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Sheltered (Stolas/Blitzø)

On AO3

Summary: The consequence of disregarding Hell’s law is steep and Stolas will pay the price.

Notes: A fun little canon divergence set after Stolas acquires the Asmodean Crystal. How we get here will be revealed. Unbeta’d but if you are interested hit me up. This was written well before we got the new trailer and duet so it’s completely just me playing around with the key theorized beats and my own imagination. Been years since I wrote anything for a fandom I published so may be a little rusty. I have another fic coming as well I’ve been working on that’s a little lighter.

Part One: Hellish Justice

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The Tribunal of Superior Spirits formed a crescent moon of looming silhouettes, each peering down at him with glowing acid eyes. A coterie of featureless jagged shadows. Their combined magics were heavy and physical, a slowly crushing force of power that filled the Hall of Justice, a miasma of eldritch power. Stolas knelt below them in the center of the dais, bathed in the bright red light of the condemned. He was not bound, but he did not need to be, there was no escape from the watching black figures above him. He had agreed to this after all.

“Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia you have violated the unholy covenant, bestowing the use of your cursed gift to a lesser demon, allowing them access to the human realm without consequence or regard for the laws of Hell.”

It was impossible to tell which of the Superior Spirits was speaking, but their voice rang through the hall, booming and terrifying. It trembled the stone beneath his knees. In the corner of his eye Stella and her brother looked viscously gleeful, eyes wild with vindictive pleasure. The simple joy of a scheme well executed. The others gathered in the seats of the auditorium looked more solemn, or merely interested in the spectacle. A Prince of Hell brought so low was not an everyday occurrence. It was small comfort that not everyone would bask in his demise.

Only Asmodeus looked troubled. He shifted and moved in his seat as if he wanted to step in, each of his faces frowning, one even openly weeping. Stolas silently willed him not to intervene. It would not benefit either of them. Even as a Sin he was not free from the reach of the Superior Spirits, those impartial arbiters of Hell’s Justice and it would possibly sully the deal Stolas had struck. That Asmodeus had not been brought into this mess was already fortunate. While he was free to grant use of his precious crystals to whoever he chose, it was still a gray area if that included the lowest beings of Hell. Stolas’s only comfort was that Blitzo and his employees were spared and the business unaffected, that his daughter did not have to watch him kneel and receive punishment, that as a Prince of Hell the responsibility fell to him alone and he could keep those he loved safe.

A fizz of magic and a wall of flame appeared, suspended above the room and visible to all. On it images rose from the flames, flickering back and forth in a loop. His possession of the Agent at the facility, the fearsomeness of his demonic form caught on human film. The flames flickered, now he was opening the portal for Blitzo and his team. They flickered again, curling and writhing, showing now Stolas and Blitzo’s shared moment of passion, their kiss blown up grand for all to see. The audience around him hissed and jeered, disgusted by such a display. Stolas’s talons curled against the floor, his jaw set.

“Such an abuse of cursed power cannot go unpunished,” The Superior Sprit went on. One of the figures waved a shadowy hand and the image sputtered out in a puff of blue flame. “We cannot allow such a transgression to be repeated. So let it be known to all the consequences of such flagrant disregard for the rule of law.”

Stolas swallowed. The magic in the room grew heavier. The crowd felt the sweep of intangible authority and fell silent, eager to hear the sentence. They leaned forward, pressed in on him from all sides. Stolas had never felt more alone.

“Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia we hereby strip you of your title. Prince no more your legions are forfeit to the realm.” Stolas’s eyes burned, the red stone of the floor growing blurry as his eyes filled. The audience gasped at such an unprecedented punishment. Though he had expected it, the reality burned.

“Your wealth and properties will be held in trust for the presumptive heir Princess Octavia of the Ars Goetia with Her Royal Highness Estella of the Ars Goetia acting as trustee until Princess Octavia reaches the age of majority.”

