained on Korrilla. “However, if you’ll forgive my bluntness, I do not think it was a horse to strike your face specifically.”

His remark caused her to press her lips together. It had clearly been some time - her cheek was no longer all that swollen - but not quite back to normal, either. “You have a keen eye.”

“One of my many qualities.”

“Modest, too.”

“Modesty is only a quality for the mediocre. From me, it would be mere posturing.” He allowed Korrilla a minute to think it over while he gestured for the maid to return and ordered the most expensive bottle on the list. “Well then. I’m here. What is it you have to report?”

“Some gang of idiots decided to take their chances in the cursed lands. Everyone and their cat tried to warn them they’d never make it through, but they did not listen.” She scoffed lightly, and took the cup of wine Raphael filled for her. He nodded for her to go on, filling his own, but she took a moment to drink before she continued. “Well, we were mostly right.”

“I take it that means some of them did come back?”

“Only one. He’s dead now, but he managed to drag himself back. I was at the healer’s house for--” a pause, a clenching of her jaw. “... I was at the healer’s house when they brought him in. He was dying, and half-mad. He kept talking of the shadows, of lights being snuffed out.”

“Mmh.” Raphael leaned back, drinking some of the wine. “All very fascinating, but nothing that other unfortunates haven’t seen already.” He tilted his head, and waited. He had an inkling that Korrilla would not be foolish enough to call him there for no good reason.

As it was often the case, his inkling was indeed correct. “He spoke of mind flayers,” she said.

Well, now that was an interesting bit of information he had not come across before. Raphael raised an eyebrow. “... There is a way to the Underdark, in the shadow lands. Illithids do have colonies down there. Perhaps that is where the unfortunate adventurer has wandered.”

A shrug. “That’s what we thought. But he kept speaking of shadows, of mind flayers, and… the moon? And towers.”

“Moonrise Towers?”

“I don’t know. He was barely coherent. He got here in the morning and was dead by noon.” 

“I see. This is very interesting information indeed. I’ll make sure to question him.”

“... He’s dead.”

“You did mention as much. And surely you can point me to where the morgue is?” Raphael put down his cup, and dropped a pouch of gold before her. “There is one more if you do.”

Korrilla nodded, and after a quick look at their surroundings she snatched up the bag. It disappeared into her pockets and she went to stand, but Raphael waved a hand. 

“The morgue can wait, unless they plan to bury him in a hurry. Do enjoy the wine first.”

“I can’t stay much longer. Craric was drunk as a boar on fermented fruit when I left, but if I’m not back by the time he sleeps it off--” she trailed off, and shrugged. She did not need to explain herself further, and Raphael chose not to make her… at least, not on what may happen if that ape awoke to find her gone. 

“You must owe him quite a bit of gold,” he muttered, and waved a hand when she frowned and opened her mouth to respond. “No one told me, of course. But you’re no helpless damsel, and you could do quite well without him. The need for food and shelter is not what’s keeping you there. No reason to stay but a debt, perhaps blackmail. Or both. Am I wrong?”

She stared a few moments, biting her lower lip, and immediately wincing. So that had just healed, too. He watched in silence while she made up her mind on whether or not to tell him. In the end, she sighed. “Look, I don’t think anybody needs the whole sob story. Our parents took loans to start a trading business and ran afoul of a pack of gnolls on their first trip bound to Elturel. We got back a couple of limbs to bury, so there was that. It was just the two of us, and the debt collectors. Hope was too young to understand, but there was talk of selling us to Zhentarim slavers.”

“An unpleasant prospect. And that’s when your master bought you off?”

Korrilla nodded, frowning down at the wine in her cup as though she could see something in it that he could not. “More or less. He stepped in and said he’d settle the debt and teach us the trade, if we’d work for him until we’d paid him back.”

“With interest, I suppose.”

“Of course. Failing to do that, there’s always the threat of selling us to the Zhentarim.”

“Yet it’s only you working for him, and your sister became a cleric of Lathander. I rather doubt that your master spared her out of the kindness of his heart,” Raphael pointed out.

She gave a bitter laugh. “Trust me, he has neither. But I convinced him that Hope was too young and helpless. That she’d be useless, so he’d be better off only having me to work for him. It would take me longer to pay him back, but it means more interest.”

Raphael nodded. “Clever,” he said. “And what does your sister think of this deal?”

“She knows nothing. She thinks Craric was kind, taking me as his apprentice. I never told her otherwise. She thinks I’m awfully clumsy with the tools of the trade.” She made a face. “Hope was never helpless, but she can be-- gullible.”

The note of resentment in her voice was so fleeting it may be lost to most, but not to Raphael. He had seen a similar story playing out among mortals, time and time again: a noble tale of sacrifice, at first, until the sacrificial lamb grew bitter, watching the loved one they’d shielded from harm skip through life while none the wiser as to who allowed them such freedom, and at what cost. Even if not telling them had been their own choice, they’d think - how could they not see, how could they not notice how they suffered? And round and round it went, from love to bitterness to anger and resentment… and even, sometimes, hate. 

Raphael thought back of the wide smile and the blind trust on Hope’s face, so different from her more guarded sister, who was now frowning at her own cup of wine - and he wondered how long it would take before resentment strangled the love that had caused all her strife.

And oh, wouldn’t he love to be there when it happened.

***

From the moment he’d been felled in his own house and awoke in Mephistopheles’ grasp, a bloody husk to be broken down further before being allowed the release of death, Raphael had tasted humiliation many times. So many times and so keenly, in fact, that it made the indignities he’d suffered as a halfbreed bastard pale to nothing. 

Being stripped of his wings and horns and forced in his powerless human form had been humiliating. His father’s japes had been humiliating. The mockery of lowly guards as they dragged him into the dungeons, laughing at his screams when shards of broken bones shrieked against one another beneath broken skin, had been humiliating. Being forced on his knees and chained, clad in nothing but scraps of clothing and with a scold’s bridle to keep him silent - that too had been humiliating. 

As time blurred and became meaningless, as the cuffs bit into his wrists until he bled, as he felt the ghosts of foreign hands on and in his body time and time again while powerless to make it stop, as he felt true thirst and hunger for the first time in his existence - gnawing at him from the inside, his every cell screaming for nourishment even as his sire’s will did not allow him to succumb - he’d tasted nothing but blood and humiliation. 

Worst of all, there had been the humiliation of knowing he’d brought it on himself. He’d seen death coming for him in his own house, he’d known it would mean true death, and terror had won over any remaining shred of pride, any dignity he had left.

Not here, not in my home. I cannot die.

And so he’d choked out the plea with the last of his strength, choked it out through blood as his knees folded and he hit the floor, everything fading away to nothing.

“Mephistopheles, hear your son! I am at your mercy - save me!”

Mephistopheles had heard him, and Mephistopheles had indeed saved him, yanking his soul away before the thread of his life could be entirely severed. Saved him for himself, for his own amusement, rather than letting him die quickly - because Lord Mephistopheles knew no such thing as mercy.

“The Lord of No Mercy, they call me. Did you truly forget that, whelp?” he’d snarled, before proceeding to make certain he would never forget as much again.

Yes, Raphael was familiar with humiliation. But now, as he made his way towards Cania in the unlikely company of his sire’s High Cantor and his other equally unlikely companions, he found none of it compared to the sheer mortification of Lady Antilia’s words, and the resulting laughter .

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh gods, this is gold!”

“I fail to see how--” Raphael began, his face annoyingly warm, only for Karlach to laugh again and elbow him none too gently in the ribs. 

“Oh no, it’s hilarious. ”

“I fail to see why the notion I was not born an adult would be so amusing--”

“A gangly boy!”

“I was not-- that is not what she said!”

“She said you were all limbs and horns,” Ravengard reminded him, helpful as always. “And that it took years for your bust and wings to catch up.”

“Oh, a shame I only met you once you were all grown up,” Haarlep sighed. “I’d have loved to see you with a scrawny neck, trying to hold up those pretty, pretty horns…”

Raphael grumbled. “A gross exaggeration,” he muttered, turning to glare at Lady Antilia. 

Far from intimidated by a look that used to make souls shrink away in terror, she chuckled. “My apologies. It did not occur to me that I should not answer truthfully.”

“You did not answer truthfully.”

“Ah, come now,” Halsin chuckled, lowering his head a little to walk past a stalactite. “No need to be ashamed. We all had our awkward phase as adolescents.”

“Except me.”

“Except Astarion.”

At the back of the group, Durge chuckled. They were holding a staff on which they’d cast a daylight spell, to give them all some light. “I am rather certain you mentioned you used to be, and I quote, all ears.”

“Oh, did anyone else hear that? It seems the sound of someone sleeping on a figurative couch tonight.”

There was some more chuckling, no longer directed at Raphael at least. He snorted and walked quicker to catch up with Lady Antilia, until they walked side by side in the narrow tunnel. “That,” he huffed, “was quite unnecessary.”

A laugh, soft. “My apologies. I may have made you come across as more awkward than you actually were. You may go ahead and let them know of my own less than flattering moments.”

“I’d be happy to, believe me, if I could think of any,” Raphael replied, and he did mean it. He could never recall her as anything less than dignified, since their first meeting. Even when she’d lost composure when he told her he’d been able to wield hellfire, if only for a moment, he’d hardly consider it awkward. “As far as I can recall, you’ve always carried yourself with the highest degree of grace.”

Somehow, even the light shove of her elbow against his side was elegant. “Flatterer.”

“I won’t deny that charge, but it is the truth.”

“You arrived just a few years too late to witness a time when I looked more elven than fiend even in cambion form.” A small smile, as though reminiscing something. “I was quite the opposite as you. My wings grew quicker than my limbs. I was short enough that I tripped over my own braid, once. And my horns refused to grow past nubs for a good while. Yours were far more impressive for the age you were when you first arrived.”

Raphael smiled. “I remember your remarking on that. I wondered if you were just humoring me.”

“Only a little,” she admitted, and the smile that followed was wistful. “You looked rather lost, when you wandered in the music room.”

“I was. Quite literally, as I had certainly not been given a tour of the palace.” Raphael walked in  silence a few paces before he spoke again. “I don't believe I ever thanked you for what you did that day.”

“The organ lesson? You did thank me. Profusely.”

A chuckle.  “Not that.  I'm referring to your warning.”

Until you are certain of your affinity with Hellfire, do not speak of it. Not Lord Mephistopheles, not her - no one. And don’t ever tell them you used it entirely by accident.

If you cease being a danger to anyone, little duke - if you make yourself harmless and toothless - that is the day you die. But if you show all your teeth, someone will take the chance and strike first. Do you understand what I'm telling you?

A long look, and in the end she smiled faintly. “I gave you a great many warnings that day.”

“And they all played a role in keeping me alive until today, I believe. No other offspring of Mephistopheles lived as long as I did, as far as I am aware.”

Lady Antilia did not reply right away; for a moment, her gaze seemed distant. Raphael wondered, for the first time, how many other children of Mephisto she’d seen taken to Mephistar. Had she warned them, too, or tried to? 

“I believe you are correct,” she said in the end. “You are his oldest living son.”

His oldest son, not his oldest child. Raphael could have, should have understood then. That thought - I should have known - would not leave him for a long time to come. 

“I have seen your other half,” Antilia spoke again instead, before Raphael’s mind could linger on those words. “In the vaults. He was distressed when I last saw him, which I suppose is fair enough when stuck in a state of perpetual Ascension. I heard that is… unpleasant.”

That was a polite understatement, to say the least. Ascension was a last-ditch resort for a reason: it was indeed a terrible thing. It was unbridled chaos, the kind any devil would struggle to reign in and control. And it hurt to do so; ascending was a kind of agony reserved to few fiends indeed. A horrible privilege, in many ways. 

“It is,” was all Raphael said in the end. “Unpleasant, and hard to control.”

“Harder yet for Barbas to control. Your other half butchered a few servants, a couple of guards--”

It was as though something very cold had grabbed Raphael’s insides and squeezed. He did not break his stride, but he did turn with a sharp intake of breath. “How many-- what servants?” he cut her off. As though she would know, as though any devil or half-devil at Mephisto’s court had any reason to know the names of indebted souls. He knew the question was foolish even as it left his lips, but he couldn’t hold back. 

She’s watching over your other half, Haarlep had said. She’s grown fond of him, if you can believe that. She calls him Israfel, and he responds to it.

Antilia seemed startled, but only for a moment. Then her confused look turned into a knowing one. “The corpses I saw were burnt, but they all looked too large. I don’t think your mother was among them. Oh, don’t look at me like that. It was really quite obvious to anybody who’s seen your human form. You do share a face.” She tilted her head, and reached over to run a finger across his cheek. “She looks comely enough, but I wouldn’t call her beautiful. You carry her features better than she does.”

Her touch felt warm, and after a few moments his entire face did. It was disconcerting, truly, how she still had the same effect on him as she did when he’d been a boy of thirteen, well and truly infatuated for the first time. Raphael cleared his throat, rather grateful of the fact the rest of the party was several paces behind them and could not, at least, see his face.

“You’re humoring me once again, aren’t you?”

“Oh, come now. I’ve never known you to be modest.”

“Some would argue I have been well and truly humbled.”

A smile. “You’ll be whole again soon enough, and the same you’ve always been,” she said, and Raphael nodded. Of course he’d be whole again; he had to be. Every part of that mutilated half of his soul cried out to be whole. 

And yet something about those words - the same as you’ve always been - seemed to settle on his stomach like a silent, dead, uneasy weight.

***

A mind flayer colony in Moonrise Towers was, Raphael had to admit, an interesting development. 

Not one he was entirely certain what to make of just yet, but certainly something worth knowing about nonetheless. He traded in information about as much as he traded in souls; knowledge is power, and you never know when the right bit of information may become truly useful. So he hoarded knowledge like he hoarded treasures and souls, for later use. 

Yes, the brief conversation with the corpse of the unfortunate adventurer had been fascinating… although if her grimace was anything to go by as they stepped past the still sleeping healer and went outside, ‘fascinating’ was not the word Korrilla may have used to describe it. It made Raphael chuckle. 

“Had you never seen someone speak with the dead? It is a simple enough spell.”

“Not as bad as raising him as an undead, I guess. I have seen that, once. But at least they didn’t speak.” She frowned. “Do you think the mind flayers might be a danger here, too?”

Raphael shook his head. He saw no reason to lie. “No, I don’t think so. They keep their colonies well hidden, and I see no reason why these would wish to come out in the open - particularly with easy enough access to the Underdark. Ah, before I forget…” Raphael snapped his fingers, and a pouch of gold materialized in mid-air in a burst of flames. A simple enough trick, but it never failed to impress. Korrilla caught the pouch before it fell, and laughed. 

“Hah! Not trying to be subtle anymore, are you?”

“Do I need to be?”

A shrug, and she pocketed the gold. “Not around me, no,” she replied. She turned back to where Craric’s forge was, and sighed. “I should probably head back, before--”

“Korrilla!” A voice that Raphael had certainly heard before called out, happy as they come and almost unbearably cheerful. They turned to see Hope running up to them, a rucksack across her shoulder and staff in hand. She looked as though she’d been just traveling. “There you are! Oh, hey! It’s dark-tall-and-handsome! You don’t happen to have something to tell me, do you, Rilla?”

“Hope! What are you doing here?”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Ugh-- no, I have nothing to tell,” Korrilla groaned, rubbing her forehead. Raphael smiled. 

“Already back from your pilgrimage to the Sunrise Spire?” he asked, and Hope nodded.

“Well, what’s left of it! But I figured I should have a look, you know?” she exclaimed, still smiling. “The place that used to hold the Tome of the Morning! There were a few other people at the ruins, so there was company. I said a prayer for the monks at Rosymorn, and there was some guy who said he was on a quest to find the Tome again and he asked me if I wanted to go, but Cormyr is a long way away and I wanted to drop by to say hi to my sister, so here I am! I’m starving. I’ve got some coin, though. Who wants lunch? I want lunch. Do you want lunch? It’s on me!”

Korrilla hesitated. “I should head back, before Craric--”

“Oh, I stopped by the forge! Guess he had too much to drink, ‘cause he’s snoring away like a gnoll. I bet you have plenty of time to grab a bite before he wakes up!”

And in the end she did follow. Raphael could tell she still went hungry every day, despite the gold he��d given her so far. She was squirreling it away, most likely, to try and buy her freedom earlier. Mortals put so much value on freedom, yet so seldom knew what to do with it… but Raphael suspected he may have an offer for Korrilla, when the time was right. She was more than capable enough to serve him well.

Yet, throughout the meal, most of his attention was drawn to her sister, who hardly ever went quiet. Idiotically optimistic and unobservant as she may be, with far more faith in people than it was sensible, she was a powerful cleric all the same - he could tell. Unwise and formidable at the same time; truly, her parents could not have chosen a better name for her than Hope.

A dangerous thing, hope, as he’d learned early in life. Because the Hells would shatter it and anyone foolish enough to-- “You’re loved here” “I thought-- I hoped--”  "You ought to forget all about that hope, for your own good.” --hold onto it. And it made it all the easier to break a soul; the more hope they had, the more thoroughly they could be shattered. Raphael had known as much for a very long time, but he’d never quite mulled over it until now. Suddenly there is was, an epiphany - the decades-long search for an appropriate name for his grandiose house coming to an end right there and then, sitting in an inn across two sisters as yet unaware of the widening rift between them. 

The House of Hope.

***

“Gods, I sure hope that’s the last centipede we meet on the way. They’re a real pain in the-- do you absolutely have to cut out their scent glands every single time?”

“Hey, it’s valuable stuff,” Karlach replied, putting said glands - still covered in greenish blood - in her rucksack. “You get a fair bit of gold for one of these, Astarion. They make a drug out of it that devils just love. ”

“Ah, that’s true,” Haarlep echoed her, turning to grin at Raphael. “It got you in quite a bit of trouble back in your younger days, did it not, my pet?” they asked, causing Karlach to guffaw. 

“What! You actually got high on this stuff? Hard to picture you as that kind of party animal…” 

Raphael grimaced, ignoring her comment and glaring at Haarlep. “Certainly both you and the High Cantor are aware,” he said, “that there is no contest currently going on as to who can humiliate me most.”

“Oh, my dear, of course I am aware. I could do so much worse than bringing up a few youthful indiscretions,” Haarlep sing-sang. Raphael sighed, but elected to drop the matter. Not least, Durge supposed, because he’d rather they didn’t decide to prove their point by bringing up anything more.

“Yes, of course you could. Now, it would be best to move before we encounter more--”

“Be still a moment,” Halsin spoke, and reached for Raphael’s arm. One of the giant centipede’s sharp mandibles had grazed at him when it had come forth from a tunnel, where it had probably been laying in wait for prey for some time. It was not a deep cut, and he’d almost forgotten about it. Still, the healing spell closed it quickly.

Lady Antilia was standing some distance away, watching the scene with an oddly distant cast to her gaze. She seemed to recoil when Raphael looked back, and nodded her head towards the entrance to another tunnel. “We are not far, and hopefully there will be no more such creatures in the vicinity. They are territorial, and it’s unusual to have more than one in a couple of miles’ radius.”

And indeed, there was no other centipede in their path, no other enemy, no traps or impediments. Within the hour they stood at the entrance of another subterranean cave, and Durge knew they had arrived before Lady Antilia even said a word: the air coming in from inside was cold. And once they stepped inside, it became even colder. 

The cave was large, easily thirty-five feet across with a high ceiling. The ground was covered in snow, the stalactites hanging from the ceiling caked with ice. At the end of the cave, the icy wind blew through a swirling portal which opened onto the frozen wastelands of Cania.

“This is it, then? The entrance to the Eighth?” Wyll asked, and Raphael nodded. 

“If any of you are without protection against the cold, I suggest you put it on now.”

Neither Haarlep nor Durge needed any, but the others reached for whatever they had managed to get their hands on - be it a cloak, a ring, or an amulet. Potions, too, just in case.

“Ah, nothing says home quite like an ice storm,” Haarlep sighed, eyeing the portal. “Can’t see a thing. Are you quite certain we’re not going to step in only to fall down a crevasse?” they asked, causing Lady Antilia to chuckle, turning to glance at them over her shoulder. 

“No such thing will happen,” she replied, and her gaze paused on Raphael for a moment before she spoke again, turning away and walking to the portal. “You can trust me.”

Durge hummed. “The terrain in Cania is treacherous. Perhaps we could cast Feather Fall, to be on the safe si--” They took a step forward, to follow Lady Antilia to the portal, only to stop when Raphael suddenly held out an arm in front of them, keeping them from walking further. They blinked, turned - and the question died in their throat when they saw Raphael’s face.

He was staring at Lady Antilia’s back with wide eyes, lips parted but no word leaving him. He only stared at her, still and silent, skin ashen pale. Something was suddenly, horribly wrong - and Durge suspected they were about to find out exactly why that was.

***

When Korrilla next called upon him through the sending stone, her voice was a cry of fear; a strong indication that something was very wrong indeed. 

There was no report, no explanation - only a scream for him to come quick, no reason given. That was quite different from the messages Raphael usually received from her, and it was fair to say it piqued his curiosity enough to decide he could skip that day’s diary entry and make haste for Dawnrift, to find out precisely what was going on. He did not find her at the usual meeting spot, but it didn't matter.

He could guess easily enough where she’d be.

She slept in the basement of her master’s forge, and that was exactly where he found them both. The scent of strong alcohol hung heavy in the air, and the door leading to the basement had been kicked off its hinges; it gave Raphael a good idea of what he’d find even before he was halfway down the steps, and before he heard the scream that followed a blow, the sound of sizzling flesh.

Korrilla was on the ground against a wall. Her face was bloodied and much of her shirt was ripped to shreds, showing bruises and the burn on her arm. That had just occurred, if the way she clutched her arm was of any indication; Craric was still holding the hot poker, standing over her while slurring out profanities. Raphael was not quite fluent in Riftspeak, let alone when spoken by someone drunk beyond coherence, but he could make out some of the choice words he was throwing at Korrilla. She was still clutching the sending stone. 

Craric screamed something, and lifted the hot poker above his head for another blow. Raphael reached to grasp his wrist and, before he could react, twisted it. He felt the bones snap, and Craric screamed. He turned, staggering, only for Raphael to grasp him by the neck and lift him off the floor. There was no need to take his cambion form to do so, but he did anyway in a burst of flames. Taking the intimidation factor up a notch would not hurt, after all. 

Another scream - what a delightful sequence, from anger to pain to fear - but he was quick enough to silence it. He squeezed the dwarf's neck, turning his cries into choking noises so that he wouldn’t be forced to raise his own voice to be heard. He found shouting unbearably uncivilized. 

“... I suspect this call was not to give me information, was it?” Raphael spoke, and Korrilla shook her head, drawing in quick breaths through bloodied teeth.

“No, I-- he cornered me and I locked myself in. When he broke the door-- I had the sending stone-- there was nowhere else I could turn.”

“Ah, I see. Fortunately for you, your call did not interrupt anything of consequence. So I believe I shall let this slide.” Raphael turned his gaze to Craric’s face, which was quickly turning purple. His mouth was gaping open as he tried to breathe, the smell of cheap alcohol almost unbearable. Raphael wrinkled his nose, and held up his free hand. Hellfire danced across his palm, burning white. “They do say revenge is best served cold. I am inclined to disagree. What do you say, Korrilla?”

Korrilla seemed to recoil from a sort of trance, as she stared at that form of his she had never seen before. Then her gaze moved to Craric, struggling to breathe and kicking pathetically in the air, hands grasping uselessly at Raphael’s wrist. “... I’d like to hear him beg,” she replied in the end, her voice hoarse. There were marks on her neck, too.

Raphael saw no reason to deny her that indulgence, and slackened his grip just enough to allow his pleas and cries for forgiveness to spill forth. Tears spilled, too, and Korrilla’s expression remained stony. Slowly, her eyes shifted to Raphael. “If he dies, I am free.”

He smiled, and moved his hand closer to the man’s open, pleading mouth. Hellfire down one’s throat; he remembered the agony of it well, even so many centuries later. He had lived to tell the tale; that mortal would not. “Do you wish to witness his end?”

Craric sobbed. Korrilla Hearthflame smiled.

“Yes,” she said, and she did.

***

It took Lady Antilia only a few moments to realize that the others were no longer following her to the portal. Perhaps less - a mere instant of two. 

