#asmodeus dnd

[shellem15]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[adinfernumadinfinitum]

Welcome to my silly little fan theory @emmg:

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

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

DISCLAIMER:

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

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

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

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

Introduction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Raphael, Vlaakith, and the Astral Prism —

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

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

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

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

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

ANYWAY

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

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

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

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

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

3. Raphael and my beloved raccoon boy, Gortash —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✨The Tadpole Gang✨

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

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

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

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

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

I just think it adds up nicely.

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

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

Section 2: Raphael as the Scapegoat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Section 3: Asmodeus doing things, just because

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CONCLUSION

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading this mass of nonsense ❤️

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

[drownedrow]

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

[bardcambion]

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

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 41

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.

*** So, turns out this isn't going to be the epilogue after all. Too much stuff to wrap up. So here's another chapter, and THEN there will be the epilogue! ***

“Well, look at that. Greetings, Lord of the Eighth.”

Raphael would not have admitted it under the worst torture the Hells had to offer, but he was rather relieved that the first archduke to arrive in Cania was-- well, the Lord of the First. Alliances within the Hells were precarious by definition, and even those fragile understandings were hard to reach; Raphael knew there would be much to do and plenty of scepticism to overcome. 

He expected Dispater at the very least to be as close to hostile as he could be without crossing Asmodeus; other archdevils would test his mettle, or try to manipulate him in their favor within their own long-standing power games and feuds - both, most likely.

They’d find they were very much dealing with a player rather than with a lanceboard piece; Raphael was ready for that game. Part of him was almost impatient to start and, he knew, would relish in it. Even so, Lord Bel - the one archduke he knew he could consider a reliable enough ally - was a welcome sight. He smiled, and bowed his head briefly. 

“Welcome, Lord of the First.”

Bel bared his fangs in a grin. He was clad in a suit of armor as always, the belt with the severed heads of celestial at his waist; his only concession to special occasions was that he’d deign to put the breastplate on rather than remaining bare-chested. Back when Raphael had served him, he’d seemed amused by his habit of, as he’d put it, overdressing.  

He probably thought him overdressed now, but Raphael found his attire to be proper, even a little understated. He was wearing a fine doublet and a few of Mephistopheles’ golden bands at his horns, even though they seemed to make his head feel so much heavier somehow. He’d put aside the ill-fitting medallions and regalia to wear once again the locket Lord Starspire had sent him so long ago. He’d had it polished, the spire-and-star motif gleaming silver against blue opal. 

His mother had cried when he’d tried to return it to her - the last remaining possession of Lord Rahirek Starspire, her portrait in it - and in the end she’d pushed it back in his hands. 

“No. He gifted it to you. It is yours to keep,” she’d said, and would hear no more of it.

But she had not wept for long. Seeing that sigil again after so many years, at his neck and above his throne, had seemed to be a gift in itself. She’d vowed to embroider it on his new clothing almost as soon as the nervous harvest devil who served as the court’s chief tailor had taken his measurements. Raphael had reminded her that she did not have to - she was under no obligation to serve him - but she’d only smiled. 

It did not come easy, he could tell: no indebted soul had many reasons to smile, and it was as though she had to learn how to use long-atrophied muscles again. But smile she did, and her answer sounded something like a sigh of relief. “I want to. It’s been so long since I’ve wanted to do something. And I don’t think I could bear doing nothing.”

Of course none of the clothing nor the embroidery could be ready on time for the meeting. It did not matter; the sigil was on him regardless, carved into the locket at his neck.

“I did not think I’d travel to Nessus again quite so soon after my own ceremony, I must admit,” Bel was saying, looking around the hall as though seeking any signs of the great battle that had been fought in that palace not two days earlier. “I had high expectations, but you always had a way of surpassing them. A shame, though. There goes my hope to snatch you back as my steward.”

There was no pretense in the chuckle that left Raphael. “I have it on good authority that Mizora is unlikely to disappoint. She is a skilled one, with a knack for contracts. As a matter of fact, one of her contracts is something I would be keen to discuss.”

“Her favorite warlock, hmm?”

“Yes. I do owe him a debt. The battle which ended my sire may have been lost without him.”

“He is an asset, Raphael. You know I am loath to part from assets.”

“We can find an agreement, certainly. In souls, or firepower for the Blood War. Research on hellfire has been halted for the time being, but the results of that research may be a greater asset for Avernian armies than a single warlock, however powerful.”

A hum. “Yes, I  suppose it would - I haven’t forgotten what you alone could do on a battlefield with hellfire. We shall have to discuss it, in due time. As for your House of Hope--”

“I’ll soon make a formal request to make it Canian territory in Avernus, under my ownership and jurisdiction. An embassy of sorts, if you will. 

“A bold request. And in exchange…?”

“I would dismantle the Mirror of Mephistar, and never build another in its place.”

This time, Lord Bel smiled. The presence of the Mirror in Avernus - a pair of eyes for the ruler of Cania, to broker deals with anybody traversing Avernus - had long grated him. He’d often grumbled that he would never have been tricked into allowing it, and that Zariel wouldn’t have either if she'd had half a brain for anything other than swinging her flail at random in the midst of a melee. “Well. That is indeed an interesting offer. We’ll better discuss it soon - but for now, there must be other matters on your min--”

“Lord Raphael. The Lord of the Second has arrived,” Adonides called out. He stood at the entrance of the hall to announce the arrival of other archdevils, so that they could go forth into the Pit once they had all gathered. Bel made a face. 

“Ah, that’s going to be awkward. Dispater is none too pleased by the recent developments.”

To say that the Iron Duke was displeased was an understatement; Raphael could tell as much the instant he stepped inside the hall, his features as hard and cold as the metal he was clad in, that intricate armor of infernal iron and baatorian green steel.

Dispater had been one of the very first archdevils, alongside Mephistopheles and of course Asmodeus. One of the first celestials to be twisted into something else entirely, forged in the Abyss amidst flames of war. It had been a very long time since he had been on a battlefield himself; cautious by nature, he had become notoriously paranoid ever since the Reckoning of the Hells. With him nearly always locked in the safety of his Iron Tower, at the heart of the Iron City of Dis, it was easy to chuckle and dismiss him as a coward.

But those chuckles would always be hushed, the mockery whispered, and for good reason. Dispater was still powerful; tales of his might in battle were still told, from the old days, and the mace he carried was a clear enough message. Raphael doubted he could lift it if he tried with all his might; Dispater carried it with the same ease with which he held Mourning Frost. 

Could I take him, if he chose to end me? Even with Lord Bel by my side, I am not certain.

But that was only idle speculation; the Lord of the Second was not foolish enough to provoke the anger of Asmodeus, least of all now that his one true ally in the Hells was gone. Raphael pushed those thoughts aside, and bowed his head in greeting. “Lord of the Second.”

