Exile! Chapter VII
Mammon was introducing you to this strange demon. He presented himself before you as a human. That was the most frightening part, how easily they could pass as one. Sure, Mammon was actively doing the same but part of you wasn’t prepared to see the other side of him. But on second thought, would he ever show you? Regardless, this demon was,
“Barbatos,” said with a bow.
A tall and slender man, he was. He raised his head to allow your eyes to meet. They were unnerving; an unnatural green devoid of emotion. Neither warmth nor even malice, only an invasive stare. It was as if he was examining inside of you, viewing the circulation of blood flow through the organs until it reached your heart and watched it beat.
Frightened, you flinched backwards, your feet stepping on Mammon’s as you jarred him. Instinctively, you attempted to sever eye contact but you could not; he held you captive as if he was not done scrutinizing you. This light tug-of-war ceased when you managed to break eye contact. What the hell was that? This was the weird demon shit you knew was coming. Uncomfortable, you crossed your arms to try to tolerate this interaction.
Soon, there was a hand at your lower back, lightly patting you before settling at your hip. The sudden intimacy startled you, and you turned your head to see that Mammon was already looking at you. He searched your face openly, “It's nothing,” you whispered.
“Welcome to the Demon King’s Castle. I am the royal butler who serves the Prince, and as our honorable guests, it is my duty to ensure your comfort and safety,” Barbatos introduced. “I am at your service, shall it be at any hour of the day. If you require anything, summon me with a chime.” A polished silver bell appeared in the center of his gloved palm with a petite lime-green bow on top.
Mammon was the one who accepted the bell; you had not so much as looked at it. There was no intention of taking anything offered by a demon’s hand, no matter how polished the gesture appeared. The silver chimed faintly as it settled into his palm. Barbatos lingered moments longer, as though inviting questions. And you had none, well, not for him at least.
“I shall take my leave.”
The instant he dismissed himself and the doors closed, you stepped away from Mammon’s side. You spun to face him, arms refolding over your chest as if to hold yourself together.
“I don’t trust him,” you stated. “I don’t trust any of this.” You began to pace the length of the suite restlessly. Your fingers pressed to your temples as you forced yourself to breathe slowly, anything to keep from panicking. When you stopped, your eyes lifted to his, searching, “I need to know,” you paused. “He won’t hurt Maximus.”
Mammon answered immediately, “He won’t,” he said, stepping forward towards you. “I swear. Trust me—”
“But that’s the thing, I don’t!” The words tore out of you unrestrained. “I don’t trust you!”
That stopped him. Your hands lifted, palms open as you gestured around the suite, the marble floors, the silks, the quiet opulence that felt more like a cage than comfort. “I don’t have a choice,” you continued, voice breaking despite your effort to remain calm. “...I don't even know why I asked,” you muttered after a thought. “Just go.”
Mammon had guilt etched plainly into his features. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he headed to the door. There was remorse there, the kind that did not ask for forgiveness because it knew it had no right to.
Against your will, you grew accustomed to this demon. He was quite the butler; he would have been phenomenal under different circumstances. Three meals were freshly prepared and promptly delivered to your suite. Each was carefully balanced and thoughtfully portioned. What unsettled you most was not the consistency but the familiarity. The dishes were from your country, foods you recognized. They were prepared with a skill that suggested it was possibly studied to the finest detail. Everything was cooked exceptionally well.
When Maximus grew fussy, soft pastries appeared alongside sliced fruit, peeled and arranged into animals. He brightened at those moments, delight replacing his earlier unease. To spare Maximus from boredom, toys and books appeared: wooden figures polished smooth by hand, plush animals stitched from soft fabric, storybooks with thick pages and fun illustrations clearly chosen with a child in mind.
On the couch, Maximus was seated on your lap as you gently brushed through his curls. He was reading aloud, stumbling over a word every now and then until you helped him pronounce it.
A sound at the door. Barbatos.
Despite his eerie energy, he never entered without permission.
“Come in.”
The door opened just enough for him to pass through. He did not step far inside, only far enough to roll a small table into the suite. He positioned the tray with deliberate care beside the couch, then bowed his head.
“A snack for you and the young master.”
Maximus stiffened; he was never fond of Barbatos either.
As Barbatos straightened, he led with a question. “If I may offer a tour of the castle grounds? It may provide some relief from the indoors. I can personally escort you.”
