#baalphegor dnd

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 10

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Raphael is not very happy about the new and improved House of Hope. Karlach is not terribly excited about Raphael's continued existence either. Durge is still projecting like a cinema. This is fine. ***

“What the fuck do you mean, Raphael is here??”

“In the foyer--”

“If he so much looks at Hope, I’ll--”

“They’re keeping him there, don’t worry! Halsin got him entangled in vines the second he began yelling about the decor--”

“Why is the fucker alive and why is he with you? What’s going on? Oh gods, you didn’t pledge your soul to a devil again, did you?” Karlach groaned and grasped Wyll by the shoulders, so frantic she didn’t even seem to realize she’d pulled him off his feet to look him in the eye. “Tell me you didn’t give him your soul!”

“No, no! I couldn’t even if I wanted to, Mizora still holds it--”

“Good! Shit, no, still not good, but-- why is he here?”

“We sort of…” Wyll bit his tongue before he could say ‘made a deal’. It wasn’t too far off, but it was bound to make Karlach frantic. “We sort of came to an understanding--”

“An understanding!”

“I realize it sounds bad, but--”

“It sounds bad because it is bad! All the understanding you got to have about devils is that they’re bad news!”

“I am aware. More than most, really. But--”

“But it’s not all of him there, is it?” Hope spoke suddenly, causing Wyll to trail off and Karlach to look over, still holding Wyll a good couple of inches above the floor. Hope had seemed startled when Wyll had mentioned Raphael’s presence but not, he realized now, scared at all. “There is no devil in the House now. I’d feel it.”

Karlach blinked. “... All right, I’ll bite. What does that mean? Is he here, or is he not?”

Hope looked up, and joined her hands. “He is,” she said, and separated her hands, holding them apart. “And he is not. Not all of him. There is no devil here.”

“... Right,” Karlach said, in the tone of someone who had no clue what in the literal Hells was going on. She turned back to give Wyll a long, very clear look. 

Please tell me you know what’s going on.

“Raphael has ran afoul of Mephistopheles--”

“Yeah, Durge saw it in the ball, I remember. I thought daddy dearest had eaten him?”

“Well, he-- tried. But to make a long story short, his soul was split in two halves. One remained in Cania, and the other found its way to the Material Plane. As things stand now, he’s human. Well, the half of him we’ve got is, at least.”

“... So if I split his skull, he’ll stay down?”

“It would be best if you didn’t split his skull, though."

"Not hearing a no."

"No, Karlach. He knows where we can find something that can kill Zariel.”

“He claims he knows where we can find something--”

“If he’s lying, I’ll make sure to look the other way,” Wyll cut her off, and smiled. “In case your axe slips.”

Karlach seemed to consider it for a moment, then she smiled. No, she grinned. “That sounds good, really. Oh I can’t wait for the moment my axe slips. What does he even want in exchange? He’s got to want something if he’s to help us kill Zariel.”

“... The other half of his soul.”

This time, Karlach laughed - long and loud, putting Wyll down so that she could wrap her hands around her stomach and then laugh some more. “HAH! Good one! Fucker must be desperate if he thinks we’re gonna face off Mephistopheles to get half of his rotten soul back.” One last laugh, and she wiped a tear of mirth from her eye. “Ah, I can’t wait to see his face when he tries to hold us to it and we tell him to fuck off.”

The others may be of a different mind about that - specifically, Durge may be of a different mind - but there was no reason to bring it up now. They’d cross that bridge when they got to it, Wyll decided. “First thing, we need to focus on taking Zariel down.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll enjoy that too.” Karlach grinned, reaching back to stroke the handle of her greataxe. “I’ve been so bored here, you have no idea. No offense, Hope! It’s really nice here now that you run the place. And I’m grateful you let me stay. It’s just-- well-- uneventful,” she added. Hope made a vague gesture with her hand. 

“None taken. I like uneventful, as it turns out. I hope things stay uneventful here for a very very very veeeery long time. But I have a favor to ask you. Two, really.”

“Anything!”

“Please don’t split Raphael’s skull with an axe.”

Karlach blinked, the smile fading like she’d been told that her birthday was canceled. “But--”

“I still don’t know where my sister’s soul is and, technically, he owns it. So the information I need to get her back is in that skull and I don’t think it will drop out as a helpful little note if you split it. I mean, it would be really nice if it did, but I don’t think it would happen. It would be really really great if you could leave it in one piece at least until you can get some answers about Korrilla’s soul. And where it may be. And how to get it back. You know?”

“I…” Karlach worked her jaw a moment, and finally sighed. “Fine, no splitting his skull until I get him to fess up about that. Only because it’s you asking, Hope.”

A bright smile. “Thank you! Oh, and the other favor-- you know that box? The sad one?”

Wyll had no idea what box she was talking about, but Karlach clearly did. She nodded. “Yes, the one you wouldn’t touch? With the lyre and the pendant and all that?”

“Yes, that. Would you give it to Raphael?”

“Why? I get it that you’re nice, Hope, but everything here is yours now.”

“Not that. It’s his sadness. I don’t want to bear it for him, so he should have it back.” A shrug. “Maybe he can make something of it. Maybe it will just make him sad. He kind of deserves that anyway.”

“... I have no idea what all the rest means, but you’ll hear no objections from me on that point,” Karlach said. “Wait just a second, Wyll. I’ll pick the box up, say bye to the souls while I’m at it, and be right back.”

“Sure.” Wyll fell quiet a moment, watching her leave - what a relief to find her safe and well, even if bored half out of her mind! - then turned to Hope. “Thank you again, for keeping her safe. And-- sorry we took Raphael under this roof again. We know you’ve had enough of him for the next several lifetimes.”

A shrug, a wave of her hand. “I’ve had enough of him for the rest of eternity and a bit beyond that, but if I don’t have to see him, it’s fine.” A pause, then, “I’m sorry I can’t come to help, though. I thought I should, but the souls here kinda need me, and with Raphael involved--”

“You have done more than enough, Hope. We’d ask nothing more of you.”

“Will you tell the others I said hi? And that I’m sorry I’m not coming over to say hi myself. You know. Half of Raphael is still too much Raphael for me.” A pause. “Will you do it? Get that other half of him back?”

Ah. Wyll cleared his throat. “Well… I suppose it would be best if we didn’t, don’t you?”

“Ah, yes. Possibly. Maybe. Likely, really. He’d be dangerous again.” A pause, a frown. “... But if it helps get my sister back, you know, I wouldn’t oppose it. I trust your judgment. I just want her back.”

She rejected you at every turn, Wyll almost said, but what right did he have to say as much? He'd sold his soul twice over for the father who cast him out, and would do it a third time if he had to. In the end, he just nodded. “I understand,” he said. He did, he really did. 