“Lord of the Eighth.” His voice too was iron, ringing hollow as a distant clang, words spoken through clenched teeth. Cold acknowledgement before his gaze turned to Bel. “Lord of the First. I did expect you to be indeed the first to congratulate the new Lord of Cania.”

“I am not the Lord of Cania yet, truth be told, until the Lord Below names me so,” Raphael replied, even though they both knew it would be pure formality. He spoke calmly, and held Dispater’s cold gaze when it turned on him. 

“... Very well. I shall refrain from referring to you as such, then, until it is declared so.”

Raphael nodded. “Of course. Nevertheless, I welcome you to Cania. Once the other archdukes have arrived, we shall head to the Pit towards Nessus.”

“You shall, yes. But I know the way, and I am to go now. I have been granted a private audience with Lord Asmodeus, ahead of the meeting.” A gesture, and parchment appeared in the Iron Duke’s gauntlet-covered hand. Raphael did not need to read the words to know he spoke true; he could sense the power from the seal from where he stood, the same he’d felt coming off in waves from the avatar of Asmodeus he’d met in Gelineth. 

He nodded. “Very well. Adonides, do ensure the Lord of the Second is escorted in the Pit as befitting his station.”

For a moment, it looked at though Dispater may refuse - but in the end, he knew better. The Iron Duke could be fearsome in battle, but he did pick his battles. He merely nodded, and followed Adonides without a second glance, his back stiff. Even his cape, weighted down by tassels of gemstones and iron along the hem, seemed to belong to a statue.

As Raphael watched his retreating back, Bel hummed. “Wonder what the meeting is about,” he muttered, and Raphael looked away. 

“... I suppose I have an inkling,” he said, quietly, and did not elaborate.

***

“You know, you don’t have to stay inside on my behalf.”

Sitting by the open window, enjoying the breeze and watching a frankly astounding amount of children climb on the back of a cave bear - while a few others yelled for Karlach to throw them higher and yet more begged to see Wyll blast more bottles off the low stone wall - Durge shrugged. 

“I don’t much feel like going out. I’ll leave the childminding to those who are inclined to it.”

“Ah, my little bhaal-babe. You’re a mighty sorcerer, a wonderful lover, and a terrible liar. You know I’m not talking about wading through a sea of brats.”

Durge did not dispute that point. They glanced up, to the blue sky and the blazing sun. They had missed it, true enough, while in the Hells; even in the brief time they had spent in Baldur’s Gate before heading to Cania they had seen little of it. Or in the months prior, really, while traveling with Astarion mostly at night.

“If you want to go out there to warm your scales as lizards do--”

“We have been over this, I am not a lizard--”

“But you like basking in the sun.”

“I like your company just as well. When you’re not likening me to a lizard, that is.”

“Ah, what a flatterer.” Astarion sighed, and leaned his head against Durge’s shoulder. He glanced at the open letter he’d left on a table - one of five they had been handed almost as soon as they’d arrived at the Last Light.

They were delivered only two days ago, Isobel had told them once the greetings were over with. How Withers had known they’d be there soon was beyond Durge, but they had come to expect unexplainable things from him. 

Another reunion, a tenday from then, by the lakeside near Reithwin. Had it truly already been half a year since the last? And what a half year it had been, too - they certainly would not be short on tales to tell when catching up with all the others. 

Yet the one thing that we set our mind to one year ago eludes us. Astarion is forced to hide from the sun still. 

It had been easy to forget about that in the Hells, where no true sun shone. But now, as they watched him look up towards the sky, it was impossible not to see the longing-- huh. How odd. He didn’t look like he was longing now. Rather, he seemed… confused.

“... Is that a flying cat?”

“Huh?”

Durge looked up to see a small figure flying in their direction, all fur and feathers, growing bigger and bigger. They blinked and, finally, they grinned. No, of course it was no flying cat. 

It was a very familiar tressym, heralding the arrival of a very familiar wizard.

***

“Where is he?”

“Nowhere. You know it as well as I do. A devil who perishes in Baator--”

“The body. Where is it?”

“... Do follow me.”

Those had been the last words of an exchange that had started without a greeting, each word colder than the next. Any words after that would be unnecessary, and colder still. Dispater did not wish to speak them, and Asmodeus did not wish to hear them. 

So they went unspoken, as the Lord Below guided the Lord of the Second down and down and further down still, beneath Malsheem, to the Pit of the First Flames.

The mausoleum carved into stone was not entirely finished, but would be soon. Dispater, who rarely held back from giving his opinion on any sort of construction, said nothing of it.  Inside, the main room had been ready for some time. The sarcophagus of black marble, veined with red, was at the center; hellfire burned eternally in two braziers on each side and would keep burning, eternally, for the one who’d first mastered it.

Above it all was a bust of Mephistopheles, white marble veined with gold. Those marble eyes stared ahead, unseeing; so did Dispater’s, or so it seemed at first. He stood as still as a statue himself for a long time before he spoke. 

“Is he truly in there?”

“I sealed the sarcophagus myself. I may open it, if you wish to see.”

He did not, after all, wish to see. It suited Asmodeus just fine. He did not either. 

“Does it decay-- will he decay?”

“No. By my power and will, he is to remain unchanged.”

A snort. The grip tightening around the mace. “Your will, yes. Do you enjoy it, the fruit of your will?”

“I was not--”

“Do not insult him, or me. This was your doing, too. The halfbreed alone would have stood no chance.”

Another silence, longer, as they stood side by side. Within arm’s length, and an abyss away. The Lord of the Second and the Lord of the Ninth, nearly all of the Hells between them and no Mephistopheles in-between anymore.

Down the abyss we went, together, for our brother. Now he is gone regardless, and the abyss remains.

“What had to come to pass came to pass,” was all he said in the end. 

“This plan of yours would have failed, if he had listened to me.”

“But he did not. He was beyond listening to reason, and it was his undoing. There can be no liabilities, Dispater. You know it better than anyone.”

Dispater did not argue that point. “... Do you know what the most solid shape is, to construct anything meant to last?" He spoke in the end, without looking at him. Rather, he looked at Mephisto's likeness. “The triangle. It will not bend because each of the three sides experiences only one force at a time.”

Asmodeus too spoke while looking at Mephistopheles’ bust. “That much is only true as long as all the sides are sound. He was not. He was breaking.”

A hum. "... I do hope you are right. Because if you are not, and I am, this is the beginning of the end.”

For a long time, they said nothing at all. Minutes passed and flames burned, casting shadows on the walls on a grandiose tomb - until Dispater turned away abruptly, and moved to leave without a word. 

Asmodeus did not, as a rule, speak without thinking carefully. That one time, he did. 

“Brother--”

Dispater was swift as he was strong; the mace came down in an arc that only ended when Asmodeus’ ruby rod rose to meet it. The impact did not cause damage to either of them, nor to their weapons, nor to their surroundings - but the impact was felt regardless, in their bones and across all Baator. A ripple that ran through every layer of it, causing each fiend to pause and look around in confusion, forcing even the fierce battles in Avernus to pause for a few stunned moments.