The idea was tempting to see anything beyond these stone walls and velvet drapes, however, you were not naïve. Yes, you ate their food because Mammon had assured you it was safe and accepted their hospitality because refusing it would change nothing. The fact remains, this was still a demon’s domain, kindness did not equal harmlessness and their refinement did not erase danger.
“Thank you,” you said quietly. “But I’ll rather wait for Mammon.”
Barbatos regarded you for a brief moment then nodded. “As you wish.”
Leviathan surfaced through a shallow puddle at the edge of the street. The water rippled once, twice, then stilled as though nothing unnatural had occurred. It was night when he appeared; the streets were vacant. The energy pulled him here. Mammon’s scent was faint but was unmistakably his. It was threaded through the air but heavy around the modest house ahead. It clung to the porch, railing, to the small wooden bench that swung gently in the breeze. Leviathan stared at it longer than he meant to, imagining Mammon there, slouched and relaxed with a child resting on his chest, living in a way Levi had never known him to be.
He approached slowly, boots crunching over fallen leaves. The house itself had warm-colored siding. A light was left on inside, glowing softly against the windows as if someone had simply stepped away and meant to come back.
Leviathan hesitated at the door. Did he have the right to enter? But what if the child's here? A quick spell, he unlocked the door. He took the time to examine the photos lining the walls, moments captured in time. One was Mammon, hyper-focused as he held his son overly carefully. Leviathan strolled down the hallway, admiring each one. Eventually, he paused at the refrigerator where he saw a calendar, dates circled in bright ink. School. Birthday. Doctor. Anniversary.
Leviathan cleared his throat, “This…” He reached for his phone, notifying a select few of his brothers. And one by one they appeared.
Beelzebub moved slowly, afraid the house might collapse from his weight alone. He noticed the small shoes lined up by the door. “They lived here,” Beel said, stating the obvious.
Satan lingered near the kitchen counter, eyes drawn to the stacks of paperwork: forms, lists, reminders written in Mammon’s unmistakable scrawl. “He maintained this life?” Satan said almost to himself in disbelief.
Asmodeus said nothing, too stunned and possibly overwhelmed at all this. Beelzebub, now in the kitchen, opened the refrigerator to see that there were labeled leftovers, healthy snacks and juice boxes. He stared at them for a long moment before his vision blurred. “He really didn’t trust us.”
Satan stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on Beelzebub’s shoulder. He was at a loss for words, unable to provide encouragement.
Leviathan found the album by accident. It was tucked onto the highest shelf of a narrow cabinet in the living room, half-hidden behind children’s books and folded paperwork. He had reached for it, thinking it was a photo album for the kids, of their school pictures, holidays, something harmless. The weight of it told him otherwise. It was thick, cream-colored. The edges were worn smooth by hands that had opened it again and again. The spine bowed slightly, softened with use.
Levi froze. A wedding album. His fingers hovered, then recoiled as though the thing were alive, “We shouldn’t,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “This is…this is private.”
Asmodeus had already noticed, “Yes. If he won't tell us, we'll just see for ourselves!”
“A-Asmo!”
Levi barely tried to stop him because deep down he was eager to know too but his conscience wouldn't let him. Asmo doesn't have one, so he was perfect for this. Asmodeus didn’t open it right away; he took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. When he did, Levi sat beside him.
“Satan, Beel, come look,” Asmodeus called forth the other two.
They too circled around, awaiting to look at the contents.
Asmodeus inhaled sharply before he opened the page to the wedding. Mammon stood at the altar in an immaculate white suit, tailored perfectly. His hair was combed back, one rebellious strand falling loose over his forehead. Mammon was absolutely smitten and utterly undone as if a spell was cast. Asmodeus had never seen his brother with such expression; he sat up for a closer look, unable to believe his eyes. Mammon was mesmerized; his eyes held nothing but love.
His wife appeared on the opposite page. She wore a gold ballroom gown, the fabric flowing in layered cascades. The bodice was fitted, its embroidery delicate as it traced her form. The skirt billowed outward, pooling at her feet like molten gold.
The makeup was gold-toned shadow dusting her eyelids, accentuating her eyes without concealing them. Jewelry adorned her sparingly. A fine chain rested at her collarbone, bearing a single pendant that gleamed faintly against her skin with matching earrings. Mammon’s expression in the photo said everything.