He never had a sister, but if he ever did, he knew he’d stop at nothing to have her back, too. *** “... You know, I could use that organ now. To compose music. As it would be my task as the High Cantor and all that.”

“Five more minutes and I’ll give it back.”

“Ah-ha. Say it in Infernal, little duke. It’s about time you practiced that, too.”

“Ugh.” Raphael wrinkled his nose, pulling his hands away from the keys, and spoke again, more slowly. The words did not come as naturally, didn’t slide off his tongue quite as easily, but they did come. And in time, Antilia had told him, they would come effortlessly. “I’d like to practice a little longer, if you please, Lady Antilia.”

That brief, oddly musical laugh again. “Since you asked so politely, I shall allow it while Ionger while I look over my other compositions. Ten minutes, not one more.”

“Thank you, Lady Antilia.”

“Less talking and more playing. If you’re to bar me from using my own organ, you may as well make it worth it,” she said. In the end, however, she let him practice for more than ten minutes. Lady Antilia always allowed for more time, as long as he answered her questions correctly and in Infernal, even if a lot of them were not worded like questions. “Phlegethos,” was all she said now, not lifting her eyes from the music sheets.

“The fourth layer of the Nine Hells of Baator,” Raphael replied, without missing a beat. His fingers did not lose track of the music, either, and he kept playing even as he spoke. “Ruled jointly by Lord Belial and Lady Fierna.”

“Belial’s task?”

“Lord Belial supervises the Diabolical Court on behalf of Asmodeus. Any and all devils can be promoted and demoted there, or sent to the Pit of Flames for more serious crimes.”

“And what makes the Pit of Flames so terrible? Are we not immune to fire?”

That was such an easy question, Raphael may have almost found it insulting if not for the fact it gave him more time at the organ. He grinned, fingers still flying over the keys. The music was somewhat muted now, through some mechanism or maybe magic, to allow them to hear each other over it. “To fire, yes. But that in the Pit is Hellfire, created by Lord Mephistopheles, unbearable even for the mightiest baatezu.”

A chuckle. “Correct. And who--”

“I used it, once.”

“... What?”

Raphael turned, still grinning. He didn’t have many impressive things to talk about, compared to the intricate histories of the Hells Lady Antilia could tell him all about, so it was nice to have at least something to share now. “Hellfire. This one time we were attacked by perytons while traveling through the Starspire Mountains, and--”

“You used Hellfire? Back in the Material Plane?” Lady Antilia’s voice was suddenly sharp, her expression tense. It made the smile fade from Raphael’s face, and he got a wrong note that rang out like a graceless clang before he pulled his hands away from the organ keys. He found himself stammering, a sudden knot somewhere in his stomach. Was something wrong? Had he done something wrong? Raphael stumbled over his reply, wishing he could take that statement back. “I mean-- I think? It burned white-hot, the peryton pretty much melted and died in moments. And one of the guides said it looked like hellfire to hi--”

Lady Antilia stood, and walked up to Raphael’s seat. She crouched, grasping his shoulders  hard, and looked at him in the eye. Something about the intensity of her gaze made Raphael want to shift back, but her grip was too firm. “Who trained you to use it?”

“No one. I’d never even seen--”

“You were attacked, and you summoned hellfire entirely out of instinct?”

“I-- I think it was hellfire, but only once. I couldn’t do it again. I only summoned normal fire when I tried. Am I--”

Am I in trouble, he wanted to ask, but never got to. The heavy door leading to the music room opened, and a voice rang out. It was a woman’s voice, almost as musical as Antilia, but lower, all soft notes.

“Ah, here you are. It seems I missed the latest arrival.  My apologies for failing to welcome you until now, little one. I have only now returned to Cania.”

Both Raphael and Antilia turned to the source of the voice. Raphael had thought Antilia beautiful, and she was, but the devil standing in the doorway, dressed in fine silks of black and deep reds, could eclipse even her the way the sun hides distant stars. She was small - shorter than him, it seemed to Raphael - with long thin horns curling in a corkscrew shape and sharp, striking features. Her skin was the color of cinnamon, her eyes red as her hair, which fell over her shoulders in loose curls.

Her smile was warm as she walked in; still, Antilia quickly pulled away and bowed. “Lady Baalphegor,” she greeted her, and Raphael’s mouth went dry. 

He knew that name: Duchess Baalphegor, his father’s Consort. It seemed some sort of curse, really, that he’d meet each of his parents’ consort while knowing his actual parent through tales only. He’d failed to make a good first impression once before, squalling next to his dying mother; he surely hoped he could make a better impression now. 

So he stood, quickly, and bowed deep, following Antilia’s example. “Lady Baalphegor--”

“Oh, no need for that. Let me look at you, little one.” A warm hand under his chin, lifting up his face. He met her gaze to see her smiling. If she was in any way put off by the fact her consort had sired children with mortals, it did not show. “A handsome young devil if I’ve ever seen one. You look quite a lot like your father.”

The words were spoken kindly, but they opened up a pit somewhere in Raphel’s chest, heart skipping a beat. In the back of his mind he saw Rahirek Starspire gazing at his human form, truly looking at him for the first time. You look like your mother, he’d said.

He knew from the portraits that his devil form looked like his father, or at least one of the faces he wore - but hearing it from his Consort was… different. “I do?” he found himself asking, half bashful and half hopeful. She blinked. 

“Surely, you noticed-- oh.” A pause, a long-suffering sigh. “Lady Antilia, please do not tell me Lord Mephistopheles has yet to meet his son. This boy has been here for weeks, I am told.”

Antilia nodded, her gaze still held respectfully low. “Lord Mephistopheles has been very busy in your absence, it seems,” she said. “Hardly anyone has seen him.”

“Those silly experiments of his again.” Another sigh, while Antilia stiffened in a way that very much suggested no one else in all of Cania, or in all of the Hells save perhaps Asmodeus, would ever refer to Mephistopheles’ work with arcane magic as silly experiments. Ignoring her clear discomfort, Duchess Baalphegor looked back at Raphael. A thumb brushed over his cheek. “What is your name, little one?”

“Lord Mephistopheles named me Raphael, Lady Baalphegor.”

A huff. “If he named you, he should be bothered to properly meet you. Do not worry, Raphael, I’ll ensure that he does soon.” A pause, another smile before she let go of his face. “Your Infernal is excellent, for someone who’s been here so short a time.”

Raphael’s face grew warm, and he was once again thankful blushing did not show on his skin. “Thank you, Duchess.”

A brief, soft laugh. “I’ll take no thanks for stating a fact. I see you’re escaping the lessons with your preceptor to learn music from the High Cantor herself.”

“I have been ensuring he knows what he ought to know about Cania and Baator,” Antilia said, tilting her head. “He’s a bright pupil in both aspects.”