Deep down, at the heart of the Ninth, Asmodeus met Dispater’s gaze. His hand was steady; Dispater’s trembled. Even in the hard lines of his face, in the clenched jaw, he saw the fear that came with knowing two simple truths: that he had gone too far, and that Asmodeus could end him there and then. 

Asmodeus, too, knew two simple truths: that he could indeed end him there and then, and that he was not prepared to build another tomb.

“Yield now,” he said in the end, “and we shall never speak of this again.”

A moment of stillness, a breath, and the Iron Duke did yield. The mace was lowered, and he turned away from Asmodeus. “Do not call me such again,” he ground out, and Asmodeus too turned away. 

“As you wish, Lord of the Second.”

The stillness lingered, and so did the abyss. Above them, in the light of flickering flames, the visage of Mephistopheles looked on in silence.

***

“Wh--”

“Hey, is that…?”

“Gale?”

“Gale!”

“Well, isn’t this an unexpected welcome! I thought I’d only find Halsin, and instead I find--”

“Come here, wizard! Let me squish you!”

“Agh! Ah, Karlach, it’s lovely to-- wait. You’re here? And not burning up? Does that mean…?”

A grin, and Karlach dropped Gale before stepping back, hitting her chest with a clang, and spreading her arms. “Brand new infernal engine! Latest model, works great on any Plane!”

The smile opening up on Gale’s face was wide enough to rival her own. “That’s wonderful, my friend! Simply wonderful! Wyll, how good to see you! Ah, you two you must have quite the tale to tell!”

Karlach barked out a laugh. “Oh, do we! You’ll never guess--”

“We’re getting married,” Wyll blurted, and Gale laughed. 

“Of course you are! I’m beyond delighted for you and, well, for me. It seems I have won a bet, Tara insisted that you’d already be married by the time we met again…”

“And not invite the esteemed Professor Dekarios to the wedding? We could never.” Wyll grinned. ���Although the fact you were on sabbatical means you missed--”

“... Is this the place?”

A voice, somewhat hesitant, cut off Wyll’s words. He turned to see Gale was not alone; an elven woman with long golden hair and gray-green eyes stood a few paces away, clad in a long travel cloak. She was resting a hand over her stomach and she was, quite clearly, with child. 

“Oh, my apologies, Zivelia - yes, this is it. You’ll both be quite safe here,” Gale replied, turning to smile at her. Karlach raised both eyebrows.

“... Hey. Gale, do you have something to tell us, or…?”

The question caused the elf to give a soft laugh. “Oh, no. I met Gale and Tara a tenday’s walk from here, and they were so kind as to help me out of a rather unpleasant encounter with gnolls before escorting me the rest of the way. I am seeking a safe place for my child, and I heard the druid Halsin would be willing to help. Gale went quite out of his planned route to get me here when I told him.”

“Please, don’t even mention it! It led to a very happy reunion, as you can see. Where is Halsin, by the way?”

“He just got off his bear skin to take the kids inside for lunch a few minutes ago.” They usually ate at Moonrise Towers, by now mended and officially the town’s orphanage, but apparently there had been an accident in the kitchens - something about a bet and a boy with much promise as a sorcerer but no self-control to match - and they were eating at the inn for the time being. “Honestly, not a moment too soon. Great kids, but I was starting to need a brea--”

“Gale!”

“Ah, my favorite sorcerer!” 

Durge’s embrace wasn’t as tight a squeeze as Karlach’s, but they did lift him off his feet. And kept him off the ground for several moments while Karlach gestured for Zivelia to follow her inside, where Halsin was probably helping feed his young charges. Gale chuckled, patting Durge’s back before they put him down, and he stepped back.

“Well, this is an unexpected but amazing surprise, truly. How lucky, then, that I have amazing news to match.”

Durge’s expression brightened, if possible, even more. “You mean to say…?”

“Hah! You did not have doubts, I hope! Now, if you’re here, I suppose Astarion is also--”

“Well well, look what the tressym dragged in.” Standing under the porch, protected from the sun, Astarion was looking on with his arms crossed over his chest and the fakest bored look on his face that Wyll had ever seen. The corners of his lips were already curling. “We could have used you a while ago, Professor Dekarios. You’re late-- what? What is it? Why are you smiling like that?”

The grin on Gale’s face was so wide, it was probably hurting his cheeks. Wyll blinked, taken aback, and looked over at Durge… who on the other hand had a growing grin splitting their face. So they probably did know what that was about, but they said nothing and let Gale speak again. 

“A wizard is never late, Astarion. I took the time I needed for my quest, and I got here at just the right time, it seems.” He walked up to him, still smiling, and with a somewhat dramatic gesture - gods, as helpful as Gale’s magic would have been, could they truly have endured him and Raphael at the same time? - he pulled something out of his pocket. “At the right time to gift you… this!”

For a few moments Astarion stared, made entirely speechless by the fact Gale of Waterdeep had just appeared and presented him with a ring. “Huh…” he said, eyes shifting slowly from the ring to Gale, and back to the ring and then briefly towards Durge. “It’s… not that I am not flattered, of course but this seems a little sudden--”

Gale’s grin only widened. “Oh, just put it on. Trust me, you’ll love it. It took months of journeying and study to learn all I needed and gather the materials to craft it.”

“Won’t you tell me what it is?”

“And ruin the surprise? Perish the thought!”

Astarion took the ring, if somewhat hesitantly, and glanced over at Durge. He raised an eyebrow, only to get a grin and a nod as a response. With a sigh, he looked at the ring again. It was a simple iron band, adorned with a blood-red ruby. “I must say, I have seen more impressive ones,” he muttered, and slipped it on. He stilled, as though waiting for something to happen; nothing did.  He finally looked up, the question on his lips. He never got to ask it. 

“Now, follow me!”

“What--!”

Later on, sitting by the fire with a bottle of wine, Gale would admit that using a Dimension Door to get Astarion only a few paces away was more a matter of theatrics than of practicality. In the blink of an eye they were off the porch and standing in the middle of the inn’s courtyard, under the full sunlight.

Astarion screamed, covering his head with his arms. “AAAAGH! Gale! Have you gone insane, wizard?? Get me out of here! Get me out of-- the--”

The sun.

Before them, Astarion had fallen silent; he was staring at his own hands and arms, at the skin so pale it almost glowed in the full light of day… but it did not blister, did not burn. There was a long, shaky exhale of breath, and he looked up towards the sun. The rays hit his face and that, too, did not burn. 

“It’s a ring of the Sunwalker,” Gale was explaining, beaming almost as much as the sun itself. “As long as you wear it, the sun cannot hurt you. They’re rare and very difficult to create - no one had for a very long time and some of the instructions were lost, so the mission took a good bit longer than I told Durge it might--”

Astarion turned, eyes wide, to seek out Durge. His jaw was slack and, for a moment, Wyll could have sworn his lower lip trembled. “You knew… ?”

