Location: Third Floor / Closed
Date: 10pm, June 24th, 2017
Trigger Warnings: Gore, blood, implied death, crucifixion mention
The prickling of Lucifer’s omniscience had of course intimated that tonight’s soiree was going to have a less than pleasant outcome; but “unpleasant” and what this was represented as entirely different. In Lucifer’s room, it seemed almost all of his ‘sensors’ were out of whack; he could only imagine what Raziel was feeling, or perhaps the once-was angel was more used to the lack where new senses now filled him—or perhaps his senses were unaffected. Lucifer was skeptical of his room, knowing by now the markings of a Horseman’s plaything, and if this was anything to gauge by, the belief wielded by the first two had led the third to have quite a lot to toy with. Naturally Ms. Thomasˆ was probably loving having God and the Devil in her claws. Lucifer set his mouth into a firm line, considering his artfully arranged surroundings, which were altogether not distasteful, but this wasn’t the time for it.
Slowly, the room changed, seeming to accentuate his discomfort. His sensed were a little dulled as a Devil with a pantheon in need of a boost—but this room was worse. Everything in it maintained its shape and structure, but became unfamiliar: from where Lucifer stood, from beneath his shoes, eked out a soot dark dust that swarmed to engulf everything in that selfsame darkness. It wasn’t an unknowable darkness; it wasn’t the void, empty of any and everything. No, simply, everything was lifeless and ashen. Ash fell from the ceiling like a mockery of snow. When Lucifer went to find his footing, hand trailing for stability against a wall, his fingers came away coal black, and the wall shifted away after he touched it. It wasn’t a melting; no, it was more like a cracking. Like the beams decided to separate and re-merge in a different way. And then suddenly, the room was impossible to navigate.
Lucifer was on the outskirts of an inky labyrinth, the walls unforgiving and cold, the texture of tree bark. Every few steps he took, the walls shifted around him, his sense of direction getting skewed further, the light fading and becoming harder to ascertain if he was going forward or back; all he had was his sense of touch and these strange walls with their burnt-out textures. The ash continued to fall, sometimes getting in his eyes, but he managed to find a red string by his feet: the only splash of colour, no more sturdy than a yarn. Like a lifeline, Lucifer grasped it, seeing it as the only information he’d been given as to a way out. He had to get out—the end of the world wasn’t going to happen with the Devil and God trapped somewhere in a maze. The idea of the world quietly taken over while the deities were shoved into a nouveau Tartarus was, indeed, the stuff of his nightmares. Would the yarn make it better or worse?
“Hello?” he called out into the darkness, both with voice and mind, to sense any reply. Nothing came, the sound swallowed up in softness, the way a scream folds into a pillow case. Choking back a bit more emotion than was useful at the moment, Lucifer made his way onward. He’d seen the roils of Hell; surely, he could withstand what the string brought him. A sharp turn showed Raziel hanging in a crucifixion pose, but upside down, as all the blood rushed to the head of his corporal form, eyes lolling and bulging, lips turning blue around a tongue fat from lack of water, unable to speak, only to cough around the drifting ashes. Immediately, Lucifer tested to see if it was only his senses, or also his powers, which left him in this space; it seemed he could use telekinesis, but barely; not enough to cut his brother down with only his mind, but enough to pry a part of the bark of the wall and fashion it into a blade after a fashion.
After cutting Raziel down from the wall, Raziel stared at him with empty eyes and a thankless mouth, following like a shadow as the walls shifted again. Lucifer returned to following the string; down a flight of stairs he went, stairs that went down and down and down, seemingly endless, and he almost grew tired of the downward climb. Raziel was soft-footed behind him; Lucifer looked back to ensure he was there, chiding himself as Orpheus, who should have known better—but Ms. Thomas was hardly the God of the Dead, neither in guardianship nor in power. Lucifer would reign, he was determined. Finally, a small plateau came to pass, and on it was Renee, and Babylon, and Abaddon—all ties to a stake inside a boiling cauldron, their skin pruning and boils beginning to form. What meal were they for? Lucifer didn’t have the time to piece it together, but he freed these women whom he looked after like daughters, unable to stop himself from saving them.
