thedukeofhell | [open post

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What looks like a speck of black dust on the floor of the mansion starts growing, widening, until there's a large pool of darkness on the ground. It bubbles and roils, as thick and glistening as oil. A low wailing that sounds like a thousand lost souls crying out comes from it -- and a figure slowly climbs its way out of the darkness. The smell of sulphur permeates its way through the room. It's all very stereotypical. A little predictable, some would say.

Hastur, a Duke of Hell, stands in the middle of the room. He is tall, dark, definitely not handsome -- and definitely not a sight for sore eyes. If one had sore eyes and looked at him, one would instead want to use one's own fingers to tear one's own eyes out of the sockets rather than continue looking at him. He's distinctly quite maggoty until he pulls his form together more, at which point he's only mildly maggoty. Mildly maggoty and pissed.

He knows he's here. He can smell him here, the unique scent of gloomy fall evenings, leather jackets, gasoline, and something very... ophidian. After that whole ordeal with the Apocalypse, the stupid demon, the upstart, the fool, the-- flash bastard¹ just up and left, saddling Hastur with all of his paperwork! Car parked on the street, abandoned. That was the kicker. The real head-scratcher. Why would Crowley abandon his car? The only explanation is that he's out there getting into some sort of trouble he shouldn't be... Disobeying the Lord and Master's orders, surely.²

"CROWLEY!" He suddenly yells, turning in a small circle. There's no response.

"Crawly," he says, quieter and more sinister. He walks to the door of the room, peering down the hallway. "I know you're here. I know you've abandoned your position. We aren't happy with you. He isn't happy with you. You're in big trouble... and you know what that means. We've done this before and I'm still BLOODY PISSED from last time. I've been sent to fetch you and the sooner you see me, the sooner you come to me... the fewer repercussions you'll have to face." The unhappy smile on his face says otherwise.

Hastur, Duke of Hell, is angry and on the hunt for a particular demon. Apologies to anyone who gets in his way.

¹Hastur's insults typically lack swear words, despite being a demon, because (due to being a demon) he is quite uncreative.
² The concepts of trouble and disobedience are lauded in Hell in thought but not the practice-- and especially not against Hell.

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"Don't," Crowley tells Galahad. "I've got this¹."

¹He doesn't have it.

"You haven't," he says. He feels like bare roots, pulled from the earth -- raw and exposed to the air, the delicate fractal ends torn from rough handling. He comes closer, and tells Hastur again, "Let him go now."

This should be a lucky break. Claudius and Galahad have a routine, and it's good for them -- two men who need order but not the order that's been given to them, who need to know where they stand but decide where they stand with each other. During the day, they tend to whatever common tasks Claudius creates, or break the fasts that only Galahad keeps but Claudius wants to share the end of. At night, Galahad cares for Claudius the way no one else can. He finds little notes, little surprises, and he cherishes them. But it means it's hard to find Galahad when Claudius doesn't know where to look, and he's been tearing through the mansion like a bat out of hell.

Not out of Hell. Not there. But he needs to find Galahad and tell him -- or find Crowley and warn him -- he needs to find someone. And here they are, together. Here they are, and here's --

Hastur. It would've been nice, if he found Galahad first, if Crowley never had to know, and Claudius could laugh and lie the next time they met. It would've been nice, if he saw them both together, and he didn't have to explain with frantic signs, look, I didn't want to ask this, for so many reasons, but that holy fire you killed Crowley with, can you do it again --

He stops and he hopes. He hopes.

"Come back to watch the show?" Hastur asks Claudius, watching him glance between everyone in the room. Claudius and Crowley are friends, then. How disgusting. He should be thrilled there's an attentive audience for what he's about to do-- but there are a lot of unknowns. Hastur doesn't like unknowns and the biggest one in the room is daring to threaten him. He glances back to Galahad. "And you're going to stop me?"

Crowley feels a rush of relief that Claudius is safe despite Hastur's threats. On one hand, it's a bit pitiful that anything he could try against Hastur probably wouldn't succeed - Hastur has the connection to Hell, not him - but on the other hand, he's not connected to Hell anymore. There's no way he's going back. For once, he keeps his mouth shut.