A chuckle. “Of course he is. I doubt a single soul in or outside the Hells could blame you for coming here, Raphael. I’d pick Lady Antilia over the preceptor myself. He is a uniquely unpleasant being.” Another smile, and she took a step back. “Ah, but I’ve interrupted a lesson. Do carry on - I am in need of rest from my travels. Expect your father to see you soon, child.”

“I-- thank you, Lady Baalphegor.”

“No need to thank me. Welcome home,” she replied, and that was it. A smile, a nod at Antilia and she was gone, closing the doors behind her. Raphael looked up, still reeling a little, to see the High Cantor let out a long breath. Something in her rigid posture seemed to relax, but her lips were still pulled in a tight line as she glanced down to meet his gaze. 

“... Until you are certain of your affinity with Hellfire,” she said, “do not speak of it. Not Lord Mephistopheles, not her - no one. And don’t ever tell them you used it entirely by accident.”

“I thought it was something all devils can--”

“You thought wrong,” she cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp. “Archedevils and very few others may hope to wield it. Go boasting about it, and you’ll be seen as too much a threat.”

Raphael frowned. “I wasn’t boasting, and-- I'm not planning to be a threat at all," he protested.

Antilia laughed. Only this time it didn’t sound like music anymore. "But you are, little duke," she said, tilting up his chin, a smile now playing on her lips. "Listen and listen well. You have mortal blood in you, as do I. But we are devils as much as anybody else here, and dangerous by virtue of our existence. As long as you live and breathe, you will be a threat to somebody. We all are. And we all must be. If you cease being a danger to anyone, little duke - if you make yourself harmless and toothless - that is the day you die. But if you show all your teeth, someone will take the chance and strike first. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Raphael thought back of the old story he had read when he was little, the scorpion tearing off its stinger to try and live like a beetle, and of what Lord Starspire had told him over the crackling fire in the hearth, looking at him across a lanceboard set-- You were too quick to get on the defense. Retreat begets regret. Remember that. -- and suddenly he knew what his existence would be, what it had to be, in the Nine Hells of Baator. An endless game with the highest stakes, with every other devil - be it pit fiends or gelugons, his own sire or his own siblings, everyone - a potential opponent. Every possible move, his own or others', would have to be calculated, predicted, accounted for in advance. All of Cania was a lanceboard with infinite pieces, each of them wearing a smile and hiding a dagger under their robes.

“Raphael. Do you understand ?"

He swallowed, and nodded. "I have to be a threat. But not so much a threat that my destruction becomes someone's priority."

Antilia stared a moment, and chuckled. "You learn fast. You may live well, after all, as long as you trust no one.”

“Not even you?” Raphael hadn't meant to sound like he wanted to, but the pleading note made it in his voice all the same. There he was, in his father's court, surrounded by others of his kind, learning music from the High Cantor, welcomed by Lord Mephistopheles’ own consort… and yet he had never felt so alone before. “I thought-- I hoped--”

For a moment, her smile dampened. "You ought to forget all about that hope, for your own good,” she murmured. “And you will.”

“I don’t want--”

“What you want is very human of you, little duke. But do not worry. In time you'll grow out of it, or you won't grow much older. Until then, don't let it show again - to anyone. Not even me," she added, and let go of his face. "You’d do well to mistrust me, and most of all mistrust anyone who tells you that you may trust them." She did not name Baalphegor, but she may as well have. “... Now go. I’ll be needing the organ,” she added with a sharp nod to the door.

And that, love, was that. *** “Release me at once!”

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s for your own good. Hope would absolutely destroy you as you are now. And we wouldn’t try too hard to stop her, either.”

Still struggling against the vines Halsin had cast the moment he’d started screaming and trying to storm in, damn near foaming at the mouth, Raphael didn’t seem to even register Astarion’s words. “What has she done to my--”

“ Her house now. I mean, really, if you wanted to claim ownership, you shouldn’t have named it House of Hope. I will concede, however, that the new decor is positively ghastly,” Astarion said, looking around. The flower beds and birds had to be some sort of illusion, surely, but the scattered art supplies and half-finished paintings looked very much real. 

None of them looked good - someone was trying to build some kind of statue out of broken pottery it seemed - but Astarion supposed everyone had a right to do whatever they wanted with relative, newfound freedom. Even when it meant questionable attempts at art therapy. 

The thought of turning Cazador’s castle into some sort of resort for his victims had never so much crossed his mind, but to be fair he could leave that place, while the souls there… well, the only thing outside the House of Hope was Avernus, so it made sense to stay there with the new management and make the best of it.

Unless you were Raphael, who both wanted to storm in and very much looked like he’d gladly take on Zariel and Mephistopheles at once with his bare hands rather than having to keep looking at Hope’s redecorations. All things considered, they were probably doing him a favor by not letting him see anything past the foyer. Astarion had once joked he’d probably have a stroke if he saw the changes Hope made to the place, but now it didn’t seem that far-fetched anymore.

Unaware of Astarion’s thoughts, Raphael made another useless attempt to break free from the vines and snarled. “I’m going to kill her. I’ll skin her alive and--”

“No, you won’t,” Durge replied, almost conversationally, just as Halsin lifted a hand. Yet another vine emerged from the ground, wrapping itself around Raphael’s neck, tight enough to make him trail off, the growl turning into a startled intake of breath.

“I suggest you pick your battles,” Halsin said, voice grave. He didn’t threaten often but when he meant business, he did mean business. “And I highly suggest you do not pick this one.”

Raphael’s mouth snapped shut, but only for a moment. He glowered at Halsin before turning to Durge. “This is my House of--”

“Not anymore it’s not, fucker.”

“Karlach!”

Raphael and his whining were forgotten very quickly when Karlach burst in and began pulling each of them into a near spine-breaking hug. It had been only weeks since they’d last seen each other, but it clearly had felt like a lot more to her. Honestly, Astarion thought, they were lucky she hadn’t grown bored enough to decide she’d rather brave Avernus on her own.

“Oh I’m so sorry for dragging you back to the Hells, but I’m so happy to see you guys.”

“You didn’t drag us anywhere, Karlach. We were happy to help.”

“I was so fucking bored, Durge, you have no idea.”

“I can imagine. Coming here took a while more than we thought it would--”

“Doesn’t matter though! You’re here and we’re ready to kick Zariel’s ass!”

Astarion cleared his throat. “Almost ready, I’d say. There just is a sword we’re supposed to pick up, but luckily,” he added, gesturing to Raphael, “we have a very convenient guide.”

Still tangled in Halsin’s vines, the very convenient guide glared at Karlach. “I’ve seen dogs greet long-lost masters with more dignity,” he snapped. “If you’re quite done with the moving reunion--”

“Ah, I almost forgot. Hey, Raphael! Catch!”