He stood on the side of the cauldron, his foot blistering from the heat, and undid their knots, their ropes. His feat would heal, in time. Faster than most angels and demons—but not fast enough to be painless as he continued his descent down the staircase, the trio of girls fell in line behind him, soundless and thankless and soft-footed with Raziel. The string became more taut as he rounded a bend and the stairs dropped off; he couldn’t even see where he stepped, but he had to trust he was meant to keep going, that something would carry him along. The pain underfoot let him know this to be true, each step leaving a bloody trail behind him, though the floor was unknowable. And then he saw Leviathan, his best friend, his confidante, the only person in the whole cosmos he knew he could trust without hesitation nor question. And she was being lowered into the nothingness in a coffin with a glass top, but her the strength of her fists did not seem to change her trappings.
Lucifer jammed his bark-shiv into the side of the casket where its closure made rest; he wouldn’t trim the ropes lowering, for fear of losing her forever. Instead, he pried open the coffin, the makings of the place having an effect on itself, until he could separate it with enough space so Leviathan could pry herself out. She didn’t speak when she was freed; she looked through him and joined her place in the rank and file behind him, wordless and heedless and soft. Lucifer felt half-mad at the thought of it, but pushed away the questions that made him uneasy: Why weren’t they happy being free? What was this place? After all, there was no time for it. Who else did he need to save? Who else was in this wasteland of dust and ash? Was this what the apocalypse truly looked like: not nothing, but a pale horse of nothing? An almost-something? An eternal memory of a nightmare imagining a once-was dream of life?
And finally, there was the center of the labyrinth, with the red string having found its inception. It was a circle of falling ash and nameless tree bark, and those who he saved formed an outer circle, their shadow selves with shadow mouths and soot dark feet making black noise. Lucifer barely registered it, because in front of him, holding the other end of the twine, was Talia, her face lovely and serene as she held a beating heart in her teeth. It seemed to be his own, beating in time with what pulsing he could hear that was so loud thick it was deafening, the way quiet can be when surrounded by more silence. She pressed her teeth closer together and Lucifer gasped in pain. But behind her, there was a door. He didn’t know who this Talia was, but he couldn’t believe she would hurt him, not like this. She wasn’t made for that, it would unmake her; it couldn’t be true. Lucifer turned to warn his friends—
—only to find that their mouths were bloody, too. Saving others never did save yourself.
He looked from them to Talia, her eyes bright and loving, her hands reaching, inviting, saying, Just stay here; haven’t you had enough of the fighting? What has saving this world ever done for you? All of your friends become enemies. But here, the war’s already lost, and what a relief for it. Here, stay with us, stay with me, my love, stay with me, where I can never die again. And he felt himself reach for her, the way that you always go on reaching for the one that you love—the one you can never be rational about, the one who always has final command over your heart, no matter how much time has passed—he went on reaching—for her, always her—
—but he saw the ash falling on his hand, and he looked at her not for the spell she was but for the soul he remembered, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself a tear, a tear for all of the betrayals he’d felt, and all the more he know he’d yet to endure, and the loneliness that would always be a part of his burden—and he reached past her, to the door.
Location: 205 @ Hotel California
Date: 10pm, June 24th, 2017
Trigger warnings: blood, death, hospitals.
WEST SIDE MASSACRE SPARKED BY RELIGIOUS ZEALOTS. Is that what happened? Magda wonders, and then the wondering hurts too much, like the strain of thinking only makes the suffering worse, the headache like an anvil forge. Some of it is blurry—pieces of it are missing. Magda can’t remember how she got here; what the plan was. It sounded, in the distance, like someone was blaming the Church for a massacre, but that couldn’t be right. Maria would have had a plan—a good plan. It was probably a stunt. A ploy by the Horsemen to fuck with them. Or maybe even Satan, if he was having one of his mood swings from angry to angrier. WEST SIDE MASSACRE SPARKED BY RELIGIOUS ZEALOTS. But there’s blood on her clothes and something has to account for that.
Her hands are handcuffed to a hospital casket, pretty much, and something has to account for that.
She heard the police officer giving a report of the incident; if dozens are dead and angels and demons were fighting, the apocalypse was here. Where was Josh? Had he chosen well? Had there been a choice? Magda worried for him with her whole heart—until Maria was wheeled in. Maria never should have been wheeled in. Maria was better than all of them, smarter, braver, more clever. Magda had some brains but nothing like the schematics and plans Maria dreamt while she was sleeping, that half-handed natural talent for pragmatism. Maria wasn’t the one on the gurney next to you, that’s not possible, that’s not possible. Magda leaned over, strained against her restraints, the pain and Maria’s glassy eyes both inducing vomiting.
Something wasn’t adding up.