Behind him Stella made a soft noise of pure delight, victorious. Andrealphus laughed and if it would not have jeopardized everything, Stolas was quite sure he would have ripped out the peacock’s spindly throat. His talons scraped against the stone floor.

“Stolas, former Prince of the Ars Goetia you are henceforth banned from all properties and holdings of your former station,” Stolas’s head snapped up, a protest bubbling up in his throat.

“Wait,” he pleaded. If he could not return to his home, if he could not even visit, who knew when he would see Octavia again. “My daughter…please.”

The Superior Spirit ignored him. With a wave of a shadowed hand Stolas’s grimoire appeared, floating just above him, out of reach in undulating purple and blue light. It beckoned to him, the threads of their bond shimmering between his splayed form and the majestic glow of the prophetic tome.

“While we have no dominion over natural born magic, your cursed gifts are forfeit as well,” from the stone floor a set of ghostly golden shackles sprang forth. They clamped down hard around his wrists and ankles, binding him to the floor. He pulled against them reflexively but soon let them bring him down in drooping defeat, a wilted flower suffocated by golden roots. The grimoire bobbed for a moment, as if fighting the pull, and then with a flash of light disappeared into a deep violet box, edges filigreed in gold. A lovely coffin. The box snapped shut, the sharp sound echoing off the stone, and with a final thunderous click a golden lock sealed it away.

It was like being hollowed out, the connection between him and his grimoire, the magical gift he’d honed and sharped for so many years suddenly severed from his soul, yanked out by the heartstrings, leaving only a yawning void in its wake.

Stolas gasped and clutched his chest, the chains rattling in the silence of the hall like a death knell. His pained cry was lost to the high arched ceiling of the chamber and swallowed by the rising murmur of the audience.

The shackles glowed brilliant in the darkness and then disappeared from view. He could still feel them, heavy on his wrists, pulling him down. Stolas’s frame crumpled, palms smacking against the stone as he tried to keep from smashing his face into it. Nothing had ever hurt this much, had left him so cold. Even Striker’s dagger sinking into him, the heel of a boot digging into a fresh wound had nothing on the rending of Stolas’s magic from his very being. It was worse than having his heart broken, but only just, pity that both had happened in such quick succession as to make the comparison easy. Only dark emptiness was left now lit by the single flame of Octavia. Though who knew when he’d see her next. A tear fell, shone crimson in the red light from above. He smeared it away with his thumb.

The crowd was protesting, a fickle beast turning against such a harsh sentence. This was too much even for them. It was frightening to watch one of your own stripped to nothing before you. To know if you stepped out of line it could be you next, prostrate and small, powerless before the realm. The Superior brought down a ghostly gavel and barked for silence.

“We are not without mercy,” the Superior Spirit went on, a tad defensive. “Even Hell has a place for grace. You will be granted a small stipend from your holdings for use in establishing a new place for yourself in the ring of your choosing.”

He waved the shadowy hand again and a small envelope appeared at Stolas’s feet, the seal of the Superior Tribunal pressed on the fold in blood red wax. Stolas reached a weak hand forward and scrabbling, brought it to him. He tucked it with shaking hands into the inner pocket of his vest. The desperation of the act burned. He had dressed for battle though he knew well in advance of his defeat. Now he was clutching at any small mercy bestowed by the victors.

“Owing to your unique position and your view into the will of the stars the restriction on your magic will not hold for eternity. Your life of service has been noted and considered. We the Tribunal of Superior Spirits limit this ruling to a five year sentence, commiserate with your remaining free of any further violations of Hell’s unholy laws. After which you will be granted back your gift, permitted to resume your duties to Hell and aid in the training of your heir presumptive, though your title will remain lost to you.”

Stolas swallowed, his throat dry. He sagged in relief not caring that every aristocrat and Overlord in hell could see him being so weak, so vulnerable. It was rather the theme of the day. The loss of his magic was not forever. He would one day be whole again.