He's so tired of not being able to protect Claudius from the people who've hurt him, tired of all the memories that keep welling up when he least expects them like blood from a wound, tired of learning over and over about everything too late. He's tired of feeling helpless in the face of injustice. He's angry with Luo Binghe and Claudius' dead brother who doesn't matter any more and all the courtiers who obeyed him in tormenting Claudius until he didn't believe himself worthy of an apology, he's angry with himself for being frozen and tongue-tied, he's angry at God for crafting him into a broken thing and then abandoning him.

His skin feels hot and too tight. It often does when he's upset or overwhelmed, and he knows the fire inside himself to be a metaphor, the easiest way he can understand what's happening inside his body, a way to transform the feelings he can't always grasp into something less abstract. But this time is different.

The flame starts at his fingers, then surges in the wild tangle of his hair, gathers behind his eyes and inside the cage of his ribs. When he was Damien, he had no control over it, but he's not Damien now. He told Claudius he has performed miracles, and he has -- every time he quenches an undying fire he's taken it into his body, and it's here for him, having crouched inside him waiting to be called on.

"Get out of the way," he tells Crowley.

Crowley knows what's coming. This time, he's glad that there's a warning -- but Hastur's grip on his arm is still viselike. He briefly summons up a spray bottle of something from the greenhouse; he can see a brief flicker in Hastur's eyes wondering if it's holy water. Of course not. That would be utterly idiotic. Crowley shoves it towards him at the same time as Hastur vanishes the bottle itself, the contents splashing over both of them. Pesticide. It burns Hastur and he lets out an aggrieved yelp, letting go of Crowley's arm.

Crowley drops to the ground and dives for the side of the room, making sure to scramble as far away as he can, all the while thinking see you never, asshole.

With Crowley out of the way, Galahad closes the distance between himself and Hastur, and takes Hastur's face in his hands -- the burgeoning flame is cradled in his palms, and when he touches Hastur it ignites, as if the greasiness that was left on Hastur after Luo Binghe cleaved him was rendered fat.

"For a fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell, and shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains," he says, soft, for Hastur only. Then he burns, and burns and burns.

For a second, Hastur's expression registers surprise -- then a split second of anger and resignation at feeling His influence -- and then there's no time for anything else because he is burning.

It's bright enough to blind but Claudius still has to stare, all the hope in his heart unfurling like a candle when it flickers to life. Casting the smallest light, next to Galahad, who blazes like a bonfire. And he knows this is what Laurel wouldn't have wanted him to see, what he feared, when he feared feeling too much and igniting. Claudius never feared it for himself, but he remembers realizing why Laurel had to keep reminding himself fire hurt. Even if Claudius never saw, he was forced to imagine it, imagine Laurel taken over by a power he didn't ask for, hurting the friend who tried to help him.

He couldn't imagine the beauty of Galahad aflame -- couldn't imagine Galahad taking that power and using it deliberate and gentle, using it to save that same friend. To save one demon from another. It can't be why God gave him his fire, but seeing it, Claudius understands why it's holy. Galahad's brilliant with his power now, and for the first time in the long time, Claudius feels something like faith. All the fear behind him, knowing Galahad's here with him and with Crowley, and that's why they'll be all right.

The fire eventually dies down. It sinks back into his bones where it lives, and the light goes out from his skin, and as it did the last time it leaves him shakingly cold, emptied out. His clothes are all scorched again. Now that it's over, he's afraid to turn and look at Claudius -- he's afraid to see something he might be able to recognize as fear. He stays where he is, still, gazing at the greasy burnt stain on the carpet.

Crowley is still sprawled on the ground, figuratively catching his breath over what just happened. It had been there. A gateway to Hell. He felt the fear of going back, of facing the consequences, of maybe never seeing — well, anyway. Still, in that last moment, he somehow didn’t think this place was going to allow him to leave.

He pushes himself into a sitting position and looks up at Galahad. “Thank you,” is all he says for now.