Durge grinned back. “Surprise,” they said, their voice cracking just a little. “I was sure Gale could do it, don’t get me wrong, but I figured that until he did--”

Astarion was in their arms before they got to finish the sentence, basking into the first embrace in the sun he could enjoy in a year, and Wyll had to admit he was getting just a little misty-eyed. He cleared his throat and turned to Gale, who’d stepped back to give them space.

“That’s amazing, Gale. Is this why you were on a sabbatical from your post at Blackstaff Academy?”

Gale nodded without taking his eyes off the scene. Wyll could tell he was tearing up a little himself. “Correct. It was the least I could do for dear friends, and… well, I must admit that as enjoyable as teaching is, I did long for a bit of adventure. I’ll confess that I stayed at inns rather than in a tent whenever I could but ah, do I have some tales to tell! It was quite the adventure, let me tell you - the details of which I’ll keep for later, to share with a drink.” A chuckle, and he turned to look at him. “So, what did I miss?”

***

“Well. If none of you is going to say anything, I will. What was that just now?”

Lady Fierna’s voice rang out in the hall where all-- well, most of them had gathered. Lady Glasya was the only one who had not yet arrived; an avatar of Levistus, half frozen and dripping wet, had stepped in only an instant before the something Fierna spoke of happened.

“It felt like a ripple of sorts,” Mammon declared, stating the obvious as he quite often did.

“It came from below, that much is certain,” Levistus said. “Whether from Nessus or from within the very bowels of Cania, I do not know. But it reverberated far beyond the Eighth.”

Baalzebul hummed, and glanced over at Raphael. “Perhaps this layer is collapsing, after all?” he asked. His tone was slightly too pointed to be entirely a jest, but Raphael was not surprised that had been his first thought. If Cania collapsed onto Nessus, Maladomini would in turn crash down on it - an event that would probably destroy what structures were still standing in the layer.

He shook his head. “I do not think so. It didn’t feel like any sort of collapse, or prelude to one.”

“I felt something like it only once before,” Lord Belial spoke slowly, and Bel snorted. 

“So did I. During the Reckoning. I’m surprised you don’t recall, Lord of the Seventh.”

A scoff. “The Reckoning is not a time I look back upon fondly, for reasons I am certain most of you can imagine,” Baalzebul replied. “I am not the only one, either. But you are correct - I did feel something like this only once, when Geryon and Moloch met on the battlefield.”

Two archdevils clashing, Raphael thought, and Dispater went ahead to Nessus on his own. 

“Oh, come now. It’s obvious that my lord father and uncle Dispater are having a disagreement. What else could cause such a ruckus?”

None of them had seen nor heard Glasya coming, and she seemed rather pleased with herself for that fact as she walked in. She entirely ignored Mammon, smiled at Fierna, shot a glance colder than a glacier in Levistus’ general direction, and finally looked at Raphael.

They had only met her once, very briefly, when he’d been Steward of Avernus; she had just become the ruler of Malbolge, then, a scant year before Zariel’s doomed attack on Avernus and her subsequent rise as the new Lord of the First. Glasya knew precisely who he was, and had been rather amused on that first meeting.

“Ah, little cousin,” she’d laughed from her throne, clad in fine silks and precious gemstones, and had gestured for him to rise. Her eyes were amber, her hair a dark auburn color, spilling down bare shoulders, against copper skin. “You had the right idea, truly. How wonderful is it, to put some layers between oneself and one’s maker?”

Raphael had just bowed then, knowing better than speaking a word against either of their fathers before the notoriously unpredictable princess of the Hells. Now, Steward of Avernus no more and newly minted Lord of Cania, with the chasm of death between himself and his sire, he bowed again. “Lady Glasya,” he greeted her. “Welcome to Cania.”

“It’s always good to be here, Lord Raphael. And please, do accept my congratulations.”

Congratulations will be in order tomorrow, her letter had read. For now do accept my condolences.

He nodded, but had no time to voice his thanks - more for the condolences, perhaps, than for her congratulations - when Belial spoke.

“A fight? Between the Lord Below and the Lord of the Second?” he asked, obviously concerned, only for Glasya to chuckle.

“Oh, no. A spat, as I said. We’d have felt a true fight much more keenly than this. It’s already over, can’t you tell? And we are late, although that is entirely my fault. Shall we head to the Pit, Lord of the Eighth?”

She was right: no such ripple was felt again across the Hells, everything quiet once more. Whatever the so-called spat had been about - and Raphael was rather certain he knew what it had been about - it had been short-lived. Asmodeus was probably not keen to cause yet more upheaval in Baator, at least for now. Raphael nodded.

“Yes. Let us make haste.”

It was not too long a way to Malsheem through the Pit; it was heavily guarded, but no gelugon moved to stop them. And by the time they arrived, everything seemed in orders; Asmodeus sat at the head of a long table, ruby rod in hand, while Dispater sat at the other end. The Lord of the Second remained silent as Asmodeus greeted them and gestured for them to sit. Even after that he made no remarks - not then, nor later.

When the Lord Below spoke, his voice rang in the respectful silence of all gathered.

“As you very well know, I have called you here today to bear witness as I acknowledge the new Archduke of Cania, Lord Raphael.” His eyes fell on him, gleaming like red hot coals. His hands folded over the handle of the ruby rod as he leaned forward. “The fall of Mephistopheles was a loss for all of Baator; even those among you who opposed him cannot deny that much.” A pause, as though to give others a chance to say otherwise. 

None did; even Baalzebul remained silent, and Asmodeus spoke again.

“It is a heavy legacy to carry, Lord Raphael, but carry it you must. You owe this kingdom to give back as much as you took. Many have misgivings about you, if unspoken. I expect you to prove them wrong.”

Be the archdevil I know you can be, Baalphegor had said, and none shall dare mock Mephistopheles for falling under your blows.

Raphael bowed his head, keenly aware of everyone’s gaze on him; from Glasya's amusement to Fierna’s curiosity, from Bel’s barely concealed grin through Baalzebul’s thoughtful look and Dispater’s clear disdain. Belial, Levistus and Mammon remained quiet, too, but their mistrust and doubts were almost a tangible thing in the very air they breathed. 

Prove them wrong, was his first true order, and prove them wrong he would.

“As you command, Lord Asmodeus,” he said.

And that, love, was that.

***

“The Archmage of the Lower Planes!”

“Yes, that was one of his many--”

“And you counterspelled him!”

“... It was not by my power alone, but I cannot tell more than that. I am bound by contract not to reveal the-- finer details of what transpired.” Specifically, who set us on the mission, and aided us. “But yes. Mephistopheles is no more, and Cania has a new ruler. News will start spreading on this Plane before long, I suspect.”