He wanted to sneer at their idea of mercy. Of course they would grant him his magic back only to benefit themselves, they needed him for the prophecies, at least until Octavia could step into the role. There was no one else in all the realms who could read the stars in such a way, who could warn of catastrophe and bring news of good fortune ready to be seized. They needed him, at least for now. It was a cold comfort but a comfort none the less. He could survive five years. For Octavia he would keep pushing forward. She would need him soon. He could only hope that they were not kept apart for long, that she would understand.

“This tribunal is dismissed. Justice has been done.”

One by one the Superior Spirits snuffed out like obsidian candle flames, and the red light faded leaving Stolas alone surrounded only by the hissing whispers of the crowd in the dark.

**********

A burly Hellhound appointed by the court led him through the winding hallways towards a back exit. The press had been clamoring for every tidbit they could eat up and, barred from the chamber, a crowd had gathered at the entrance. It was a small consideration by the tribunal but an appreciated one. He knew he looked awful, that the vultures would scent the carrion smell of failure and delight in ripping him apart. Stella had probably called most of them personally.

Asmodeus had tried to approach as the crowd dispersed from the Hall of Justice, but Stolas had waved him away. Any association with him could only hurt the Sin’s reputation, tainted as it already was by the display at Mammon’s contest. Further interaction would invite scrutiny no one could afford. He would rather face this alone than have it all be for nothing.

The Hellhound guard murmured something into a walkie talkie and grimaced.

“Got some news crews out back,” he warned. “Cars already waitin’ so if you’re quick they won’t catch much.”

“Thank you,” Stolas said quietly and braced himself as they stepped outside.

“Former Prince Stolas! Over here! Do you have any comment on the tribunal’s decision today?”

“No comment,” Stolas murmured, allowing the Hellhound to drag him towards a waiting vehicle. There were cameras and microphones in every direction. The sky was so bright after the dark of the hall that he squinted and held up a hand to block everything out. Panic flared in his chest.

“Stolas! Stolas! What are your next steps? What are your plans now that you are barred from the properties of any Ars Goetia?”

A good question. If only he knew.

“Is it true you used access to the human realm to traffic imp sex slaves?” That one almost made him turn but the Hellhound was efficient, barreling through the gathered press like a fanged bowling ball knocking down pins with a growl.

“Prince Stolas! What is your relationship to BlitzO Buckzo,” another yelled, and Stolas did flinch then, almost tripping over his feet. The Hellhound scooped him up and with a grunt fair flung him into the open door. It slammed behind him and the crowd became muffled and filmy through the glass. He melted back into the seat, exhausted.

“Hello sir,” the imp driver was one of the taller of his kind, though still much smaller than Stolas. Yellow eyes peered curiously at Stolas in the mirror. His smile was bright, impersonal, politeness. He seemed a cheerful sort of chap. “I’ll get us to the main road and then you can tell me where you’d like to go?”

Stolas had no idea. He could not return home, and it was unlikely Stella would be kind enough to send him his things. If he was very lucky she wouldn’t burn them on the lawn. He thought of his plants, of them withering away without him and his heart ached. Maybe Octavia would see to them. He pushed the thought of his daughter away. He couldn’t think of her right now, he would break. He needed to focus, he needed to make a plan. The impending breakdown needed to wait until he was secure behind private walls.

The chauffeur was slowly edging past the crowd, skillfully maneuvering the town car around the crush of reporters and paparazzi. They banged on the windows, pressed their cameras against the tinted glass, trying to catch even the smallest glimpse of his defeated face for the evening news cycle. It didn’t seem to phase the driver, though Stolas flinched back and away.

He reached into his vest and pulled out the envelope. The stipend inside was barely anything. He had given Octavia more for her pocket money. It was humbling to know this was all he had left. The clothes on his back, a measly pittance, and a phone that would work only until Stella realized she could turn it off. She had never bothered with the finances and the estate’s accountant seemed to like him, so hopefully that would buy him some time.