To Raphael, as he stared at her back, those instants seemed to stretch into an eternity. Over eighteen centuries, almost the entire span of his long life… right back to the moment he’d wandered in the palace’s music room, a boy of thirteen just torn from the Material Plane, enchanted by the music and by the beautiful half-fiend who made it. 

The High Cantor of Mephistar had taught him how to play the organ that day, and more. She’d given him the very advice that allowed him to live as long as he did in the Hells - trust no one.

“Not even you?”, he’d asked, and he still recalled the look on her face as she sighed.

“You’d do well to mistrust me, and most of all--”

“... Is something the matter?” Standing only a few paces away from the portal, Antilia turned. The icy winds and snow blowing through it made her hair whip around her head like silver tendrils; she was beautiful in that form too, an elf who was no true elf. Those green eyes met Raphael’s, and held. She said nothing now, but she did not need to. She had spoken enough. 

“You can trust me,” she had told Haarlep. Her voice had been soft, and yet each word had felt like a dagger through the ribs. 

“Most of all,” Raphael heard himself speaking, his throat dry as he repeated her own advice, “mistrust anyone who tells you that you may trust them.”

For a few more moments, none moved and none spoke. Lady Antilia stared back quietly, her expression blank. Then finally, slowly, her lips curled in a wistful smile. 

“Oh, Raphael,” she sighed. “For a moment I truly thought you’d forgotten all you’d learned.”

The others did not seem to quite grasp what they were telling one another, but they certainly felt that something had shifted. He heard the clink of armor as hands reached for a weapon, the sound of crossbows being cocked, boots shuffling on the snowy ground to stand ready. By his side, Durge was reaching for Mourning Frost. From his part, Raphael reached for no weapon. He found he could not move at all, his heart beating somewhere against his throat.

“... You do not truly give away Mephistopheles’ secrets to Baalzebul, do you?”

“I do give him information that is just outdated enough. The kind our lord father does not mind giving up, as long as it keeps me planted at the court of the Seventh as his own spy.”

The heartbeat in his throat seemed to still for a moment, and then dropped to his stomach. The stifled gasps and mutters behind him felt so very distant, his head wrapped in silence. Later, he would think himself a fool for having been so blind. There and then, he could barely force out a word. 

“Our…?”

“... Our lord father. Yes.” Her voice was soft as a violin note. Raphael tried to speak, but he found he could not; his ears were buzzing, his mouth felt as though it had been stuffed full of cotton. He could only watch, slack-jawed, as she smiled. “You thought you knew so much but you never knew this, did you? Of course not. No one does but myself and our sire. Baalzebul is not so much of a fool he'd trust a daughter of Mephisto to be his spy.”

Raphael worked his jaw, and finally mustered a reply. “Your life depends on keeping that a secret,” he said. There was a coldness to his core that had nothing to do with the icy winds howling on the other side of the portal, spilling snow and ice at their feet. It was the realization that there was only one way for the confrontation to end, because such was the nature of knowledge - what is learned cannot be unlearned. “Yet you're telling me now.”

A smile, distant. A burst of flames and she stood before them a fiend, a violin in her hands. She tilted her head, and the smile grew fainter. “What does it matter if you know, little brother?” A twist of her lips, and the smile was gone. “Today, you die or I do.”

She played the first note and that, love, was that.

***

“You cannot-- Rilla, come on! It’s insane! A deal with a devil!”

“Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

“You cannot trust a devil!”

“You trusted him plenty, before you saw him with horns and wings. You liked him. Not that it says a lot, does it? You like nearly everyone.”

“I-- well, maybe I’d still like him if he wasn’t trying to buy your soul! But he is! As devils do!”

The last words were spoken in obvious exasperation, with a finger pointed towards him even as Hope kept arguing with her sister. Reassuring, that: Raphael had begun to suspect they had forgotten he was even in the room. The room in the topmost floor of the inn, where hopefully Hope’s yells wouldn’t be heard by too many people.

Then again, most of the townsfolk were outside, trying to keep the blazing fire that consumed Craric’s forge from spreading any further. 

“Look, you don’t have to do this. I’ll help you make a new forge! Craric must have taught you a lot, you’ll be fine once you have your own--”

“I don’t want to be a fucking armorer!” Korrilla snapped, causing Hope to blink. 

“... Huh? Yes, you do? You went to work for Craric to learn--”

“Gods, you’re so stupid.” Korrilla made a choking sound that was almost a laughter. Almost. “I worked for that beast because I had to. I worked for him to pay back debts and make sure he couldn’t get his hands on you. Not that you ever noticed he fed me scraps and found three different excuses a day to beat me - did you?”

She did not: it was plain from the surprise and dawning horror on her face. “He did? I-- Korrilla, I’m so sorry, if I had known--”

“But you did not know.” Still under the covers, propped up on pillows, Korrilla scowled. There had been healing spells, but the burn on her arm had needed bandages. “You never knew a thing, and now you think you can come here and lecture me. Oh, how dare I think I know better than the holy cleric?”

“I don't think that, I never did! I just-- why didn’t you tell me--”

“Because I was the one who had to look after you! Me! Always, from the start, all the time!”

Hope reared back as though struck, and her eyes glistened with tears. “Oh! Korrilla, I am so sorry! But, things are different now! I’m not just a little girl anymore. I can help you. Let me--”

“Too little, too late. I am free of him now, and you did not save me. Your god did not save me,” Korrilla cut her off, her eyes hard as stone. “A devil did.”

“Surely, he wants something in return!”

Raphael laughed, causing both to wince and turn. “Ah, my apologies,” he said. “That was such a delightfully dramatic delivery of the most obvious statement. Of course the devil wants something in return. But I am not alone in this - everyone wants something in return, always, whether or not they are bold enough to ask for it. I’ll admit, however, that I do not lack boldness.” A snap of his fingers, and two contracts appeared in mid-air. “I always deal fairly, and I am a more than reasonable master. A contract binds me to its terms just as much as it binds you. They do say that it is better to feast in the Hells than to serve in the heavens - come serve me and I promise on every treasure I own, you shall feast.”

Hope scowled, and reached for her quarterstaff. “Never! You’ll never have me, and you can’t have my sister!”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Korrilla snapped, and Raphael simply bowed. One sister, he knew, was already his; now, he’ll simply have to find a way to ensnare the other. Perhaps Korrilla would even do the work for him.

“I will give you some time to decide, of course,” he said, and snapped his fingers once more to return to the House of Hope, leaving behind a small inn, a burning forge, and a bond about to be forever shattered.

***

There was a cry when a stalactite shattered above them, causing some of the debris to rain down on them. Durge was barely able to dodge them, while Astarion - who’d been standing still with his jaw slack, enthralled by a charm spell cast through song alone - was hit. It made him yelp and nearly fall to the ground but, at least, it snapped him out of it. 

And they were in dire need of that. 

Unsurprisingly for a cambion fathered by Mephistopheles, Antilia was powerful. She was no Zariel, but by no means someone they could make short work of either. Her voice alone was as dangerous as the archdevil’s blows had been; earlier she’d let out a stunning screech that had stunned most of them, and now her voice was filling the cave with an incomprehensible melody that could, nonetheless, take a hold of most minds. 

To resist the spell was a struggle, and she sang time and time again; a note from her violin and even Raphael’s attempt at casting Bardic Inspiration to help Karlach break free of the enchantment had been silenced, the notes of his lyre drowned out. Wyll, too, was struggling to break free; it had taken Durge several attempts to do so, and they were acutely aware of the fact they may find themself enthralled again should she sing. Casting Silence helped little, with a single beat of her wings taking her out of the silenced area, allowing her song to resume. Raphael’s countercharm, at least, gave them better odds to avoid being ensnared.

Somehow, Haarlep was the only one among them to be entirely immune to the effects of the charm spell - which meant that rather than fighting, they were mostly busy moving from one enthralled companion to the next, shaking them into awareness as quickly as they could… while also possibly avoiding a mauling from the four worgs Lady Antilia had summoned, or the arrows she was letting loose from her bow with deadly precision even as she sang.

There was a roar when one of those arrows struck Halsin’s bear form between the shoulder blades, but it was not enough to stop him, let alone down him. As he crashed on top of a worg, all claws out, Durge lifted Mourning Frost to cast the spell to reverse gravity. Two worgs were suddenly thrown upwards, slamming against the high ceiling with enough force to shatter bones. One remained there, impaled on a stalactite, while the other fell back down at the end of the spell, breaking the rest of its bones onto the ground; a side burst open, guts spilled, and the worg did not move again.

Somewhere on their left, Wyll had been shaken back into awareness, and cried out a word, holding out a hand. One of the remaining worgs stopped in the middle of its charge against Karlach and backed off, shaking its head, screaming in pain. That made it a simple enough target for Astarion, who put two crossbow bolts through its ribs just as Haarlep landed by Karlach to break her out of the charm spell. 

Their other companions all accounted for, Durge turned back to seek Raphael. They found him some distance away, barely dodging another arrow before lifting his hands, and casting a spell. Antilia had surrounded herself with mirror images of herself to make herself a more difficult target, but a cloud of daggers left her no escape. She fell back with a cry, a beat of her wings barely allowing her to regain her balance so that she’d land on her feet rather than suffer a ruinous fall. Her bow clattered on the ground all the same. She turned with eyes blazing, and stared at Raphael in the eye. 

Then, she smiled.

“You have no hope, little brother,” she called, her voice so soft, so musical. Her violin played for only a few moments. “Our sire will destroy you. He shall not make it quick, but I will. Come here to me. You shall not suffer. I would never have you suffer.”

Durge felt it - the pull of magic, a spell being cast. It was not directed at them, and they felt their heart skip a beat when they saw Raphael still and then drop his lyre, his gaze unfocused as he walked forward towards Antilia, hopelessly charmed. Her smile widened, and the violin bow in her hand changed, shifted into something else - a longsword. Panic gripping their throat, Durge cried out. “Raphael!”

“Oh no you don’t!” Karlach screamed the next moment, and threw one of her handaxes straight at Antilia. A good throw, but it missed the mark - going through one of the mirror images, and striking the wall behind it. Antilia turned, and opened her mouth to sing again.

This time, Durge’s struggle was doomed to fail. The melody was everywhere, so soothing, so deeply sad. It made them want to give it all up, and rest - find some peace, eternal peace. They felt weightless, all thoughts escaping from their mind like water through fingers. They were aware, only vaguely, that they had heard the melody before: it was the same Raphael had sung in a cave, on their way to the Citadel. But the words… the words were different.

Beneath this guise, we play our part, Both strangers in our own embrace For nowhere do we call our own, Unseen, unheard, upon life's stage…

Durge saw her clutch the longsword in one hand, saw her holding out the other hand to Raphael, beckoning him closer. They knew they ought to think something of it - they should to want him to stop, shouldn't they? - but thinking was so, so difficult. So they only watched, every one of them, as Raphael stepped closer, and closer, and closer… 

“Raphael!”

Haarlep’s cry did not end the effects of the spell on Durge, but the way they shoved them out of the way certainly did. As Durge stumbled back, struggling to regain bearing of their surroundings as their mind snapped out of the charm spell again, Haarlep did not waste time crying out again. They did not waste time trying to hit someone with a mirror image spell around her, either. They only held out their crossbow, and shot one single bolt.

The bolt buried itself in Raphael’s calf, causing him to cry out - and the spell that held his mind to finally break. 

Raphael’s leg buckled and he fell on his knees before he came within reach of Antilia's longsword. He was barely able to bring a hand to brace himself against the ground; startled by his sudden scream, Antilia ceased her song, and Durge saw their companions bringing their hands to their heads, the effects of the spell starting to clear.

But they still were too far. A few steps and Antilia stood above Raphael - all the charms and visions gone and longsword in hand, ready to deal a final blow that would never happen.

Later, it would not be talked about if not in whispers - but it was what happened, they all saw it. They saw her raise the blade above Raphael’s unprotected head, and they saw her stop. Pause. Hesitate.

The blade would have come down eventually, they would say. The moment of hesitation would have passed, and Raphael would have been doomed. It was what they all had to think, later, to stomach what happened next - when Wyll ducked under a dying worg’s last throes, ripped the spear off its side, and threw it through the air with a cry, over Raphael’s crumpled form... and right into Antilia's shoulder. 

Blood spilled and she screamed, dropping the longsword and staggering back. A clawed hand grasped the spear to pull it out, and when pain faded there was no hesitation, and not even fury - only the fear of someone who realizes she’s cornered and outnumbered.

And a cornered devil is the most dangerous kind. 

Lady Antilia, High Cantor of Mephistar, lifted her hands to cast. What barrage of magic she may have unleashed if given the chance, they would never know; suddenly Raphael pushed himself up on his knees, her own longsword in hand, and thrust it upwards into her unprotected stomach. 

This time, she did not scream.

Steaming blood rushed forth, staining the green and gold of her silks, running down the handle of the sword and down Raphael’s hands, down his arms. He looked up, panting, trembling; their gazes locked, and held. Then her form burned away, from fiend to elf again, and her lips curled in a smile. Blood ran from the corner from her mouth, down her chin.

“Good,” she choked, and that-- love -- was that. Her knees gave way and she felt forward, sinking all the way down the sword Raphael was still holding until she was slumped against him, face pressed against his shoulder. Raphael let out wordless noise that made Durge think of a wounded animal and shifted to let her rest on the ground, holding her torso against his chest. His hand hovered above the sword's hilt, but he dared not pull it out and make the damage worse. He could tell that went well beyond his ability to heal.

So he turned, frantic, and his gaze fell on Halsin. He was back in elf form and he was staring, silent, a pained expression on his face that was certainly not only due to the wounds he'd sustained in the fight. Halsin, the healer; they all knew why Raphael had turned to him before he even spoke.

“Halsin, she needs--” he began, only for Antilia to reach up, placing bloody fingers across his lips, turning his face back towards her. 

“Don’t be foolish,” she whispered. “If you heal me, we’ll have to do all this again.”

“No,” Raphael choked. He was pale, eyes wide and lost. “No, we do not--”

“But we do. I am nothing if not loyal.” A painful, rattling breath. Her thumb brushed across his cheek, smearing it with her blood. “You should not face him, little duke. It would be your death. But if you do - if you do, promise me you’ll tell him. That I was loyal. That I tried. ”

Raphael drew in a shaky breath, and tears spilled, leaving tracks in the blood on his cheek. “It didn’t have to end this way,” he choked out. Her smile grew fainter, and something dripped from her eyes too. He wiped it away with a trembling hand.

“No, perhaps not,” she whispered. “But there can only be one ending to every tale. One last rhyme of the song, the closing note. We never did agree on how to end a song. But this was mine. I hope yours will be… a better ending… than…”

One last breath and that was it. Her eyes slipped shut, the hand on his face falling back, limp and pale. 

For what felt like a very long time, no one moved and no one spoke. They all stood in silence, staring, not knowing what to say. Raphael said nothing either, at first; he held onto the body, almost rocking it. More ice blew into the cave, snow falling on him and his fallen sister both; it almost made them look like a marble statue. Then Raphael’s back shuddered and his breath came faster, more ragged, turning into gasps and then the muted cries of a wounded beast.

When he finally screamed the winds of Cania seemed to howl louder, too.

***

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[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 30

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.

*** Okay but is it me or is having a sister a really bad idea in BG3? Never seems to go down well. (Also there's art in chapter 10 now, check it out!) ***

“... Well. I can see why they call this layer the Circle of Ruins. I really didn’t think anything could stink worse than the Scab, but I stand corrected. This makes lovely Ethel’s swamp look and smell like a wildflower meadow.”

“I warned you, did I not?”

Astarion made a face, looking down at his soiled boot. The road they were on had half-crumbled into the stinking mire all around them, and his left boot had sunk into rotting mud almost all the way to the cuff. He’d managed to pull his leg free with considerable effort, and with a rather disgusting sucking sound. “You didn’t warn us of the stench nearly enough, devil. I’d have insisted on getting some nose clips before leaving if you had bothered to.”

“I am not certain I could stand listening to your voice if it got even more nasal than it already is,” Raphael replied, his own voice somewhat muffled from behind the Dark Justiciar mask. 

Astarion huffed. “Careful there, devil. You’re hurting my feelings.”

“All three of them?”

“Oh, wonderful. Now he thinks he’s funny. Who gave him the idea he’s funny?”

“I mean, it was a little funny.”

“Et tu, Karlach?”

“Bless you.”

Walking at the back of the group, Durge chuckled and turned to glance over at Halsin. He was stoic as always, but his lips were pressed together in a thin line, and it was a pretty good indication that all was not well. Avernus lacked anything resembling nature, but Maladomini was different. The polluted mire and canals all around them, the sickly green light from fires flickering on its surface, rotting stumps of dead trees emerging from the sludge like the hand of someone drowning, gasping for a last breath… it was worse than the absence of nature. It was the utter corruption of it, and Raphael had warned them of that well enough. 

“Cania is a wasteland, but Maladomini is diseased,” he had said when Durge asked. “I am not saying that the Eighth will be much better for him, but I guarantee it certainly won’t be worse.”

Halsin had known what to expect, and had still chosen to come with them, even as the desire to return to Reithwin Town, to his new home and the children who looked to him like a father, must have been almost overwhelming. Of that, Durge would always be grateful.

“We won’t stay for long. Just enough to be granted passage,” they promised once again.

Halsin smiled, even if it clearly took him some effort. “Do not worry for me. I can bear it.”

Durge blinked. The beginning of a headache pulsed in their skull. “... Really?”

“Oh. I did not intend that as a pun.” Halsin chuckled, and this time it was a little more heartfelt. He glanced ahead, and so did Durge. Before them was a dilapidated structure, by the side of the road - a tollhouse perhaps, with a cornugon perched on top, a pitchfork in hand. He did not immediately turn hostile, but did come down the roof with a few beats of huge wings, and landed just ahead of them in the middle of the road. 

“... Let me do the talking,” Raphael spoke quietly, as though any of them would have suggested otherwise. He stepped forward and spoke in Infernal, pulling something from beneath his blazer - a letter Lord Bel had given him before they left, the seal in it glowing red with arcane power. Proof of its sender, and of its intended recipient. The cornugon must have sensed something, and narrowed his eyes before speaking. Raphael replied again, and the devil grunted before throwing his head back and letting out a screeching call.

As more cornugons landed, Raphael turned to look at them. Mask and all, Durge could tell he was smirking. “We have been granted safe passage and an audience with Lord Baalzebul as envoys of the new Lord of the First,” he said, and nodded ahead of them. In the distance, against a blue-black sky, through a greenish mist, was the outline of a sprawling city.

Malagard awaited, and there was no way to go but forward.

***

The reeve of Dawnrift, Raphael found, was a particularly unpleasant creature. 

With how he clung to any gold coin thrown his way, it was a small wonder Mammon had not laid a claim on him long before Raphael made contact, pretending to be a wealthy merchant - not entirely a lie, that - interested in establishing a trade relationship. That, and he was an imbecile who was not nearly as good as he thought he was at hiding the fact he skimmed money from the tax he collected.

Still, an imbecile in a position of power is generally a useful one. Particularly when as vulnerable to blackmail as that one, but for now blackmail was not needed. There was no reason for Raphael to rush into anything until he’d worked out precisely what he could get out of him.

“My apologies, sir,” a servant spoke at the door, causing the man to trail off in the middle of a long-winded, rather excruciating ramble about a long family history which Raphael knew for a fact to be false. “Craric insists on seeing you now.”

A scoff. “Can you not see I am--”

“He has concerns about the trade route through the mountain pass. He has brought your new armor, but won’t hand it over until you hear him out.”

The reeve was a man whose fighting days, if there had ever been such days for him, were well and truly behind him. But he was also vain and with a tendency to take creative liberties with the image of himself he presented, and the armor was clearly a vital part of that image. So he sighed, and gestured for the servant to let the armorer through. 

“You’ll have to forgive Craric, he’s a stubborn goat as most dwarves are. He got it into his head that something is happening near the mountain pass, but the trade route is as safe as it’s ever been. A couple of cargos went missing because he trusted the wrong people with the goods, if you ask me.”

A lie, that; Raphael could tell without even needing to peer into the man’s mind. He did know that the route through the mountain pass was not as safe as he was trying to make it sound, even though he was not concerned enough to take action - yet. Raphael nodded along, pretending to be none the wiser, taking a mental note to take a look for himself. There was a monastery along the road, one dedicated to Lathander, and he knew for a fact they held at least one valuable relic there. If trouble brewed, he mused, he may yet find a chance to get his hands on it. 

He was still mulling over it when the door opened and the armorer walked in long strides. Well, long strides compared to his stature, at least. He was carrying no armor: that dubious honor went to another gold dwarf, a woman who looked much younger than Craric and staggered a little under the full weight. 

“Well, here I am, sir, with your armor,” he spat, entirely ignoring Raphael’s presence. “Are you going to do something about shipments going missing the second they leave this godsforsaken place?”

The reeve cleared his throat. “I am certain we can speak of this at a better--”

A scoff. “No better time than now, if the gentleman,” a glance at Raphael, “is looking to do business here. He should know that - excuse my elvish - shit goes missing on its way out and in. Shit, and the people who carry it. Bet our reeve didn’t tell you that.”

The reeve in question scowled, red-faced. Raphael held back a sigh, and turned to glance at a small table in a corner of the room where a game of lanceboard had been abandoned. The white knights were all but lost, placed as they were, vulnerable to the rooks.

A good enough player could move the blacks to victory in five moves or perhaps less; a truly ingenious player could salvage a seemingly unwinnable game for the whites, but it would require several more moves and a certain degree of idiocy from the opponent. Still calculating the outcomes, Raphael idly listened to the discussion unfolding. 

“Craric, enough! Nothing is amiss on the trade way--”

“Nothing amiss my ass! Two shipments--!”

“You’ve been hiring unreliable couriers, new to the job - they probably left with the goods once they got the first half of their payment!”

“Different people, twice in two months? I don’t think--”

“Or they took a wrong turn, if they were so new to the job. Wrong enough to find themselves up in the shadow-cursed lands.” Raphael’s voice caused both man and dwarf to fall silent, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Raphael glanced back at them, and smiled pleasantly. “If that is the case, I doubt any of them shall be seen again.”

“I… that…” the armorer seemed to hesitate, then he cleared his throat and scowled at the reeve. “Very well. Tell you what - I’ll make sure to give clear instructions to the next couriers, but if one more load goes missing, you’ll have to look--”

“It’s not just goods!” The other dwarf, the young woman, spoke suddenly. She had placed the armor down on a nearby armchair, and had been listening in silence until now. “Letters are not going through either. I wrote to my sister at the Rosymor--”

Craric smacked her across the face with a hand clad in tough leather, causing her head to whip to the side. The woman’s curly hair covered most of her face as she pressed a hand against her mouth, but it was clear that he’d either split a lip or made her nose bleed: a few drops of blood had splattered on the white cuff of Raphael’s sleeve. 

He frowned, and scratched at the stain with a fingernail while the dwarf snapped.

“I didn’t give you leave to speak, girl!” He lifted a hand again, causing her to flinch. “I ought to--”

“I did not give you leave to stain my clothing either, and yet you did. What ought I do?”

A scoff, a glare. “You ought to take your clothing and stick it up your--” 

He did not finish the sentence: a look from Raphael, a silent spell, and the words faded in a sharp intake of breath as fear took hold. Craric stepped back, cowering, under the stunned gaze of both the woman and the reeve. He fell in a corner and there he remained,  trembling and whimpering,  both hands over his head.

The reeve stared, taken aback. “What did you--”

A gesture from Raphael and he, too, fell silent. He stared in the distance, jaw slack, and remained motionless in his seat while some drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. “Much better,” Raphael smiled,  and turned his attention back on the woman. 

The hair was off her face now, revealing a split lip and blood on her chin, as well a still healing bruise on her cheek and the vestiges of a black eye. She stared at him with wide eyes, and flinched when Raphael cast a healing spell with a gesture and a murmur. She took in a sharp breath, touching the now unbroken lip before she spoke. “... What are you?” she whispered.

Raphael smiled again, and poured some of the reeve's wine in two cups. He took one, and leaned back on his seat. “I am a man of great compassion and boundless curiosity,” he said, and gestured for her to take the other cup. She did, but did not drink until she saw Raphael drink some himself. “My name is Raphael. And yours, if I may enquire?”