Magda never got a prophecy wrong—mostly because she refused to interpret them herself. I’m a conduit, she says. I can’t know what it means, she says. Always. Always skirting the blame, the responsibility. Always handing it off to Maria to make sense, because that was the plan, that was the action. Magda had the bare bones of an idea; Maria fleshed it out; Josh fought for it. That was what God had given them. Magda didn’t mistake prophecies because she didn’t interpret them in the first place, so if she had, she would have been 110% sure. She wouldn’t have gotten it wrong, couldn’t have—couldn’t have sent everyone to their deaths—Magda hyperventilated, breathing so fast she was heading straight on into a panic attack, all the thoughts swirling too large to manage, too fast and spiraling into overwhelming.
But that underscored it.
That small, distant voice that could sometimes talk Magda down from these attacks before they got out of hand and she curled fetal and rocked herself and tore strips of tissues into confetti of gridlocked pressure—that voice was saying something helpful: You couldn’t have gotten it wrong. If you’d gotten it wrong, Maria wouldn’t have gone along with it. Or, if she had, and it was wrong, there wouldn’t be a fight like this, you would have miscalculated a time or a place or a thought, not caused a civil war, not caused angel and demon to turn on each other unless they were going to do that with or without you. And look, the clothes you bloodied, weren’t you wearing that dress to a party? Didn’t you go to—a hotel? And then the door marked 205 came back into her memory, and once she had a marker for what not-this felt like, this felt different.
Magda could fuck up a lot of things—in some ways prided herself on being the fuck up of the Trinity, the black sheep of Heaven—but she wouldn’t fuck up a prophecy, not in this way, not to this degree. She was literally put on earth for one thing and while she could fuck up everything else, in her one task, she had to be confident. Had to trust her instincts. Even if it meant eventually coming to terms with a scene like this—so be it. She knew she couldn’t be that wrong—and the weak restraint on your right wrist reminds you of it. Maneuvering your slight hand, Magda freed one hand, and then, subtly, the other, slowly removing the IV, not yetin a private room, not yet hooked up to a heart monitor—she wasn’t important because it wasn’t true. Flinging off the scratchy blanket, she headed for the emergency door, marked 205.
characters: William Henstridge, Andrew Henstridge
time: Thursday, December 29th 2016. 20:30.
summary: William is finally confronted about his lacking presence on Christmas Eve.
warnings: domestic (mental and physical) abuse, guilt tripping, self-image, drugs, negativity.
9:02, Christmas Day. The sound rang through his ears as the email woke him up. Groggy as always after a night out on the town, he reached out blindly and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. His hand wrapped tightly around the cold metal case and he harshly unplugged it from the wall. He quickly pulled his phone close to him, the thick blanket being the only thing that kept him warm. The windows were opened, letting the cold fresh air in in an attempt to limit the hangover that he would have today. He rubbed through his eyes and unlocked his phone, taking a moment to focus on the brightly-lit screen. No email, like he had thought, but a calendar event.
Meeting with A. Henstridge. 20:30, 29-12-2016. Mandatory.
The way of communication did not come as a surprise. His father often ordered his assistant to send out messages like these. She would check both their schedules and pick out a time that worked for both of them. Unless William had some Royal obligation, he would have to attend. Though at times he ignored these messages, after not showing up at Christmas dinner, he knew that once again ignoring his father’s order would be unacceptable. He accepted the invitation, locked his phone and carefully placed it back on the nightstand. His chest felt hollow in the anticipation of what was to come in the next few days. Tossing and turning, he lay in bed anxiously, unable to fall asleep. After half an hour, he pushed the heavy blanket off him and slipped into the fluffy robe laying next to his bed. Shuffling his feet, he dragged them to the bathroom and popped two light yellow pills in his mouth with a sip of water before returning to bed. His mind kept racing and his chest ached, until the pills eventually knocked the brunet out.
With all that was going on, the days passed quickly. The holidays and the holiday obligations were, no matter how dull, helpful in passing the time. It was the reminder on his phone late Thursday afternoon that actually reminded him. He skipped dinner and instead went back to bed for a few hours in between meetings. Once it was time to get ready, William did not want to leave his bed. He knew what the lecture would be about and with such a delay, he knew the anger would only have built.
But he pulled himself out of bed either way, and got dressed. He called a chauffeur to come pick him up at his apartment at seven thirty, not wanting to be late.