He pulled it out now, bringing up a search window. He needed to secure lodgings. Cheap ones. The more he could save on living expenses the longer that would buy him to figure out what to do. He’d need clothes as well. The royal regalia he wore was no longer appropriate and he cursed himself for not wearing something a bit more practical. But the idea of appearing before the entirety of the leering aristocracy and the imposing Court in anything less than his finest had rankled, and so he’d donned his battle armor for a fight long since lost, and now he would look ridiculous for a bit until he could find something else. His hands shook, that empty void in his chest still twinging painfully, his absent magic grating over his nerves, but he ignored it, trying to force his hands to be still.

He thought through the rest of the practicalities. He could get by if he just focused on the immediate. He’d need toiletries. Food. A job. He typed in a search for motels in all of the cities of the rings.

The Pride ring was probably the best bet, it was closest to Octavia and familiar. Envy was far too expensive. And wet. Greed was mostly factories and industrial properties and the few residences there were under mafia purview. He’d rather avoid further trouble if he could help it and a Goetia, even a disgraced and penniless one, was a valuable prize. Wrath was cheap and he found the people charming, but there was little for him to do there if he wanted to find work. Assuming he even could, with his limited skill set. And after his last visit he’d rather not go back any time soon.

Sloth was mostly medical facilities, and not much less expensive than Envy. And the opportunities in Lust were rather something he’d save as a last resort. He had no issue with sex work as a profession, but a fallen Prince turned prostitute was unlikely to keep him out of the news cycle and he’d rather spare Octavia further humiliation on that score. Though he supposed if it came to that he could use his former status to his advantage. Make a gimmick out of it. He chuckled to himself humorlessly at the thought. As if anyone would be interested, former Prince or no.

“Just let me know where we’re headed sir,” the driver said, breaking into his musings of royalty themed lingerie and if the ballet and ballroom dancing lessons of his childhood would translate well . They had cleared the crowd and were on the main road now, headed towards town.

“Oh. Yes. My apologies, I’m looking for options now,” he returned his attention to the phone and flicked through the results. There were quite a number of hotels and motels in Pride, due to the wealth of displaced sinners, even more in Lust but those were less long term and more hourly. He did some mental calculations and was dismayed to realize that even if he spent only the bare minimum on personal items and food he had only enough for a few weeks at even the cheapest of establishments. The panic he had pushed down was starting to creep up his throat again. There was also the problem that he was dressed to lead demonic legions not blend in with the populace. He would draw attention wherever he went and the press would surely find him, or he’d be robbed, or swindled, or whatever other horrible things happened to the naive fallen wealthy in his novels. An easy mark in more ways than one.

“Are you able to make a few stops?” Stolas asked. “I’d like to purchase some necessities. If it’s not too much trouble.” The imp hesitated but nodded.

“I need to have the car back by 5 but we can go as many places as you like, sir.”

Stolas, please call me Stolas. And you are?”

“Chauncey, sir, Stolas,” the imp corrected.

“Chauncey, lovely. Um, I need to find a clothing shop? I fear what I have on will not suit. Some place… inexpensive? Very inexpensive.”

He had taken Via to the mall many times, but had never paid attention to the prices or offerings for himself. He very much doubted anything on offer at Stylish Occult would draw less attention to himself. His own day to day wardrobe had always been tailored, suited to him personally. There was also the people to consider, the mall was always packed and the less demons he saw the better.

“Somewhere a bit discreet as well, if possible,” he added.

The imp looked at him in the mirror for a moment, and the look of sympathy was welcome but stinging. The void ached. Chauncey returned his attention to the road.

“There’s a Hellmart at the edge of Imp City but it’s usually pretty busy. Or we could try some thrift stores, they’re usually cheap but I don’t know that they’ll have your size sir,” the imp sounded apologetic. “We probably need to head to PC, the sinners have a bigger variety of sizes.”