“Raphael, of all devils! Not the worst of them, I suppose, if someone is to rule the Eighth.”

“Certainly not. You’d find him… different from how you recall him.”

Gale chuckled. “I do not doubt that, my friend. Traveling with you has a way of changing people - devils too, it seems. But ah, would that Wyll found me at Waterdeep! I’d have loved to be by your side through it all. Removing Zariel as Lord of Avernus, and facing off with the archwizard of the Hells! Either would be an achievement for the ages, but both? Your tale puts the recollections of my own little quest to shame, truly.”

Durge chuckled. “No, it does not,” they said, turning. Gale followed their gaze to the low stone wall where Astarion was still sitting, face tilted up and eyes shut, basking in the warmth of every ray of sun as it began to lower towards the horizon. 

He had been happy, in that past year - happy enough to compensate for two centuries of misery; he had assured Durge as much time and time again, and they knew it to be true. But he had missed the sun, and seeing the peaceful look on his face now, knowing he would never again need to hide from the sun… well, it was everything. 

“This is your doing. We gave Raphael the throne of Cania, but you gave Astarion the sun. I will never thank you enough for it.”

“Ah, well. If you put it that way…” Gale cleared his throat, and something in his features softened before he glanced over at Astarion once again. “Yes, you are right. Look at him. How could I ever regret it?”

Durge rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Gale.”

“Thank you, my friend. It means everything, coming from you.” A pause, a peaceful silence. “... That said, wouldn’t you happen to know anything about the whereabouts of Mephistopheles’ spellbook?”

“Gale.”

“I’m--” Gale cleared his throat. “I’m jesting, of course.”

“... Are you?”

A sigh. “It might be best to change the subject before I have a chance to think too hard about it.”

Durge chuckled. “Very well. There is something I wanted to ask of you, Professor Dekarios.”

“By all means, ask away.”

“You do know how to cast a sending spell, right?”

“Ah, yes, that I do. I don’t use it often, though. I do find it difficult to stick to the limit of twenty-five words.”

“I’d have never guessed, wizard,” Durge snorted, gaining themself a light shove. 

“Careful, sorcerer. I might decide not to send any message on your behalf, if that’s what you planned to ask.”

“I meant to ask you to teach me how to do it, actually.”

Very much as expected, Gale was unable to resist the prospect of teaching them… well, anything, really. “Ah, I see. Well, I can’t see why not. You proved an apt pupil before, and I do have some teaching experience now. For a sending spell, the first thing you need to keep in mind…”

***

“What in the literal Nine Hells took you so long?”

“Becoming Lord of the Eighth, among other things.”

Somehow, Korrilla Hearthflame did not seem in the mood to congratulate him for the achievement. “I was stranded on the Shelves of Despond for almost a year!”

“I was made aware. And surely you were made aware that I was not exactly in the position to come reclaim your--”

“And then fucking Helsik was there!”

“I am rather surprised neither of you threw the other into the Styx.”

“I couldn’t reach her or I would have - her smirk when they came to get on Mammon’s behalf - and now you’re telling me you swore some kind of oath that I’ve got to stay with my sister?”

“I said you’re to stay at the House of Hope, which Lord Bel agreed to declare a piece of Canian territory in Avernus in exchange for the dismantling of the Mirror of Mephistar. That does make you my envoy to Avernus, for the record. You’re very much welcome.”

Korrilla seemed about as unimpressed with that as with his new title. Her time on the Shelves of Despond must have been dreary indeed, if it made her forget he could just as well make a soul coin out of her, and consume her if the whim took him. It would not, but she didn’t know that now, did she? “You just told me that Hope has taken it over!”

“That she did. But I am rather certain she’ll gladly let you in.”

“You have enough power to subdue her. Kick her out. Banish her to the Material Plane or any other plane where I am not.”

“I do. And I won’t,” Raphael replied, and Korrilla rubbed her face with a groan. They were stepping outside the fortified building that served to hold souls yet to be claimed by their patrons. It was no luxurious retreat, but it was miles better than the Shelves of Despond. 

Korrilla, he knew, had received a better treatment than most as a personal favor from Lord Bel as he waited for him to be whole again and come back to retrieve her. She did not seem particularly grateful. “So what, you’re just dropping me off with her and telling me to deal with it? Because of some promise you made to the same mortals who nearly killed you?”

“Essentially, yes. I am a devil of my word. I’ll summon you, should I need your services.”

“You’re a devil of the written word. I bet they didn’t even get you to put it in a contract.”

“As I am certain you’re aware, that’s entirely irrelevant. I own you, and you shall do as I order.”

She was, at least, wise enough not to argue with that. Still she scoffed, crossing her arms. Defensive, more than angry. Beneath all her protest at the prospect of facing Hope again was something else entirely; Raphael had known for a long time that it was there, of course, never too far beneath the surface but burning hot as flames. Guilt, and no small measure of shame.

“Don’t be too surprised if I wind up ending her.”

“I’d be incredibly surprised if you succeeded. But you’ll do no such thing.” Raphael paused, and took a moment to focus. Hope had indeed taken over the House, but she had no power to banish him from it; he could teleport in it with only a thought, and a snap of the fingers. But only Korrilla would be sent there; he was never to set foot in his old residence again. Hope won’t suffer my presence again, he’d promised Karlach, and he intended to keep that promise.

“A year,” he said in the end, a hand still raised, and Korilla looked up. “My command is that you remain there, when not called upon to serve me, for a year. Afterwards, you may decide whether or not you wish to come to Meph-- Israfel. But no earlier.”

A long pause, a sigh. “... Can’t be much worse than the year I spent on the Shelves,” she muttered in the end, and Raphael chuckled before he snapped his fingers.

And just like that, Hope had her sister again - although there was no telling whether it would turn out the way she... well, hoped.  As large as he’d loomed in their past, their future was out of his hands.

Exactly as it should be.

***

“Wyll?”

“Mmh?” Wyll mumbled against the crook of her neck, pressing a kiss against heated skin. It felt nice, really, to lay back in the dark with his weight on her. He was still inside her, not yet entirely soft, as if he couldn’t get enough of her skin on his. It made Karlach think she could spend the rest of her life like that, and have absolutely no complaints.

“Do you want kids?”

“... Huh?” Wyll lifted his head, clearly startled, to look down at her. They both had darkvision, and could see each other clearly; he looked taken aback, clearly wondering where that had come from. “Was that-- what made you think of that?”

Karlach shrugged, running a hand down his back. It was a really nice back, ending in a really nice ass. “Don’t know. Just the look on your face earlier, I guess,” she said. He liked kids, she’d always known that - they both did - but looking at him with the children earlier, she could tell there was a difference. 

She saw herself as more of a fun aunt, while there was something distinctly fatherly in the way he spoke and played with them. When she’d taken Zivelia to Halsin and the high elf had explained that she could not see herself as a mother and wished to leave her baby in his care, be he willing, Halsin had immediately accepted. He’d seemed elated to take another little life under his wing… and Karlach had realized then that he had the same look on his face that Wyll would get when showing a child how to prepare a lure for fishing or how to bounce a flat rock across water.