William sat down in one of the hallway chairs at 20:03 and waited for the time to pass. He knew his father was in, after all, at 20:08, his last meeting ended and his associates left the office and headed home to their respective families. Minute after minute slowly ticked away. His father made him wait until 20:43 until finally having his assistant call him in. The older man sat at his desk with a stern expression. All he could see was rage, hidden behind the dark eyes that they both shared. “Hello, d–– father.” William had never called him ‘dad’. They were not close enough to do so and it felt odd on his tongue.
He didn’t want to be there. His greeting was left unanswered. William was not looking forward to the lecture, but he was not anxious. He had experienced this many times before and though it may have stunned him the first few times, it had become routine. In fact, he felt quite relaxed, ready to let the words go in one ear and out the other. Subconsciously, he knew that it was impossible. He would contemplate tonight’s events no matter what, but he faked his own emotions, as it were.
“Sit down.” The loud, harsh voice made William hitch slightly in his step, but he did not jump. He slumped down in the chair, his legs stretched out as to take up more space. He always felt small in this office. “Father, I––” he wanted to excuse himself for not coming to the dinner, but he was interrupted. “Shut your mouth, William!” his father shouted, his fist colliding with the table. His eyes shot down for a moment, but quickly back up again. He sat up a little straighter, and once again tried to get his word in. All his father had to do was lift himself ever so slightly from his seat for William to shut up again. If he had learned anything, it was that he wanted to keep his father in that seat for the duration of the meeting.
“I do not care for your reasoning, I do not care for your endless supply of lies and excuses. After everything that’s happened to this family, all the tragedies and all the scandals surrounding us, you believed that it would be appropriate to stay away at Christmas dinner? You believed that not letting me know of your absence is acceptable with all that is happening around here?!” Though his words seemed kind, there was no sight of it in his eyes. His father did not care for his safety, he cared for their reputation. “You’re a selfish little man, William. Selfish. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You don’t care about your Aunt, you don’t care about your cousin. As long as you get to have your party at the end of the day, you’re all set, aren’t you?” William’s lips parted, but the collision of both Andrew’s hands with the desk silenced him once again. “A disgrace, that is what you are to this family..” His father rose from his chair, his hands leaning on the desk, which was the only thing separating them for now, "and to know your mother died for an arrogant ungrateful little shit like you..”
That was it. Both father as son rose to their feet. William wanted to head to the door, but his father would not let him. He crossed the room within seconds and pinned his son against the wall by his throat. “How DARE you walk away when I am speaking to you?!” With a rough push, William was slammed against the wall again. “You are a coward. You are a damn coward and a lousy excuse for a son. Your mother gave her life for you and this is how you repay her? By being an ungrateful, lying, irresponsible little jerk?”
William’s fingers tried to wedge themselves between his father’s tight grip on his throat and he gasped the his father finally let go. All it took was a hard, firm blow to William’s cheek for him to fall over and end up on the floor. “Stay there,” his father snapped at him, raising his leg as a threat. Though William did not cry, his face was red and blotchy and his eyes were red. A small trickle of blood dripped down his nose. “I have some calls to make.” As Andrew turned away, William shut out the world around him. His hand moved up to his nose, trying to stop the bleeding. His father was right. His father was right about every single thing he said. He was a disgrace. It was his fault, that his mother was dead. They would all be happier if it had been him who died. He was a fuck-up. He could hear his father talking, but it was like William was underwater. Though his head pounded and his cheek stung, what hurt most was his chest once more. His breath heaved, an anxiety attack only just beginning. He hadn’t even noticed that Andrew had left the room.
He’d never seen his father like this. He had been angry before, but with everything that had been going on, it had been taken to a whole new level. The emotional abuse he was used to, a slap in the face wasn’t unusual either –– but never had his father attacked him like that. He was pulled from the trance the anxiety attack had left him in almost half an hour later. “Give me your keys. Now.” Confused eyes looked up at the man before him. He held tissues and a wet washcloth for his nose. “Why?” William murmured. A small huff, a humourless laugh escaped his father’s lips. “You’re moving back in here. Your stuff is being moved to a storage space as we speak and you will stay here so I can keep an eye on you.” William pushed himself up to his feet and handed his keys over slowly, the cold washcloth pressed against his nose to get rid of the blood that had dripped into his moustache.
A small nod indicated that he could leave, but his father grabbed him by his shoulder tightly for one last promise. “You can go wherever you want for now. But if you step out of line again I will not hesitate to lock you into your suite for everything but obligatory appointments. Am I understood?” A soft nod was enough to let him let go. He balled up the slightly bloodied up washcloth in his hand and headed out the door, more shaken than ever.