“I defer to your good judgment Chauncey, we can try a few of these “Thrift Stores” and see if we can find something not too too dear that I can fit into. I think this could be quite an adventure!” Stolas forced a smile. He had to put a brave face in now. It wouldn’t do to fall to pieces. There was too much to be done.

*********

Chauncey was turning out to be a wonderful helpmate and companion. He had been right about the offerings at the thrift stores in Imp City, everything was far too small and Stolas encountered wide eyed looks wherever they went. Thankfully the stares seemed to be more about his size and current dress than any real recognition. At least, no one seemed inclined to film him or ask him any questions yet, though he had caught at least one demon discreetly snapping his picture. Most of the beings they encountered merely looked startled at his presence and shuffled quickly away. It was nerve wracking, and rather lonely, and he still felt sore and off balance, but he’d get used to all of that soon enough he figured. Hoped.

His first introduction to the concept of a thrift store, however, was delightful. It was not, as he had assumed, a chain of shops called “Thrift Stores” offering cheap clothing but charming disparate little shops dotted here and there and owned by various entities. Some of them took in donated items to be sold for charity, others sold things for others on something called “consignment”, others specialized in antiques and vintage clothes, Chauncey had explained. It was a fascinating system that Stolas tucked away for later. He could probably sell his regalia for a tidy sum once he’d procured some more appropriate options.

Each shop they visited was a sensory delight, shelves crammed full of odds and ends with no real sense of order other than broad categories: clothes, knickknacks, kitchen, children’s. Crystal decanters occupied the same shelf as plastic novelty cups, and there were so many cute imp figurines everywhere they went. Chauncey explained they were collectors items from a series called Hellish Memories, and featured huge eyed imp children in twee clothing doing various jobs. He was tempted to buy one that reminded him of Blitzø before he remembered that it would be the height of desperation to buy a figurine that reminded you of a former flame, and that he did not have the money to spare for trinkets, even adorable ones with little cowboy hats and tiny spurs.

His mood was dimmed further by the buzzing of his phone, Asmodeus with his little chicken emoji popping up on the screen. Swallowing his disappointment that it was not Octavia, or another he was trying not to think about, Stolas sent the call voicemail and turned the Hellphone off completely, he needed to save the battery anyway. He turned a bright smile to Chauncey.

“Where are we off to next, my good man?”

After their third strike out in an hour Chauncey suggested they head instead to Pentagram City, not only were there far more options for size but Stolas would have better luck finding cheap lodging and employment there. Especially this close to an Extermination. Property values in PC stayed pretty low, Chauncey went on, warming to the topic. When a percentage of your tenants just might not return, and arrived to the ring with next to nothing, you had to keep things affordable. Being a driver for the wealthy and powerful he overheard many helpful things, and the relative uselessness of Pentagram City for real estate development was an oft complained about topic, apparently. It stood to reason there would be regular job availability as well and no questions about identification as Sinners rarely had it.

Stolas had spent a lot of time in Pentagram City, for business with the various Overlords mostly, and while he was much more comfortable nearer to the familiar territory of I.M.P. he reluctantly agreed it made the most sense. It was easier to blend in among the Sinners, and it was only to the good that he distance himself from the business and the imp who ran it. His chest ached and he rubbed it absently as they entered the boundary for the city.

Chauncey’s excellent advice proved true the first shop they visited. He found several pairs of trousers that were more or less his size, several sets of shorts that were not but that he liked the look of his legs in anyway, and an assortment of tops ranging from mid quality business casual to soft cozy sweaters, and a stretched out crop top that said “Hot as Hell” he added in a fit of whimsy, all smelling faintly of moth balls and brimstone. It reminded him a bit of Valentino and he made a note to find out how to wash clothing as soon as possible.

He was overcome with joy at the total, the entire haul was less than high tea for one at Richest Cup. Chauncey had smiled indulgently as he tried everything on, looking only slightly uncomfortable when he modeled the shorts, and offered to take him to a grocers for the next round of purchases. It was rather like a shopping day with Via, always new and interesting things to peruse and look at. He wondered what his daughter would think of the crop top and then slammed the lid down on that musing. He would call her later.