“Korrilla.”

“A pleasure to meet you, truly.” He bowed his head slightly, and took another sip from the cup. This time, she did too. “Now, you mentioned letters to the Rosymorn monastery going unanswered. I may be inclined to look into it, if you tell me more,” he added, and she did. 

When he’d arrived at Dawnrift that morning, Raphael had yet to truly get a feel of what he may gain out of this small town a stone’s throw from the Trielta Hills, other than a good place to keep an eye on the Rosymorn monastery and the Trade Way. Looking back many years later, he’d have to acknowledge that a new warlock and a decades-long obsession were not precisely among the possibilities he’d envisioned. It had been an unpredictable outcome, truly.

And Raphael had always, always hated the unpredictable.

***

Very much unlike its ruler, Malagard did not seem to have changed since Raphael had last visited it as the Steward of Avernus.

Granted, walls and buildings had been torn down, others yet rebuilt; heaps of rubbish may have been moved one way or the other, as the denizens of the Seventh tried desperately to restore the city to its long lost glory - but it was a lost cause if there ever was one, and the city remained a crumbling ruin. The palace itself, at least, was no longer made quite literally of filth.

The Lord of the Seventh himself looked vastly different. Gone was the bloated, slug-like creature he’d been turned into as punishment, one year for each lie he’d ever told another devil. His crimes paid for, he had left the most humiliating part of his punishment behind, and seemed intent on never risking such retaliation from Asmodeus by lying to a devil again.

He remained a far cry from the archon he had been when he’d been called Triel, rumored to have been beautiful even by celestial standards, but he’d reverted back to a humanoid form which was at least pleasant to behold - once one could get past the compound eyes, everything like those of a fly. Those eyes glittered as the cornugons led Raphael and the others into the dimly lit throne room, the cracked and crooked walls covered in priceless tapestries. 

Raphael gestured for the others to stand back, and stepped forward. “They bring word from the new Lord of the First, Lord Baalzebul,” one of the cornugons spoke as Raphael knelt, face still covered by the mask, and he held up the sealed envelope. The arcane magic in it made it shine, and the Lord of the Seventh smiled faintly. 

“An interesting development, that in Avernus. I suspect I know who hides behind that mask,” he said, and held out a hand. The envelope floated from Raphael’s own hand to his, and Baalzebul easily broke the seal, the magic in it recognizing him as the recipient. He read the letter penned by Bel and then, finally, he smiled. He gestured for his guard to come closer and said something in a low voice.

A nod, and the guards left - all of them, not deigning Raphael or any of his companions of another look. They closed the door behind themselves, leaving them alone with the Archduke of Maladomini. Then, and only then, did Baalzebul speak again. 

“I shall not pretend the Hells are a place to make friends, but the enemy of an enemy comes close enough. And your sire has been my enemy for a very long time, child of Mephisto. Please, rise, and remove that mask. Your companion should be at ease, too. You’re my guests now, if for a short time, and no harm shall befall any guest of mine. I know you’re not planning to stay for long.”

Raphael bowed his head a moment before he rose, and took the mask off his face. “Thank you, Lord of the Seventh. It has been a long time since I last had the chance to visit Malagard. I understand I look quite different now.”

Baalzebul stared a moment before letting out a laugh. His teeth gleamed white amidst sable skin. “Hah! Not as different as I do, certainly. And I mean to keep it that way, which means I shall not lie to you.”

Again, Raphael bowed his head. “You have my thanks, your lordship, although you are sworn not to lie to other devils. At present, I am not one.”

“Not in form, perhaps, but it is not an assumption I intend to test.” Baalzebul paused for a moment, and looked over at the others, standing a few paces behind Raphael. He smiled. “I heard of your companions too, although admittedly of some more than others. Karlach the demonsbane, of course, was already a known name. Of the Blade of Avernus, too, I have heard. And the chosen of Bhaal, who rejected his maker and lived to tell the tale. Tell me, how was it possible?”

Durge bowed their head slightly. “I did not live, Lord Baalzebul. Bhaal did extinguish my life.”

“And yet, here you stand.”

“A seneschal brought me back, so I may fulfill a mission.”

“A mighty powerful seneschal, it must have been.”

“Very.”

“I see.” Beelzebul nodded. His gaze paused a moment before he chuckled. “Ah, a perfect glamor. Most devils may not even see through it, but I can indeed. You must be Haarlep.”

Haarlep tilted their head, or at least the head or the tiefling whose form they were using at the moment. “You know me, Lord Baalzebul? I’m flattered,” they replied. While sultry as always, their voice betrayed a hint of nervousness to a trained ear. They had not expected it, clearly. 

“I heard of you from our common source. One which we are both sworn not to name until Raphael reaches Cania,” he added.

The nervousness faded, and Haarlep nodded back. “Ah, I see. Of course.”

Baalzebul turned his gaze once more, and the smile became apologetic when his gaze fell on Astarion and Halsin. “I’m afraid I know little of you, if not that you are both fierce fighters.”

“He’d have heard about me if I’d Ascended,” Raphael heard Astarion muttering, although his words did not seem to carry to the Lord of the Flies. He cleared his throat and was quick to speak up before Baalzebul could ask him to repeat himself. 

“Druid Halsin was instrumental in ending a sharran curse in the Material Plane, and Astarion stopped a ritual which would have granted Mephistopheles seven thousand souls.”

At that, the Lord of the Flies laughed, long and loud. When he spoke again, he was still smiling and his visage was, for a moment, beautiful once more. “Seven thousand! Ah, it does please me greatly to hear. Your sire owes a great debt to many of his fellow archdukes, as I’m sure you’re aware, borrowing divine energy in a mad gamble that I doubt shall pay off. Losing a contract such as that must have made him furious.”

Raphael grimaced. “... That it did. I felt his fury quite keenly, believe me.”

“Ah, was it your doing then?” Another smile, delighted, telling Raphael in no uncertain terms he had just made the archduke’s day. Or year. “Well then, I have yet more reason to be of assistance if I can. Do tell me, what do you need from me?” he added, as though he did not know. Even if the letter he’d just read did not spell it out, it would have been an easy enough guess. Still, there was a pantomime to keep going, and Raphael obliged. 

“You know what has befallen me, Lord of the Seventh, and certainly you know I intend to be whole again. I have come to you to humbly request your help in securing passage to Cania. I know your Maladominaar guard the passage fiercely, as do my sire’s gelugons on the other side. But surely, you would know a way through that may allow us to go through from the Seventh to the Eighth with Mephisto none the wiser.”

Baalzebul said nothing for a few moments: he just observed him with those compound eyes of his, almost shimmering in the faint light, and finally he stood from his throne. He towered above them all, the six-pronged horns making him taller still. 

“Of course. We stand above the most extensive network of tunnels in the Hells and, I suspect, in any Plane. I do know of ways into Cania which your sire is not aware of, as he likely and rather annoyingly is aware of passages I know nothing of. And yet more, I suspect, neither of us has discovered. There is one not too far from here, and I can offer you a guide who knows it well.” There was the sound of a heavy door being pushed open, and steps. Baalzebul looked beyond Raphael, and smiled. “Ah, there she is. I believe the two of you already know each other,” he added, and Raphael turned.

Standing in the doorway in her elven form, in a gown of green and gold, Lady Antilia smiled.

“Hello, little duke,” she said, her voice musical as ever. “It’s good to see you again.”

***

By the time Raphael reached the Rosymorn monastery, it was all over.

The monastery itself still stood, even if parts of it were damaged, and its doors were locked tight with a spell… but the corpses which littered the ground outside it told a clear enough story. Corpses of monks and clerics, for the most part, but what truly caught his attention were the bodies of several warriors who were obviously not from that Plane. Githyanki. 

Raphael frowned, crouching to examine one of the corpses. Flies were buzzing over the still open eyes, crawling over empty sockets where a bird of some kind had clearly helped itself to the softer bits. Still, the body was remarkably fresh despite the warm weather. A couple of days old at the very most. And quite helpfully, it carried a slate which gave some insight as to what githyanki had come to do.  

 Location - good. Close to road, but secluded. Building looks well-fortified. Defense - minimal - seems to be a religious building. Space - ample, underground, hidden. Was easy enough to sneak in without being observed. Prime spot for a crèche. Suggest immediate occupation. - M'lar Rih'al.

A créche - interesting, and it explained quite a lot. The couriers going missing with their cargo, letters not being delivered… they couriers must have had the bad luck of coming across githyanki scouts, and were readily dispatched as a result. Messenger pigeons had likely too been shot down, to isolate the monastery prior to the attack. If any of the worshippers of Lathander were still alive by the time the battle was done, they were likely dead by now, somewhere inside the newly established créche. Githyanki were not known to keep prisoners… not for long, anyway. 

Raphael looked over at the sealed door, pondering his options. There may be something very valuable in that monastery, but odds were that the githyanki had already sent everything of value someplace else… and whatever treasures they held was probably not worth angering them, and their queen by extension. He’d parted from Vlaakith on quite good terms, after all, and he saw no reason to change that just yet. 

Raphael sighed, and stood upright again before he turned to survey the rather ruinous scene. A day wasted, but he could yet cut his losses and head to Daggerfort that evening, to see if what remained of the once esteemed Exeltis family was willing to take him up on his most generous offer. There was no need to head back to Dawnrift to tell Korrilla that her sister was certainly dead: breaking such news would gain him little gratitude if any at all, and was not worth the effort. A shame, that. She seemed clever enough, and an extra pair of eyes in the region would not hurt, but he had no time to deal with some grief-stricken--

A loud, yowling sound snapped Raphael from his thoughts. It came from the rocky outcrops below, just out of sight. He’d have dismissed it, if not for the fact it was followed by more yowls, hissing noises, and suddenly - a voice.

“Nonononono! Keep away! I like cats, but I don’t like you! Stay back!”

Well. Someone was alive after all, and it didn’t sound like a githyanki. Raphael walked up to the ledge and looked down. Several feet below, a dwarven woman was sitting against the rocky side of the precipice. She was holding a quarterstaff, which she was using as a club to keep a pack of seven gremishkas at bay.

She was wounded; Raphael could see she was keeping a hand pressed against her side, and the armor there was pierced and stained with dried blood. A lone survivor, although the gremishkas were looking to make her their next meal. Raphael may have walked off and let it happen, if not for the fact that she was a gold dwarf. There was certainly more than one dwarf who happened to be a cleric of Lathander, but Raphael supposed it would not hurt to check.

“My, my. You seem to have run into some trouble,” he spoke, causing the woman to wince and look up, and the gremishkas to hiss. She stared at him for a few moments before she smiled; it took Raphael aback for a moment before he realized it was more akin to a panicked rictus than a real smile, the expression of someone scared out of her wits. She had, after all, seen the entire monastery slaughtered… and was now moments away from joining them.

“Oh! Congratulations! You do have eyes!” she exclaimed, and her features twisted into a grimace when she tried to move. One of her legs, Raphael noticed, was bent at an unnatural angle. “Yes, I am in an awful lot of trouble. Also in an awful lot of pain. Everybody else is dead - not a great day - and I could really use--”

“Hope?”

“Wha--” A gremishka tried to leap on her, and she whacked it with her staff just on time. It struck the creature in the head, sending it tumbling off the ledge with a cry. “I mean, yes, I do tend to have that, but a little bit of help would also be appreciated. You know. Once you’re done standing there looking handsome.”

Raphael bit back an admittedly childish urge to congratulate her for having eyes as well. “Why, thank you kindly. What I meant to ask is - are you Hope, by any chance?”

“... How do you know my name?”

Well, it looked like the day had not been completely wasted after all. If he took her back, that would make two mortals indebted with him. Even without a contract spelling out exact terms, mortals who felt they had a debt to pay back could be quite useful: you never know when you may need a favor repaid… and getting a cleric of Lathander to serve him would be quite the delicious irony, really. So Raphael smiled, and lifted a hand. Casting spells against  gremishka was counterproductive, but close as they were to the edge of the precipice it really was no issue. One thunderwave and they fell off it, screaming, to their deaths. 

“Huh.” Hope stared a moment, blinking, and finally put the quarterstaff down with a long groan while Raphael cast misty step to join her on the ledge. He preferred not to reveal his true nature until he had to, and like nearly everyone else she was none the wiser. 

“Oh, thank you. Sorry I got all snappy. As I said, bad day. I really thought I was done for.”

“It does seem you were luckier than most. I found no other survivors.” A healing spell, and he stepped back to watch her stand up again with a groan, cautiously trying her weight on the injured leg while leaning on the staff. “A githyanki attack - I don’t imagine you were able to hold them back for long.”

She sighed, her features twisting in sorrow. “The best part of two days. We couldn’t keep them out, though. One had a dragon, for pity's sake. Myself and a couple of the monks came outside to try and distract them long enough for…” a pause, a sigh. “Well, it didn’t work. I fell down here at some point and when I woke up again, everything was quiet. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been out. Where did the githyanki go?”

“They’re inside, I’d wager. They were keen to establish a creché inside the monastery.”

Another mournful sigh. “This was not needed. We’d have sheltered them, if they’d asked.”

“That is not how githyanki operate, I fear,” Raphael replied, and once he could tell she was able to stand, he opened a Dimension Door. “It may be wise to head back to Dawnrift. Korrilla was quite concerned.”

Her saddened expression melted away into a smile - a real one, this time, and she followed him into the door and onto the trail some distance away. “My sister! Oh, I missed her so much, when her letters stopped and-- I thought I’d never see her again, when the githyanki came. Did she send you?”

“In a manner of speaking. I simply took the chance to offer assistance.” And shall welcome future assistance in return. But we’ll get to that later. Once you know how convenient it is to serve me. “My name is Raphael,” he added, bowing.

“Mine is-- oh wait, you already know.” A chuckle, and she shifted a little to keep using her staff as a walking aid. “Pleasure to meet you, Raphael.”

He smiled. “The pleasure is all mine,” he replied, and neither of them had any idea yet how true that statement would prove.

***

“The High Cantor has been spying on your sire’s court on my behalf for a very long time. She knows how to slip out of Cania and back in unnoticed better than anybody else. I can think of no better guide.”

Durge was not entirely sure Raphael was comprehending the words Lord Baalzebul spoke, even if certainly he must have heard them. While the others turned to look at the newcomer - an elf dressed in fine silks, with hair of silver a few shades darker than Astarion’s own which tumbled down her shoulders in loose curls - Durge kept their gaze on Raphael. 

He seemed stunned beyond words for a few moments before he worked his jaw and spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“... Lady Antilia?”

A low laugh and she walked past them as though she had not even noticed them, green eyes fixed on Raphael. “So formal,” she said. “It would not displease me to be only Antilia to you, if I am still allowed to call you little duke.”

Raphael blinked, and smiled back. It was not a guarded smile; he looked incredulous still, and relieved. “I told you before, you may call me however you like.”

“It was a long time ago. Much has changed, including yourself.”

“That has not,” Raphael replied, and she chuckled before suddenly pulling him into an embrace. Durge noticed Karlach’s eyebrows shoot up almost to her hairline.

“Oh yeah, they sure have met,” she murmured, and Durge held back a chuckle. They still were not certain who they were even looking at, but Raphael was returning the embrace, and they figured it was a good sign. When they broke apart, he chuckled.

“Baalzebul’s spy. I see. Is this the reason why you always cautioned me not to trust you?”

“I can’t hide a thing from you,” she replied, her voice just a touch too soft to come across as truly mocking. A hand cupped his face. “But you could hide yourself even from your sire and his entire court, including myself. I believed you were dead.”

“I don’t expect I was mourned by many.”

“You were by me.” A long breath, and she pulled away the hand. “Lord Mephistopheles knows that you live, and has given orders to capture you. He’s seeking the incubus, too, and…” she paused, and turned to glance at them for the first time. “Well, any who’s aiding you.”

That seemed to remind Raphael that the rest of them, except perhaps Haarlep, had absolutely no clue what was going on. He cleared his throat. “Lady Antilia is the High Cantor of Mephistar,” he explained. “And an agent of Lord Baalzebul, as I am just now finding out.”

She chuckled. “What can I say? To be duplicitous is in our nature, and this form has served me well so far in keeping my activities a secret. But what you’re seeking to do is far more dangerous than anything I’d ever dare, Raphael. And it is precisely what Mephistopheles is expecting from you. He’ll be preparing as we speak to capture you, as soon as you step one foot in his domain.”

“And what would you suggest I do?”

“If you had any sense? I’d suggest you leave now. Return to the Material Plane where he may not find you. A mortal life may be short, but not as short as your sire would cut it.”

Raphael set his jaw. “Is that what you’d do, if it was half of your own soul trapped in the vaults?” he asked, and it caused Lady Antilia to pause before she sighed. 

“... No. I suppose I’d risk death before resigning myself to such a fate,” she conceded. She turned back, to Lord Baalzebul; he’d been watching, saying nothing. She bowed. “We shall make haste now, your lordship, before our presence is noticed and we may put you in a compromising position. I know a route which shall take us close to the glacier on which Mephistar stands,” she said. 

And that, love, was that.

***

“Hey, uh… sir?”

“Raphael will do, if I am allowed to call you Korrilla.”

“Right. Raphael. I-- wanted to thank you. For bringing her back, and for paying the healer.”

Reaching to put the white king back in place, Raphael let out a hum. The inn was on the small side, but it had some surprisingly decent vintages; he’d had the innkeeper being him their best, and taken a seat on an armchair by the fireplace, where a table stood with a lanceboard set. 

A pair of halflings had been playing when he stepped in - a mediocre game, too - but both had quite suddenly and conveniently fallen asleep. Raphael had taken the seat while the half-orc tasked with dealing with drunks took them outside, and was putting the pieces in place for a new game as he waited. 

Korrilla Hearthflame had not stayed upstairs for long: just long enough to help her sister settle before the healer arrived - one she had certainly not called. She could not take Hope to the armorer’s shop where she lived in conditions Raphael could only guess were rather squalid, and what little gold she’d squirreled away could barely cover the room’s rent for a few days. A healer was obviously beyond her means. 

“You are quite welcome,” he said in the end, putting the last rook down. He was entirely aware of the fact she was frowning, biting her lower lip, but he pretended not to notice - nor he spoke again until she finally did. 

“... Look, what is your game?”

Raphael drank some of the wine before looking at her, raising an eyebrow. “Are you not familiar with lanceboard?”

“Not that-- ” a pause, and she sighed. “Listen, no one does anything for nothing. I’m not so gullible I don’t know that - no one is. No one except Hope, I guess. She thinks you’re a really nice man who decided to come and help her out of kindness.”

Raphael hummed, and gestured for her to sit on the armchair across him. He filled another cup of wine as she did, and handed it to Korrilla. “And you do not?”

“I know better,” she replied, but did take the cup. “Craric said he wanted to help, too, when our parents died and he took me in to work. Said he’d teach me a trade, and pay me enough to provide for Hope - she’s my little sister, I had to take care of her. Guess we did all right, so there is that. She went to the temple, became a cleric and all. And I was left in his shithole.”

“I imagine treating you fairly was not among the promises this Craric made. Or feeding you well,” he added. She was naturally stocky as dwarves were even when malnourished, but hunger was plain in the hollow cheeks, in how she kept eyeing the food being taken out of the kitchen. Raphael tilted his head towards the kitchen door. “I’ve opened a tab. Go on.”

Korrilla bit her lower lip, and frowned. “Not until you tell me what you’re looking to get out of helping me.”

“I am a man who likes having eyes and ears on the ground, and I don’t have many in this charming corner of the Sword Coast. Dawnrift is close to the Trade Way, not far from the shadow-cursed land, and now there is a githyanki créche a scant day’s walk away.” Raphael took a swig from his cup. “Is it any surprise that I’d want to be informed of anything of note that may occur? Information is a valuable currency. Of course, you would be paid in gold.” 

He snapped his fingers, and two things appeared on the table before her: a small pouch with enough coin to get by for some time, and a sending stone she may use to contact him. She stared at both for a moment before she took them, and nodded. “... Very well,” she said, and asked no more questions. Smart, that. Raphael smiled, and gestured to the lanceboard.

“Do you know how to play?” he asked.

She did.

***

“Oh gods, I’m exhausted. ”

“I do apologize,” Lady Antilia spoke, her voice soft as velvet, while the mortals accompanying them proceeded to drop on their bedrolls with varying degrees of dignity. “I failed to account for your need to rest.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Raphael replied, with a rather remarkable attempt at not looking like he was absolutely exhausted from the day’s march. Not remarkable enough to fool Haarlep, of course, but then again they could see through him like it was their second nature. They were kind enough not to comment on that… and Durge was kind enough not to say anything when he leaned in and told them quietly, if not quietly enough , to get the good wine out of their bag instead of the usual muck.

As if that is going to make much difference in a meal of cold cuts and cheese consumed sitting on the ground, for someone used to the finest banquets Mephistar has to offer.

It was almost endearing, really. Almost two thousand years old, and the youthful infatuation was still there. Haarlep chuckled and sat, choosing to say nothing either. 

They had decided to stop in one of the many subterranean caves in Maladomini’s vast underground network, and an empty one at that. Lady Antilia truly did know her way down there, and it was good: the last thing they needed was to walk into one of the many hidden and heavily guarded underground storehouses which abounded in that layer, and find themselves with a fight on their hands. 

But the journey up to then had been uneventful, a close brush with a giant centipede aside. A couple of glyphs of warding at the entrance and exit, a daylight spell to give them some light, and it felt… safe enough to eat and rest in the cave. Much like Haarlep, Lady Atilia had no true need to eat, but she accepted the food gracefully, and seemed to enjoy the wine. 

She was still in her elven form, but she certainly didn’t hide the fact she too was a half-fiend. With an incubus among them as well as Raphael, none of their companions seemed to think much of it… although the tiefling did seem guarded, her weapon never far from her side.

“We’ll reach Cania within a few hours once we get going again,” Lady Antilia was explaining, holding her cup of wine in both hands. She tied her hair back in a braid and was still dressed in her silks; despite the long trek her clothing did not show a single wrinkle, not a smudge. “The passage opens on the side of a peak, near enough the base. From there, it won’t be long to go before we reach Nargus.”

Astarion frowned. “And Nargus is…?” 

“The glacier on which Mephistar is built,” Durge replied, pushing a bowl of candied almonds towards Raphael. If anyone other than Haarlep noticed him grabbing a handful to shove it in his mouth - with none of the dignity he’d been trying to carry himself with since the instant Lady Antilia had made her presence known - they were kind enough not to remark on that. 

Durge’s reply caused Lady Antilia to look over with a chuckle. “Ah, of course you’d have to be well-informed. It was quite the heist, what you pulled with the Crown. To say Lord Mephistopheles was furious would be quite the understatement. How did you accomplish that? Even with a portal to Mephistar, getting inside the vault itself can’t have been easy.”

Durge tilted their head. “I don’t suppose it was, no. But unfortunately, I recall next to nothing of the heist. My memory has been… damaged by events that followed.”

“Oh?” Lady Antilia frowned, her curiosity piqued. “Was it the illithid tadpole?”

“Their sister wanted to be daddy’s favorite and performed an impromptu lobotomy on them,” Astarion replied. “As someone with a few less than ideal siblings, I have to admit Orin was a bit much even for me.”

Durge chuckled, but they had that distant cast to their gaze that Haarlep had noticed they tended to get whenever their sister or father were mentioned. “Children of Bhaal were encouraged to turn their blades against one another. After all, there could only be one Chosen. I’d have done the same if our roles were reversed. Although perhaps I’d have slaughtered her on our father's altar, rather than planting the tadpole.”

“Not anymore, you wouldn’t,” Halsin spoke, gently, and Durge shrugged. 

“I am not what I was, and it’s partly because of her. She meant to destroy me, but only set me free. I regret I never had the chance to do the same for her.”

Wyll reached over to put a hand on their shoulder. “There was nothing else we could do,” he reminded them, gaining himself a nod. 

“Yes. I know,” they replied, then seemed to push such thoughts in the back of their mind and looked back at Lady Antilia. “Either way, I fear my prior experience of entering the vaults won’t be of help. I recall next to nothing of that event, and my accomplice is no longer alive to give an account.”