Asmodeus went completely still, pausing at the page. “Oh,” he breathed.
“She’s pretty,” Beel said after a while.
“Pretty?” Asmodeus repeated, “Pretty doesn’t cut it! She’s a masterpiece. Where the hell did Mammon find her?”
Page after page told the same story; Mammon was never far from her. In one photograph, they sat in a quiet corner of the reception hall, noise and celebration around them. She was turned slightly away, attention caught by something off-frame. Mammon had a lock of her hair around his finger with eyes half-lidded as if he was intoxicated by love, awaiting her dose.
Another image caught him standing behind her, arms wrapped around her middle, chin resting against her shoulder. His hands were possessive, fingers flexed as if he needed to grasp every inch. She leaned back into him completely. He was smiling, almost shyly, like he couldn’t quite believe she was his.
At the long banquet table, Mammon sat close enough that their knees touched beneath the cloth. One of her shoes lay discarded beneath his chair. He held her hand in his lap, thumb over her knuckles, while he talked animatedly with someone else. Even distracted, he never let go. In another, he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her fingers, eyes closed like a prayer was answered.
Later, in softer, quieter moments Mammon had shed his jacket. The collar of his shirt was undone, sleeves rolled up. She sat sideways across his lap, barefoot, her feet resting on the edge of another chair because they ached. One of his hands went around her waist and rested on her thighs, while the other massaged the arch of her foot. She looked down at him with tired affection, and he looked at her like he’d do anything for her.
And then toward the end of the album, she slept against him, fully spent. Mammon’s arm was wrapped around her; his head leaned against hers, eyes closed, expression peaceful in a way none of them had ever seen. Bare feet were hidden beneath her dress. Every image spoke the same truth: he couldn’t keep his hands or eyes off her; he was in love.
“This was touching,” Beel acknowledged. “I’m happy for them.”
Asmodeus closed the album slowly, “Me too,” he agreed.
Satan stood near the entertainment unit, “There’s more,” he said with interest. He knelt and opened the cabinet beneath the television. Inside were neatly stacked discs, each labeled in Mammon’s careful handwriting.
Wedding
Maternity
Junior
Maximus
Vacation
Graduation
The video stuttered once, then smoothed. Music filled the room, a melody that curled softly through the speakers. The camera found them at the center of the floor. The first dance.
Mammon stepped into her space, one hand settled at the small of her back, the other found her hand, fingers lacing together. He led beautifully. Every step was smooth; he turned her with a subtle shift of his wrist, a gentle pressure at her waist, and her dress followed like it was alive, fabric blooming outward as she spun, layers of silk catching the light. She laughed softly, and Mammon drank up the sight of her.
When he drew her back in, it was intimate. His forehead rested against hers, noses nearly brushing, the rest of the world dissolving into a blur of lights and murmurs. For a moment, they swayed, until Mammon leaned down, lips to her ear. Whatever he whispered wasn’t meant for anyone else.
The camera captured her expression; her eyes filled instantly. She laughed and cried all at once, joy spilling over; it was too big an emotion to contain, her fingers clutched the fabric of his suit as she went weak in the knees. Mammon tightened his hold, two arms curling more securely around her. They swayed like that for a few more beats before he kissed her. The camera wobbled slightly as whoever was filming sniffled.
Beel smiled. Something warm pooled in his chest as the screen glinted with shared joy. Laughter spilled from the speakers, and Mammon looked… happy. Beel folded his arms loosely over his stomach, the sound filling something deep and familiar inside him. Family. Belonging. He let the feeling sit there.
Leviathan, on the other hand, shifted uncomfortably. His gaze slid away the moment laughter erupted. At first his eyes were stubbornly on the wall, anywhere but the screen. There was a faint blush to his cheeks. This felt wrong, like stumbling into a private conversation you weren’t meant to hear or even worse...reading someone else’s diary. This wasn’t for him. This was too intimate.
Asmodeus did not once look away. He stared, refusing to blink as if he'd miss an important scene. Asmodeus typical playful expression was replaced by fascination. He watched the way Mammon leaned close, moments where she giggled into him. The way they touched naturally was foreign to a demon like him. This was affection; it was pure an emotion he understood once a long time ago.