“Wha--”

A box Karlach had been keeping under her arm sailed through the air and hit Raphael’s forehead with remarkable aim. It got a rather undignified yelp out of him, which turned into a growl when the same vines that had kept him from catching anything kept him from touching his head. “Agh! What manner of joke is--” he snapped, only to trail off when his gaze fell on the box. He stared at it as though he couldn’t understand what he was even looking at. 

Karlach shrugged. “A little something that Hope wanted you to have. She said it’s yours. Consider it a goodbye gift, cause she’s never going to have to see your mug in this place. Now, ready to head out? Cause Zariel isn’t gonna off herself…”

They did leave, and it didn’t escape Astarion how, the vines removed, Raphael did pick up the box and stared at it for several moments, eyes blank, saying nothing. *** Dalah was almost out of the vault, her duty for the day done, when she felt those eyes on her again. No guards were in sight, but she was still wary to risk being spotted together, as they would soon enough realize one of their own was missing and go looking for him. So she turned, and gestured for Israfel to leave.

But he did not leave. He approached her in a curious gait, as though trying to make himself non-threatening if that was even possible, his flames burning low. He came to pause so close to her the heat almost singed her hair anyway, and made those chirring noises again. Dalah hesitated, suddenly reminded of what she’d been saying before they were interrupted.

You were tiny, then.

She remembered it as though it had only just happened, even after so many centuries. She remembered the pain and blood, the smell of the scorched mattress and her own seared flesh; the pain had been so unbearable she’d thought a fully grown devil would burst from her, scattering her entrails across the room like those of a gutted deer. 

Instead, it had been small. The worst of it had passed and she found herself sharing the mattress with the squirming, wailing thing she had brought forth entirely on her own after ordering the servants away with an excuse. He was covered in her blood, but it was barely noticeable on crimson skin. A male, she’d noted in the same detached fashion she’d noted the sharp nubs on his head that would grow into horns, the crinkled membrane of tiny wings, and the tail.

A devil. The price she’d paid so her husband may live, her death sentence. He had killed her for his first breath and yet he used that breath to wail and wail and wail like he was the one bleeding out, small limbs flailing, half tangled in the umbilical cord and his own tail. 

Part of her had expected his sire to appear in a cloud of sulfur and take his accursed offspring to the Hells with him, but no such thing happened. The sky outside began to darken, she kept bleeding, and the child kept screaming. What right did a devil have, she’d thought, to seek comfort the way a baby would? Yet she had wanted those cries to stop. 

She’d reached out, so weak she could barely pull the squalling creature up against her chest, in the crook of her arm. “Demanding, aren’t we?” she’d heard herself murmuring, her own voice barely audible. She felt cold all over and yet she must have been warmer than the rest of the room, because the child grew a little quieter now, pressed against her. A tiny, bloodied hand had curled around her finger. Even this small, he had claws. 

Almost delirious with blood loss, not knowing that her husband was just now crossing the threshold of their home bearing gifts for her that he would soon place on her grave, Dalah had smiled. Her head rolled against her shoulder, dark hair spilling on the newborn’s brow. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there was the first lullaby she’d ever learned. Half a rhyme, half a warning she’d failed to heed in the end. 

“Then down came the claw,” she’d whispered. “And that…”

“... And that, love, was that.”

Her words sounded even fainter now, amidst the icy walls of Mephistopheles’ vault, than they had on her deathbed that day. Still, Israfel heard, and made a high-pitched, metallic sound in response. Not the same shriek he’d let out when she’d uttered his name last, but a sound of distress nonetheless. Dalah swallowed. 

It was on me, all of it. I turned to a devil, offered him the souls of every servant in the  household for my husband’s life. I’d have bought half a city’s worth of slaves to sell him, if he asked. Even if Rahirek would have hated me for it, it wouldn’t have mattered as long as he lived. But all Mephistopheles wanted that day was my womb for his spawn and I saw it too late. He got his due and I got mine. Only one innocent party in all of it, and here he stands. 

“Do you know?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know who I am now?”

For a few moments, there was no response. He just looked at her, that thing that was her son or at least part of him. Then he made a low clacking noise and lowered himself once more, and that clawed hand once again left long deliberate marks in the ice, like-- like--

Down came the claw. 

Dalah swallowed, feeling as though something was stuck in her throat. She could almost smell it again for a moment, so many mortal lifetimes later - the scorched mattress and seared flesh, and her own blood. 

“How?” she whispered. “How do you-- you were only just born, you cannot remember--”

There were steps, and her voice trailed off. One last look, and she turned away to hurry back before they had another incident on their hands they may not be able to cover up, steps as quick as her pounding heart.

It did not matter either way, she told herself. Any questions she may have asked would go unanswered: Israfel could not answer her, words beyond him. She’d had her chance to speak to him, all of him, when he’d first been brought to Mephistar and in all the years he'd lived at court. Several occasions, and she’d taken none. Each time she tried to look upon him, she’d turned away. 

Her doom, her folly, a price to pay - never her child. There had been no joy in his birth, much less in his conception; she could only remember the agony of it all, the icy touch of his sire on her skin.

This, too, I claim as mine.

Mephistopheles’ son, one of many. He’d claimed him as he’d claimed her womb and her soul, yet none of it had meant a thing for him. Something to claim and cast aside, like the many artifacts in his vaults, experiments started and interrupted and never looked at again.

But Rahirek had kept him, she was sure of it now. He raised him, looked after him, and even now this mutilated half of him still remembered the star-and-spire sigil of a long-extinct family. She did not recall her husband’s face as well as she wished she could, time and grief eroding her memories like water on stone, but she remembered he was kind. She remembered he had loved her. Of course he’d kept the boy, because he was hers. 

Mephistopheles had claimed so much - he’d been claiming and claiming and claiming for time immemorial - and she’d let him take what he would because there was no other choice she could make, then. She stood no chance to change things… until Lady Baalphegor gave her a ring, and told her to save her son.

Dalah did not know what Baalphegor’s plans for him were; she could only hope it would not end with his death. At the very least, she hoped - what an odd thing, hope, after all those centuries - she may meet the rest of him, perhaps see him whole one more time. Maybe they could talk, then, if only once. She could make it be enough.

This, at least, I claim as mine. *** “Here, this is yours. Lord Sunspear--”

“Starspire.”

“Whatever it may be. The mortal humbly requested this was delivered in your hands personally when we came to collect your possessions.”

Chamberlain Barbas was none too pleased to have been asked to run such an errand for a half-fiend spawn of Mephistopheles, and he had no qualms letting it show. Surrounded by piles of his old possessions plucked from the Material Realm - books, mostly, left carelessly in piles across the floor - Raphael bit back an insult and took the box. 