Lady Antilia, who’d been staring in silence for a few moments as though lost in her own thoughts, seemed to recoil. “Ah-- yes, of course. It is a shame you do not recall, but then again Lord Mephistopheles has taken measures since. It’s likely that whatever weaknesses in security you may have exploited then are no longer there,” she said, and Durge nodded.

“It makes sense, yes.”

The next hour or so was mostly considerations of how long it would take to cover the distance between their entry point and Mephistar - no more than a few hours - and possible ways to gain entry unnoticed. It was at that point that Haarlep spoke.

“... I know who may help us get inside,” they said, causing everyone to look over. “But again, my lips are sealed. I have no leave to speak of any of it until we reach Cania and I am given leave to talk.”

“A pact of silence, then. Interesting,” Lady Antilia muttered. “It’s something akin to what a patron will impose on a warlock.”

Wyll nodded. “I know something of that,” he said, passing the plate with the last of the cheese to Karlach. “It renders you physically unable to reveal relevant information in any way.”

“Precisely. And I’ve been warned that if I try too hard to speak of it, my tongue will freeze and fall off.” Haarlep sighed. “It may be an empty threat, but I am not going to take the risk. As Raphael can attest, it would be a terrible loss,” they added, causing Raphael to nearly choke on his wine and glare at him over the cup. 

They responded with the most innocent smile in their repertoire which was in truth not innocent at all - and which, elegantly as always, Lady Antilia pretended not to have noticed.

“Well then, once we’re in Cania you shall hopefully be able to count on their assistance to reach the vaults,” she said. “I am afraid I can help you no further than getting you to Nergus.”

“It is more than any of us could ask of you,” Raphael spoke, bowing his head. “And I am grateful for your help.”

A pause, a faint smile. “It’s little help, in the face of what awaits you. But I understand why you don’t feel you have a choice,” she said, and those were the last words she spoke before the time came to extinguish the lights and get some rest. 

For Raphael and the mortals, at least; fiends and half-fiends had no such pressing need for sleep, and thus it was only natural that Haarlep and Antilia stood guard. As they sat next to the entrance to the tunnel they had come from, Haarlep looked over to see the High Cantor of Mephistar - and, as they had found, a spy of Baalzebul - settle down by the tunnel they’d travel forward into once their rest was done. 

Still, glancing over, it didn’t escape Haarlep how she wasn’t always focused on the tunnel at all. Over and over through that night she’d turn to glance to the spot where Raphael slept, chewing her lower lip bloody, saying nothing.

***

“You’re doing it wrong!”

“No, I am not.”

The knife slices through skin and fat, through muscle and sinew as if through butter. The incision opens to reveal the organs inside, some still almost pulsing, saturated with blood. He can open bodies artfully and efficiently, a skill he took great pains to master. But his unholy Father was right - to slaughter and butcher with a clear mind keeps the urges at bay. 

He knows now that the Urge only takes him when he’s gone too long without shedding blood in Bhaal’s name. As long as he keeps at it, as long as the Chosen of Bhaal gives his master his due, that madness shall never seize him again. What does the pouting child trying to snatch the knife from his hands know of all this?

She never experienced the Urge.  Though born and raised in the cult of Bhaal, she is no pure bhaalspawn like himself. It is as his butler says: weeds that sprung from Bhaal's loins, her and Sarevok both. He is the Chosen for a reason, and Orin could use a reminder.

“You’re making it boring. Dry as bone.” Orin huffs, barely tall enough to reach his hip and yet so convinced, somehow, that she would make a more artful work of it all. She has talents - her mother’s corpse could testify as much, if it could speak - but knowing when to keep her mouth shut is not among them. “Grandfather was right. It made no sense to make you the Chosen. You didn’t even grow up here. Lord Bhaal made you and threw you out, and then the butler found you and dragged you back in like a stray.”

“Yet, I am Bhaal's Chosen,” he replies, breathing out slowly as he makes the next cut. The liver comes out whole, not a nick on it, and he places it in the first empty jar.

“And it’s not fair.” A whiny quality to her voice, the kind which may be expected from a girl of twelve but certainly not from an Unholy Assassin of Bhaal. And somehow, Orin is both. “I did everything right. I am  the youngest ever assassin. You didn’t claim the mantle until you were six-and-ten!”

The Chosen of Bhaal scoffs lightly. He doesn’t so much look up from the corpse he’s gutting, almost inebriated by the scent of blood. He has never looked towards Orin, who is just a voice somewhere on his left. “If you wish to question Bhaal’s judgment, do go ahead.”

“... I will be his Chosen one day.”

She may as well have told him that she intends to kill him, because that is precisely what her words amount to. Twirling the knife between his fingers, a heart in his other hand, the Chosen knows that there is a simple way to keep her from ever trying - slaughtering her, there and now. It is nothing, he knows, which would cause all that much anger from his lord father. Nothing he could not atone for before she is forgotten, one more bhaalspawn that failed to make a mark, never to be mourned. He’s thought of just ending the girl many times. 

And yet, he never does. He does not know what stays his hand, nor does he wonder too hard about it. She lives and one day, it will save him - put him on a path he would have otherwise never had a chance to walk. Orin will save him, not meaning to, in her pettiness and pain.

And she will be doomed either way. 

SHE WALKS IN MY DOMAIN NOW.

Bhaal’s voice is everywhere, and the Chosen cries out, dropping the knife, grasping his head. It screams and pounds, his brain a mass of shrieking agony. The smell of blood chokes him.

BATHED IN BLOOD, UNDER A RED SKY WITH A RED SUN, AT THE END OF TIME. A DOMAIN YOU SHALL NEVER SEE. YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE. BUT SHE BELONGS TO ME STILL. MINE FROM THE START, AND YOU COULD NEVER SAVE HER. 

Durge lets out a gargling scream, and falls on their knees. There is a voice through their own scream, through the pain - voices, several, and they’re voices they know. 

"Durge!"

"Love, can you hear--"

"Hey, soldier--!"

They follow their companions' voices as they pull them, again, away from the nightmare of Bhaal’s grasp.

***

“It was only a nightmare, I promise. I’ll be fine.”

It was the truth, but it still took a while for the others to truly believe them, and to sit back. Astarion was still grasping their hand, and Halsin too was not moving far. Out of the corner of their eye Durge had seen Raphael reaching out, too, before he seemingly thought better of it and pulled his hand away. He still looked concerned, though, and Durge made a point to grin at him. 

“My apologies. I suspect you had better awakenings than that,” they said, and Raphael stared a moment before he scoffed. 

“Rest assured, I had worse ones as well,” he said, and breathed out.

Durge chuckled, but in the back of his mind he could still hear it - Orin’s cries at the dawning realization of how she’d truly come to be, of the horror of it all. For a brief moment, there had been an opening… one Bhaal had been quick to close, before Durge could try to reach out. 

“No. Not him, not him... I did all this for him. Everything... everything ...!”

“No, Orin. You did this for me.”

"Bhaal... Father, they lie to me. They lie!"

“Hush, child. No more doubts, no more fears, no more Orin. Become murder.”

And that had been the end of it, with the sound of bones and sinews snapping and reshaping - the Slayer forced upon an unwilling, screaming Chosen who’d found out in the worst way that to be chosen is to be owned. The only reward that came from serving Bhaal was pain, blood and death. The only gifts he bestowed upon his children, at the end of it all. 

“How’s your head, soldier?” Karlach was asking, snapping Durge from their thoughts. They grimaced 

“Hurts as usual, but it will dull. Don’t worry. I am quite used to--”

“May I?”

Durge hadn’t noticed Lady Antilia coming closer, but there she was crouching before them. She held up a hand over their forehead, not touching but almost, and then she began to sing. It was not in any language Durge recognized - it was Infernal, so grating and yet so oddly melodic - but they could recognize a song of healing. 

A powerful one, too: soon, the agony in their skull had shrunk to a dull throb. That never went away, but they had long since learned to live with it. By the time the High Cantor pulled back, Durge was letting out a long sigh of relief. “Thank you,” they said. “That was very helpful.”

A smile. “You’re quite welcome. Your sister must have been unpleasant indeed, for you to cry her name in your nightmares.”

Ah. They hadn’t realized as much. Durge drew in a long breath, and looked away. “She met an unpleasant fate at the hands of Bhaal. I’d hoped I could pull her away from the brink, too, but there was never a chance.” They cleared their throat. “How long did we sleep before…?”

“Before you began screaming like a gremishka in heat?” Astarion quipped, still holding onto their hand. “Not a clue, love.”

“I’d say about six hours,” Haarlep replied, and glanced at Lady Antilia as though to seek confirmation. She nodded. 

“That seems accurate. But I am unfamiliar with the amount of rest mortals need.”

“Ah, it varies. Halsin and I are good to go.” Astarion shrugged. “But the others are usually at least functional after six hours. Are you?” he asked, glancing over. 

Karlach grinned. “Let us have some breakfast, and we’re good,” she said, and that was it. It was an even simpler and quicker meal than the previous dinner had been, and soon they were on their feet again, ready to march on towards Cania with Lady Antilia leading them.

And as she walked ahead of them no one noticed - how could they? - the somber expression on her face.

*** [Back to Chapter 29]

[On to Chapter 31]

[Back to Start]

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 29

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 hope the party enjoyed their break because it's Back to The Usual Bullshit now. (But also there's art of the previous chapter now, go check it out!!!) ***

“So, he lives.”

Mephistopheles’ voice was calm, echoing across the throne room with no need for him to raise it. Of course it did: the Palace was but an extension of its master, and its walls would never not carry his voice. 

For a few moments, the words were met with silence. Before the throne lay the smoldering remains of the unfortunate cambion who’d come bearing the news. A shame, that; Rigorath had served their lord well as an emissary for over two centuries, keeping watch on Avernus through the MIrror of Mephistar. Only a few steps away from the corpse, Chamberlain Barbas seemed at a loss for words, and Justiciar Bele appeared particularly interested in the floor. 

In the end, it was Steward Adonides to speak. “Yet you devoured him, my lord. We all witnessed his end at that very moment.”

As though shaken from a stupor, Barbas nodded. In most circumstances, he would have been all too happy to find someone to take the blame - he probably kept a list of devils he’d like to do away with for that very purpose - but this was different. To concede that Raphael indeed lived was to say, aloud, that Mephistopheles failed to kill him. 

“That we did, my liege,” he said, casting a glance at Rigorath’s corpse. “Perhaps Rigorath misunderstood, or was misled. Even if he lived, the halfbreed would have never had power enough to--”

“You seem to forget,” Mephistopheles spoke, his voice calm and courteous as it often was as he glanced out of the window opening onto a balcony, overseeing the icy wasteland below. “The halfbreed has my blood. Surely you do not think so little of it to surmise that some mortal blood would render it powerless.”

“Oh-- of course not, my liege.” Barbas spoke hurriedly, bowing. “I misspoke. What I mean to say is, if Raphael survived, it would only be the mortal half of him. Far too weak, surely, to best an archdevil, as rumor would have us believe.”

A hum. Mephistopheles kept looking out of the window, hands folded behind his back. Outside, the wind kept howling. It had never stopped since the beginning of his reign, and it never would. “He was not alone, it seems, and they did not best Zariel. They only held their own long enough that they could entice her to accept that angelic spark back within her. Not too surprising, all things considered. I have known for some time that the former Lord of the First had… struggles, shall we say, reckoning with the past.”

Barbas nodded. “Ah, of course. It is as you say, my Lord. Duke Zariel had a weakness which was truly unbecoming of--”

“Justiciar Bele,” Mephistopheles spoke again, cutting him off. Bele seemed to recoil before bowing his head. 

“My liege?”

“We discuss matters of justice often.”

“That we do, my--”

“I was not finished speaking,” Mephistopheles cut him off, and Bele shut his mouth so quickly his teeth snapped together as his liege lord spoke again. “Let us assume that the report we heard was correct, and that the human part of my useless offspring still lives. Yet I did devour someone that day. All of you witnessed it, as Adonides so promptly reminded us. So I pose to you the question, how did that come to be?”

Bele licked his lips before he spoke. “A switch, I would imagine. Perhaps the prisoner the guards took to you was not Raphael.”

Far-fetched as it may seem, it was not impossible either. There was no way a simple illusion spell would have fooled Mephistopheles, but it was far from the only way the switch may have occurred. Antilia had not been present when Raphael was devoured - she’d snapped one of her harp’s strings, to have reason to leave the hall - but she’d heard of the state Raphael had been in when dragged inside to face his sentence. Clad in little more than rags, with his face bloodied and a scold’s bridle over much of it, piercing his tongue with a spike. 

Enough of the face concealed for someone else to pass as him. A spike through the tongue, to keep them from speaking up. Yes, it is possible. Likely, even. 

Lord Mephistopheles seemed to think so as well, for he nodded. “Well then. You’re to have all the guards brought to the School of Hellfire, to be sharply questioned. Let Quagrem do the questioning, but I expect you to be there and listen, Barbas. Intently. Raphael was a powerless human when I had him taken to the dungeons, and if he did escape he must have had help here in Mephistar. If the guards are not involved, perhaps they noticed something. Anything they reveal must be reported to me immediately.”

Another bow. “Of course, my liege. Anything else?”

Mephistopheles turned back to the window, a hand reaching up to stroke his beard. He was wearing his Lord of Hellfire form that day, with crimson skin and pearl white eyes. Looking at that profile, the resemblance with Raphael was striking. “That incubus of his,” he spoke. “The one who returned to my court after my son’s downfall. Have them taken for questioning, too.”

“They left weeks ago, my liege, allegedly to collect new forms from the Material Plane. They have not returned since,” Bele replied immediately. Too quickly, in fact, not to raise a couple of eyebrows - those of Adonides and Barbas, specifically. 

“You seem particularly well-informed,” Barbas needled him, “over the movements of this specific incubus.”

Bele glared, but he knew better than to snap in their lord’s presence. “I keep an eye on the comings and goings at court, is all.”

The comings more than the goings, Antilia mused. A most unbecoming thought for the High Cantor of Mephistar, that, which would gain her some reproach from her liege should she speak it aloud. In other circumstances she may have laughed; as things were she kept standing to the side, silent and stone-faced, as Barbas spoke again. 

“As chamberlain, that is my duty. I will seek out this incubus, my liege, and if they are not in Cania I’ll ensure that they are found.”

A slight tilt of Mephistopheles’ head, the golden rings around his horns gleaming faintly. “Very well. Adonides?”

“My lord?”

“You’re to spread the word through all the layers of the Hells that a reward awaits whoever brings me Raphael - alive. Do ensure my cult receives the message across other Planes to keep an eye out for him, and for any of the mortals traveling with him.”

“It shall be done.”

“Any known diabolist who may open a portal to Baator should be looked into. If the fool intends to travel to Cania, certainly he’d rather use a portal than traverse all of the layers from Avernus to here.” A vague gesture of the hand. “You are dismissed - not you, High Cantor. And do send someone in to clean, Barbas,” Mephistopheles added, briefly tilting his head towards the dead cambion’s remains. 

“Of course, lord Mephistopheles.”

There were steps, some slower and some more hurried; the sound of the door leading to the throne room opening and closing; and then, for a few moments, silence.

“... Rigorath was an asset, my lord,” Antilia said quietly, gaze lingering on the blackened innards, on the face still frozen in a scream. It was not the first time she watched the Lord of Cania shoot the messenger when the news they had to relay was less than pleasant. It never failed to make an uncomfortable feeling - will I be next? - coil up in the pit of her stomach. “A reliable pair of eyes on Avernus.”

A dismissive hum, and Mephistopheles stepped away from the window, past the body. “We have more eyes on Avernus than it’s worth counting. I’ll send another emissary to stand watch at the Mirror.”

Was he your blood, too?

It would do her no good to ask that question, even less to hear the answer, so she did not speak it. She only turned back to her-- sire -- liege, folding her hands, and followed him to the pit of flames. Away from the pool of blood which had long since stopped steaming, and was beginning to freeze. She stopped a few steps behind, eyes fixed on the black hair falling down his back, almost indistinguishable from the cape of black voice he wore. She did not mean to keep staring in silence, but that she did, only to recoil when Mephistopheles turned to glance at her over his shoulder. He looked at her, at the corpse, and back at her before giving a wry smile. 

“You are at liberty to speak without the same fate befalling you. You know that.”

Do I?, she wondered. But she was not eager to test his statement, and did not voice the thought. Instead, she bowed her head. “You believe Raphael is seeking to return to Cania.”

“I know he is.”

“It would be foolish of him.”

“Yes. And he is a fool.”

“All that awaits him here is death.”

“And half his soul, the only one worth anything.” Mephisto held out a hand, and called upon a soul from the column at the other end of the room. It fluttered over his hand, but he didn’t consume it right away. He let it weave between long fingers. “I saw his potential, and extended grace for it. I seldom give warnings, but I did warn him. And when he overreached, I only elected to kill the weaker part of him, rather than to destroy him entirely.” A silent glace to where Rigorath’s body lay. “... It vexes me to say I have underestimated that human half. I shan’t make that mistake again, and neither should you.”

Antilia nodded. She’s lived at court all of her life, served her-- father, will the day ever come you’ll allow me to call you such? -- lord for almost as long as she could recall. There was much of his mind that remained a mystery to her, but some things… some things she understood. Some things were indeed easy to guess.

“You expect him to pass through Maladomini.”

“He must. All of Cania is closed to portals; I made sure of it. But the Circle of Ruins remains liable to be breached by a skilled enough diabolist, and Baalzebul would love nothing more than to assist his passage to Cania. Anything to spite me. That too, Raphael knows well. What he does not know is that Baalzebul believes you to be his faithful spy here in Cania.” 

Mephistopheles opened his hand, and the soul he’d been holding onto was sucked into his mouth, his nostrils. His eyes glowed white hot a moment; in that instant Antilia saw it briefly, as though a foggy glass - the glimpse of something ancient and terrible, the flash of too many needle-like fangs like those of a fish of the deep. Then the light was gone, and the Lord of Hellfire stood before her again. He smiled without baring his teeth.

“You are to go to Beelzebul’s court. Offer him any sort of information on my court that’s outdated enough to be of no true relevance, and linger. Ensure that the Lord of the Seventh entrusts you to take Raphael through the passage to Cania, should he truly make it as far as Malagard.”

Antilia swallowed, and nodded. A small part of her balked, but she ignored it. Mephistopheles had given an order; Mephistopheles would not be denied. And why would she risk his ire for Raphael’s sake? She, too, had tried to warn him, yet he failed to heed all warnings. There was nothing more that could be done for him. He made his choices, and he chose wrong.

“Am I to call upon your forces once we’re in Cania?”

“And give him a chance to run back to Maladomini, where we cannot chase him without an open conflict with Baalzebul?” Mephistopheles chuckled, and approached. Once they stood one before the other, she had to tilt back her head to look at his face. “No. You’re to take him, alive, all the way to Nargus. He’ll follow you, as long as you can keep up the ruse, and I know you can. Once you’re deep enough in Cania to see Mephistar atop the glacier, that is when you’ll call upon my forces. He is to be taken here alive. ”

And he’ll remain alive, the unsaid part went, until he begs for death convincingly enough for me to grant it.

“Of course, my lord.”

Antilia bowed, and turned to leave. She didn’t get to take a single step before he spoke again. His voice was quiet - gentle, even, if one did not know better than to describe the Lord of the Eighth as such - but it caused her to still as suddenly and sharply as a shout would have. 

“Daughter.”

No one in court or elsewhere, no one beside herself and Mephistopheles, knew that to be true. None could know. She was to be his spy; none would be foolish enough to trust Mephisto’s own blood, and certainly not the Lord of the Seventh. Mephistopheles rarely referred to her as such even in private. It had been years or perhaps even centuries since he last did. 

She turned slowly. The words - sire, father, maker - refused to leave her throat. “... My lord?”

Mephistopheles stepped closer, and cupped her chin to tilt her face up. “You have served me long, and you have served me well. Once you lead Raphael in my grasp, Baalzebul is bound to know where your loyalty lay all along. You shall never be able to return to Maladomini as his spy in Cania.”

Out of the corner of the eye she still saw it, the corpse of a cambion destroyed in a fit of anger, over the delivery of unpleasant news. He’d been many centuries younger than her but he too had served Mephistopheles well and long, nearly his entire existence. Yet there he lay… and there she stood. “My liege,” she spoke. Her voice was weak in a way a cantor’s should never sound. “I am certain I can still be of use, once my time as Baalzeul’s--”

“You’re my high cantor. Your place at court is secure,” he cut her off. A clawed thumb ran over her cheek. “But you always wanted more. Like your brother, like all your siblings. Ever yearning for more than what you’re given.”

Of course we do. It’s your blood in our veins, that of the archmage of the Hells who’s been coveting the king’s throne since time immemorial. Our blood screams that it’s never enough, that we can be more, must be more. It killed nearly all of them. But I can silence it, if I sing over it, quiet it down to a murmur. I ask for little, so very little, and even that I am denied. 

“All I want--”

“Hush. I know what you want. And you shall have it.” The Lord of the Eighth looked her in the eyes, those white pearly eyes bearing into hers, full of swirling mist. None of his offspring had such eyes, nor pale blue of the Cold Lord. “I am not so naive that I do not know that you shall take no joy in the task ahead of you. But bring Raphael to me, and I’ll ensure the entire court stands witness when I call you my daughter.”

True baatezu did not have hearts, nor other organs - not the kind mortals had. But half-fiends did, and she felt her own heart skip a beat. When it beat again, it seemed stuck in her throat.

“I won’t fail you, father,” she promised, and she meant it. After all, she had warned Raphael not to trust her countless times. 

If he had not learned the lesson, it was on him.

***

“Oh, look. You’re alive. Color me surprised.”

For all the surprise she claimed, Helsik didn’t sound particularly impressed when she lifted her gaze from her ledger. Frankly, Astarion would have expected at least some gawking. She’d been mildly impressed when they’d taken down Raphael, after all; surely, defeating… well, convincing an archdevil to step down was even more impressive. Maybe she hadn’t heard they had been involved. 

“And we are ready to head back,” Durge replied, and placed the Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength on the counter. She snatched them up as though she expected them to be taken back. Durge sighed while she examined them to make sure they were the real deal, but did not protest. 

They had spent the past three days eating well, resting as much as they could when they were not having a bit of fun, and buying all sorts of potentially useful potions and supplies. Those of them who had no resistance to cold had bought some item - a robe, a ring, a pendant - that would grant them that, on Raphael’s urging. Just so that they wouldn’t freeze their asses off as soon as they stepped into Cania, Astarion supposed. If they stepped into Cania. They had another layer to brave before it got to that.

“... So. You were serious when you said you wanted to go further down,” Helsik finally spoke, clearly satisfied that the gauntlets were… well, exactly the ones she had been after all along.

Once again in his half-elf disguise, Raphael smiled. “Very much so. I don’t suppose Mammon’ lockpick has found a way to circumvent Cania’s enhanced magical defenses since our last meeting?”

A sigh. “As much as it pains me to admit, no. The archmage of the Hells really went all in to make sure no more portals could be opened in his layer. Maladomini is still the closest I can get you to it.”

An annoyance, that. The frozen wasteland of Cania was not something any of them looked forward to, either, but Raphael had made Maladomini sound even worse. A stinking rotten mire, full of crumbling roads and trash-filled cities. The Circle of Ruins, he’d called it. Not very inviting, but then again if all went well they’d only stay a short time.

They’d also stay a short time if all went badly, too. Astarion would rather not think of that possibility, though.

At the counter, Raphael nodded. “Understandable. I have heard the Lord of the Eighth is a wizard of some skill. In that case, we’ll need the portal to open as close as possible to Malagard.”

“Very well. Give me a moment…” Helsik reached beneath her desk, and grabbed something. A scroll, it looked like. Instructions, no doub--

“Ad lapidē.”

Several things happened at the same time - none of which, annoyingly enough, Astarion had seen coming. A holding spell took... well, hold of Raphael, trapping him on the spot where he stood; a gesture from Helsik caused several imps and a couple of minotaurs - were they made of gold? - to appear out of nowhere. And from the door, shutting it behind them, four more people stepped in - a dwarf, two humans, an elf. 