“Ah,” Wyll was saying, and cleared his throat. “Well… it is not something at the forefront of my mind, I must admit, but I don’t think I would-- I think I’d like that. Someday. If you’d like any.”

That was a loaded question, really. Karlach bit her lower lip. “... I don’t know. I was little more than a kid when I was taken to the Hells, and then I was on survival mode for a long time. Then I was out of the Hells, and-- I guess I thought of that. You know, settling somewhere quiet, getting married, having kids, growing old. But they were just dreams on borrowed time. I thought I was gonna die, and I was just cramming as much daydreaming in as I could in what time I had. You know?”

A faint smile, a kiss against her temple. “I cannot know how it felt, but I understand.”

She turned to catch his mouth. His lips always felt so soft. “... But now I’m alive. And I’m gonna stay alive for the foreseeable, and out of the Hells. Daydreaming is done and I get to live. Only I don’t know if I really wanted that life, or if it was just desperation speaking. Maybe I don’t want that. Maybe I do, but not yet. I liked the entire adventuring thing, and… I don’t know. I need time to figure that  bit out. You know, having a future in the first place. It seemed impossible until months ago.”

“And you have time. We have time.” A hand cupped her cheek, and she covered it with hers. 

“What if I don’t want any? Maybe I can’t. My body runs damn hot, even with a new engine--”

“It doesn’t matter. Karlach, look at me.” She did, and he smiled. He looked stupid handsome, in the faint glow she emitted with every beat of the engine, every whisper of fire. “I love you. Hasn’t changed, never will. You by my side is all I need and all I truly want. Anything else I can do with or without. What do you want?”

Karlach felt ridiculously close to tearing up, but managed to hold back and grinned instead. “Oh, right now I want to enjoy the reunion before we head off to the Gate. I want to see Fytz and meet her family, and eat the dinner she promised us, and invite her to the wedding. Cause I really want to marry you. And after that, if the Blade still has heroics to do, I’d like to see more of the Sword Coast. More of Faerûn. We can make that our honeymoon to begin with. With a side dish of ass kicking,” she added, and Wyll laughed. 

“I’d love nothing more than that,” he declared, and kissed her again.

***

“... All right. What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. I am hiring you because you have a talent for tracking things down, as well as for destruction. Should you be unable to locate the soul in question within a year, there would be no punishment. I’ll assume he moved on, and you’ll still receive half the payment.”

“As if. There is always a catch with you.”

“As you can plainly see, Yurgir, the contract is clear and clearly written. I even refrained from writing it in rhyme, since that gives you such a headache.”

The orthon snorted. “I hate you,” he informed him, only for Raphael to raise an eyebrow.

“I’d say that is not the wisest thing to say to the Lord of the Eighth. Wouldn’t you?”

“I really hate you,” was the reply, but with not nearly as much venom as he once might have put in it. Perhaps Durge was right: Yurgir could respect a valid opponent, and the fact he’d been able to defeat him while in human form mattered more to him than any title Rapael may hold now.

“Fair enough. May I direct your attention to the line concerning your payment?”

A scoff, a twist of his features. “There is no amount of coin, souls, or soul coins that you may offer--” Yurgir began, only to fall silent quite abruptly when he deigned to look down upon the contract. He stared, blinked, stared some more. His mouth remained agape for several moments before he frowned and looked up. “... No mere mortal soul is this valuable.”

“The value of a soul depends entirely on the amount one is willing to pay for it. And as you can see, I am willing to pay very generously for this one, should it be found anywhere in the Fugue Plane.” Raphael tilted his head towards the contract. “He is not to be harmed under any circumstances. His soul is to remain whole. Harm him, and I shall destroy you.”

A hum. “... I see. So I’m to take him to Cania?”

“If he’s willing. He should not be forced to follow you, either - if you find him and he decides not to come, you’ll still receive full payment. You shall deliver the message and the items I’ll provide, and leave him the choice. That is clear enough, I trust.”

It was, as it turned out, clear enough. Yurgir had signed the contract after going over each and every line more times than it truly was needed, and he’d departed for the Fugue Plane.

As per the agreement with Kelemvor, devils were permitted to offer the souls gathered there a chance to become baatezu rather than moving on to whatever afterlife awaited them; considering that becoming a devil meant more often than not starting from lemure with no memory whatsoever of their mortal life, all divine energy stripped from their souls, one had to be facing a dreary afterlife indeed to accept.

But with no shortage of dreary deities offering as many dreary afterlives, those who accepted were enough to make the Fugue Plane a reliable source of new devils. Of course the souls who moved on to an afterlife would forever be out of the Hells’ reach… and truth be told, Raphael had no true reason not to believe Lord Rahirek Starspire had moved on long ago. 

That was the main reason why he had not told his mother of his plan. He’d sent Yurgir to seek him out on the off chance - the hope - that he might not have, that he might still be wandering the Fugue Plane. Should Yurgir fail to locate him, or should he refuse to follow… well, at least he wouldn’t have to end her hopes after raising them in the first place.

So he said nothing, once back in Cania, when he visited her in the chambers he’d ordered be made hers. There had been a few curious looks, but no questions were asked and orders were obeyed. Raphael suspected they would be more surprised yet when the draft of a new decree was finalized by Tuncheth, who had quite gladly taken on the role of Justiciar of Cania once Adonides had voiced his decision to remain its steward.

The gelugon had given him a curious look, too - surely, enshrining protections for eternal debtors in his court could not be a priority? - but Raphael had a good enough excuse. 

“We are in quite a heavy debt of divine energy, particularly with Mammon and Dispater. The Lord of the Second in particular will be keen to collect, as he is plainly less than thrilled with recent developments. The Lord Below saw reason to reduce the entity of what is owed, keeping in account that the debt was incurred by my sire, but we are by now means in the position to waste souls by destroying them for little to no true reason. It seems a simple matter of common sense to me,” he’d said in the end.

Tuncheth had nodded. “Yes, my lord, you do have a fair point. I’ll ensure the matter is dealt with swiftly.”

He had gone to work, leaving Raphael to muse over the fact he’d soon enough have to make a decision when it came to appointing a new chamberlain. With two devils native to Cania as Steward and Justiciar, he knew that the Chamberlain would have to be a pit fiend; he could not afford to alienate them entirely.

Clear-headed and practical Duke Bifrons was a fitting enough High General; Nexroth, perhaps, could make a decent enough chamberlain. He was far from trustworthy - hardly an exception, truth be told - but giving him a position at court would take the command of several companies of cornugons off his hands, and Adonides and Tuncheth would be more than capable to keep an eye on him. Yes, he was a strong candidate indeed.