A wooden box, with the spear-and-star sigil on it. Unlike everything else that had been delivered to his room, he couldn’t recall seeing it before.

“I trust you won’t be needing anything else, little duke,” Barbas said, voice dripping with sarcasm at the title, and Raphael found he couldn’t muster the will to look back at him. He just shook his head, barely listening to the footsteps and the sound of a door closing, leaving him alone again amidst relics of a past life he could never go back to. 

Of all his things, he’d asked that box to be handed to him personally. Raphael swallowed, sat on the ground against the wall, and opened it.

Most things inside, he recognized. There was his mother’s lyre, the one he’d learned to play with, all black wood and ivory details; a book titled Rhymes from the Land of the Purple Dragon which too had belonged to her, and which he'd read cover to cover more than once. The black king from the lanceboard set back home, too, he recognized. There were two things in there he had never seen before: a pendant - a locket, decorated with the star-and-spire motif, and a letter. 

He reached in to pick up the locket, but then his gaze fell on the letter, penned in the familiar handwriting of Lord Starspire, and on the very first words on the upper left corner.

Dearest Israfel.

And it was all wrong, because there was no Israfel and there would never be again. His sire had named him Raphael and his will was unstoppable as the tide. He was to be Raphael, and Lady Antilia had made very clear who that would be. A fiend and a threat, mistrustful and untrustworthy and no one’s dearest ever again.

Raphael’s vision blurred, and he dropped the unopened locket back in the box as though it burned him. He slammed the box shut and pushed it away from him, to slide across the floor. He held his knees against his chest and closed his eyes, trying to make himself small.

If they suspect they have something on you, you must not turn that suspicion into certainty. That’s inviting them to strike. Do you understand?

If you make yourself harmless and toothless - that is the day you die.

He’d understood then and he understood now, but tears still spilled and he pressed his face against his knees to muffle all noise, so that no one would hear. *** Camping in Avernus wasn’t all that different from camping in the Material Plane. As long as one ignored the bare rocky ground, the rivers of boiling magma, the sulfur forcing itself in the lungs with each breath, the unnatural flaming yet sunless sky, the screams and hisses and shrieks and clangs that rang out at all times in the distance, from fights and skirmishes somewhere out of sight. 

… All right, so camping in Avernus was very different from camping in the Material Plane, but they had found a cave that looked as close to safe as it could get, and could finally take turns resting before heading off again. There was also something to be said for the magma taking away the need of starting a fire to cook, really. Durge finished the last of their meal, and looked away from their companions to the only person who was not, at the moment, sitting down to eat. Raphael had taken the first turn to watch out for dangers at the mouth of the cave unprompted, but of course he was not looking outside at all.

On the floor, the wooden box was open, and he  held an open locket in his hand.

There was laughter over something that Wyll had said, but Durge’s attention was already elsewhere. They gave Astarion’s hand a brief squeeze, which he returned, and they stood to walk up to the cave entrance; Raphael did not look up from the portrait in the locket, or acknowledge them in any way as they sat by him. Durge chose to allow a few more moments of silence before they spoke.

“... The same woman we saw in the orb.”

“How very perceptive,” was the dry reply. 

“The same debtor who helped you escape, you said.”

“Are you here to ensure your short term memory at least is still working?” Raphael replied, but his voice was too distant for his words to carry any bite. He was running his thumb over the miniature, his brow furrowed. Durge smiled weakly. 

“Had you never seen her before?”

“No.”

“I can see the resemblance.”

This time the corners of Raphael’s lips seemed to curl upwards, faintly, if just for a moment. “I was told as much, a very long time ago. In this form, clearly. The other one is all Mephistopheles, I suppose.”

“Well, I’d say it’s better than nothing. There is no part of me that did not come from Bhaal.”

“Had Mephistopheles had the power or chance to carve a son from his own flesh, I doubt I’m what he’d have chosen.”

Durge laughed. “He’s slowly melting his own kingdom from the inside out. I’d hesitate to consider him a paragon of wisdom. And besides, I didn’t work out too well as a Chosen of Bhaal either. Even his best laid plans did not account for an improvised lobotomy by a scorned sister.”

This time, the sound that left Raphael more closely resembled a chuckle, and he looked up from the portrait to glance at them. “I wouldn’t blame the lobotomy. If I were a betting man, I’d bet you always had a penchant to wreck any kind of plan.”

A fanged grin. “May very well be. We each have our talents,” Durge said, then, “Your mother was bold indeed, risking the ire of the Lord of the Eighth to save you.”

A scoff, and Raphael snapped the locked shut. “I am under no delusion it was her plan, or even what she wanted to do. She was following orders, that's all. Whose, I do not know.”

“I suppose you’ll have the chance to ask her once we get to Cania.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps she is already gone.” A shrug. “Debtors are of no consequence. Whoever used her as their chess piece may have sacrificed her immediately afterwards.”

“One can always hope for the best, no?”

“... Your other talent, it seems, is finding all the wrong words.”

“Yes, that’s usually why I let Astarion do the talking. Still pisses off a lot of people.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Raphael replied in a tone which suggested he could imagine it vividly. 

A brief pause followed. Durge glanced at the burning sky for a few moments, the House of Hope now merely a dot in the distance now, before they spoke. “... Halsin is keeping a bowl for you.”

“If the tiefling doesn’t put poison in it, I may consider the offer.”

“Not her style. She only needs-- well, can you blame her, given her history with your kind?”

A roll of his eyes, and he reached for something else in the box - a letter, it seemed. “She is perhaps three or four generations removed from being one of my kind,” Raphael pointed out. “Still, point taken. Now, you don’t need to stay and guard the entrance. I can do as much just fine.”

Durge may not always be the best at picking up social cues, but they could tell they were being dismissed. They nodded without a further word and went back to join the others inside the cave, leaving him to read the letter in peace.

*** [Back to Chapter 9]

[On to Chapter 11]

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[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 9

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Well it took only 50k words but here we are, time to go to Hell. It's probably not going to be smooth sailing from here is it. ***

For the first few weeks in the Hells - in Mephistar, he’d been told, the citadel from which his sire ruled Cania - Raphael read and read and read until he felt as though his eyes would fall out of their sockets. And then he’d read some more. 

Back-- home -- in the Material Plane, he’d thought he’d done a good job at learning all he could about the Nine Hells of Baator. Direct sources from witnesses who returned to tell the tale were admittedly rather scarce, for several good reasons that started and ended with ‘it’s the Hells’, but if any books or scrolls on the subject existed, he’d read them.

He’d learned of the nine layers and their differences, the many kinds of fiends that inhabited them, who ruled each layer. He’d learned of the Lord Below Asmodeus, of the Frozen Prince Levistus, the Iron Duke Dispater and the other Archdukes - including, of course, Mephistopheles. Second to Asmodeus alone, Lord of the Eighth, Archmage of the Hells, Lord of Hellfire.