“Shit. Hellfire warlocks,” Wyll growled, reaching for his rapier. “This has Mephisto written all over it. Well then, come forth and--”

“Oh, come now. There is no need to fight yet - or at all, if you’re wise,” Helsik spoke, and turned back to Raphael. She smiled, and whispered something; the disguising spell dissolved and the half-elf’s face was gone, leaving behind Raphael’s own. He glared at Helsik, teeth clenched, but fear was plain to see on his features as he remained frozen on the spot. The diabolist looked back at them. “Mephistopheles is looking for him, and has promised untold riches to any who bring him to Cania - alive. Whatever Raphael has offered you, surely his sire can more than match the offer. And of course, we can split the reward.”

Astarion caught a movement out of the corner of his eye - Haarlep, in the unassuming form of a tiefling, reaching back for the crossbow. He grasped their wrist, firmly, to keep them still. Wait, he mouthed, and to his relief they did, although the muscles and tendons against his palm felt tense as a bowstring. 

“Hey guys, did you know that we went head to head with fucking Zariel?” Karlach snapped. “You and your little friends...” She turned, running their gaze on the hellfire warlocks, two of whom visibly shifted. “... Will be corpses by the time we’re done.”

Helsik set her jaw. “Perhaps. But one or more than you may perish or be maimed, and what for? For the sake of the being-- half the being you fought not a year ago? I am making a generous offer--”

Durge snarled. Their eyes had always been more blood than fire, but for a moment they seemed to blaze all the same. “I too have an offer,” they spoke slowly, their voice a low rumble that promised slaughter, the distant thunder before the storm. “Let him go, and pretend you never saw us before I spill your blood, feast on your marrow, and decorate the walls with your entrails. I promise you, this place won’t be so easily distinguishable from the Temple of Bhaal by the time I’m done.”

No one spoke, no one moved - but the warlocks shifted again, and Helsik swallowed. She clearly didn’t want to fight them; She’d thought they could sway them, counting on the fact they’d hand Raphael over instead of making an enemy out of Mephisto like… what was it that Raphael had called them? The worst gaggle of imbeciles in all the Planes, if memory served.

How unfortunate for them that they were, indeed, those imbeciles. But it wouldn’t hurt to pretend otherwise, at least for a little. “Love, perhaps we should hear them out,” Astarion spoke. “After all, they only want to bring him alive to their master.” Cazador wants him alive. “You remember what you did last time we were in a similar position, no?” Get away from him, or die screaming.

They’d held back, at the time, because Astarion had not yet decided whether or not he wished to complete the ritual himself, and needed all his siblings alive… but now, they had no such limits. Durge turned to look at Astarion; they no longer had the parasite to communicate with, but he rather hoped his look was enough to convey two requests: wait and let me talk.

Thankfully, it was. Durge nodded imperceptibly and Astarion stepped forward, hands up, an easy smile on his face. “Forgive my partner, they do have that pesky bloodlust problem - runs in the family, I’m told, very difficult habit to kick - but they can be reasonable. Now, if I have to be entirely honest, I never really wanted to travel to Cania. Too cold for my taste. Didn’t much enjoy Avernus either, but you do that kind of thing for people you tolerate well enough to want to see them every once in a while. Raphael, though?” he glanced at him, still trapped in the spell. “I am not sure he fits that description. How much of a reward are we talking about?”

There was a long breath, almost a sigh of relief, and one of the warlocks at the door lowered the flaming spear it was holding. “It is good to see you can be reasoned with. Our lord Mephistopheles offers untold riches in exchange for his ungrateful spawn’s return--”

Astarion moved quicker than any of them could react, before the man could add another word. Within an instant he had a crossbow on each hand, and two bolts buried themselves in two different throats. Chaos ensued, with all his companions reaching for their weapons. Durge cast a cone of cold against Helsik, causing her to stumble back with a cry, just as Halsin summoned an elemental.

Astarion grinned. He never had any doubt they’d win the fight, but truly, it never hurt to have the element of surprise on their side. He reached over to grasp Raphael’s arm, pulling him out of the magical hold he’d been stuck in.

“Heard that? You now owe us untold riches,” he laughed, and went back to firing off bolts, faintly wondering how much richer they would be once they were done looting that place.

***

Until that day in  Reithwin Town, a scarce twenty years after the beginning of Zariel’s reign on Avernus, Raphael had no quarrel with Shar. 

He had not approached Reithwin  with the intention of making an enemy out of the goddess of Loss, truly. It was never his end goal, and generally speaking it was quite unadvisable. However, Reithwin had caught his interest - more accurately, the blanket of despair that clung to the town ever since Ketheric Thorm’s faith in Selûne had died alongside his daughter. 

Two of the greatest follies mortals, he mused - to love, and to put their faith in the gods. What blessings they may bestow upon occasion were rarely worth the sacrifices they demanded of their worshippers, whose prayers fell to deaf ears more often than not. A devil, at the very least, would listen.

Which was, incidentally, what he was doing now - and the information his warlock had gathered was indeed of great interest indeed. A selûnite turned sharran out of grief was a delightful sort of tragedy, the kind poems and ballads are full of. The tale of a town forced into conversion on penalty of death, with Dark Justiciars scouring the streets to flush out the last remaining selûnites, hanging their corpses as warning, was too a suitably dark tale. 

But word of the sharran stronghold underground just as Harpers and druids prepared to strike out at the tyrant… that was what truly interested him. That, and the murmurs of a small circle of devout followers of the Lady of Silver, still practicing their faith hidden away beneath the Mason’s Guild. 

That sounded like an opportunity. Particularly as it wasn’t just any mason who led them, but an architect as well - the very same who built Moonrise Towers. A magnificent structure, truly. The man knew his trade, and the dwelling Raphael had made for himself in Avernus - ever floating in the skies as battles raged below - could certainly use improvements. 

It was adequate, he supposed, but it lacked grandeur. And why should he not allow himself just that? He had souls enough, influence enough, to afford it. That, and Haarlep had been making some very unsubtle jabs about how wonderful it would be to have a proper boudoir.

“Or at least a bathing pool,” they’d said, “which would be more beneficial than another gaudy portrait of yourself. And with that goatee! I can’t see why you’d want it immortalized. It’s a mistake, I keep telling you. I should refuse to bed you until you shave it, honestly. Or until you give me a proper bathing pool, whichever comes first.”

Getting rid of the admittedly ill-advised goatee had been the quickest option, along with burning the portrait depicting it for good measure. But truth be told he would too appreciate a larger mansion, one befitting the status he’d clawed for himself where all manners of treasures he owned could be properly displayed. 

Why not? What good is power, what good is wealth, if one doesn’t have anything to show for it? Haarlep would have the boudoir and the pool, and he would show everyone he was a duke in all but name.

And more yet, I can be more, I shall be more, he thought. Until then, he’d amass riches, servants, status. He’d bind more and more souls to him, bid his time, and feast. 

He found Morfred precisely where he knew he would, at work in his guild. He made his offer, letting him know he could be found at the Waning Moon if he wished to speak further. He told the man he’d wait three days, and not an hour more. 

Morfred, architect of Moonrise Towers and devoted selûnite, knocked at the door of his room by the evening of the first day, and the deal was struck. Truly, desperation was the greatest ally a devil may ever ask for.

“The Justiciars in the stronghold, will they all be wiped out?”

“None of them will be left standing on their own two legs. Do you wish to know how?”

“... No. I want them gone. I don’t care how.” 

He’d signed away his soul and his services and that, love, was that. Raphael had another servant and soon an abode befitting of his station. If he played his cards right, he may just ensnare a more powerful servant to guard it, too… and he had a promising candidate in mind. 

After centuries serving at the front lines of the Blood War, and several promotions, Yurgir was an excruciarch no longer. He was now an orthon, and a powerful one. Raphael had seen him lead merregons to battle time and time again and return victorious, covered in the ichor of demons and baring his fangs in gloating satisfaction. 

But the satisfaction never lasted long, and soon enough he’d be back in the midst of the battle, where the fighting was fiercest and the odds to survive were few. As well as bloodlust to spare and savagery in battle, Yurgir had a knack for defying the odds. That, Raphael had to admire. Since the end of Bel’s reign, he’d been taking on some mercenary work. 

Raphael most certainly had treasures enough to warrant protection, and such a powerful fiend would make an ideal guardian - or a convenient bodyguard to take with him for dealings with a certain likelihood to turn violent. But Yurgir would no doubt be expensive to hire long-term. Not so expensive he couldn’t afford it, but why pay up when he could secure his services by hiring him for one mission, with servitude as penalty should he fail to slaughter every Dark Justiciar in the Gauntlet? Yurgir may wield a deadly blade in battle, but he himself was never the sharpest knife in the drawer... and he was confident enough to accept the deal, certain as he was he could not possibly fail such a simple mission. 

And to be honest, had Rapheael not intervened, he would not have failed. Yurgir and his merregons laid waste to Sharran forces, shattering their defenses and cutting all of them with no mercy… all but one.

Raphael’s appearance must have seemed like a gift from Shar herself to the terrified Lyrthindor as he cowered in a hidden room, listening to the cries of his last comrades being slaughtered and knowing full well he would be next. He’d learned quickly enough what he was - Raphael found it polite to introduce oneself -  but with a bloodbath going on on the other side of the poorly barricaded door, he’d take help from anyone willing to offer it.

And Raphael, ever generous, had just the help he needed: instructions he penned himself.

In each of us is more than what we are; parts and multitudes that form our thoughts, desires, nature itself. Manifold are the creatures inside you…

Lyrthindor spoke the words and he did, in fact, become many. The multitude of rats scattered across the Gauntlet, entirely ignored by the pillaging fiends. Raphael briefly considered taking a look at the aasimar that was rumored to be trapped in the Shadowfell - was it truly a child of Selûne? How ironic, but how unsurprising, that her shimmering mother made no more effort to save her than Mephistopheles would spare for him. 

I am older than you can begin to comprehend, his sire had said. None of my offspring, and there have been many, lived more than a minuscule fraction of that time.

Truly, the gods were no better than devils; maybe even the aasimar would admit it now. But despite his curiosity, he decided against trying to seek her out. The Shadowfell was Shar’s domain, and the goddess was unlikely to welcome his presence in it… especially after what transpired that day. So he returned to Avernus instead, where he waited for Yurgir to come crawling, bound to servitude.

It turned out to be a long wait. Raphael had thought of everything but one thing: Yurgir’s sheer stubbornness. Rather than admitting defeat and stepping out to become his servant, Yurgir remained in the Gauntlet, on the prowl, as beyond his reach as Lyrthindor was beyond his. An annoyance, that, but no matter. Raphael had little time to focus on it while he watched Morfred’s wretched soul design him a house fit for a king, and oversee its construction.

As long as the pack of rats in the Gauntlet lived, Yurgir was going nowhere.

***

“All right, I think we took everything of interest on this floor. Have I ever told you that bag of holding was your best steal yet, love?”

“Several times,” Durge chuckled, holding said bag open so that Astarion could dump inside a frankly concerning amount of weapons, potions, and artifacts of infernal origin and unclear purpose. He wasn’t the only one to keep busy looting: Karlach was stepping over the body of one of the warlocks, muttering something about what a good find that ‘big fuck-off halberd’ was - “It’s silvered, too!” - while Halsin put on a rather curious antlered headpiece that, apparently, would allow him to take on a wildshape one extra time before he needed rest. 

Somehow he made even that look good, Durge thought - only to be distracted by Wyll tapping on their arm, holding up a pair of Spellseeking gloves. “Heard these are good for sorcerers?”

“Ah, they are. Thank you.” They put them on, and turned to look for Raphael. He was standing behind the counter, not far from Helsik’s corpse, and was reading through a ledger. He heard Durge approach, and spoke without looking up.

“We are in luck. It seems Mammon’s lockpick here kept notes on how to open a portal on each layer of the Hells, and in specific points. All the materials we need to open the portal to Maladomini seem to be at hand. It appears that we can conveniently make our entrance at the outskirts of Malag-- what is it?” Raphael trailed off, turning to glance at the cloak Durge had dropped on his shoulders. 

“Cloak of the Weave,” they said. “It will absorb some magical damage for you, and add it to the next spell you cast.”

“Ah, I see. Useful, I must admit.” Raphael put the ledger down to properly clasp the cloak, and raised an eyebrow at Durge’s chuckle. “What?”

“You look good in a cloak. It suits you. I actually did wonder how come you didn’t wear one.”

A hum, and he picked up the ledger again. “Force of habit, I suppose. I do rather like the look of a fine cape, but it only suits my human form. It would look quite ridiculous once I transform, I’d imagine, with the wings sprouting beneath it.”

“You’d imagine, or did you find out the hard way?”

“... I am under no obligation to answer that,” Raphael replied, but his lips seemed to twitch in what was almost an approximation of a smile. He nodded his head towards a small heap of items he’d been picking out and placing on the counter. A large fly buzzing inside a small bottle caught Durge’s eye. “This should be everything we need. Let us head upstairs before more come seeking me.”

“Ah, speaking of that…” Durge reached into their bag, pulled out an entire smoked fish, and stuffed it back in before actually finding what they were looking for - a Dark Justiciar mask they’d picked up… at the Grymforge or the Gauntlet, probably. It had been a while. “I know your human face is not widely known in the Hells, but as Mephisto promised such a great reward for your capture, I suppose it’s best to be safe.”

“Of course. You wouldn’t want someone else to capture me, I imagine, when you have the chance to deliver me alive in my father’s grasp and take the entire reward.”

Durge stilled, and gave Raphael a long look. “I sure hope that that was just a bad joke.”

Raphael hesitated, and looked down at the mask before he sighed. “Yes. I suppose it was a poor jest,” he said, and put it on. “Was this taken from one of Thorm’s Justiciars?”

Durge breathed out, and chose to let him change the subject. For now. “It was, yes.”

“Ah, irony. I used to love it, when it was me to--” A sudden explosion upstairs, followed by a yelp, caused him to trail off and look up, alarmed. “What the-- Haarlep? Haarlep!”

“I’m good!” Haarlep’s voice drifted from above. “I’m - ow! - mostly good. Found a trap!”

“You did not find-- you fell into one, you-- ugh. Stay where you are, you walking calamity,” he snarled, and picked up the objects he’d collected with a huff before they all headed upstairs - back to the bloody pentagram and, by extension, back to the Hells.

***

It was not often that Mephistopheles visited the vaults. 

Not because he did not keep great treasures in there - he did - but because he had too many priceless artifacts to count, too many to allow himself to split his attention among all of them. Those he was actively studying or working on would be in his laboratory; the others would stay in the vault, always at hand if needed, and secure.  

Or at least he’d believed them secure, until mortals had dared infiltrate his citadel, his vaults, and take the Crown of Karsus. Not only the Crown, but the notes on the Accelerated Grand Design he’d collected, and which he had kept nearby. He had very little doubt that the Chosen of Bane had read them, for only those writings could have possibly given him the idea of using the Crown to subdue an Elder Brain and infect countless beings with modified parasites. 

The notes should never have been so close to the Crown that they’d catch the eye of a thief; the Lord of the Eighth saw that now. But then again his vaults were never meant to be breached, and neither thing was meant to fall into mortal hands. It had almost been a disaster, for the Material Plane and the Astral Plane, for the Hells and for more Planes still… and if Asmodeus knew it had been his carelessness to almost bring it about, there may have been severe consequences. 

But he did not know, he could not know. Baalphegor had perhaps guessed something, for she had been asking too many questions, and too specific, about the heist. Before long he’d known that she could be his consort no longer and sent her away, but he had no reason to think she may have found out what else had been stolen from his vaults alongside the Crown. If she did not know, neither did Asmodeus - or else he would have already taken action. With the Absolute crisis well and truly over, Mephistopheles was confident enough that the Lord Below would never know.

How ironic, he thought as he entered the vaults, that the key to avert disaster was the very Astral Prism that Raphael had given Vlaakith so long ago, as part of a deal whose finer details escaped him. He’d given the ruler of the githyanki the perfect prison to ensnare Gith’s son, but he also created and kept the very artifact which could set him free. The perfect insurance, a potential weapon to use against the Undead Queen should he ever wish her gone or seek to demand something of her.

Praise did not come easily to Mephistopheles, but he had to recognize his son had shown both cunning and foresight. Certainly he could not have predicted the prism and the hammer may open a path to the Crown of Karsus one day - who would have? - but it had been a masterful deal nonetheless. 

Of course, for all his cunning, he’d fallen short of gaining the Crown yet again… and he’d paid the price for overreaching, as he’d been warned would happen. Mephistopheles may have even chosen to turn a blind eye to his arrogance, his ambition, his hubris: no self-respecting devil would not desire that Crown. But he had come too close to success for comfort, and he had to be made an example of. 

And of course, there was the deal with the vampire lord he’d interfered with. Seven thousand souls - seven thousand! - taken from him, a contract over two centuries in the making lost, and all because he sought to win the trust of a vampire spawn and a few mortals as part of his mad quest for the Crown. 

And to spite me, of course. Always to spite me. Well then, I can be spiteful too, as he painfully found out. None may give away my secrets and live to tell the tale.

Cazador Szarr’s soul was his now, for failing to hold his half of the bargain, and was given to Qagrem to experiment on in the School of Hellfire. Once he got his hands on Raphael, the whelp was going to wish he’d receive such a lenient punishment. And he would get his hands on him: someone would catch him before he returned to the Hells, or his only worthy daughter would intercept him in Maladomini. Mephisto was certain he would not make it to Mephistar on his terms, let alone set foot into his vaults… but, he knew, some extra insurance never hurt. 

And the perfect weapon to crush that insect as he deserved, in the unlikely case he did make it to the vaults, was already there. The very thing he sought would spell his end.

“Raphael!”

The vaults were empty save for himself and the guardian he’d fashioned out of his son’s fiendish half, the part of him that truly belonged to his sire. The ascended fiend screeched somewhere in the distance, responding to his call. There was the sound of heavy steps on ice, the fierce sound of crackling hellfire, and soon enough he stood before him. 

Countless children sired over countless years on countless mortals, and not one had the ability to ascend until Raphael survived what ought to have been unsurvivable. None of his spawn could control hellfire, either; Mephistopheles had admitted to only Baalphegor and Hutijin that he’d been taken entirely by surprise when Raphael manifested such raw power. It was the first time that whelp of his ever truly impressed him.

The ascended fiend standing before him now was more impressive still, thanks to Mephisto’s own handiwork. Arcane magic could do wondrous things, particularly in his hands. None before had succeeded in making a fiend’s ascension permanent, with no need of souls to fuel it - yet he’d made it a reality. This Raphael drew his power from the essence of Baator itself, much like hellfire did. He was more powerful, burned hotter, stood taller than he ever did before. 

Even whole, he’d never been as powerful as he was now. He was perfect at long last. Mephistopheles smiled, and held out a hand. When he spoke, it was not unkindly. None was there to hear, after all: only the two of them. “Come, child of mine.”

Raphael obeyed, for there was nothing else he could do. Three yellow eyes turned to him, and his son stepped closer and crouched, clicking noises echoing deep within each skull. The Lord of the Eighth placed a hand on the central skull, and met Raphael’s gaze. 

“Listen to your father, and heed your lord’s command.” His palm glowed, hotter than even the wreath of flames which crowned his son. There was a chirring noise of distress when Mephistopheles focused his mind on his other face, the human one, but it was not unexpected. Of course it would hurt, being forced to see his other half. Two halves of one soul will always yearn to be one again… but Mephistopheles would not allow it. He’d give the order, and he’d be obeyed.

“Should you face him, you’re to destroy him,” the Lord of the Eighth commanded, his voice a growl. His palm glowed white, and so did Raphael’s eyes; he was silent and still now, listening to his command, taking it in. “You’re to tear him apart the second you ever lay your eyes on him. You’ll stop at nothing until he lays broken and bloody at your feet. Fight to the death, if you must. Thus I command you, and thus shall be done.”

The glow faded, and he pulled his hand away. His son staggered back, groaning as though awakened from a nightmare. Even as he stepped away to resume his eternal patrol, he seemed dazed… but it was of no concern. That would pass soon, leaving behind only an order he could never defy.

Mephistopheles smiled and he turned to leave the vaults, some of the fury that had been churning in his chest finally abating. He’d taken care of every possibility, of every loophole. In the unlikely case Raphael did somehow reach Mephistar and breach his vault, he would die there, at the hands of the half of his soul he’d tried so hard to reach. 

In the vanishingly unlikely case he could kill it… well, it would be a shame to lose a guardian such as that, but no matter. That fool would still fail.

Whichever way it went, Raphael would never be whole again.

***

*** [Back to Chapter 28]

[On to Chapter 30]

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[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 15

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: M Status: In progress

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

*** A little warning - at one point in the chapter, there is a mention of how Raphael's conception went. It's not detailed, nothing graphic, but his mother was coerced into it, so. You now. I figured it warranted a heads-up. ***

“How many times do you have to be killed, you damned, slinking little fox?”

Only a few weeks ago, if asked to pick a devil they wouldn’t mind meeting again, there would have been no doubt in Durge’s mind as to who to pick. It was, to be honest, a short list that started and ended with one name - Yurgir’s. Despite their particularly rocky beginnings, he’d been a fierce ally in the House of Hope and then again against the Netherbrain. Of course, with Raphael in their party, he’d quickly turned into one of the last devils they’d have wanted to meet again. 

However, carnage did not immediately follow. Yurgir's respect was hard to earn but, Durge had come to realize, it wasn’t easily lost either. The fact he didn’t shoot a crossbow bolt through Astarion when he refused to move out of the way and leave Raphael to him was testament to that, at least. Still it was a chance meeting they could have done without, because he was really set on getting his hands on Raphael to rearrange his limbs.

And probably a few internal organs while he was at it. 

“We need him alive, Yurgir.”

Yurgir scowled, crossbow still pointed in Raphael’s general direction. Around them, standing over the corpses of the demons they had finished off, his merregons stared silently from behind their masks. They didn’t seem to truly understand a thing of what they were saying; they simply stood there and waited for the next order to unleash carnage

“How is the bastard still alive? Daddy dearest made a servant out of his devil half and ate the human one. Everyone knows that.”

Right, Durge thought. That. “... We also rather need everyone to keep thinking that, come to think of it.”

A scoff. “My business is splitting skulls, little rabbit, not spreading gossip, and the merregons have no clue what we’re talking about. No one will know he lives. Partly because I’m going to fix that.”

“I mean, it’s not that it doesn’t sound great, Yurgir. It does,” Karlach spoke up, reaching over to pat his forearm. “But as Durge said, we need him alive. Unfortunately. If we didn’t, I’m sorry, but you’d still have to fight me for it.”

Dire as the situation was, Raphael took a moment to raise an eyebrow at Karlach.

“... Really?” he asked, sounding rather doubtful, and Karlach grinned.

“I’d want the privilege to split your skull myself.”

“... Should have figured.”

Yurgir gave a snort that was almost a laugh. “What do you need him for, anyway? He was always only half a devil, and now he’s not even that. Just a puny human - I can tell . ”

“Hey now, I have to protest on behalf of humans. We’re not all that puny,” Wyll muttered, causing Yurgir to blink, eyes shifting towards Wyll’s horns. Wyll cleared his head. “Ah, those-- that is-- it’s a long story.”

“He has information,” Astarion spoke, clearly trying to use all the charm he was capable of. He was holding his hands up, still standing in front of Raphael - who, on the other hand, didn’t seem all that certain that they’d really take on Yurgir to keep him alive. “We need to recover something, he knows where it is, and we made kind of a deal. It’s been wonderful to catch up, truly! But we really should make way towards Haruman’s Hill, so we can cross--”

“That’s not happening for a while,” Yurgir cut him off. “Haruman is patrolling there, and in a shit mood. Not that he has any other mood.”

Karlach sighed. “Ah, fuck. I don’t suppose he could be conveniently distracted? Like, say, a horde of demons chased right at the base of the hill, so he can’t resist getting involved?”

With a booming laugh, Yurgir slung the crossbow over his shoulder. “Ah, that would work, I guess. All right, how about this - you leave Raphael to me for a bit. I won’t kill him, just make him regret being born.” He turned to grin at Raphael, all fangs. “After I’ve taught him a lesson in pain, I’ll give him back and distract Haruman for you.”

Durge almost groaned. “We cannot--” they began, only to trail off when someone else laughed. Raphael.

Yurgir snarled, turning to face him. “What’s so funny?”

Raphael smiled back. No longer pale as he’d been when Yurgir had appeared, he seemed perfectly at ease. He stepped forward, arms spread. “If it’s a duel you want, you should have said so right away. Although I am not certain that it would be polite of me.”