Stolas had never shopped for food for himself before, things just sort of appeared in the kitchen and if he wanted something particular he could order in for it from the BeeEats app.

The grocers was no less fascinating than the thrift shop had been. Each aisle had a rainbow of different products, some geared towards specific species or tastes, and he delighted over a section that was for avian demons specifically.

It was difficult not to fill the charming little basket with all sorts of treats and indulgences: chocolate dipped voles, squirrel bites, honey glazed chipmunk cheeks. More than once he had returned an item based on Chauncey’s wince over the price tag until he had a basket full of reasonably priced and mostly nutritious food that would keep well no matter where he ended up.

He also found a nice smelling preening oil that was an eighth the cost of his usual brand, and some inexpensive calcium grinding stones to keep his beak in order. He added to the pile a charger for his phone and a bright purple duffel bag for storage of all his purchases. The retail therapy was doing wonders for his mood, each little purchase lighting him up and making him feel a bit more prepared and capable. His phone felt like a hot coal in his pocket, and he itched to check it, but doing so would invite reality back in and he wasn’t ready for that yet.

“Only about half an hour left sir,” Chauncey said apologetically, “traffic is going to be Heavenish at this time of day and I have to get the car back.”

“I quite understand. Thank you for everything today Chauncey, dear,” Stolas shifted his bags to take his hand in his own. “You have helped me immeasurably. I am only sad I can’t return the favor. Or even offer a generous tip,” Stolas blushed. He had never not tipped a day in his life and it was humbling to admit he could not now. Every cent was precious in this new life.

“I could perhaps buy us a meal? To show my gratitude?” Chauncey shook his head.

“All part of the service Mr. Stolas,” he smiled up at him and Stolas’s mood dimmed a little further. Service. He needed to remember that. Sometimes people were kind because they had to be, and he ought not read any further into it than that. It was a bad habit he knew he needed to overcome. He had so enjoyed their time together however, and he owed Chauncey a great deal but that was not friendship. It may be something he was learning late in life, and rather harshly, but he was learning.

“Well,” he said, locking that thought far away, “When I am back on my feet I do hope you’ll indulge me in treating you.” The imp blushed again and nodded, opening the door to the car for him.

Their final stop for the day was a boarding house Stolas would more or less be calling home for the time being. It was a derelict building in one of the points of the Pentagram, right at the edge of one of the border districts that was split between Overlords. It was close enough to the city proper that he had options for employment but not so close he’d have to deal with any of his former business associates or worry about too much Extermination Day ruckus.

It was a hodgepodge of a structure, and seemed to sag straight down the middle from damp as if a great beast had sat on it at one point in its long and storied life. Here and there were signs of haphazard repairs, wooden boards salvaged from other less fortunate constructions, tinfoil and cardboard placeholders in some of the window panes, large pieces of rusting tin nailed to the roof over rotting shingles. Stolas shuddered at the thought of sleeping in such a place, though he had no doubt there was a wealth of vermin he could use to supplement his grocery expenditures within the walls.

The sign on the front said only “Rooms to Rent, Ask Moira” with no other name for the establishment. It was more discreet than one of the motels, Chauncey had mentioned, and required no identification, merely cash up front and regular weekly payments. A former client of his had used the place and had no trouble.

Stolas thanked the man again for all his help, pressing his card into his hands and wincing only slightly at the title it still bore in the gold embossed letters of a, if not happier, than certainly a more well to do, time.

“Call me any time you’d like to get that meal,” Stolas said. “You have been an absolute treasure.”

The imp had blushed again, pocketed the card, bowed and driven away with an awkward little wave, leaving Stolas clutching his purple duffel bag and staring apprehensively at the ghoulish building before him.

He sucked in a deep breath and went up the creaking, wobbly steps, inside to find Moira

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