Chapter Text
O Mephistar, cruel diamond of the Living Cold. Your sky tore tonight - split like flesh, and flared with a light that knew no colour, no mercy. Only the bravest soul would have stepped outside. And had they dared, they might have seen, if only for a single heartbeat, how your frozen citadel gleamed in the lightning flash, laid bare beneath the roar of thunder, before it fell back into stormy darkness. But nobody did, of course.
For such tempests are rare in the Eighth Hell. But tonight, your Master summoned it.
Tonight was fated. He would restore order.
Make you feed again.
Ah, poetry was never his strong suit.
A short, calculated snort escaped his throat and Mephistopheles lashed the toy back to consciousness. The creature before him sputtered awake. Pushing heavy breaths through the remains of its once white and shiny teeth. Chains clinked as it struggled and the echo mingled gently with the fall of icy rain that poured from the hole in the ceiling.
"Dreamcatcher," he said in wonder letting the word linger in the frigid air. "Hmh. My spy told me odd things while your lights were out. Frightfully odd."
He lifted a claw and pressed it through the abdomen with a slow, unyielding force that sliced cleanly into its flesh. The creature convulsed and puffs of hot breath curled into the cold air.
"Once, your mind brimmed with the ideas I had put there myself. Now," he let the irony of his words hang, glancing down at the exposed sinew, "I hardly recognise you."
To be honest, it was hard to recognize anyone under all that blood. The archduke let the irony of his comment linger for a moment.
"My incubus told me you dug up a little trick even I had to look into: an Omuan dreamcatcher. My my, what a scholar you are. Colour me impressed."
Chuckling, he rubbed his massive chin. "You've always had a taste for the curated kind of cruelty. The slow pour," He picked up his next tool. "Personally, I've never seen the point in waiting for a scream when you can rip one out by the root."
As swift as the sting of a scorpion, he sunk a hollow reed into the wound he had just carved, deep and deeper. Finally, his very uncommunicative prisoner moaned.
"O, I know. They say that the finest executioners don't cut, they coax," he said as he pushed against the soft cries of pain, "that real mastery lies in restraint. In patience." The reed was almost fully inserted. Mephisto grabbed a funnel. "In preparing the soul like a perfect meal. It's good theatre. Watching you flounder through it all, so daintily, so precise - I almost see the appeal. Reminds me of food."
A thick, syrupy stream of port wine poured through the reed, filling the stomach. After two months nearly devoid of liquid, the sensation must have been exquisite. Pity it was preoccupied with breathing, drowning as the rain surged over its face.
"Speaking of food. Tonight is a special night, little one, and I believe you are ready for it now. Let me fill your belly before the main course."
This formidable lord and wizard had conducted countless experiments to understand the minds of men, daemons and devils alike and, ultimately, how to bend them to his will (he considered himself a bit of a mad genius here). Yet he'd never mastered the art of psychology. They said he was a walking contradiction: a cold and calculating arcanist who could probably outsmart Asmodeus himself; but he was also a hot-blooded devil with too much passion and curiosity beating in his chest.
Must've been the bad genes. Mephisto loved to play, dissect and rob others of their possessions, as all fiends do. He did it regularly, as was expected of him. But eradicating that human flaw called passion & curiosity was his most aspiring project. Unfortunately, it often proved unsuccessful. For every time he slew one of his breeders or their underdeveloped spawn, he didn't get the pleasure a true baatezu should feel. He only felt terrible. Or rather, a terrible contempt tinged with a raging existential bitterness.
With his failure to avoid producing inadequate offspring, this mortal feeling was slowly reaching its sad peak.
Bad genes.
Usually, he wouldn't give a toss where his seed was spread. But sometimes the sprout comes back to bite your ass.
It was the mothers who poisoned the child. In this particular case he shouldn't have impregnated the lass in the first place. Above all, he shouldn't have let this particular spawn live. Time to correct his mistake.
"Aaah, yes, I can see it, the horror on your face, sweet boy."
"Sire ..."
"And what a clever boy you were, buggering your way up the ranks, ever careful not to tickle the arch-bitch's ire. Gracefully done. Until, of course, you became RECKLESS."
"Sire, I-"
Mephisto pulled out the straw and closed the hole with a wave of his hand. Sniffed.
"You carry the stink of the pit. Lemure stink," he mused, then hums, pondering, "You had promise. Not to replace me - you're no heir. But as a modest soul broker. Something useful, you see. I was under the impression you'd finally found your cog in the clockwork. Of course, then your stunt with the crown happened and I was reminded of your age; ambition - it's the stench of youth's folly. But that is not why we're here today."