A snort. “Oh, too good for duels, is that your excuse?”

“Apologies, I should have explained myself with smaller words. What I meant is, it would be impolite of me to humiliate you in front of your own men. But if you insist, it can be arranged.”

Durge blinked. Behind them, Halsin let out a groan.

For a moment, Yurgir stared at Raphael as though not comprehending. Then he leaned forward and gave a noise that could have been a growl, could have been a laugh, was probably sort of both. “You,” he finally said, “are the most arrogant piece of shit I’ve ever met in my life.”

Raphael smiled, arms still spread. “So come teach me a lesson,” he said, like he wasn’t facing a powerful orthon as a human bard with a few sorcerer tricks, and probably half spent from the battle just ended. “Only the two of us. No intervention from the mortals or from the merregons. If they get involved, the mortals get involved - and vice versa, ça va sans dire.”

“That’s got to be Infernal,” Wyll whispered, only for Karlach to shake her head.

“Maybe Abyssal?” she whispered back, just as Astarion joined them and placed a hand on Durge’s wrist. 

“He has something up his sleeve,” he murmured. “Let him do this.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“I’m just kind of trusting him not to be completely suicidal.”

Unaware of their whispers, Yurgir was scowling. “What’s your trick this time, Raphael?”

“No tricks. As you said I am human and, I am sure you can tell even from there, running on half a soul. And still entirely capable of defeating you.”

“You wouldn’t be demanding a duel if you didn’t have some trick ready. You’re too much of a coward to fight fair. Even in the Blood War--”

“A coward, am I? One of us here is hesitating, and it's not me.” Raphael wrinkled his nose, jutting his chin forward. “You need not be scared. I won’t humiliate you too badly.”

The goading was painfully obvious, but-- well, the target was an orthon, and as it turned out it was more than enough.

“I’ll cut out your tongue,” Yurgir snarled, only for Raphael to nod. 

“Very well. If you win, I’ll surrender my tongue. If I do, you’ll lure Haruman off his hill long enough for us to cross the Styx. A fair deal, is it not? And I’m not even putting it in rhyme.”

“If you give me another song, I’ll cut off more than your tongue,” Yurgir growled, and grinned. He held out a hand, and one of the merregons immediately handed him something - a healing potion. He drank it in one gulp, and slung the crossbow across his back. “Very well. Let’s see how long you last, without your hellfire tricks. You, stay where you are,” he snapped at the merregons. Several heads were tilted, but none of them made a noise as their leader jumped off the small rocky outcrop, causing the ground to tremble, and approached Raphael, blade in hand. “I’ll nail your tongue to my belt, just to show everyone it’s not made of silver.”

Raphael looked at him and sighed. “My life, part twelve - the boring opponent,” he muttered, causing Yurgir to snarl and Durge to rather wish they had cut off his tongue themself to keep him from doing… exactly what he was doing now.

“This is a bad idea,” Wyll muttered.

“This is going to be fun,” Karlach grinned.

“We do intervene if he tries to kill him, right?” Halsin asked.

“I’m in a betting mood. Anyone else in a betting mood?” Astarion asked, entirely ignoring his concern. “Karlach? My money’s on Raphael.”

“Oh, yes! My gold’s on Yurgir.”

Durge groaned.  “I have a headache.”

“Oh. Is it a normal headache, or a ‘deranged sister performing lobotomy in extremely unsanitary conditions’ headache, love?”

“... It’s liable to get worse or better. Depends how the fight go--”

“AAAAAGH!”

Yurgir’s guttural cry caused everyone to recoil and turn, just on time to see him slam his blade against the ground; the thunderous blast that followed was just as loud, and Raphael was immediately knocked back across the rocky ground like-- well, like a rag doll. 

He fell hard several paces back with a grunt of pain, skidding a few more paces across the ground before he came to a stop. Durge made a face. “It just got worse.”

Karlach whistled. “Well, that was quick. Looks like you’re going to have to pay up.” She elbowed Astarion, who grinned in turn.

“Oh, no. It’s not over until the orthon’s got his tongue,” he informed her, just as the orthon in question laughed. 

“Is that all you’ve got, mighty Raphael?” Yurgir asked, tilting his head in what came across as a crude, mocking courtly bow. “I’ll give you one chance to make it quick and prove yourself a coward. Yield, and I’ll make it a clean cut.”

There was no response at first. Raphael was lifting himself up on his knees, painfully, a hand pressing against his side.

“Broken ribs,” Halsin muttered, grim. Ever the healer, he was obviously struggling not to intervene. “This is madness. He has no chance.”

“Wait,” Astarion whispered, and Wyll turned to glance at him.

“... You know something,” he muttered, and Astarion just grinned.

From his part, Raphael scoffed, and gave Yurgir the most insufferable sneer Durge had ever seen on anybody’s face, save perhaps Wulbren Bongle’s. “You act a fighter,” he spat through clenched, bloodied teeth. “But a fool’s a fool.”

The snarl that left Yurgir next was almost a roar. “I won’t cut your damned tongue - I’ll rip it off along with your jaw,” he snapped, and turned invisible without waiting for an answer, clearly poised to strike with his poisoned blade before Raphael could even see him coming. From his part, Raphael cast a healing spell on himself, and slowly began to stand. Much too slowly. Any moment now, Yurgir would be--

A portion of the ground lit up, and Durge had only an instant to understand what they were looking at - a glyph of warding - before lighting struck and Yurgir screamed before he stumbled back, once again fully visible, covering his eyes with a cry. He was not too gravely hurt, it would take more than that, but there were marks on him. 

“The fucker!” Karlach exclaimed, something that was almost a hint of admiration in her voice. “When did he do that?”

Wyll chuckled. “I bet he cast it while we were all talking, didn’t he? Astarion?”

“I may have noticed him gesturing…”

“I’LL TEAR OUT YOUR INNARDS WITH MY BARE HANDS!” Yurgir bellowed, and reached for his belt to grab an orthotic handbomb. But he was still half-blinded by the lighting blast, and it landed off mark enough for Raphael to scramble out of the way before it blew up, if not very elegantly. Yurgir didn’t get the chance to throw another before Raphael lifted his hands. 

“Obedi me!”  he cried out - and, unlike the bomb, Raphael’s spell didn’t miss. For an instant Yurgir stood absolutely still, as though turned to stone, a stunned expression on his face. Then he moved again. He skipped, to be exact, and kept skipping in place, and twirling, and shuffling his feet. Under the stunned gaze of several merregons who had probably never seen an Otto’s Irresistible Dance spell at work, Yurgir began to-- well. Describing what he was doing as dancing was a bit more charitable than Durge felt they could be, but it came close enough. 

“What the-- RAPHAEL! What! Have! You! Done!”

Yurgir’s roar in the middle of a pirouette proved to be too much for Karlach. She slapped both hands on her mouth to try and stifle her laughter, only for it to come out of her nose in a painful-sounding honk that was, in turn, too much for Wyll. And Astarion. And-- hells, it was too much for everyone.

“Pfft--!”

“Hahaha!”

“Oh gods, oh gods I can’t--”

“Sil-- heh-- Silvanus lend me strength--"

“BWAHAHAHAHAHAH!” Karlach finally cracked, bending forward with both hands on her stomach. Through their own gales of laughter - Astarion clung to their robe to keep standing as though his knees could no longer support him while he snickered - Durge could swear there were tears streaming down her cheeks. “HAHAHAHA! Oh gods-- Yurgir, sorry mate, but that’s- HAHAH!”

“STOP LAUGHING IF YOU’RE SO SORRY!” Yurgir yelled, still skipping about with a liveliness that was quite at odds with the fury on his face.

“I’m- hahahahahahah! I’m tryin-- hahahahahahahahahah! Oh, he got you good! HAH!” She laughed again, slapping her knee. “Dammit Raphael, how dare you be funny?”

Still holding onto his side and looking a few steps away from the grave, but grinning at the scene before him nonetheless, Raphael bowed his head. “I live to entertain,” he muttered, voice smooth despite the shortness of breath. “Alas, I must deprive you of my presence for a short while. Some rest is warranted if I am to give my best in this duel. Until then, I do hope Yurgir the Dancing Orthon will serve well enough as entertainment. Fear not, Yurgir, I’ll get back to you shortly.”

“RAPHAEL, YOU BAST--”

“Invisibilis,” Raphael muttered, and vanished from sight. Unable to stop himself from dancing, Yurgir resulted to scream out a rather astounding array of insults that, Durge was rather sure, would make the most seasoned sailors in Grey Harbor gasp in outrage. The insults went on  for a while. For… quite a while, with no attack from Raphael. Yurgir just kept dancing, the merregons kept staring, and they slowly managed to stop laughing. Somehow.

Most of them, anyway.

“Hey, Yurgir! Would it-- heh!-- would it make you feel any better if I came over to dance, too?”

“COME BACK, YOU COW-- don’t mock me, little rabbit!”

“Hey, it was an honest offer. It looks fun.”

With Yurgir now yelling out a few choice insults at Karlach, too, Wyll stifled another chuckle and turned to look at the others. “... All right, where has he gone?”

Astarion looked around. “Good question. He didn’t really run, did he? Durge, can you see--”

“Oh, no,” Halsin spoke, very quietly. “He didn’t run. He’s a few paces behind us. Turn, but don’t make it too obv--” 

Three heads turned back as one. All things considered, they were rather lucky that Yurgir was too busy dancing and yelling at Karlach to really pay attention to them. Durge spotted it first, the small empty bottle on the ground next to a boulder, and recognized the shape of it immediately. 

“... Potion of Angelic Slumber. Of course,” they murmured, and cast a quick spell to see the invisible. And there was Raphael, asleep against the boulder, chest rising and falling in slow, regular breaths - well on his way to a full recovery so he could actually fight at full health, and with all his spellcasting abilities. Clever, that. He was definitely going to need it but, for the first time, Durge began to think he could actually win that fight. 

Astarion chuckled. “Ah, ironic, that. Does he actually look angelic?”

Durge cast another quick look. He looked peaceful, but angelic? That was a couple of bridges too far. “Not in the slightest,” they said, turning back. “The potion shouldn’t last much longer.”

“Ah well. We get to watch the dancing orthon until then,” Astarion snickered, and seemed quite happy to do just that, leaving Raphael to his much-needed sleep - which was entirely undisturbed by Yurgir’s screams as he detailed what limbs and appendages we was going to tear off him before he got to his tongue.

***

When Raphael came to, all was darkness and agony. 

Every breath of air forced into charred lungs, every movement, every disjointed thought, every layer of skin he could feel peeling off was a lesson in pain. He was laying on something flat and he could hear, faintly, someone speaking above him.

“... May not be able to save him, even though Lord Mephistopheles’ stopped short of ending him. Hellfire is unforgiving, and the damage is so extensive--”

“It is Lord Mephistopheles’ order that he lives. See that you don’t fail him.”

“High Cantor, with all due respect--”

“I have no use for your respect. You’re here for Raphael. Either he lives, or you can find out if your respects will be enough to quell our lord’s fury. And I can promise you, they won’t be.”

A pause, a sigh. “Very well,” the voice murmured again. There were steps, a spell being murmured, and something washed over Raphael, the smallest measure of relief. When he drew a gasping breath, his throat sent shards of pain through his entire body, or what remained of it, but it was almost bearable. When he tried to speak, a voice did come out in a raspy whisper through regenerated tissue. 

“... Where…?”

"Raphael." Lady Antilia sounded surprised, and let out a long breath of her own. “You’re in Mephistar. You’re recovering. You’ve been unconscious a tenday - healers are tending to you.”

Raphael felt the faintest touch on his face, a  hand half-resting, half-hovering above his eyes. He tried to open them, but the darkness remained. Perhaps it was a good thing that he could not see what state he was in, but it terrified him still. “I can’t… I can’t see,” he rasped.

“Your eyes are regenerating. It’s just a matter of time.”

What happened, Raphael wanted to ask, but he already knew two things: he did not want to know, and it would come back to him either way. So for now he only remained still, listening as Antilia sang something, low and slow and haunting; she was no healer, but a song of healing was well within her capabilities. The relief was once again small, but it was there.

“If he can talk, his pharynx must have regenerated. He may be able to drink this,” someone was saying. There was the clinking of glass. “It would be extremely helpful.”

“... Give it here.”

Antilia’s hand shifted to support the back of Raphael’s head. The pressure caused yet more pain to wrack through him, and he cried out, but she didn’t relent. His head was lifted, something was pressed against his lips and poured into his mouth, down his throat. He could barely taste it - honey and herbs, was all he could think - but it was cold and soothing, and it left him numb. Within moments, he was slipping out of consciousness. He welcomed it. 

Had it been poison, he’d have welcomed death.

***

Raphael had gone centuries upon centuries without ever thinking of death.

Well. Without thinking of his own death, to be specific, for the simple reason that he’d decided long ago that it wouldn’t happen. He would not die. The flow of time was never lethal to devils, of course, so it was simply a matter of never dying by anybody’s hand within the confines of Baator. Having survived events that could have - should have - spelled his end long before he even reached his first century of life, he was determined to hold tight onto the immortality his fiendish blood granted him. 

He would not die as long as none could kill him, and he would never give anybody a chance to try. Until he had - against beings who, by all accounts, should have succumbed to his power like insects beneath a boot. 

To say the outcome hadn’t been ideal would have been a polite euphemism.

Even so, it had not been his death when - again, by all accounts - it really should have been. He’d felt that last strike severing something while he choked on his own blood, forcing out the last words of a desperate plea for help; he’d seen all light fade into darkness, felt his own knees fold, the hard marble floor beneath his cheek. And then, at the edge of the precipice, there had been something - a pull, then darkness. When he’d come to, his broken body was in Mephistopheles’ unyielding grip. 

This awakening was, at least, not quite as unpleasant. Yurgir’s voice screaming how he’d ‘make a coin pouch out of his ballsack’ was admittedly not the best welcome back to consciousness he’d ever experienced. Still, it remained a vast improvement on awakening in his father’s grasp, dangling above his maw. By several orders of magnitude.

And of course, another key difference was that he was not broken, physically at least. He was actually in the best shape that mortal body could be, and he supposed he had as good a chance he was ever going to get to win that fight. 

So, time to start off on the right foot. 

Raphael looked at his hands to ensure the invisibility spell still held - it did - and stood to walk up beside the rest of the party, taking a look at Yurgir. He had been unable to break out of the spell, for all his yelling, and Raphael allowed himself a few moments of admittedly puerile amusement to look at the orthon’s frankly abysmal dancing before--

A hand grasped his wrist, causing him to blink. Durge could see him, clearly, but did not turn to look at him as they spoke, voice a murmur. “Use thunderwave when he throws the grenades,” he whispered. “It served us well in the Gauntlet. And keep calm, you make mistakes when you’re angry.”

“... I’ll keep it in mind.”

“He will try to turn invisible, most likely. You’ll want to prevent that.”

Ah, of course. It had made him quite a nuisance, when he’d turned on him in the House of Hope. Raphael nodded and stepped forward, lifting his hands. 

“Ira et dolor!”

“AGH!”

Even in a cloud of spinning daggers, even as he cried out in surprise and pain, Yurgir failed yet again to break free of the spell. He looked around, nearly foaming at the mouth even as he twirled one more time. “Show yourself, bast--”

“Te video.”

“The fuck--?”

Faerie fire did not cause harm, but it mattered not. The still swirling daggers saw to that while the spell took effect, so that Yurgir couldn’t turn invisible for a while. Long enough, hopefully, for Raphael to end the fight. Possibly in his favor. He fancied keeping his tongue, as well as other no less important bits of his anatomy.

“Ugh! What is-- agh! What’s the light show about!”

“Oh, but why reveal the surprise?” Raphael asked, and cast one last glyph of warding between himself and the orthon. He felt the invisibility spell waver and break just as he finished whispering the incantation; Yurgir’s eyes found him, and his features twisted in a scowl of pure rage that rather undermined the remarkable pirouette that followed. He strained against the dancing spell but again failed to free himself, cursing him and grunting at the dagger cuts in the same breath. 

Acutely aware of the fact Yurgir may free himself any moment, Raphael had little time to consider his next move. The orthon’s attacks were devastating when they hit - so it would probably be best to try and diminish his chances of striking true. A sick opponent was preferable to a healthy one, surely.

“Diminuo te!”

“What no-- ugh! You bastard…” Yurgir groaned, sickness taking hold of him just as he managed to stop dancing. With a grunt, he stepped away from the cloud of daggers and dragged himself towards him. He grimaced, a hand going to his blade. “Fucking cambions and your tricks. I’ll make a necklace out of your--”

The ground lit up.

“Oh, fuck off-- ”

CRACK.

The crack of lighting almost drowned out Astarion’s laugh, but not entirely. Yurgir staggered back right into the cloud of daggers, snarling yet more deeply uncreative insults and threats as to where he was going to shove his bombs. Raphael cast a glance to the side. The merregons were still standing in place, staring from behind the masks, but the rest of the party was sitting to watch and-- was that a bottle of wine going around? 

He sighed. “... Really?”

“What? We’re enjoying the show!”

“You’re doing great.”

“Maybe you won’t lose that badly.”

Raphael scoffed. “Why, thank you,” he muttered, and turned his attention back on Yurgir. He still looked ill, but it didn’t keep him from giving a roar of fury and charging, blade in one hand, bombs in the other. He was much too strong for Raphael to match; he had to be faster.

Longstrider. Now.

“I’LL MAKE JELLY OUT OF YOUR EYEBALLS!” 

Raphael cast one more spell on himself just as Yurgir lifted a massive dagger over him to strike, and the true duel began.

***

When he next opened his eyes, Raphael could see… something. Lights and shadows - the light of magical flickering flames, and the shadows they cast. The agony was still there, but it was more subdued, as long as he did not move… and indeed, he could not move. He recognized the effects of a holding spell at once, even through the daze.

He let out the faintest groan and blinked, trying to get his still half-formed eyes to see something, anything - and above him, a shadow shifted. 

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Mephistopheles’ voice was calm, but he may as well have screamed in fury for the terror it unleashed someplace deep in Raphael’s core. It all came back suddenly, crashing down on him like a collapsing glacier - the punishment, hellfire, the agony, the nothingness that had followed. Unable to move, he could only whimper. “My lord--”

“Quiet. You have little enough strength as it is.”

“I-- please, I’m sorry--”

“I know. You’d be a fool not to be.” There was a pause, the shadow shifting as it looked across the room. “You seem to have no visitors to your bed. Unusual. But I suppose you don’t quite stoke their appetites like this. They’ll have to find someone else as generous with their body as you’ve always been with yours.”

Raphael swallowed, saying nothing in the face of the obvious disdain in his sire’s voice. As he got no response, Mephistopheles spoke again. “... Obviously, you’re not the first halfbreed to seek crumbs of affection in a bed . ” The word was spoken in the same tone one would refer to a sickness. “Those with human blood crave it more than most, I found. It is a flaw I can ignore. It would have elicited no punishment, if not for your arrogance.”

There were plenty of full-blooded devils who sought sex as much as he did, but Raphael knew that contradicting his sire now would be the epitome of idiocy, so he did not. He licked his lips. They were cracked and burned but, until not too long ago, he doubted he’d had any lips left.  “I didn’t mean it,” he choked out. “I swear.”

“Hmm. Do you recall what transpired in my throne room?”

A shaky breath. “Hellfire,” he managed, then, “pain.”

“And it pains you to speak now, no doubt. I’ll seek the answers in your mind myself. Do not try to hide your thoughts from me, Raphael. I’ll know it if you do, and my patience is not to be tested.”

Raphael would not have been able to stop his father from digging through his thoughts even if he’d wanted to. He only remained still and limp, daring not to do anything that may anger him. After a few long moments of silence there was a hum. 

“Ah. You do not recall all of it,” he said, thoughtful. There was a movement in the shadow - a hand reaching down - and Raphael whimpered. 

No, no, no. Please. I hid nothing.

“Please, no more.” 

A chuckle, and a hand lay against the cracked, burnt flesh that had once been his cheek. It did not hurt: rather it numbed the pain, his sire’s skin as cold as a glacier. The cold spread across his skin, everywhere, taking the edge off the lingering agony. 

“No, no more,” his father said, not unkindly. “You survived what would have killed most. Perhaps you can make me proud yet.”

Some of the terror faded into relief and, for an instant, Raphael forgot he was even in pain. He shut his eyelids and dared lean against the touch on his cheek, letting himself speak without thought. “It’s all I wanted,” he whispered.

“Good.” An approving word, after so long. It was balm to wounds. “As soon as you’ve recovered, you will join our troops bound for Avernus, and report to Lord Bel.”

The Blood War.

The thought made any relief Raphael may have felt melt away like wax to a flame. It was the terror of every devil in the eight layers below Avernus, of every cambion most of all - to be found good for nothing but cannon fodder for the Blood War. Any and all devils with no other useful tasks or roles had to serve in it, and many would never return from it. With no true experience in combat, Raphael knew his odds of survival were slim.

“No-- no. My liege, I beg--”

“Do not. It’s unbecoming of a son of mine,” Mephistopheles cut him off, and the next plea died in Raphael’s throat. He opened his half-formed eyes again, struggling to see anything other than his shadow, to see his expression. Had he truly heard that word? Had his ears deceived him? A spurt of seed he willed to quicken a mortal’s womb, he’d called him as he burned him within an inch of his life - and now, as he sentenced him to death, he called him his son? 

Raphael swallowed. “Father, I--”

“Don’t think of it as punishment. Think of it as a lesson. Nothing worthwhile is earned without suffering. So fight under my banner, earn your own victories in my name, and there will always be a place for you in my court, as my son.” There was a gesture and something was held before his face. He could just make out a faint, greenish glow. “Here. Take it.”

Raphael opened his mouth, breathed in, and absorbed the soul not unlike a mortal offered water in a desert. It had a similar effect, too - cool, soothing, and healing, taking away some of the lingering pain . When Raphael blinked his eyes open again, his vision was a little clearer; he could just make out his father’s features as he looked down at him.

His teeth were a flash of white above the blackness of his beard, against his crimson skin. His hand still cupped his cheek. “I’m certain you’ll do me proud,” he said. Had he been less dazed, had he been older, had he been any less desperate to hear that word again-- son -- Raphael would have realized that the promise was being dangled before him the way a dog’s master does to make their mutt jump exactly as high as they want it to. 

He’d have realized Mephistopheles had promised nothing until he’d looked into his mind and seen there was something he did not remember, and never explained what it was. He’d have remembered the very thing he’d been warned against almost as soon as he set foot in Mephistar - never trust a devil.

But he was dazed, and his vision was too blurry to realize Mephistopheles was looking at him the way he’d look at an experiment, any of his many projects he started and never finished, left to gather dust in the corner once they failed to hold his attention. He was still too blind to see that he would only ever be, at most, a well-trained dog in his sire’s eyes - willing to dance on two legs for scraps of food under the table, one snarl away from being deemed rabid and put down. So he nodded, and promised that yes, yes, he’d do him proud, he swore.

And that, love, was that.

***

Everyone working in the vault knew Mephistopheles was there the instant he stepped in. There was something that never failed to accompany his presence, a sense of dread that was difficult to describe but also impossible to mistake for anything else, after experiencing it only once. 

It was as though the air itself became thicker, each movement just a little more difficult. Every debtor at work around her stilled, and so did the supervisor. Dalah found herself gripping a rag tightly enough to hurt her knuckles when Barbas’ bleating reached her ears, echoing between icy walls. She could not catch the words yet, but she recognized that particularly fawning voice the chamberlain only ever used before the Lord of Cania.

“What did you stop for? Back to work! Quick!” The supervisor’s voice nearly cracked for a moment, making it plain he wasn’t looking forward to being in his lord’s presence any more than they did. Still, an order was an order, and several pairs of hands went back to cleaning. Several empty stands filled the room they were in, and instructions were to get them ready to receive new artifacts which Mephistopheles had just now added to his collection. 

And none of them wanted to find out what may happen if their master found their work unsatisfactory. If he did, the supervisor wouldn't be safe either.

“... Quite the successful expedition, it seems,” Barbas was saying, his voice approaching along with the steps of several people. “You must be pleased, my lord. Kintyre is yielding its secrets at last.”

“It is yielding artifacts. Whether those artifacts yield their secrets in turn is up to Quagrem and his researchers. But they have yet to disappoint too severely thus far.” 