Satan was too busy analyzing the content, fingers gripping his sleeves in thought. His eyes narrowed as the footage played, gaze intense as they absorbed the details. The trust was undeniable. It unsettled him, because who would have thought a demon of such high status would have let his guard down so low, it was practically nonexistent. Mammon trusted this human with his entire well-being, something that no demon takes lightly.
Belphegor manifested from the shadows near the back of the room. He was leaning casually against the wall, nonchalant. He was mildly confused why no one told him they were gathered here. His eyes were half-lidded, bored at first until they lingered on the screen longer than necessary. Once he realized what he was seeing, his eyes bounced from the screen to the album resting on Asmodeus’ lap, then around the room at the expressions he didn’t expect to see.
“…You’re kidding me,” he scoffed.
No one responded to him. On the screen, Mammon spun her around and around, her laughter spilling freely as her dress flared in a wide, luminous arc. The image froze for half a second as the disc skipped, her smile caught mid-laugh.
Belphegor glared, “So this is what you’re all crying over?” he caviled. “Some fake fairytale?”
Asmodeus stiffened immediately. “Belphie,” he warned. “Stop.”
Belphegor didn’t even look at him, “He lied to us!” his eyes locked on the screen. “Built a whole life behind our backs and you’re sitting here acting like you lost something. He chose them.”
“That doesn’t make it meaningless,” Asmodeus retorted, finally turning on him. “Did you even look at them?”
Belphegor gave a humorless laugh, “What’s there to look at? He's playing house with a mortal,” he scoffed. “Pretending he was something he’s not. Now it’s over, thee end.”
Beel’s shoulders tensed. Belphegor noticed immediately. “What?” he taunted. “You gonna whine over it too?”
“He loves them,” Beelzebub voiced.
Belphegor clicked his tongue and looked away, jaw tightening like he was biting down on something bitter. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, but there was no humor left, only irritation. He turned his back, voice rising. “You’re all being ridiculous. Mammon didn’t want us to know anything. So he can go fuck off with his choice. We were fine before. We’ll be fine now.”
Asmodeus stood abruptly. “Well, I want to get to know them.”
Belphegor scoffed. “I don’t care.”
Beel nodded, “I do too,” he said quietly. “And you should care, Belphie, they’re family.”
Shadows stirred at his feet, reacting to the spike in his emotion. “Mn,” he grunted. His eyes glared back at the screen one last time, “…This was never going to last,” Belphegor muttered before dispersing.
Asmodeus slowly sank into his seat. His hands came to rest on the closed album. His eyes were glossy, unfocused.
Satan rubbed his temples, exhaling through his nose. “That,” he muttered, “could have been worse.”
Leviathan hadn’t moved at all. He stared at the screen with glassy eyes as he continued to watch. The music played on. The scene shifted again. Mammon and her stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the cake, hands overlapping around the knife as they cut into it together. When he lifted the first piece, he was careful to not to let the excess icing smear her face, checking twice before feeding her, eyes narrowed in concentration.
She laughed at him for it, yet she did the same, feeding him just as carefully, mirroring his care. Mammon grinned, chewing exaggeratedly in delight before she dabbed a bit of icing onto her own nose, playfully. He leaned in, kissing it right off, lips lingering just long enough to make her giggle. The crowd erupted. Someone whistled. The camera shook.
Junior ran until the world stopped looking familiar, stone replaced pavement and wind replaced voices. The air thinned, carrying no trace of human warmth, only the cold earth. He didn’t know where he was, only that it was far enough. He crouched near the edge of a ruined structure half-swallowed by the landscape, broken columns, cracked stone, remnants of something long abandoned. The moon hung low, casting silver across the ground. It caught on the ragged edges of his wings, drooping uselessly at his sides.
Junior wanted to escape what he’s done, to get away from your eyes. Those eyes, the way you looked at him, he couldn’t understand what it meant, or maybe he didn’t want to, too afraid of its answer. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face and Maximus’ anger. He hadn’t meant it.
The shattered mirror fragment at his feet caught his attention. The glass was cracked and the moonlight spilled across it, illuminating his reflection in broken pieces. Golden eyes stared back at him. His white hair clung to his face, damp with sweat. Junior's shadow stretched unnaturally long behind him, wings distorting it further across the stone. A monster.
He didn’t look like a little boy at all.