Unaware of his thoughts, Dalah was going over all her needles and threads. Somehow she’d gotten her hands on charcoal and paper, and was already working on designs to embroider on his clothing. She hadn’t even looked at the bottle of wine and the food Raphael had delivered to her, by the looks of it. 

He sighed. The fact he’d declared her his personal embroiderer had given him a convenient excuse to make it known she was not to be bothered and answered to him alone, but…

“I’d really rather your rest--”

“I considered it, but I think I forgot how to do that,” she replied. There were centuries upon centuries of servitude behind that comment - the course of Raphael’s entire existence - but she spoke in a light tone, and the smile curling her lips did not seem to cost her an effort. 

Raphael was not certain happiness was something a mortal soul could strive for in the Hells, but she seemed content at least. Still…

“It would be a simple enough matter, providing you a form to inhabit and allow you back in the Material Plane.”

“Why? There is nothing for me there. Anyone I might have known is long gone.”

“Baator is hardly the place for a mortal soul to thrive--”

“Baator is Baator, yes. But you are here,” she cut him off, reaching over to brush her fingers against the back of his hand, and Raphael found he had no response to that.

“I…” he cleared his throat, and looked away. “Should you change your mind, you have but to tell me,” he added. 

“I shall keep that in mind. But I think I can be of help here. I have served for a long time, and I know all other servants here. They all see and hear things just as well as any devil. I was Baalphegor’s eyes and ears among them for a long time; I can be yours too.”

A similar argument to the one Haarlep had used, although of course they’d brought up the fact they could take the likeness of many members of the court. It had made Raphael sigh. 

“I’d rather you don’t take such risks,” he’d muttered, only for Haarlep to chuckle and kiss him.

“But, my little brat,” they had sighed. “After experiencing so much excitement in the past few months, I’d be terribly bored with nothing to do. You wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny me a little excitement, would you? Just a tiny bit of espionage to keep things interesting?”

He’d caved in then, and he found he could only cave in now. He sighed, and only looked on as his mother scowled down at the threads she was going over. 

“I really do need more golden thread.”

“I shall have it delivered,” he promised, and brought a chalice of wine to his lips just as something echoed in his head, out of nowhere. The voice sounded distant l, but perfectly recognizable. Durge's voice.

‘Turns out I could learn sending spells after all. Astarion can withstand the sun - ring of Sunwalker. All well here. Hope the meeting went smoothly.’

Raphael blinked, then smiled into the wine. 

‘Smoothly enough. No assassination attempts yet - almost disappointing. Tell Karlach I sent Korrilla to the House of Hope. Negotiating with Bel for Wyll’s soul now,’ he responded, and took a sip of wine. He half expected a further reply. He absolutely did not expect what it would say.

‘Almost forgot, Haarlep may use my form for you only. Just let me know so I can give the go-ahead. Tonight would be fine.’

Raphael promptly spat out the wine in a rather spectacular spray of red, which was followed by very undignified coughing. When he looked up he saw his mother staring at him, clearly and thankfully unaware of what had just transpired.

“Israfel? Is everything all right?”

He coughed again, and cleared his throat before he stood. “I-- yes, my apologies. I just… remembered something,” he muttered. He’d told more convincing lies, but she did not seem keen to pry at least. “I-- I shall see you tomorrow, mother.”

A smile, brighter than any smile had a right to be in the bowels of the Hells. “I look forward to it,” she said, and brushed a hand against his cheek. He leaned into the touch - he always would, he suspected, lean into the touch without even thinking - and smiled back briefly before he left, half his mind focused on a sending spell and the rest of him thinking of nothing but getting to Haarlep’s chambers.

Give me twenty minutes, he snarled through the spell, and even though he knew the spell was meant to share words only he was almost certain that, for a moment, he could hear Durge laugh.

***

“Well. Don’t you look satisfied.”

Astarion looked very satisfied himself, with Durge’s blood still on his lips and body pressed against their own. He licked at the still bleeding wound on their throat, humming softly just as Durge laughed breathlessly. 

“Oh, yes. This was… an experience.”

“I can tell. The cat who got the cream, indeed. I bet Raphael’s face is a sight right now.”

Another shared chuckle and they settled in silence, resting against one another in a bed that was admittedly a little cramped. Durge leaned their chin on top of his head, looking at the crescent moon over the window, a hand on his back. They felt the marks Cazador had left on him; scars, but nothing more. Nothing that could hurt him anymore.

“I think,” they spoke in the end, “that it will be some time before the wedding. We might have time for some more travelling, after this reunion.”

“Oh? And where would you like to go?”

“Everywhere we have been, of course. So you can see it all again in the light of day.”

Astarion didn’t speak right away, but Durge felt him smile against his shoulder. “You know,” he said. “I think I’d really like that. I heard that Athkatla looks much   better in the sun. Or Crimmor.”

“I don’t think the Shadow Thieves would be happy to see us back there, after you stole from one of their Cloackmasters,” Durge pointed out, tilting up his chin to look him in the eyes.

Astarion grinned.

***

There was much for them to talk about a tenday later, before the veritable feast that Withers had somehow been able to put together for them by the lakeside. Well, for most of them.

“Ah, not much for Minsc and I to tell,” Jaheira had said, picking up a cup of wine before the crackling fire. “To rebuild a city is a terribly dull business, but someone has to do it and it seems that someone had to be us. The pains of being old - becoming stuck with cleaning up while the cubs rush ahead to their next adventures. You really don’t want to hear this old crone to complain about building regulations and councils. So tell us, what have you been up to?”

Gale’s quest to create Astarion’s ring of the Sunwalker may not have been quite as eventful as their journey through the Hells to take down two archdevil and instate a new archduke on the throne of Cania, but it was a riveting tale of its own. Shadowheart, too, had quite a few adventures of her journeys, which had taken her as far north as the Spine of the World - but she seemed far more keen to hear their tales than she was to share her own.

Durge supposed that a lifetime of training to secrecy was not so easily shaken off; she had not yet decided what direction she wished her life to take, but she looked content enough. And it had escaped absolutely none of them how she’d suddenly smiled when a portal had opened into the sky above, and a red dragon had come through it. On its back was Lae’zel, in the flesh rather than a projection, with a new scar upon her cheek, teeth bared in what they’d learned to recognize as a smile, and tales of her own. 

“The alliance with the githzerai proved most fruitful, and yet more flock to our cause. The tides of war turn, and liberation is closer with each breath. The false queen shall know defeat soon enough,” she’d said, causing Shadowheart to raise an eyebrow. 

“It seems that you need no aid, then. A pity. I was half tempted to offer it.”

“Tch. Aid from a powerful warrior is never unwelcome,” Lae’zel had replied, crossing her arms and turning away. “If you’re truly offering it.”

“I suppose I am,” Shadowheart had said, smiling into her cup, and Lae’zel cleared her throat. 