Raphael had known his many monikers, but he had never in his wildest flights of fancy imagined the Cold Lord of Cania, of all devils, may be his sire.

As it soon turned out, there were many things he did not know. His knowledge of the Hells, which had seemed so impressive, was nothing compared to what he had yet to learn. He’d been shown to his rooms, with a window outside which he could see nothing but icy mountains; he’d been given books, and told to learn. Even what Infernal he had managed to learn back-- I want to go home -- in the Material Plane did not suffice. It was a variant used by lesser baatezu, he’d been informed with a scoff, and unsuited for Mephistopheles’ court. Of course, the variation that was required just so happened to be a great deal harder to master.

A preceptor, a tall and thin devil who looked as though a stiff gust of wind may knock him over and whose name sounded very much like the noise a cat would make while retching, came every day to check on his progress, and answer his questions. Of which Raphael had many, but one above all.

“When will my father see me?”

The answer would always come after a few moments of silence, and with a contemptuous look that told him clearly he should know better than to ask. “Lord Mephistopheles will call upon you when the time is right, little duke,” he said, using a moniker that, Raphael had quickly picked up, was meant more as mockery than as a true honorific. He wasn’t truly a duke of anything.

Still, after a few weeks, he’d tried to protest. “But he gave orders to bring me here. Surely he wants to see me?”

“It is not up to you to presume what Lord Mephistopheles wants. He will make his wishes clear when he--”

“But I’m his son!”

This time, there had been no attempt at feigning respect: his preceptor had just laughed, an unpleasant barking sound. “You’re but one of many whelps. The Lord of the Eighth shall see you when he wishes to. His right to collect what’s his doesn’t entitle you to his time. Now,” he’d added, pushing the open book towards him again before standing to leave, “do keep trying to make yourself worthy of his attention. Your pronunciation of Infernal is still woefully lacking.”

When he left, however, Raphael made no attempt to pick up the book. He huffed and pushed the door of the room open, to wander outside and distract himself from his own building frustration. Despite the howling wind and ice outside as far as the eye could see, the inside of Mephistar was heated, and the luxury all around made Fort Starspire look like a fisherman’s hut by comparison. The carpets, the tapestry, the statues - it was almost dizzying. 

And then there were the portraits. 

There were so many on nearly every wall, and many of them had the same subject - his father, Mephistopheles - but not two of them looked exactly the same because, he’d been informed, his sire could change his visage on a whim and that whim took him often enough. 

Still, there were two portrayals he saw the most. One showed a devil with huge ram-like black horns, the same crimson skin as his own, long black hair, and a pointed beard on his chin. He wore an unnerving smile as he seemed to stare back at him from the painting with dead, white eyes. Most times he was shown holding out a hand, palm up, white-hot flames dancing upon it. The Lord of Hellfire, the plaques beneath such paintings read. 

The other visage of Mephistopheles he saw portrayed the most was the one with blue skin, deep blue horns that looked more like jagged peaks, and pale blue eyes with blood red pupils. The long black hair was the same, but he lacked the beard. In these portraits, he sat upon a throne of ice. The Cold Lord, as the plaques declared.

Both portrayals were terrible and fascinating to behold, and Raphael often struggled to tear his gaze away. Especially from the former, where he’d often find himself looking for familiar features, carefully going over every small resemblance… but not that day. That day, he’d wandered among mostly empty corridors, ignoring both the mortals souls who fretted about - debtors, he’d been told, no need to address them unless you need their services - as well as the curious gazes of devils talking amongst themselves in that strangely melodious version of Infernal he so struggled with. He pretended not to notice the sneers from those who clearly knew who he was, too, even as he felt embarrassment and frustration turn to anger. 

It was all wrong. This was supposed to be his home. He was supposed to belong here, in a way he never did in the Material Plane, and yet it didn’t feel like it at all. 

Why take me here if he won’t see me? 

“It's time to join your kind,” Chamberlain Barbas has said, but Raphael had never felt more out of place, he who'd been out of place from his first breath.

At least they wanted me, in the end, he thought. Something burned in his eyes, and Raphael was quick to shut down that line of thought, because he’d open a window and throw himself off the glacier before he let anyone see him cry. 

Just as he began to think he should head back before he got lost and made a fool of himself, he suddenly heard it - a music he’d never heard before, played by some kind of instrument he’d never heard before in his life. It was a rich sound, now bright and now dark, the music trying to soar like a bird only to be shot down the next moment and flutter onto the ground, the sound now solemn and almost mourning - and then taking flight again, defiant and imperious. 

The closer he grew to the source the more he could feel the power of it, until he could think of nothing but finding out what it was that could make such a sound. Finally, he found the richly decorated double doors of the room the music was coming from, and pushed them open without thinking, just as the music faded.

The room inside was not small by any means, but much of it seemed to be occupied by the largest… something Raphael had ever seen. It looked something like a harpsichord, but much bigger and with pipes that took most of the wall. On the floor and on every surface of the room there were scattered music sheets, and on a seat in front of the instrument, hands still on the keys as the music began to die down, sat the player. Raphael opened his mouth to call out, but the door behind him closed loudly before he could, causing her to wince and turn.

Raphael did not know enough about his own kind to know exactly what they would consider beautiful, but he found she certainly was, with high cheekbones and delicate features, her hair all silver. Her skin was red as his own, her eyes pale green irises on black sclera, and her horns a paler red than the rest of her. She looked young, but… well, most devils did.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Raphael said, or at least he tried to, with very little success. Infernal was still clumsy on his tongue, the cadence all wrong, and he didn’t remember what Infernal for ‘interrupting’ even was. All that came out of his mouth was a cacophony of grating noises. He trailed off, biting his tongue, rather thankful he was no longer in his human form. Flushing did not show on crimson skin, at least. 

There was a startled pause, then a chuckle. The devil cocked her head to better look at him, moving the long braid of silvery hair from one shoulder to the other. Finally, she smiled in a way that didn’t seem to hold any of the scorn he’d seen up to that point. 

“Ah, but I have heard about you,” she said in his own language, with only the slightest hint of an accent, and Raphael breathed a little more easily. “The little duke from Tethyr. Don’t you have the most lovely set of horns,” she added, causing Raphael to blink. His horns were not something anybody had ever thought to compliment before; in the Material plane, the fewer people saw them, the better. He was again very, very glad his skin could not visibly flush.

“Thank you,” was all he could muster, feeling rather stupid. Someday not too far in the future he’d be able to let words slide off his tongue like silk on skin, no matter in what language, and the right words at that - but not just yet. Still, he had enough presence of mind to remember he should bow his head and introduce himself. “My name is Isr-- Raphael,” he said, bowing his head. If she noticed the slip, she said nothing of it. “Very much at your service.”

