Verin teased death so much it became a joke among his closest friends. Sabnac always asked him to stop. To let heaven go as if there was some connecting factor to his own tormented and twisted soul. But Verin always enjoyed grace like it was some fine wine he was allowed to indulge in. Basking in their aura without sickness or flinching reprieve but in addiction– old love– obsession. It was why when Belial had saved him from the witch he had laughed hysterically. Because of course a fallen angel would come to him. Of course it would the Rebel of Hell– the Prince of Lies– and someone strikingly beautiful still even in his corruption.
She could end him now and Verin could die happy. What a horrifying thought in the mists of battle– to know finally his suffering would end with such holy light. Because that’s all that was happening here. This war between the lesser demons and monsters of Hell, between Famine and Pestilence a petty battle in the enormous scope of objectives their Lord could be focusing on instead.
“I am not here for that,” as if she knew his thoughts. Kabaiel’s true form was expansive as its own star, brighter than anything else in the Second Circle of Hell. Even those five words made his depraved soul ache for freedom.
“Why not?” he hummed, their palms closing tighter. “You could. It might be the only thing to save you from falling.”
“You don’t want to be here,” she smiled and Verin physically felt his blackened heart thump just a little faster.
“Who wants to be in Hell?” The demons were coming for them, the ones long blown away from her shock wave. Surrounding them in a run towards the two alluring creatures.
“You want to be on Earth–” she continued knowing things she shouldn’t put to words. “You don’t want this power– you don’t want his crown– you don’t want to be here.” Then she laughed. And he swore his soul responded with a crack, as if she could some how lay her hand on his forehead and obliterate everything awful in him. Restore who he was before he was tossed into Hell, bring him back to the first form of his soul– innocent. Untarnished.
His eyes glowed sapphire, twisting his true form into the sands. In that second he only looked at her– but the realm around them scattered into a paralyzed screech torn from the deepest agony. She tilted her cheek to the side to witness the army around them impaled in scaled gray spikes. Legions lifted into the air on grotesque display, their rotten blood spilled on the sands. Their fingertips reached for what was holy and what was dammed in a begging for their own freedom of Hells chains. The black smoke of their souls rolled up the hill as a fog, twisting around their ankles and seeping into Verin.
“I don’t want to be here,” he admitted, his body contorted sharply, tearing an actual howl from his own lungs. Dual lines carved up his back in long slits, the transformation shredding his armor and bringing color to his usually gray skin in Hell. Black wings erupted out from the wounds, spraying the ground in blood. His hair elongated into ebony waves cradled along his shoulders and tangled against his hipbones. His clawed hands gripped her face then. Squeezing it as she took off from the spot– the two blasting into the sky. Their wings alone cast an ellipse to the only light source within Hell.
“I love you– You shouldn’t have come–” he growled, holy blood almost burning his hands as his nails burrowed into her beautiful skin. “Tainted and ruined you already are! You were perfect..” He inhaled, already tasting the corruption coming from his touch infiltrated the holy. She had made up her mind long before now and he was disappointed. “You are a fool– I could have loved you on Earth. But here you are worth nothing.” He kissed her then. Their first and last kiss. The curse of being the dammed when you love something so true to God. He inhaled her soul violently– hearing her scream as golden feathers fell over the sands. As her skin grayed– and aged. As her eyes alight in beauty dulled to an impossible emptiness…and then he let go. Watched the angel fall below– the love he allowed himself to feel hardened over in obsidian while she collided into the ground in finality.
Wings billowed for a moment before his chin turned towards Prince Asmodeus who was in the air with crimson dipped wings, pointing a sword at his back.
“You challenge me–” came his words, and Verin twisted his wrist summoning forth Aspect.
“I challenge you Prince Asmodeus– for your crown and your land–”
Mahalath was too busy to watch the spectacle. Famine would not allow her the luxury, but she saw flashes. She witnessed the sea of impaled demons, saw Verin and his angel soar to into the sky. After that, she felt the the divine presence fade like a doused flame. That power did not darken and transform, but vanished completely and the husk left behind was devoured by hellions. Mahalath knew what it meant to love someone that much. To lay down your very life and soul so they may live on. Except she had sacrificed for her daughter’s sake, while that angel spat in God’s face for the likes of Verin.
What was the point in sacrificing, if there was nothing to gain in return? She hadn’t even died a true martyr. There wouldn’t be any hymns sung in her honor, no statues to commemorate her. No demon knew her name and the angel’s kin would shun her from memory. Even if Verin truly cared for her, part of him might resent her for that sacrifice. She could have been his, could have been more. Instead, she was nothing more than fuel. How pitiful.
Finally, Asmodeus saw fit to make himself known. Mahalath felt his clash with Verin’s and the Circle seemed to stir with indecision. It was as if it couldn’t decide who to deem its master, even Mahalath wasn’t sure who was stronger. Asmodeus was old and among the first generation of demons, his angelic name was lost to history. They’d always known him as a Crown Prince, First of the Incubi.
But Pestilence had more to worry about than Verin’s fate. Her fellow Knight lived up to every bit of her reputation. Paimon gave her no quarter, each attack was more brutal than the next. Mahalath was on the defensive and her raging storm echoed that status. The hurricane ebbed as she retreated, giving way to the sandstorm. It was Paimon’s turn to smirk then, halberd twirling in amusement.
Mal’s left pauldron was shattered and green blood trickled down her arm. The blow would have severed the appendage entirely if she hasn’t reacted quickly enough. Going for a more cunning approach, she willed her weapon back into a bow’s form. This time, when she notched the arrows, Pestilence mixed her blood with the energy. “It’s your turn to run.” She muttered and let them fly. Paimon attempted to deflect them with an earthen shield, but the arrows phased through. When Famine attempted to dodge them, they proceeded to follow her. No matter how high or low she dipped, their tracking did not waver.
They were merely a distraction, just one more thing to worry about while trying to fend off Mahalath’s attacks. Capitalizing, the wind demon advanced, Copla’s wings cutting through air to close their distance. With a swing of her sword, she sent razor arcs of wind at her opponent. Paimon was able to block them with her sands, but not the sword strike that followed. The momentary pause was enough for her arrows to strike home, though Paimon’s mount took the brunt of them for its master. A Knight’s horse couldn’t be killed unless their master died, but they could be injured enough to dispel to them for a time.
The diseases that now riddled Famine’s beast rendered it useless. Her creature dropped right from under her, to the desert below. Paimon, who was flightless, had no choice but to descend as well, but she did not fall alone. One of Famine’s tendrils shot forward to impale Colpa. More tendrils followed, until there were too many for Mal to defend against. The crash of her impact was cushioned by a pocket of air, but her enemy continued to drag her though the sea of warring bodies. Minions took advantage of her restrained state and attacked at once.
All the while, Famine fed gluttony through her touch. Every passing second filled Mahalath with fatigue. It chipped away at her pestilent energy, making it harder for sicknesses to grow. Still, Mahalath continued to tear apart any demon stupid enough to come near her. If Paimon’s new goal was to tire her, then she was more than welcome to try. But her endurance wouldn’t matter, not as the earth rose around Mal, pulling her further and further from her element.