At that some moment, Claudius sweeps up behind Galahad, and holds him tight, tight, face buried in his back, breathing in the smoke-scent of his clothes, and grateful.

"That was," he says, moment passed, "devastatingly attractive. Quite literally: devastating." In agreement with Crowley, he adds, "Thank you."

Edited 2023-12-17 20:07 (UTC)

Galahad turns in his arms and clings. Last time, with the undead, he'd managed not to shatter apart afterward because it was important that he stay focused for Claudius, that he take care of Claudius. This time it's too much. He tries to concentrate on the way Claudius smells instead of the smoke, perfume and herbs, alchemy, safety, but he can't stop trembling. He feels hollow.

Crowley is not in Hell. Hastur's gone. Claudius and Galahad are both physically okay -- but there's still one individual left to ask after.

"Aziraphale?" He asks, pushing himself off the ground and brushing himself off. He's almost certain the angel can take care of himself, as much as he enjoys being rescued -- but with the way Hastur was speaking, there's still doubt in the back of his mind. A growing feeling of panic.

Claudius has Galahad gathered in his arms, hand in Galahad's hair, stroking and soothing him through his trembling. "What's this about Aziraphale?" he asks. It's not the time to tease Crowley for how fast that name came to his lips, but he does note it.

Despite the height he has on Claudius, he feels very small. He smooths the placket of Claudius' shirt, rubbing his fingers against it, and is struck by a memory of doing the same thing some time before when he was someone else. It doesn't make him feel less adrift. He doesn't have the ability to focus on Crowley or the conversation he and Claudius are having, only the small movement of his fingers on cloth.

"Have you seen him?" Crowley asks Claudius. "Hastur said something about taking care of the two of you. Almost certain he was lying, but..." He lets the rest of the sentence hang unspoken. There's an intensity to his demeanor that's been rare since he arrived, so while he does give Galahad a momentary worried glance, he's looking towards the door as well.

"And you won't be at ease until you see him again," Claudius says, and his tone isn't teasing, though it is knowing. "Go, find your angel. I'll be along to help look if it takes too long, but first," gentle, "I need to look after our hero."

He trembles -- he's meant to look after Claudius, not the other way around -- but he can't protest.

Crowley nods. He looks at Galahad -- and he's not sure if what he's going to say will register or not. Maybe Claudius can repeat it to him later if needed. It's important.

"I owe you one," he says, gently. You've more than evened the score, is what he means. And then he's gone.

"Here, beloved," Claudius murmurs, and shifts to take Galahad's hand and lead him away. "I have thee. Thou wert a wonder -- thou wert more than a miracle. All on thine own, thou wert the answer to a prayer spoken nowhere but my soul ... and thou wert beautiful, beloved. Thou canst rest now, and come with me."

He lets Claudius take his hand, saying nothing: his fingers are icy in Claudius' grip. He wants to ask about Gertrude, and what's changed now, but even more than usual words are impossible. The act of opening his mouth feels like trying to lift the weight of the cross; if Christ couldn't help but stumble under it, how can he hope to speak, even with Simon of Cyrene at his side?

Claudius keeps Galahad's hand in his and lends his shoulder, as if to bear the cross of him. He asks nothing, not even with his hands -- he'd have to let go of Galahad to sign the questions, and his grip is still tight and grateful. Knowing himself, his fingers would flicker too fast, cycling possibilities, the way they do when one idea tumbles after another. They'd all be things Galahad might need: a bath with warm water to bring the heat back into his body, a change of clothes to replace his scorched ones, something soft to touch and ground himself. It's better to give Galahad those things, one by one. For now, he'll lead Galahad back to their room, all the while speaking soft praises.

Once they're inside -- once they're safe, because it feels as if nothing can hurt either one of them here -- he allows himself to relax fractionally. Their room is the same. The world hasn't shifted monumentally under his feet and left everything askew.

He makes himself look at Claudius' face at last, which takes an effort, even with all the soft things Claudius has said to him on the way here -- he's still afraid to find out things have changed.

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