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whump-tr0pes · 29 days ago

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Lux in Tenebris - Mors Part 2

Azazel is half-human, half angel. However, their angel mother is losing her power and perhaps even her very grip on reality. She is convinced that Azazel is Abaddon, a demon that she must punish and exorcise in order to redeem herself and set things right. Her mostly-human child can only hope to survive their mother’s increasingly brutal torture and convince her that they are, in fact, still her child - before it’s too late.

‘Stop’ | Punishment | Mors Part 1

Lux in Tenebris Masterlist

AO3

Contents: whumper POV, abusive parent POV, victim blaming, parental abuse, religious abuse, mis-naming, aftermath of [torture, physical abuse, strangulation], blood, rescue

Azazel’s mother paced back and forth, feet barely lighting on the worn wooden floor of her home. Beneath her, a floor below, her child – but it wasn’t her child, that’s why she had done all those things – lay dead, motionless, wrists still bound in the chains that had fettered it in life. Abaddon – infernal fucking monster, that creature, that thing – lay dead, and it wasn’t her fault.

But her hands shook. Tears fell down her cheeks like raindrops and soaked into her shirt, chilling the fabric like snowy runoff. She hiccoughed and wrung her hands as she turned and stared at the door to the basement. She had been shackled to this house because of the thing that lay beyond that door. She had been chained by her duty to rid the earth of the thing that had taken residence in her child, and she had done her duty. Her guilt was only part of the burden of the mission. A stumbling block, nothing more.

But Azazel…

She whimpered and pressed her face into her hands. It wasn’t her fault. She had done her duty. She had exorcised the evil from this earth.

And she had only been a little angry while she did it. Only a little resentful at the creature she strangled as she tightened the wire, only a little hateful, because it was the cause of all her suffering. What did it matter, her rage at the fragile body that she had battered and bruised, made to bleed, as long as she did her duty in the end? What did her own feelings matter, as long as her actions were sound?

What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he hath faith, and have not works? can faith save him?

Now that Abaddon lay dead, she was free. Perhaps now that the serpent was gone, God would smile down on her and welcome her back into His fold. Perhaps now that the demon had been cleansed from her child, she could go home.

She fell to her knees and wailed softly. But Azazel is also dead. Was that always the cost of my salvation? Was that always the answer? To kill Abaddon, I had to sacrifice Azazel? My child? My only baby? She sobbed and whimpered, pressing her forehead into the floor.

Perhaps that was the price. Perhaps she should leave her child below, leave their body to fester and rot as their soul had, with such proximity to the demon.

She raised her head and looked once more at the door to the basement, standing ajar like the mouth of a cave. She sniffled and slowly pushed herself to her feet. Then, she went to the ancient landline on the wall and took it down from its cradle. She dialed the number; even after years, she remembered it perfectly. It rang and rang. Her chest ached as she stared into the dark doorway of the basement.

The next ring cut off, and a familiar voice spoke over the line. She clutched the phone.

“This is Ezekiel.”

“E-Ezekiel,” she gasped, and the tears started anew. “This is—”

“I know who this is,” Ezekiel snapped. “You were never to call this number. You were never to communicate with any of us ever again.”

“I know,” she whined softly. “But… please. You have to help me. I—”

“You are Fallen,” Ezekiel said harshly. “Don’t contact me again.”

“Wait!” she cried. When Ezekiel stayed on the line, she wet her lips and continued: “I… I have a child. Something terrible has happened to them.”

Ezekiel was silent for a long moment. Then, “A… child? What do you mean?”

“My baby,” she sobbed. “I had a child with a human, and… Ezekiel, please. I… I think they’re dead.”

∴

Azazel’s mother chewed her lip as she looked out at Ezekiel, who stood on her front stoop. Frustration blazed out of his every pore. Not even his thundercloud expression could darken the light.

“What happened?” he said flatly.

She took a stumbling step back, and he stalked into her house. She suddenly became painfully aware of the dust smeared on every window, the grime on the floors, the cobwebs gathering along every corner of the house. Even the smell was stale. She swallowed tightly and met Ezekiel’s eyes.

He was glowering at her.

“What happened?” he said again, his mouth hard.

She burst into tears. “They… they died,” she sobbed, wringing her hands.

“How?” Ezekiel ground out.