Mephistopheles’ voice was calm and even pleasant, as it often was. It had certainly been pleasant when Dalah had first made the mistake to summon him, to bargain for her husband’s life so many lifetimes ago. It had been pleasant as he set out his conditions, the wording clever enough to disguise what he’d truly meant to get out of it, out of her. It had been pleasant when he’d revealed it to her with a faint smile, calmly telling her that breaking the contract meant he’d take Rahirek’s life himself. 

It had even been pleasant during the act, from which he seemed to get no more pleasure than she did. She’d remained still throughout, eyes shut, trying to think of nothing while he completed what he considered a business transaction as any other, inexorable as a glacier. 

It did not hurt,  she recalled. I hated that most of all, somehow. It would have been easier to bear, if it hurt.

She’d opened her eyes only at the end, when he’d laid a hand on her stomach with a touch that was somehow both burning hot and freezing cold. The smile had been too wide to be pleasant. Too many teeth. Too sharp. 

This, too, I claim as mine.

“In here - careful, with the boxes,” Barbas’ voice snapped Dalah from her memories, and she realized she’d been standing still as a pillar of salt for several moments, staring at the rag in her hands without truly seeing it. “Is it here that you wish to expose the artifacts, my lord?”

“It will do,” Mephistopheles’ voice said. Close, much too close. Dalah could taste bile at the back of her throat. “It has enough space for any artifacts Quagrem finds no other use for.”

“Of course, of course. Out of the way, all of you!”

It was a scramble, every debtor moving quickly out of the way, to cower against a wall. Dalah got there on legs that didn’t feel like her own-- her body hadn’t felt like her own back then, either, in the months before her death -- and kept her gaze fixed to the floor. She heard the grunts of devils opening crates and starting to place artifacts on the newly cleaned display stands, under the watchful eye of their master.  It was not too bad, as long as she didn’t look, as long as she didn’t have to see--

“... I had placed a guardian in these vaults, as I’m sure you recall. Where is it?”

Something gripped Dalah’s throat, and she looked up sharply. She had not stood that close to Mephistopheles in the longest time; he’d passed her by a few times, but to her relief he’d always seemed to look right through her, with no hint of recognition or acknowledgment. He stood as tall as she recalled, the ram-like horns much the same, but he was wearing his Cold Lord visage that day - the deep blue skin, not the crimson it had been the day he’d sired a son on her. A son he’d sacrificed her life to create, and for whom he’d never cared.

The supervisor seemed to shrink, and he had to swallow before he spoke. Not so large and scary, now that he was the one under his betters’ watchful gaze. “Only a few rooms from here, my lord. We locked the doors in-between so it wouldn’t patrol this area. We wanted this room to be ready as quickly as possible, and it-- it makes the servants uncomfortable.”

Mephistopheles raised a coal black eyebrow. “Oh?” he asked, an amused note to his voice. “And since when is the security of my vaults second to the servants’ comfort?”

“It’s not, my lord. it’s-- they work best when not-- I figured it would be best--”

Mephistopheles did not deign him with a response. He simply looked past him, and called out. His voice was no longer as pleasant now: it was the crack of a whip, reverberating across the vaults.

“RAPHAEL!”

The response came as a roar first, and then a crash. Everyone except Mephistopheles and Barbas stepped back; the souls pressed themselves against the wall, trying to make themselves small. Dalah alone stood frozen in place, hands still clenched on the rag, when Raphael’s ascended form stepped into the room, flames crackling above misshapen skulls.

He cut a fearsome figure, but Dalah knew immediately something was wrong. It was in the way he hunched when he paused several paces away from Mephistopheles, the clicking noises it made without moving its jaws, the way he kept his wings folded as though he, too, was trying to make himself small. 

Don’t hurt him, she thought, and to her horror she almost said as much aloud. She put a hand to her mouth, trembling, and kept silent as she watched Mephistopheles walk up to Israfel, and grasp his horns to look at him. Frozen on the spot, not even trying to pull away from his sire’s grasp, Israfel made a chirring noise, hunched even more. 

And there was that smile again, too sharp, baring too many teeth. 

“A halfbreed no longer, serving me well at last,” he said, and the smile changed to something that seemed almost fond. “Did you know, Barbas, that this creature dared turn on me once?”

It wasn’t often that anything about chamberlain Barbas looked or sounded honest, but as he glanced up at his lord, he did look and sound honestly flabbergasted. “He did?”

“Oh, yes. That’s how it lost the fourth eye.” Mephistopheles forced Israfel to turn to the chamberlain. On the right side of the central skull there was a patch of half-molten bone where, Dalah knew, it was still possible to see the opening of an empty socket if one looked closely enough. “I took it out the first time my useless son ascended, after a taste of hellfire that by all accounts should have ended him. The closest to perfection he’s ever been.”

“I… I believe I recall that incident. Is this how he survived? Ascension?”

“Yes.” There was a brief laugh. A pleasant one, of course. It made Dalah want to scream and cover her ears; still in his sire’s grasp, Israfel remained silent. “One of very few times he surprised me, I suppose. He got hold of a few souls, and suddenly this creature stood where a corpse should have been. Capable of withstanding hellfire, but half-mad with agony.”

“And he dared fight you?”

“He lashed out, and I retaliated. Calling it a fight would be giving him undue credit. At his best, he was still nothing to me. But the fact he could ascend piqued my curiosity enough to let him live and see what he may be capable of. Unfortunately, he failed to hold my attention for long and resorted to trying to pass  himself off as the proper devil he never was, making his own little court in a corner of Avernus.” A chuckle. “A few modest victories in the Blood War, some talent for contracts, and he fancied himself an archdevil in the making. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness.” Mephistopheles let go of Israfel’s horns, waving a dismissive hand. “Go back to your duties.”

It felt so deeply wrong, watching such a fearsome creature slink away like a chastised dog. It made something in Dalah’s chest ache, but at the same time she was relieved that he was stepping away from Mephistopheles, and that their gazes hadn’t met. If Israfel had looked to her for help, it would have broken her. 

“... Oh, wait. I do have a task for you.” Mephistpheles called out suddenly, and Israfel stopped, turning back. The Lord of the Eighth looked at the supervisor. “You all have tasks. Yours is to supervise servants - not to figure where my vault guardian should patrol. It vexes me to see you forgot that. Raphael?”

“No!” The supervisor fell on his knees, terror etched on every feature. “My Lord, I humbly beg--”

Once again, the victim had barely enough time to cry out. Flesh was torn, bones cracked, blood splattered and burned; screams turned to gurgles and then ceased. It was all over in seconds; in the silence that followed, Dalah found she couldn't tear her gaze from Mephistopheles, who was smiling at the thing he’d turned her child into.

And finally, dread burned away into rage.

It wasn’t the first time she felt anger - she had been angry for a long time - but this was the first time the dread of Mephistopheles’ mere presence could not smother it. It was a relief; easier to handle than terror - the desire to see him suffer. And perhaps she would, soon. Something was moving behind the scenes, seeking to end his reign, and her son was part of the plan. For a moment she saw it in her mind clear as day - Israfel standing in blazing triumph above Mephistopheles’ bloodied, broken husk.

And for that one moment, beneath the hand over her mouth, she almost smiled, too.

***

Durge knew Raphael needed to end that fight, and fast, when they saw blood dripping on the ground through his fingers.

It had been going remarkably well, all things considered. Raphael’s decision to rely on speed and swift attacks from a distance paid off against a strong but slow opponent. Unable to rely on invisibility for any sort of sneak attack, Yurgir had resorted to using his crossbow, and bombs. The first cluster of which was swiftly thrown back to his face with a thunderwave, leaving him furious and seriously wounded. Another blow like that, Durge had thought, and the fight was all but won. 

Of course, something had to go wrong. 

Trouble for Raphael truly started when a crossbow bolt found its mark, burying itself in his thigh. He’d cried out, the leg buckling; he hadn’t fallen to the ground, but he’d clearly lost the tactical advantage of superior speed… and Yurgir hadn’t wasted the opportunity. 

Raphael had been able to throw back yet another bomb, but a concussive blast had thrown him back, to hit the ground violently enough to snap at least a few ribs, again. Then another bolt had grazed the side of his head, leaving him dazed and bleeding profusely on the ground.

“Get up - get up, dammit,” Astarion had hissed by Durge’s side, tense as a bowstring. 

Raphael had managed to lift himself up on his knees, and tried to cast a healing spell on himself, but it was too late. Yurgir’s poisoned blade had come down in a swift arc, and slashed open his left side. It sent him sprawling on the ground with a cry, a hand trying uselessly to stem the flow of blood - or keep his innards where they should be. It was hard to tell, from where they were sitting. 

Somewhere on Durge’s left, Karlach sucked in a breath. “Well, fuck,” she muttered. “That’s got to sting.”

“It’s not to the death, Yurgir!” Halsin called out, muscles tense and ready to stand and fight if need be. “You’re not supposed to kill him!”

Yurgir laughed. He was bleeding as well, clearly hurt far more seriously than he’d thought he could be in that fight; Raphael had almost brought him low, but he was still strong enough to deliver the final blow. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t.” He reached down, and a massive hand closed around Raphael’s throat, lifting him up. He cried out, coughing up blood as he did. It made Yurgir’s grin widen. “You’re lucky I promised not to kill you, Raphael.”

Raphael coughed up more blood, and met his gaze with a grimace, hands still pressed against his side. “I made-- no such promises. I can end you.”

There was a moment of silence, a stunned look, and then - again - laughter. “Hah! You can be funny, I’ll give you that. Go on, yield. Admit defeat and I’ll make it a clean cut after-- AGH!”

With a scream, Yurgir dropped Raphael on the ground and staggered back before he fell on his knees, bringing a hand to his own throat, which suddenly gushed blood. Something protruded from it - the handle of a rapier. The tip of it stuck out at the base of his skull.

“Hah!” Wyll threw up his arms as though in triumph. “I told him it always pays to have a blade at hand! Didn’t I tell you?”

If Raphael heard, he was clearly too busy to reply. While Yurgir pulled the rapier out of his throat, causing yet more steaming blood to spill forth, he cast a healing spell on himself; it closed the gaping wound on his side, but did little for the poison it had left in him, surely. Under Durge’s gaze, he stood and staggered towards Yurgir. He picked up the rapier, causing Yurgir to look up, hands still on his throat to stem the flow of blood, eyes wide, unable to stand up. 

There was more surprise than anger, and a hint of fear, for he knew what dying in Baator would mean… and it was true, after all, that Raphael had made no promises not to kill him. While he knelt, his eyes and Raphael’s were almost level. They locked, and held. Even from a distance, Durge could see Raphael’s grip on the rapier’s handle tightening.

“Raphael!” he called out, suddenly, and stood, striding towards them. The others followed quickly. “Raphael, enough. You’ve won.”

He didn’t seem to hear him. He just looked back at Yurgir, holding the rapier to his chest, his free hand lifted as if to cast. His teeth were bared in a bloodied snarl, his eyes ablaze. But instead of striking, he ground out a single word. 

“Yield.”

A moment of silence, and then there was a guttural noise that was almost a laugh, or as close to one could get with a hole in one’s throat. Yurgir’s words were almost a gurgle, but intelligible nonetheless. “I never yield,” he said, and bared his teeth. “In a true fight to the death, I’ll die before I yield.”

Raphael narrowed his eyes. His limbs trembled; the poison was still at work. “... And suppose it isn’t?”

That guttural noise again, and yet more teeth were bared. It was a grimace and, somehow, it was also a grin. “Then you’d have the fight,” he conceded.

The rapier fell on the ground with a clatter, and Raphael staggered back. He only managed a couple of steps before his knees folded, and he fell. Or would have, had Durge not been quick enough to catch him and kneel, lowering him to the ground and letting him rest his head against their chest. They heard, faintly, Wyll and Karlach approaching Yurgir to hand over a couple of healing potions, and help him stand.

“Halsin,” Durge called, but of course he was already there, kneeling, murmuring a spell of restoration to rid Raphael of the effects of the poison before he cast a healing spell. Raphael sucked in a shuddering breath, a hand clenching on Durge’s robe. 

He remained weak, but he wasn’t actively dying at least. He managed a few words when their gazes met. “Enjoyed-- the performance?”

“Oh, I for one loved it,” Astarion spoke up. He crouched next to Durge, grinning. “Perfectly bloody, and it won me some coin.”

Durge chuckled. “It was really damn good. But I think it’s best if you don’t go accepting duels for a while. That was a close call.”

A soft scoff. “A warning, no less. Don't tell me you're worried about me.”

Ah, of course. Throwing their own words back at them, wasn’t he? Durge almost laughed, and clicked their tongue. “Merely protecting my assets,” they replied, in a terrible imitation of the devil’s own voice. Raphael chuckled. 

“It pays to be-- useful, doesn’t it?”

“Or perhaps we’ve grown fond of you, in our way.”

The chuckle died on Raphael’s lips and, for a moment, he said nothing. His gaze shifted from them to Astarion, to Halsin, back to them. 

“... Mortals,” he said in the end. “Your naïveté is almost charming.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Did you just call us charming?”

“I said almost.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Halsin muttered. 

“Then I explained myself poorly,” Raphael grumbled, and wrinkled his nose in annoyance at Durge’s laugh. That, however, was smoothed out when Durge reached to cup the side of his head with a hand. 

“You can make your disdain for us clear later. Now you should rest.”

He seemed about to say something, but in the end he kept quiet and closed his eyes, turning to press his cheek against Durge’s palm.

They didn’t pull it away.

*** For a moment I wondered if having Mephistopheles quote Oscar Wilde would be too weird. Then I remembered that Raphael speaks French for some reason and Cazador Szarr is somehow familiar with the Gospel according to Luke, so you know what, sure. Whatever. Why not. ***

[Back to Chapter 14]

[On to Chapter 16]

[Back to Start]

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 13

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: M Status: In progress

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

*** No one gets to have nice dreams in the Hells. Not even devils. Definitely not bhaalspawn, either. ***

“Please, you must help us!”

If Raphael had a soul for each time he heard those words-- well. Technically speaking, he did get a soul signed away as a collateral nearly every time he heard those words, which was as good as signing it away, as he ensured his targets could never hold their half of the bargain. The few times someone had the audacity or skill to slip his net, they would generally live to regret it… or find themselves very closely observed. 

But the vast majority of those souls would be bound to his lord father, not him. It should be all of them, but if he embezzled a soul every once in a while… well, no one needed to know.

Raphael leaned back against his seat, and brought a goblet of wine to his mouth. For such a small inn, it had surprisingly decent vintages. He drank a mouthful before turning his gaze back on the desperate couple before him, absentmindedly swirling the red wine in the goblet. 

“I must do very little, I am afraid,” he said. “Your children should have known better than to invite the wrath of a night hag.”

“They did not know!” the woman cried out, and fell on her knees, grasping Raphael’s doublet. “They thought she was an old woman passing by-- they were rude, it is true, but no child deserves the fate she gave them!”

Raphael chuckled. “I can guarantee, my dear, there are worse fates than a few nightmares.”

“They’re dying,” her husband spoke, his voice strained. He was leaning across the table, eyes huge, skin pale. He too seemed to have lost a fair amount of sleep since the regrettable incident which had turned his three children - two girls and a boy, all younger than nine; they thought, it seemed, that mentioning their young ages would do something to soften Raphael - into marks for a hag. “They are plagued by nightmares. Nothing we do helps. They barely sleep and when they do, it gives them no respite. It’s been weeks and they have not rested a minute. They’re only children, and they’re dying.”

“A tragedy indeed,” Raphael said without so much looking at them. He swirled the wine one more time, watched it catch the light. It was just a little too dark to truly look like blood, but he enjoyed the color either way. “It seems the hag is well on her way to kill them in their sleep, and harvest their souls,” he added. He sincerely doubted she could do the latter - an innocent soul was no material to create a soul larva - but the mortals before him didn’t know that.

And indeed, they didn’t. There was a cry of despair that caused everyone in the inn to turn briefly, and then hurriedly turn right back to their drinks, the card games, the glass they were polishing. Everyone there knew to never interfere in Raphael’s business. Those with enough wits about them knew precisely what he was, too. “Their souls-- no! Oh gods, no!”

Raphael raised an eyebrow. “Always with the gods. I see no gods here to help - do you?” A shrug. “Still, no need for such dramatics. You’re both young enough to have more whelp.”

A sob, and the woman’s grip on his doublet tightened. “Please! We’ll do anything! If it’s my soul you want, you may have it!”

“Mine as well,” the man echoed, voice shaking. “Anything. Just please, help us save our children. They’re so young. Garia hasn’t even learned to talk yet.”

Ah, mortals. So willing to do anything for their offspring. So wonderfully predictable.

Raphael eyed the two, hiding his smile behind the goblet of wine as considered his options. There were two different types of contracts he could resort to. The Pact Certain would straight-up exchange his services for their souls; a simple and direct choice that would leave him with two souls bound to the Hells upon their death. On the other hand, the Pact Insidious allowed a little more leeway - for him, of course. Their souls and those of their children as collateral, if they failed to give him something in return. 

Five souls bound to the Hells, for just a small gamble. Raphael rather enjoyed gambles, when he knew he was most certainly going to win. “... Very well. I think I can-- do feel free to get off the floor if so inclined-- I can help you. And I won’t require your souls, if you can get me one thing.”

They listened to his offer, of course. Once driven to the brink of utter despair, they always listened. A drowning man doesn’t care whose hand threw them a line: they can but hold onto it. When he manifested the contract with a snap of his fingers, they barely glanced at the Infernal script, asked no questions. They took the pen he offered, and signed it. 

The terms - give me the hag’s heartstone, and I’ll end her influence on your children - were quite simple. They needed not concern themselves with minor clauses, such as their own souls and those of their children being all considered a collateral should they fail. What would it matter, after all? They’d already offered up their souls, and they believed their children’s would be lost either way. Raphael would simply put them to better use than any hag would.

The contract concluded, Raphael granted them a scroll of invisibility that would help very little indeed, handed them a silver blade that would help even less, and watched them head off, terrified yet hopeful. Raphael took his time finishing his wine, left the coin to pay for it on the table, and left without a word to the mortals who were desperately trying to not catch his eye. 

The air outside was cold and crisp; still, nothing compared to the frigid wastes of Cania. Raphael breathed in deep and glanced towards the nearby forest where the hag had her lair. He had never laid his eyes on her, but he was always good at gathering information… and madcaps gave up what they knew very quickly under torture. A cave, underneath the oldest oak tree. How wonderfully cliché. 

Had there been the smallest chance the two desperate dwarves may pull off their task, he might have summoned a mephit or an imp to bring a warning over to the hag, letting her know someone was coming. But as things were, he saw no reason to go through the effort. So he just stood there a few more moments, and took one more look at the contract. Five souls as collateral, all bound to the same name. Not Mephistopheles' - his own. 

If the Lord of the Eighth was not inclined to reward his excellent work, Raphael would happily reward himself every once in a while. A little bribery went a long way towards ensuring someone turned a blind eye during the processing stage. For a contract such as that one it may cost him a soul, but it would still leave four soul coins for him. Not bad for a days’ work. 

He smiled, waved the contract away, and headed off to a small house by the edge of the town where three children lay tied to their beds to keep them from hurting themselves, driven half-mad by nightmares. He was just crossing the threshold when he felt it - a shift, as two souls bound to him made their way to the Hells. That was quick; they hadn’t even managed to get past the madcaps and the traps, it seemed. A bit disappointing, but not unexpected.

The door was locked, but it didn’t keep out a hag and it certainly couldn’t keep out a devil. He found the children where he knew he would, tied to their beds, eyes wide open and glassy. The smallest girl was trembling, the boy was muttering incoherently. The third turned to him, and spoke with a voice like wind through dead leaves. “Mama?” she whispered. “Papa?”

Raphael smiled. “You’ll join them soon,” he reassured her. She stared blankly a few more moments, and sniffled.

"I'm so tired."

"... I know." A gesture, and three pairs of eyes closed, without dreams at last. For a moment, he considered letting them live out their lives; their souls would be bound to him either way once they died. But they were marked for death by a night hag, and he had no interest in fighting her. 

That didn’t mean he would leave those lives to her, of course, in the unlikely case she could make soul larvae out of such innocent souls. So he turned to leave and, on his way out, snapped his fingers. The flames in the fireplace flared and spilled out, setting the rug aflame. The smoke, he knew, would get to them before the flames did, before they could awaken. A mercy, really: their death by the hag's hand would be far more drawn out and agonizing.

“Down came the claw,” he whispered as he closed the door behind himself. “And that, love, was that.”

By the time anyone realized the house was going up in flames, it was already too late.

***

Even before the entire Absolute business, Karlach wasn’t new to bullshit. 

First off, she was born and raised in the Lower City in Baldur’s Gate; that alone meant she had seen plenty of bullshit before she could even spell the word - admittedly, that had taken a bit. Spelling and reading were always kind of a pain in the ass, with all the letters switching up and blending together, the spaces between words closing up at random to leave a jumbled mess on the page. Her father had to sit with her after work nearly every day for hours to help her work it out, but they’d managed in the end. She would probably never make her living as a scribe, but she could spell ‘bullshit’ and that in itself was an achievement, thank you very much.

After Baldur’s Gate there had been Avernus, of course, which brought the entire concept of bullshit up to new levels. The fact she was there in the first place was bullshit, Zariel replacing her heart with an Infernal machine was bullshit, the Blood War was bullshit. Devils always looking for a chance to fuck each other over to no good reason was bullshit, and the fact they sometimes could make you even think there could be something - friendship, at least, maybe something more - before they stabbed you in the back anyway was utter bullshit.

Karlach had made that mistake, once, with Florenta. Good old Flo, with her admittedly funny jokes and sharp wit, a laugh never too far away from her lips. The closest to a friend Karlach could ever hope to have in the Hells, the only welcomed touch in those ten years, and of course it had ended with yet another stab in the back. Somehow, the fact she’d later laughed it off like it was nothing had made it sting worse.  

Oh, come on! I thought you could take a joke!

Of course it was a joke to her. Of fucking course. Karlach had felt like a big fat joke too, the idiot desperate enough for any sort of connection to forget a simple truth: half a devil is still a devil. Worse yet, they were better than most at getting what they wanted before they discarded you like trash and reminded you, with a laugh, that it was on you. 

Should have known better. A leopard can’t change its spots, and a devil will never not break your heart.

Well, now Karlach did know better. She had learned the lesson well enough to never let her guard down around one again . And so did all of her companions… or so she’d assumed until she’d awakened and gone to check if Durge needed anything while on guard duty. Then, of course, she’d found herself faced with a brand of bullshit she hadn’t really been expecting to deal with. 

“The fuck. ” 

Not the most brilliant thing to say, probably, but it was the only thing she could say when she saw Raphael clinging to Durge like that . Her words didn’t make Raphael stir, but they did cause Durge to turn back and glance at her. Karlach stared back, and lifted both hands in a gesture that, she felt, conveyed her message just as clearly. 

What the fuck?

Durge opened their mouth as though to speak, then paused and cast a look at Raphael’s sleeping form - seriously? - before they turned back and shook their head. 

“Later,”   they mouthed. “I promise.”

… All right. Karlach figured they may have the conversation later but by the gods, they would have it. Devils could manipulate the fuck out of people, it was what they did, but if this fucker thought he could pull that bullshit on her friends, he was very much mistaken. Not on her watch. Never on her watch.

Should have known he was planning something when he saved Wyll. Devils don’t do anything just to help and you don’t let them fuck with your head, ever. 

She wanted to yell all of that and more, but Durge was still looking at her in a silent plea not to, so she sighed and only mouthed back - be careful - before stepping away, even though each step took an effort. Of course going back to sleep now was not an option anymore. So she sat against the wall, as far as she could get from her still sleeping companions, and began to sharpen her axe… just in case, she thought, she might have to cut down a cambion. 

Bet the bastard is angling for something. Cambion manipulation at its finest. He must be trying to get us to really risk our asses in Cania for the other half of his shitty soul. As if we would. As if anyone should. The fucker would go after Hope again the second he’s whole, and I won’t allow it. He’d turn on us the second he’s whole, too, and we can’t fucking allow it.