“Put those claws away before you scratch someone again.”
“Stop biting your brother!”
“No wings! What did I tell you about flying in the house?!”
“MJ, you don’t growl at the table, use your words!”
In his eyes, you weren’t being mean, you were being mommy but sometimes the difference blurred. Every time he did just about anything, you were always there telling him to stop because he could hurt someone. He stared at his hands, his clawed hands. They tore through things easily, growing longer when his emotions spiked. Junior didn’t want to be like this; he just wanted you to hold him like you used to, to play with Maxi again and Papa…Papa hasn’t been around and he wonders if he’ll ever come back.
The tips of Junior’s ears twitched; his thoughts were answered. There was a sound in the distance, slow footsteps. The sound was familiar, comfortingly so. It was the way Papa used to walk after coming home from work; he’d searched for everyone so he could pull them into hugs and kisses.
The little boy kept his eyes low, unable to meet the eyes of his father. He stayed rested his pouty face on his knees.
“Mind if I sit 'ere?”
Slowly, he nodded. Mammon lowered himself beside him on the cold stone, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. For a while, nothing was said. MJ used the silence to study his father from the corner of his eye. It was strange. When Mama was near, she was loud: her heartbeat, her breathing, her emotions were all clear. That, too, felt wrong; his senses being sharper now, he could smell the emotions on skin. It felt invasive, like he was learning things he wasn’t supposed to know, yet with Papa, it was different. There was almost nothing; he couldn’t tell what his father was feeling at all.
“…Mommy, is she okay?” he asked after a while.
“She’s okay.”
“And Maxi?”
“Yes.”
The boy was content with the answers to his questions until one was asked about him.
“And is Junior okay?”
The sudden question startled him. He immediately looked to his father, who waited expectantly. The control he’d been holding onto slipped all at once, eyes filling with more than tears but the pain he had to endure the entire time.
The little boy shook his head. “Junior’s… n-not okay.”
Mammon cradled his small figure in his arms. He rocked side to side, as he’d done multiple times before. “Hey, hey… I gotcha,” he murmured, giving a rhythmic pat to his back. “Tell me where hurts.”
MJ cried into him, shaking, breath hitching in uneven pulls. Mammon rested his cheek against the crown of the boy’s head, careful of the small horn nubs there and held him closer.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you,” Mammon said softly. “You hear me? Not a damn thing.” He kept rocking his son, encouraging him to release it all for him to carry. “You’re okay,” he whispered again. “You’re with me.”
As his father cleared the tears from his eyes, he was able to witness his loving expression. “Papa… am I dangerous?”
“No,” Mammon answered without hesitation. “You ain’t.”
“I didn't mean it,” he whispered.
“I know,” Mammon reassured. He pressed his forehead briefly to MJ’s. “And Mama knows too.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. She's waiting for ya.”
And you were.
Mammon stopped just inside the doorway. Ears following the sound, eventually you looked up.
There he was.
Junior stood half-hidden behind Mammon’s leg, small hands curled into the fabric of his pants, wings tucked tight against his back like he was trying to make himself smaller. His white curls dropped, his eyes were red and swollen, lashes still damp. He peeked out just enough to look at you, then quickly ducked back again, as if afraid of your reaction.
Your knees gave out beneath you, you dropped down in front of them without thinking, one hand bracing against the floor, the other reaching out but stopping halfway, afraid you might scare him.
“MJ…” Your voice wavered. “Baby.”
Mammon glanced down at the boy, then back at you. He gave MJ an encouraging nod.
“It’s okay,” Mammon murmured. “Go to mommy.”
MJ hesitated only a second longer, then he bolted. He ran straight into you, small body colliding with your chest as his arms wrapped around your neck. You caught him instinctively, arms closing tight around him as his face bury against your shoulder.
“Ooh, sweetheart,” you breathed, clutching him to you like you might lose him again if you let go. You kissed him everywhere you could reach, his hair, his temple, his damp cheeks, over and over, murmuring his name between each press of your lips. Your hands cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through soft strands as you rocked him gently.
“I’ve got you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I’ve got you. Mommy’s here.”
MJ clung to you, shaking as the last of his fear poured out, small hands fisting in your clothes. You held him tighter, pressing your cheek to his hair, breathing him in. He was safe.
“I’m here,” you repeated softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”