The prisoner spat blood and water and gasped for air. Something seemed to be blocking its airways. Maybe the rain water. Or perhaps it was simply collapsing from the special treatment it had received over and over again.
"Indulge me and I may spare you. But know this: if I do not like your answer, you will find true death tonight."
He could hardly wait.
"Now, there are three names I want from you. First - Hope. Who is she? My incubus says she whimpers in her sleep. Cries over nothing. Said it put him off his appetite. You have permission to speak."
"Aah."
The creature coughed and retched, shaking its shackles.
"Yes?"
"Pig-headed, unserving," it gurgled, red, bubbling lines running across its lip and down its cheek and forehead. "Master of the House of Hope."
"So. She controls the fortress. And in all these years, you couldn't take it from her?"
The prisoner swallowed audibly.
"Or was it something else?"
Silence.
"You wanted her, didn't you?"
Fidgeting, gurgling, then a half-uttered "No".
The duke ran his claws over his ribs. "Are you lying to me?"
"No."
"Why didn't you break her? My spy didn't report any marks on her worth mentioning."
The stammered reply was drowned out by a cough, so Mephisto, growing impatient, opened his left flank. The prisoner cried out.
"What was that?"
"Boring!" the other one wailed.
With a sigh of disappointment, Mephisto licked his wet claws.
"All this time you've been unable to dominate a puny dwarf and, instead, you decided to keep her as a battery and occasional plaything. I'll accept that. It's lazy, but I've known worse. Sloth, after all, is an infernal house trait. Now, to the boy. The human. You kept him until he fled. Why?"
"Potential infiltrator. I-influence in the Gate."
"For what?"
"Soul harvesting. Later ... Crown."
That made Mephisto click his tongue. "Haarlep informed me that this Enver found one of Karsus' stones. If that's true - well. Congratulations on either your impressive long-term thinking or your perverse luck. Either way, it did you no good. The boy was killed and the stone was lost. Which brings me to my last question - the reason why you couldn't attain the Crown."
He took his time now, licking over the exposed chest as he grew hungrier. The wet and deliciously spiced body lit up in a flash of lightening.
"Tell me about that other mortal. The woman. What was her name ... Tav."
Thunder rumbled over them and everything not made of solid stone shook.
"A human adventurer," he remembered slowly, "a nobody. She took the crown and gave it to some Elysium wench."
The archduke leaned in slightly. "And what exactly were you trying to do?"
His spawn remained silent. He pushed into the ribcage to make it swing.
"Say something," he murmured. "Was she for you? Speak and you may live."
"Deliver me the crown ..."
"A contractor?"
Coughing up more liquid.
"A long-term plan, then?" He leaned back from the pendulum. "Oh, Raphael. You lie badly."
No words. Mephisto groaned. Why did history keep repeating itself?
The interrogation had made him hungry. He leaned forward and his fang nicked Raphael's knee. He had already eaten his wings and right leg. Then the liver; the napkin around Mephistopheles' neck was all soaked and smelly, emitting the odeur of copper and decay. Ah, his son tasted of mortal sin that surpassed even the archduke's worst flaw. His juices were laced with leisure, excess, and the stink of the Material Plane. It was unbecoming of an infernal prince.
Too much of a bastard.
A lowly cambion. Child of a mortal woman. A freak.
"I always say: If you desire with your cock, act with your cock. Nothing else will serve. You fuck, or you cut it off. But you never leave it hanging."
He placed his fists at his hips and shook his head - mocking the posture of a father too tired to scold.
"You should have taken her and put an end to this need. But you are so repressed. It's not only disgusting," he said, wagging his finger at his son, "it's dangerous. It threatens the order of things. And have I not taught you the price of disorder? Ah, the little bird turned your head. I see that now. Perhaps I'll go pay her a visit, once we've finished here."
The chain rattled. A deep groan. But the Lord of Magic Hellfire just turned and grabbed a trinket, a net of stones and thread from a nearby table. It glowed and sang. He walked back and wrapped it around the blackened stump of Raphael's leg.
"Dreamcatcher, hah. What a quaint little idea. I thank you for showing me this remarkable technique. Now," he picked up his butcher's tool from the wet stone floor. "I'm going to sharpen my knife. And when I return, I will have you for supper, child. In the meantime, have fun with this little trinket, here. It doesn't contain nightmares like yours did. A soundscape, let's call it. Of your mother's last hours with me."
He didn't look back.
"It's not exactly nursery rhymes but it's ... evocative."
A pause at the threshold. The knife swung once in his grip.
"See you very soon."