Focused as she was on such thoughts, Karlach didn’t realize Astarion had awakened until she looked up again and saw he was gone. If she strained her ears, she could hear him talking quietly at the entrance of the cave, too low for her to catch words.

She paused for a moment, then breathed out and decided not to get involved yet. Astarion would see through the manipulative bullshit and make sure Durge didn’t fall for it. They probably wouldn’t fall for it in the first place, maybe they were just letting Raphael think he was getting somewhere to make sure he wouldn’t double-cross them before they got to the sword. There was probably no reason to worry, really. She’d been jumping to conclusions, that was all.

Still, she resumed sharpening her axe. Just in case.

***

“MONSTER! How could you! HOW COULD YOU!”

The screams echo across Bhaal’s temple, over chants, over the dripping of blood on stone, the wet sound brain matter makes when it hits the floor. The Chosen Bhaalspawn has heard those words before so many times, it’s become almost tedious. When words fade into wordless wails, as he drops the infant’s corpse on the altar and shakes bits of its brain from his hands, it’s a welcome change.

Still, even those screams grow tiresome. He nods sharply, once, and a blade is unsheathed, the woman’s throat slit. The cries turn into a gurgle, and that too is silenced, as more blood drips into the pool below. A mercy, like the mercy used on her child. 

Better to die than to share the world with him. 

“... Well. You certainly know how to set the mood for the evening.”

The Chosen of Bane is a few steps behind, having watched the sacrifice with rapt attention. Very much to the chagrin of Sceleritas, who - he claimed - would rather rip out his own eyes than watch a servant of Bane in that most unholy place, breathing their same air. Ever a fair master, the Chosen has gouged out his eyes himself so he wouldn’t have to bear the sight. 

As for Gortash, a blindfold over his eyes before being taken to the Temple has sufficed. Some may consider it foolish, walking helpless and blind alongside the Chosen of the God of Murder; yet Gortash was never foolish. He would not have come, had he thought of a single moment that the Chosen Bhaalspawn would have raised his blade on him.

He, for one, does not mind one bit sharing the world with him. He approaches now, to take a closer look. The Chosen of Bhaal smiles, all fangs, when he notices how careful he is not to step into pools of blood. And not, he knows, out of squeamishness. He hasn’t once flinched.

“Afraid to ruin your boots, banite?”

“I’d have picked more appropriate footwear than my very finest, my dear, if you’d told me where precisely you meant to lead me.” 

For a moment the bhaalspawn's hand twitches, bile trying to rise in his throat. Dear, the banite said, like the Chosen of Bhaal could ever be such a thing. Preposterous. He should slaughter him where he stands; but he does not, as he did not slaughter him the other times he dared call him such. The day will come, when he’ll have slaughtered the rest of the world and Enver Gortash with it, that he may finally end his own life on Bhaal's altar in the final offering, earning the highest possible glory - to wander for eternity in his Father’s embrace, in the endless lake of blood beneath red skies. He will make him proud. 

But not yet. Not just yet. Until then, he needs the Chosen of Bane to keep living and breathing, to trust him enough not to break an alliance he was always meant to end along with that entire, vile world. It may be a long wait before he can slaughter him in Bhaal's name.

The notion should fill him with impatience, yet it does not. Rather, he finds some relief in the wait and sometimes… sometimes, that frightens him. If Bhaal knew of that hesitation, he’d be ashamed of his son; he would perhaps even turn from him, the perfect bhaalspawn who’s not so perfect after all. He’d demand the head of Enver Gortash as proof of his loyalty, and the Chosen of Bhaal would do it. That’s why his father should never know of his weakness: because he would obey, and it would be--

“... Are you well?” Gortash’s voice snaps him from thoughts of blood, and he turns to look at him, at the piercing gaze that never once wavered from his. He nods. 

“Yes. Apologies. The mind wanders. I never feel as close to my father as I do in his temple.”

A smile. “It is most impressive, I have to admit. There is yet more to see, I assume?”

“Yes. Come, I will show you.”

They proceed deeper in the temple towards the Chosen’s own room, past his collection of pickled organs, leaving behind the altar, the blood, the chanting and the eyes of the cultists, the entire plot they have been working on for so long. 

They leave it all behind for now, this thing that should consume their every waking moment. For a time, it’s just the two of them - and, to his shame and bliss, it is a relief.

***

“Ah, that’s why you didn’t come back. I was starting to think you’d fallen asleep on… ah, scratch that. You did fall asleep.”

Slumped against Durge’s side, Raphael did not stir. Durge, on the other hand, awoke with a slight start, eyes blinking open. They craned their neck to look up; they looked tired, of course - Raphael was supposed to keep watch in their place so they could sleep - but smiled faintly when they saw him. “Sorry,” they replied, just as quietly. Their arm stayed around Raphael’s shoulders. “He was in no condition to keep watch, and I failed to realize how tired I was myself.”

“Did something happen?”

“He had-- a moment.”

“The incubus…?”

“No, not that.”

“I see.” Astarion paused for a few instants, wondering if he should be asking and then deciding against it. Well, he would ask of course, but later and out of earshot. For now, he just sat next to Durge and claimed their other side to lean on. “You should sleep, my dear. I’ll keep an eye out for any snack-- I mean, any danger that may come across this cozy little cave.”

“Have you rested enough?”

“I am not the one with bags under my eyes, darling,” Astarion said, like he had any way of checking in a mirror. Durge chuckled, and did not point it out. Instead, they leaned the side of their head on top of Astarion’s. 

“Do you need some blood?”

“Halsin was willing to provide, no worries.” A grin, a brief nuzzle against their throat. “I’ll sample you another time.”

“Oh, I look forward to it.”

“Heh. Weirdo.”

There was a mumble, causing both to fall quiet. Raphael shifted, just a little, but did not awaken; one of his hands gripped Durge’s robe a little more tightly, but that was it. Durge chuckled, and spoke again in a hushed voice. “Ah, I forgot the line.”

“What line?”

“This is not what it looks like,” they said, and Astarion tried really quite hard not to laugh.

“Said no innocent man ever,” he muttered, but he wasn’t in the slightest concerned. His wonderful idiot had come seeking his permission before they so much considered touching Halsin, for goodness’ sake, when their relationship was barely truly starting out. And when Mizora had tried to make a pass at them, they’d informed her they’d be willing to touch her with a ten foot pole, as long as said pole also had a metal tip on one end. 

An excellent response, Astarion had to admit. The incubus… well, that had been more of a necessity, when they still hoped they could be in and out of the Hells without a fight they were not certain they could win, and they hadn’t expected the entire clause about adding Durge’s body to their collection. Astarion had not been enthusiastic about it, but he’d seen the point. 

… He had taken note of the fact Durge had requested Raphael’s form specifically over the Archduchess’, of course, but well. Frankly, if one had to pick, he’d have picked the devil they knew too. And even with said devil now there, or at least half of him, one thing was unchanged: Astarion knew Durge would do nothing behind his back. He could trust them as surely as Durge had trusted him from the start - although he maintained that decision had not been particularly wise of them. 

“What it looks like,” he said, “is that he noticed you make a good pillow. Which you do.”

A grin. “Better than Halsin?”

“Well now, let’s not take it too far. I love you, but he’s got fur and you have scales.”

“Heh. No argument there.” 

Another chuckle, and a brief silence. Astarion did keep his eyes out to the skies outside the cave, a glyph of warding already in place to warn them of anything that tried to approach on the ground. They had crossed some distance, but they had a long way to go yet, according to Raphael… who of course was not telling them just where they were headed to get the sword. 

It made sense: he was not giving away his bargaining chip just yet. But the very nature of their agreement meant that at one point, unless they all died earlier, they would have what they needed… and he could only count on their word that they would help him in turn.

“... Love?”

“Hmm?”

“We’re going to Mephistar after this, aren’t we?”

A pause, a sigh. “I’m afraid I feel I must.”

Of course they would, awfully convenient as it would be to double-cross Raphael again. And where Durge went, Astarion would follow. “A bit annoying, that. I was hoping we could stick to killing an archdevil and then go home. But ah, why not? You went to Mephistar before, took the Crown, and lived to tell the tale. We may very well pull off the theft of half a soul, too. Although I imagine the Crown of Karsus was a good deal easier to carry than half a devil soul stuck in Ascended Fiend form.”

“I remember nothing of that caper, but it’s a fair assumption.” A pause, a yawn. “Apologies--”

“Hush. Sleep.”

Durge sighed. “I am not certain I want to,” they whispered. “In case I--”

“Remember something?” Astarion asked, and felt Durge nod. Their arm around Raphael’s shoulders shifted as they did, and Astarion could make another guess: that he, too, had remembered something… unpleasant in his sleep. Raphael shifted too, mumbling something, but didn’t awaken and quickly settled, breathing slow and regular. Whatever memory or nightmare had plagued his night, it was gone now.

Durge, on the other hand, seemed still affected. “Yes,” they finally replied in a murmur. “There is something about the Hells-- it makes these memories so much more likely to resurface. The vilest ones, those that try to tell you that you deserve to be here. Do you…?”

“... My dreams have not been pleasant either, yes. I keep seeing some of the people I lured back to Cazador,” he added. It was hard to regret something he had to do to survive, but sometimes, when some faces resurfaced, it still hurt. Most of the time he’d pick scum, bastards who wouldn’t be missed and deserved it more than most, or so he would tell himself when he still cared.

But sometimes he chose people like Sebastian. Better people. Gentle. Because every once in a while he needed it to be gentle, and needed it not to hurt, not to be more degrading than it had to be. 

I had to do it. It didn’t have to be them.

But it had been them. He’d picked the sweet ones for himself, knowing full well he was sealing their fate for his own comfort. But did he not deserve some comfort, too? 

Durge’s hold on him tightened a fraction, warm and steady as their heartbeat, letting him know they were ready to listen, if he wished to talk. But he didn’t, for now, and turned to other matters, voice still barely a murmur. “You remembered something else, didn’t you?”

A pause, a sigh. “I remember shattering the skull of an infant.”

“Ah. I see.”

“His mother was screaming. I had her killed next, but first I made her watch--”

“Enough.” Astarion cut them off, and reached up to cup their face. “It’s in the past. Nothing you may do can change it - much less anything you may feel.”

Durge smiled, and turned to nuzzle against his palm. “Nothing I say can make double-guess being with me either, I see,” they murmured.

“Gods, no. I caught you fair and square and I’m not letting you go. Why, are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Never,” Durge replied, almost in a growl, and Astarion grinned. 

“Good,” he said. “Because frankly, my dear, you’d be doing a shit job at it.”

“Ah, I think I can do better.”

“Oh?”

“I think there was something. With Gortash.”

Astarion tilted his head. “Well, yes. The greatest religious hoax ever perpetrated does seem to fit the definition of someth-- oh.” A sudden pause, followed by a groan the second realization hit. “Oh gods.”

“... Fairly sure, actually.”

“Still not enough to get rid of me, but-- ew. Can we go back to braining infants?” A pause. “... As in, talking about it. Not actually braining infants - I know you have successfully kicked that habit and I’m very proud of you, dear.”

A smile, weak. However flippant their last remarks were, there was a distant cast to their gaze Astarion had learned to know well, from all the times they’d tried to reach for memories that should have been there but were not, and may never be again. In the end, however, they shook it off. They always did, had to. It was that, or madness. “I can deal with my regrets, all of them. But I have no intention of letting go of what I’ve gained. You, I will never let go, or forget.”

Durge reached around Astarion’s waist, pulling him close, and he was all too happy to lean on them. Of course not, he thought with a grin. He was just unforgettable like that.

“Flatterer,” he murmured. “Now rest. I’m going nowhere.”

Durge had to be more tired than they wanted to appear, because within minutes they were asleep, head still resting on top of his. Even in the heat of Avernus, Astarion found he very much enjoyed the warmth of their scales.

***

By the time yet another devil pulled out of him, Raphael was too lost in the heat of it all to care who he was. He’d long since stopped trying to keep count of how many had him that night. In the middle of a full-blown orgy, it seemed beyond pointless. But he did take advantage of the pause to lift his face from the pillow it had been pressed into, and look around.

The naked bodies around him seemed to shift and change as they writhed before his eyes, shapes distorting into beasts he’d never seen on any Plane. The moans of pleasure turned into cries and then grunts and then cries and moans again. Here and there the floor seemed to waver and then opened up to swallow a group of entangled fiends or beasts or whatever they were turning into now, and they didn’t cease their coupling even when swallowed into a pit of fire. Then Raphael blinked and the floor was back to normal, the fiends still there , but the ceiling was dripping blood and tears and come. 

Or perhaps it was a normal orgy, and he was hallucinating more wildly than usual. That batch of gughalaki was the purest he’d ever had - the purest he could ever afford - and oh, it was well worth parting with some of his newly minted soul coins. Or perhaps it was the addition of incubus spittle in the Infernal wine he’d drunk that made it seem so much more powerful? 

Either way, it made Raphael wish he could stay like this forever- do nothing, think of nothing, just lay there and feel the pleasure being dished out, because so many wanted-- him -- to fuck him and why should he not take what-- adoration -- pleasure he could take. Did he not deserve it? Did he not do all that was asked of him, did he not do it well, bring back more souls than most? Wasn’t he handsome, wasn’t he-- you’re loved here -- desirable? Of course he was. He deserved this. He’d earned this. 

Something grasped Raphael’s horns, forcing his head back, forcing him to bend his neck. Everything seemed to swirl and someone was in again, rutting fast and deep without giving him a moment to adjust to the size, the girth. It didn’t matter. Even the pain was dulled, now.  A rough pull on his horns and his head spun, the room spun; when he regained some bearing of his surroundings he found himself on a pit fiend’s lap, back pressed to his chest.

When a hand reached around him and claws raked bloody lines across his own chest, he moaned loud enough to be heard across the room, over all other noise. He tried to speak - yes and more and harder - but teeth sank in his shoulder suddenly and words turned into another cry, pain and pleasure mixing just as they should. His head was light, ears buzzing.

There was a laugh, the teeth pulling away from his shoulder to graze at his ear. A hand grabbed a fistful of his hair, hard. “Did you try to say something, little duke?” the pit fiend asked, in that mocking tone that always made Raphael bristle beneath a fake smile.

Not this time. This time, nothing they said could touch him, no mockery could hurt him. He was above it, above them, as he should always have been. Raphael leaned back with a groan and in that moment of perfect bliss he wondered - was this how it felt to sit on a throne, to look down upon a kingdom that owed him respect, all the obedience and the flattery, the closest to love that there was in Baator? To be so above everyone?

He laughed, so drunk on it all he didn’t even notice the hush that fell on the room as he spoke words - the blasphemy - that would haunt him for a long, long time to come. 

“Call me Archduke.”

***

For a few moments as he started waking up, Raphael was only aware of two things: that his back hurt, and his neck was killing him. Served him right, he supposed: that mortal body was not made to sleep half-sitting and half-slumped against-- against--

Ah. Right.

Raphael opened his eyes with a start and pulled back hastily, or at least tried to. An arm was still around him, which quite went against his plan for a quick and silent retreat. It caused the bhaal-- Durge to grumble, their eyes blinking open at last before pausing on him.

“Ah,” they said, voice still rough with sleep. “Right.”

“Well, good morning to the both of you. If it’s morning. I think we agreed this is about the time we consider morning, because I can smell cooking from here.”

Astarion’s voice caused Raphael to recoil, and to quickly slip beneath Durge’s limp arm so he could stand and back away - just in case he misunderstood the position he’d found them in, and decided to take issue with that. Durge, however, didn’t seem to share his concern: they yawned and rubbed their face before smiling at him. “Ah, so can I. Smells terrible.”

“Poor Halsin does what he can, but all the food we brought just tastes off here. Or at least, that’s what you all keep saying. I wouldn't know. Blood still tastes the same, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“A slightly bitter aftertaste. Yours is still the most delectable.”

That made Durge laugh, rubbing their face again to get rid of the last dregs of sleep. “Delectable blood, and a good pillow? You’re flattering me far too much today,” they said, and stood. They stretched with a groan - it seemed their back was protesting, too - before they turned to glance at Raphael. “... Are you all right?”

Raphael stared back a moment, then cleared his throat, eyes briefly turning to Astarion. He looked vaguely amused, but unbothered, which Raphael was rather relieved to see. He was fairly sure the tiefling would love nothing more than burying her axe in his skull; he did not need to deal with the ire of a vampire. “I believe,” he said, “that my spine would appreciate a bedroll going forward. Still, your-- support did not go unapprecia--”

“Breakfast!” Wyll Ravengar’s voice announced, just as he turned the corner to the cave’s entrance, a bowl in his hands. Raphael was glad enough of the interruption, he was almost happy to see him. “Morning, everyone. Is there a party going on here and no one told me?”

“Of course we didn’t. You’d drink all the wine.”

“You don’t even drink wine!”

Quips were traded, and there was some laughter; as Ravengard sat at the cave’s entrance to keep watch while he ate, the rest of them headed back to eat as well before they were off. Raphael took his bowl of… whatever it was that the druid had made, and went to rummage through his things, to pull out a map they’d looted from a fallen barbazu. He studied closely, and he didn’t notice the wary look on Karlach’s face as her gaze shifted from him to Durge and then back. 

He did, however, register how she made a point to visibly lean on her axe when she crouched in front of him to look at the map; as most things about her, it was not subtle. However, she did not speak of what led to that frankly pointless threat - which was, by contrast, unusual. “Still planning to cross the Styx at Haruman’s Hill?” she asked instead.

Raphael made a point not to look up, and nodded. “Yes. We should arrive within the day, if we’re not too sidetracked by other skirmishes.”

“There’s always fighting around that place.”

“... There is. It does concern me.”

“Or you’re hoping to thin our numbers there.”

“If I wanted to thin your numbers, I would not have bothered to save Ravengard’s life when--”

A scoff. “I’ve been in Avernus for ten years. Don’t you think I’ve seen it all? Devils saving another’s hide only to kill them at the next chance they got, after getting what they could out of the debt? Pretending to be one’s friend is what you do best.”

Raphael looked up from the map to meet her gaze. She never looked glad to see him, but she was scowling more than usual now. Something was bothering her for sure, and frankly it wasn’t hard to suppose she may have seen, or heard, something the previous night. 

“I need your help still,” he said in the end. “Thinning your numbers and placing myself in danger at the same time would very much go against my interests, don’t you think?”

“What I think is that your kind is never honest about what your interests are.”

Raphael let out a hum. “Not an unfair assessment, I suppose,” he conceded. “But I have no other choice as things stand.”

The tiefling scoffed. Again. “That’s what you say. I don’t trust you.”

“Not unwise. But even after a decade in Avernus, you never learned to think like a devil.”

That earned him a glare, almost as scorching as the engine that roared in her chest. “Thank fuck I didn’t,” she snapped. “No one should.”

A shrug. “When in Calisham, do as the Calishite do. You don’t have to like it, but it’s how it is.”

“So what, you’re trying to tell me another devil would trust you?”

This time, Raphael laughed. It caused a few heads to turn to them; it wasn’t often that he and Karlach were seen, willingly, within ten feet of each other. Still, none approached, clearly confident enough the exchange wasn’t going to end in blood. 

“Hah! Oh, absolutely not. A devil would never trust me. But they would trust how desperate I am.” He spread out his arms, tilting back his head to meet the tiefling’s gaze. “Look at me. I am mortal, less than half of what I was. Slowly dying as mortals do, and you could end me with a few swift blows. My only hope to be whole again rests with the same people who stole from me and felled me in my own house when I last tried to make a deal. You keep expecting me to unveil some sort of trick, yet you hold most of the cards. I can’t have you die, because I need your help. It’s as simple as that.”

“I’ve seen what you’ve done to the souls who took your deals . You don’t deserve our help.”

Says the loyal companion of a bhaalspawn. Do you know what they have done?

He could have said as much, but he did not. The last thing he needed was creating fractures among those he had to rely on to get the other half of his soul back. That, and he saw no reason to bring them up in the discussion. 

It’s not a deal. It’s a promise, they had said. A promise was worth little on any plane and nothing in the Hells specifically, yet there was something within that wretched human soul he was stuck with that made Raphael desperately want to believe it. 

You’ll grow out of it, he’d been told so long ago. He had - he thought he’d killed that weak, yearning part of himself - and look where it got him, in the end. His rise had only made for a longer way to fall. “... That is not relevant. Not here,” was all he said in the end. 

The tiefling scowled, but did not argue that point. Instead she leaned in, grip tight around the handle of her weapon. “If I catch you trying to get into anyone’s head,” she informed him, her voice a low growl, “I’ll get into yours. With an axe. Am I clear?”

He could protest, tell her that if that was about last night - of course it was about last night - none of it was part of any cunning plan, but what would be the point? Not only was it humiliating to admit, but she wouldn’t believe him. Raphael wouldn’t either, in her shoes. 

“... As spring water,” was all he said instead, and looked back down at the map. “Now. You’re the expert when it comes to the Blood War on the ground. If you have suggestions as of the route, your input would be most welcome,” he added, and listened to her suggestions with utmost attention, pretending not to notice that she didn’t let go of her weapon for a moment.

***

It wouldn’t stop. The dripping sound wouldn’t stop.

Yoggaa, Keeper of the Frost Garden, cast yet another Cone of Cold with a grimace and precious little hope it would last for long. It always worked for a time, the beautiful ice trees, fruits and plants once again looking as they should… until the heat got to them again, the dripping would start anew, and he’d have to cast again and again and again just to keep the garden existing.

That wasn’t how it should be. The Frost Garden had never melted, not a thing in Cania had ever melted, until Lord Mephistopheles had begun his experiments with hellfire. At first it had seemed nothing to be concerned about - a powerful weapon for the Lord of Cania to wield - but over years and centuries and then millennia, it had come to consume the greatest part of the Cold Lord’s attention.

Few even called him the Cold Lord anymore, including Mephistopheles himself. Lord of Hellfire, more like; he himself favored the title.

Mephistar had always been warmer than the rest of Cania, but eventually it had become much too warm for gelugons to thrive . Pit fiends had moved in instead, as much of Yoggaa’s kind left for Nebulat to find refuge in yet untouched cold, trying to develop some form of ice magic that could tear their lord’s attention from hellfire, restore Cania to what it should be. 

But so far there had been no real progress, as far as Yoggaa could tell. He had stayed to tend to the garden, but for how much longer could Cones of Cold be enough to stave off the heat? Already he’d heard reports of glaciers collapsing onto themselves, melted from within; towering outside, the School of Hellfire continuously spewed its noxious waste across entire swathes of the citadel below. 

Yoggaa sighed, clacking his mandibles as he looked over the garden. All looked well, as it should be, but like much of Cania it was only surface level. Beneath the ice, hellfire burned - and a day may come when all his magic may no longer be enough to save it. The garden, or-- anything else. 

Lord Mephistopeles seemed too set in his ways, too determined to turn a blind eye to the consequences of his obsession, to pay any heed to the increasingly frantic warnings a brave few still dared speak. Even as he sat atop a melting throne, he ignored it all. Yoggaa had tried to beg for him to visit the garden, to see for himself the extent of the problem, but Lord Mephistopheles had simply sneered.

“If you feel your prowess has diminished to the point you can no longer carry out your duties,” he’d said, “a replacement can be arranged.”

So he’d kept quiet, and never brought up the matter again, but concern grew. In Nebulat, other gelugons were growing restless; word was that Tuncheth had even considered turning to Asmodeus, begging him to talk sense into the Lord of the Eighth. If Cania collapsed onto itself, it would be Nessus which it would crush - surely, something Asmodeus would want to avoid.

Yet he had not turned to the Lord Below, in the end, and no one had been surprised. Such a move would be suicide, after all, if Lord Mephistopheles ever found out. And surely, Asmodeus himself was aware. If he had not acted until now, Yoggaa figured, he must not think the danger all that great. But as he gazed upon the Frost Garden he’d looked after for time immemorial, Yoggaa found himself wishing he did. 

Someone should intervene, and only Asmodeus ruled above Mephistopheles. If the Lord of Cania was unwilling to save his own kingdom from melting, then who would? Yoggaa sighed and, with one last look at the plants he’d refrozen, moved to another section of the garden.

And the dripping began anew, the sound of each drop hitting the ground as inexorable as a ticking clock.

***

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[bardcambion]

Antilia, daughter of Mephistopheles, sister of Raphael. My headcanon. I've never seen any pictures of her.