“... Well. Good. I do have a yet riderless dragon,” she’d muttered, still looking absolutely anywhere except in Shadowheart’s direction. She’d cleared her throat again, and turned to Durge. “And you, what is this I hear about the Hells?”

The tale had taken some time, although Durge chose to skip over some rather personal aspects of it. By the time they finished speaking, one could hear a pin drop. 

“Huh. So we’re to start hearing of Archduke Raphael soon enough, I suppose?”

“Depending on how quickly the news filters in from the Hells…”

“Jaheira? Minsc is confused. Are we not going to stomp our boots on the backside of evil?”

“Not this evil, I guess, as long as he proves himself to be the minor one.”

“I must admit, it’s hard to imagine him on any throne.”

“Oh, I can imagine him on a throne all too well. The thought makes me want to slap him off it, though.”

“Heh, I cannot blame you. But he has changed in these months, believe me.”

“Mind you, still makes me want to smack him around every once in a while...”

“Tch. As long as the Hells exist, someone is to rule its layers. It may very well be him. After all, can he be worse than Mephistopheles?”

“... Yes, it is a low bar to step over. Especially if he keeps his word concerning Wyll’s soul.”

“Oh hey! Almost forgot! Wyll and I are getting married, so I guess that’s got to be our next reunion, huh?”

“What!”

“Hah, I knew it!”

“Married-- I am not familiar with your customs. What does that mean again?”

“Congratulations! Boo says your children will be mighty!”

“I say we drink to that!”

They did drink to that, and more. Durge was staggering just a little when they stood and went to the spot where Withers stood, walking past Shadowheart and Halsin as he told her that of course he’d be happy to look after the owlbear while she was away to fight by Lae'zel's side in the Astral Sea.

“Hey,” they called out, and cleared their throat before speaking. “Thanks. For organizing these reunions. I never quite realize how much I miss everyone until we’re together again.”

Withers - Jergal - looked back, his expression unreadable as always. He had not changed at all. “Thank me not. Thy bonds are strong, and ought to remain so. Thy unity must not falter, if thou are to be prepared for any future threat.”

“I don’t suppose you can give us any specifics about these possible future threats, huh?”

“Correct. I cannot. Yet that is not the question thou wish to ask.”

Of course not. Durge cleared their throat, and glanced back at the roaring fire, at their laughing companions, at Astarion’s face. They thought of Raphael back in Cania, with a kingdom to make his own, and looked back at Withers. 

“I have made peace with all I cannot remember. But what I keep wondering is how old I truly am. How much of my life has passed, how much of it is still before me?”

How long do I have, truly?

Withers’ expression did not change, but he spoke nonetheless. “I cannot name the number of years thou are granted to live, but remember - thou were molded from the flesh of a god. Undeserving of the title, yet a god nonetheless. Being forsaken doth not change that. There are many days yet ahead, child of none. Strive to be worthy of them,” he said, and Durge smiled, a weight off their chest. 

“Thank you, Withers.”

“Thank me not, and live,” was the reply, and Durge found they were happy to drink to that, too.

***

[Back to Chapter 40]

[Back to Start]

[lawful-evil-novelist]

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

[asha-mage]

DnD Character Concept: A Cleric who insists stubbornly and earnestly that their obviously evil patron deity (I'm thinking Lolth or Asmodeus but really any Evil Greater God would do) is actually Good and Benevolent and Just and dismisses all evidence to the contrary as slander from rival deities. Their proof to their claim? Using their divinely granted powers for the most intensely Good tasks and quests they can find: feeding the hungry, protecting the weak, curing the sick- all done in the name of their Terrible Dread Lord and without any expectation of compensation or string attached.

The deity in question is all "???" but keeps granting the cleric power because all that free worship and influence from the people who now pray to them is nice, and hey if the cleric wants to put in the leg work to launder the deity's reputation what reason do they have to say no?

Only it turns out that the cleric is actually playing 4D chess because of the way faith works in Faerun (and most DnD settings). As more and more worshipers start believing The Terrible Dread Lord is actually a Good and Kind and Noble god they start to be influenced by that to become Good and Kind and Noble. Slowly but surely they find themselves warping to match the perception of the masses. It starts by just giving a few random blessings out of what they think is pity, or maybe sending a sign to help someone who is lost on what the deity insists is a whim....but it snowballs until you have Lolth smiting down slavers or Asmodeus sending out devil's to drag down a tyrant to the depths of hell and then they realize 'oh oh no' but by then it's to late: the religious reform movement within their flock is too massive and been ignored for too long as benign. They can't just turn around and smite their own followers- not only because it's tacky but because they feel... compassion and responsibility for those that look to them for guidece.

And then you have the cleric, who at level twenty is literally their most powerful agent and also the high priest of this out of control heresy smugly sipping their tea because they where right all along. Their faith in their deity is vindicated- after all what is faith if not believing in something so strongly, against all evidence, that it becomes truth unto itself?

[yeehawpim]

Thinking about gods since watching Critical Role: Downfall

[junorsky]

Commission for @talenthiel!

[gravitycosplays-solarflareart]

“Orym, I pai-“

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

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

[hannimus]

look at him, i'm sure he just needs a hug... RIGHT?!?! 🥺

[shellem15]

The Case of Baalphegor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[oolong---latte]

mephistopheles and asmodeus.

[drownedrow]

[fluorescentbalaclava]

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

My girlie Elysen, gif made by me 💖

[pengychan]

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

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What matter, Adonides?”

“... Lord Mephistopheles is no more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

“Where’s Haarlep? My mother?”

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

“And the chamberlain…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I owe you no explanation.”

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

But not for long.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not an answer, that.”

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

“I’m sorry,” Durge murmured. 

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

“There wasn’t.”

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

“So she’s to be the envoy?”

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

“Yes, I guess it would make sense--”

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

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

***

“Duke Adonides said we should stay put--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A halfbreed, and some mortals--”

“Surely Lord Asmodeus will see them punished--”

“Who’s to rule Cania?”

“Who but the one who won the throne?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She only looked on, and smiled.

***

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

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

“A mausoleum, entirely for my sire?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

“Astarion. No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fair enough.”

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

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

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

“I see. And you’re pondering that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bele looked up, taken aback. “I did?”

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

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

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

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

Until he didn’t.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m certain he’ll be pleased.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Make of that what you will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah. Are you cert--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

None of them did.

***

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

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

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

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

This too I claim as mine. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please.” 

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, I see. And the citadel?”

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

“I’m certain she’ll be pleased.”

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

“Aww!”

“Mama’s boy!”

“Mommy’s little archduke!”

“Are you quite done--”

“With you? Never.”

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

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

Halsin laughed. “Of course not.”

“Oh no, we do like you.”

“Probably better than Raphael.”

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

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

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

“Give me a decade.”

“Hah! Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What of Mizora?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s settled, the--”

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

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

“Oh, fuck off. Group hug!”

“Absolutely not--!”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not just yet.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The one you had before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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