Another chuckle, oddly musical itself, and she turned fully on the seat, hands folded on her lap. She had long, elegant fingers. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Raphael. I am Lady Antilia, High Cantor of Mephistar. Although,” she added with a sigh, turning to glance at the instrument she’d been coaxing notes from. “I may not hold the position for long, if inspiration keeps escaping me.”

“I-- heard the music. I think it was beautiful.”

“Thank you, little duke.” For the first time, the moniker was not spoken like a mockery. “But I fear it is not quite enough. Writing hymns falls to me, and your lord father is a difficult master to please. You certainly have gathered that by now.”

I might have if he bothered to see me, Raphael thought, but he knew better than to voice his thoughts. Instead, he turned his attention to the instrument she had been playing when he let himself in. “What kind of instrument is this?”

“It is an organ. Are you not familiar with it?”

“I have never seen one. I can play the lyre and the lute - the harpsichord, too,” he added. He’d started to get a hang of the violin as well, but he had yet to learn how to get a decent sound out of it, so he didn’t mention that.

Lady Antilia chuckled. “Ah, another musician at long last. Well then, come sit with me,” she said, moving to the side and patting the seat. “May as well learn how to play another instrument, no? If you know how to play the harpsichord, then you’ll be able to play the organ as well in no time.”

He wasn’t supposed to accept: he wasn’t supposed to have left his rooms without finishing the day’s lesson, he knew. Still, he didn’t so much look back at the door: he nodded, thanked Lady Antilia profusely, and went to sit by her. For several hours he listened, mesmerized, as she coaxed music out of the instrument that seemed to fill the room, reverberating in his chest, the high notes and the daker, lower ones. He watched too, the movement of feet on pedals, and fingers running across the keys so effortlessly. Such a delicate touch, and such powerful music. 

He did not learn anymore Infernal that day, but he did learn to play the organ.

***

The irony of the two of them sharing a tent - the devil who used to be a man, and the man who once was a devil - was not at all lost on Wyll. 

It was a little crowded, although probably not as crowded as the other tent they had left, where he suspected Astarion may have ditched the bedroll entirely to lay down on Durge and Halsin. Still, it wasn’t too bad. Raphael was determined to ignore him - seeing his horns seemed to particularly displease him - and that was fine by Wyll, who was happy to settle on his side of the tent and ignore him right back.

Until the devil who was no longer a devil began tossing and turning and muttering in his sleep, of course. Most of the words he uttered were grating noises that he recognized as Infernal, even if he could not catch the words, much less their meaning. It was when the mumbling turned to a low, keening noise that Wyll entirely gave up on the idea of catching some sleep and sat up. 

“Raphael?”

No response, only a choking noise. Wyll frowned and reached over to grip his shoulder and shake him awake. He’d barely touched him when he muttered the first, clear sentence since whatever dream he was trapped in had begun. Or at least as clear as a sentence can be when choked in one’s sleep into the pillow.

“I want to go home.”

Wyll knew that giving him the House of Hope back was entirely out of the question; Karlach was going to have enough issues with their unexpected new companion without adding in the mere idea of putting Hope back in his grasp, which none of them was going to allow in the first place. And he certainly could not understand how anyone could miss the Hells - any layer of the Hells. But desperately wanting to go home… well, that was something he knew more about than he’d have liked.

And he’d dreamed of home too, of course, especially during that first year on his own. He’d missed the familiar sights, his friends, the father who’d so loved him and yet had turned away when he’d seen the mark of the Hells on him. In his dreams he could speak the truth of what happened, he could explain. In his dreams, Ulder Ravengard embraced him, thanked him for saving the city, and welcomed him back as his son. 

But then the dream always, always changed. The smell of sulfur replaced the familiar scents of the city, his father’s embrace turned into an unyielding grip, and Mizora laughed against his ear. Leathery wings enveloped him, blotting out all light, and he’d wake up with a scream in his chest and a lump in his throat. And sometimes, depending on how far he’d allowed himself to sink into the illusion that all was well again, with tears on his face.

Another muffled noise from the man who was a devil no longer snapped Wyll from his recollections. He sighed, waved goodbye to any chance to go back to sleep, and grasped Raphael’s shoulder.

“All right, you had enough sleep. Wake up.”

“Wha--?”

It took Raphael a few moments to regain the bearings of his surroundings. Wyll sat back and waited as he did, pretending not to notice the quick gesture with which he wiped his face on a sleeve, and grinned as soon as he turned to scowl at him. 

“What, pray tell, was that supposed to be about?” Raphael snapped, only to blink when Wyll held out a rapier for him to take. He raised an eyebrow. “If this is an invitation to skewer you with it, I shall be happy to oblige after you have held your half of the bargain and--”

“Get up. We’re having a sparring match.”

“... Surely you jest.”

“It always takes my mind off things.”

“I am beginning to question whether you have a mind to take off anything.”

“We’ll be heading into the city come morning, and then it’s straight to Avernus,” Wyll reminded him. They had arrived in Rivington in the middle of the night, and had agreed to get a few hours’ rest before heading to Devil’s Fee as soon as the sun rose and the shop opened; Astarion would wear a cape and hood for the remainder of the way, and they’d keep to the shade for good measure.

Wyll wished he could spare the time to visit his father, or see for himself how the rebuilding was going, but it would have to wait. Now the thing he was most eager to do was get back to the House of Hope and see Karlach again; he only hoped she hadn’t keeled over and died of sheer boredom in the time it had taken him to gather their available allies and come back.

Unaware of his thoughts, Raphael scoffed. “All the more reason to let me rest,” he bit, as though he was having any good rest at all. Wyll shrugged. 

“Surely, you want to be ready to fight your way through it with us, no? One more chance to practice is not something you should let pass by. Go on, take the rapier.”

“I can fight well enough without the aid of toothpicks . I’m a spellcaster. I have no need--”

“Well, this kind of toothpick is always useful. Even when you’ve run out of energy for spells, it still works to skewer the opponent. You should take at least a dagger. Even Durge carries a shortsword, and they’re the finest sorcerer I’ve ever met.”

“You haven’t met many sorcerers, I see.”

Wyll raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that downplaying the power of the one who bested you reflects well on you?”

“They hardly bested me alone,” Raphael snapped, but he did snatch the rapier and got out of the tent with a huff. “... Very well. If you insist on sparring, we shall.”

Wyll sighed, and followed him outside. There was probably little more than an hour left until dawn, so at least he got some rest. He could tell from Raphael’s grip on the rapier alone that the sparring would do little to help him fight - he was really much better off relying on spells - but it was a way to pass the time, he supposed. 