She glanced at the floor. “Um… I… I was—”

“Where are they?” he said, turning his back on her and pacing around the living room. He glanced down the hall that led to her bedroom. She whimpered and stared at the open basement door.

He turned back to her and caught where she was staring. Without a word, he descended the steps.

She rushed after him. “Wait,” she gasped. He didn’t wait. “Wait, I, well, they were possessed,” she said weakly. “I was… I w-was… exorcising them…”

Ezekiel reached the bottom of the steps and felt along the wall. He flicked on the light. When his eyes fell on Abaddon, he froze in place.

They hadn’t moved from where she had left them. They lay splayed out on their side, wrists locked in manacles that chained them to the wall. Bruises and blood marred their face and arms. Their face was red and splotchy, eyes still half-open, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. And there was that thin, deadly line of red encircling their throat, with the flesh around it already beginning to mottle purple and blue.

Their mother fell to her knees and began to keen softly.

“Azazel,” she wept. “Azazel. Why did you have to be corrupted? Why couldn’t you—”

To her utter shock, Ezekiel slapped her across the mouth. She fell silent. Her tears stopped. When she raised her gaze to him, his eyes were wide in horror.

“This child was not possessed,” he rasped.

She blinked, staring up at him for a long moment. She stumbled to her feet. “Not possessed?” she said.

He shook his head, never tearing his eyes from them. “This child has never been touched by demonic power in their life.” His lips barely moved.

Azazel’s mother let out a huff. “They why,” she snapped, “Have they sapped my strength, my holy light, my life ever since they were born?”

Ezekiel knelt without a word, ran his fingers gently along the thin red line along their throat. “Pax huic domui,” he whispered into the heavy air of the basement.

Continuing the rites, their mother murmured, “Et omnib—”

“Don’t,” Ezekiel snarled. Her mouth snapped shut and she fell back a step, even though she stood over him. His eyes blazed with righteous fury. “You murdered your own child in cold blood and in your fucking hubris and resentment. Such a thing is an abomination. You are an abomination.”

She wet her lips. Her translucent hands tightened into fists. “How… dare you say that to me,” she said feebly. “After I have just… suffered this loss—”

“Leave us,” Ezekiel said through his teeth, turning back to look at the broken child. He did not turn back to see if he was obeyed. He was.

Once Azazel’s mother had slinked up the stairs, she began wailing to herself. Ezekiel ignored her and passed his hand over Azazel’s head. His fingers tangled in the sweat and blood drying in their hair. “Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini,” Ezekiel murmured. “Dominus vobiscum. Oremus. Introeat, Domine Jesu Christe, domum…” His hand stopped in its path through their hair. He turned his head, listening. Slowly, he slid his hand over Azazel’s chest and let it rest over their heart. A slow, sluggish beat pulsed against his palm. He let out a breath and withdrew his hand.

His eyes passed over Azazel once more. The chains were made of iron, he realized. He clenched his teeth so hard they sparked. The cuffs would have burned, if the child was a demon or was even possessed. When he checked the skin beneath them, the only marks were from years of wearing the cuffs. He tapped the chains. They fell away and clanked on the cold ground.

“Come, child,” he whispered as he gathered them to his chest and lifted them as easily as if they were made of paper. “I’ll take you away from this place.” Their head hung limp; their limbs dangled from his embrace. Their blood smeared on his shirt.

When he reached the top of the stairs, their mother rushed at him. “No,” she whined. “You can’t take them, what will I do without them? My baby, my poor baby… They’re… they’re gone…”

Ezekiel opened his mouth to tell her that they still lived, that their heart still beat in their chest. They looked into her limpid eyes, listened to her simpering moans. He thought of the red line around their throat. He thought of the blood staining his shirt. He could smell it. It smelled stale.

His jaw tightened around his wrath. “You are unclean,” he said coldly. “How can you perform the funeral rites?” He pushed past her and left her in her empty home. Her howls followed him as he carried them into the street. When he tired of listening to her, he folded space and bore the child to his own empty home.

Latin is from the Last Rites

Continued here

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#lux in tenebris #azazel's captivity #whumper POV #abusive parent POV #victim blaming #parental abuse #religious abuse #mis-naming #aftermath of torture #aftermath of strangulation #blood #rescue #we won't be hearing from Mommy Dearest again #and yes this is The Ezekiel #the one who was in charge of the garrison of Powers who tortured Dee

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