Plus, watching him fumble with a rapier while trying to look like he knew what he was doing was a lot more entertaining than listening to him crying out in his sleep.

***

Dalah knew that the-- thing was there before she even turned from the already perfectly clean artifact she was dusting. There was the noise of course, the crackling of flames and scraping of claws on ice, the oddly mechanical clicking and chirring noises it made as it stalked the hallways of Mephistopheles’ vault. 

Except that now it-- he was not not stalking the vault’s rooms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him standing by the doorway, staring at her with entirely too many eyes set deeply in the fused misshapen skulls. He followed no one in particular, as far as she could tell - he was there to guard, and guard he did - but whenever he came across her, he did come to a stop. Even if she hadn’t called that name again-- Israfel -- he still paused to look at her, as he was doing now.

He made no noise other than the fierce crackling of the flames that shrouded him, the occasional clicking and skittering of claws on the ice floor as he shifted, as though craning his neck to see what she was going - cleaning, what else? - without getting too close.

Dalah paused for a moment, looked around to make sure they were alone, and turned slowly. He was still a vision of horror, but knowing she could stop him by just speaking his name had made the terror fade. “You can’t talk at all, can you?”

The creature looked back, with those fixed and thoughtless eyes, and-- wait. Was it her, or - had that been a shake of its heads? Dalah stilled, staring, before she wet her lips with a nervous tongue and tried to address him again. “Can you understand me at all? Can you… do something, if you understand?”

A long pause, long enough to make her feel foolish, then the creature seemed to nod, chittering and clicking without so much moving his gaping maws. He crouched and a flaming, clawed hand raked across ice, leaving deep marks on the icy floor; the ice magically began to freeze again within moments, erasing them, but the message was clear. It was too slow a gesture, too deliberate, to be an accident. Do something, and he did. 

He understood. How much he understood was debatable - it may be very little - but despite Barbas’ boasts of having turned the devilish half of Raphael’s soul into a mindless, perfect machine made to think of nothing but maiming trespassers and thieves, it was obvious that something else was still there. Something intelligent. Something that could respond . 

Her work entirely forgotten, Dalah dared step closer. “... I’m sorry if hearing that name hurt,” she heard herself saying. “Was it… did Rahirek call you that? Did he keep you?”

A chirring noise, and the creature seemed to nod before he lowered a claw to the icy floor once again. This time, he used only one claw to crudely carve something in it. A line, then more intersecting lines at the very top, like… like…

The spire. The star. Her husband’s family crest - she had almost forgotten what she looked like, after so many centuries. But she recalled it now, on his armor the day he’d left and on the brooch he’d gifted her on their wedding day, when they were but two strangers thrown together by his widowhood and her father’s political calculations. Starspire, after the mountains that towered above Rahirek’s ancestral home.

She had loved those mountains since the moment she’d laid her eyes on them: they reminded her of the Storm Horn Mountains back home, in the land that would one day become Cormyr. As soon as she’d arrived, before she’d learned to love her new husband in that quiet, desperate way that would be her undoing, they had made her feel at home again.

“We always pretended they’re named after our family, but it’s the other way around,” he told her with a chuckle on their wedding night. He did not touch her, then. He never would touch her, not that way, until months later when she reached out for him first, and found him willing.

Dalah’s eyes burned, and she wiped them quickly as the drawing faded. “... I should have known he would. He was a good man,” she murmured, and looked up again. The creature-- Israfel -- kept staring at her, heads tilted. She drew in a shaky breath. “... Do you know who I am?”

A chittering sound, and a shake of those heads, flames dancing as it moved.

She managed a weak smile. “No, you wouldn’t. We only met once, so to speak. But you were tiny, then. I saw you from afar when they took you here, though, a few times. You were taller than me already, I think. I am not sure, I didn’t want to look at you. We never--”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Dalah recoiled and stepped back to see a devil - one of the cambions who kept an eye on the debtors cleaning the vault, as if any of them would dare steal, as if an ascended fiend wasn’t enough of an incentive to do their work quietly and quickly - stepping closer, a scowl on his face. He paid no mind to Israfel, and why would he? Barbas had been clear, he had been conditioned to obey the guards. He would not intervene if not by his order. “I was just--” 

The guard scoffed, walking up to her, and raised a flail as if to strike her. “You’ll go back to work now, if you know what’s--”

He never got to finish the sentence. A shrieking mountain of fire, claws and sharp thorns of black bone was on him the next moment; the devil had no time to force out a scream, or even to fully turn. There was no fight, and all was over the second it began, flesh torn apart by claws, throat ripped out by tusks. Steaming dead flesh and guts littered the ground, all that remained of a devil, but that was not there for long either. Fiends had no need to eat, but they had appetites all the same - and this one was no exception. 

Within what felt like less than a minute, nothing remained of the guard but a pool of blood watered down by melted ice, and flail burnt to a crisp. Only then did Israfel turn to look at her, bloody jaws clacking and wings fluttering a moment, hesitating as his flames dulled. 

She could see why: he’d broken protocol and there would be punishment, surely, when they found out what he had done. 

If they find out. 

“... Get that blood off your face-- faces. I’ll hide this,” Dalah heard herself saying, walking up to the bloody pool and causing Israfel to step back, claws clicking on the ice. Mopping up the bloody water was painfully cold on her hands, but once that was done and the ice reformed, no trace of blood remained. The flail broke apart into ash the moment it was touched, and once she scooped that up… well, no one could tell anything had happened there.

Low level guards did defect, sometimes. Not unheard of. As long as nothing was missing in the vault, they would look for him outside Mephistar, and not too hard. Dalah breathed out, and turned. Israfel was still staring at her, head tilted as though waiting for something. When she met his eyes, he made more clacking, echoing sounds.

“Won’t tell if you don’t,” Dalah said, and found herself smiling faintly as she looked down at the pulverized remains of the guard had lifted against her. She had spent a long time knowing she ought to fear every devil, no matter how low-ranking, for any of them could end her on a whim. One powerful enough strike and what remained of her would be lost, bursting into blood and guts to let out some sort of hellish creature. 

To see one who’d so much threatened to harm her annihilated in instants had felt… good. Even if somewhere, in the back of her mind, she wondered whose son that cambion had been, what mortal had died to give him life. Some, she knew, did so willingly. 

“... Thank you. Now go, before someone notices you’re no longer patrolling.”

Israfel hesitated, but there were steps and he did not wait to see if it was another guard or a debtor. One last look and it left the room, through icy corridors, ever patrolling - his presence alone enough to strike terror into every soul bound to endlessly cleaning the vault and its contents.

Almost every soul.

Only later would Dalah pause and realize that, when he turned to her with his victim’s blood still dropping from his jaws, she had not for a single instant felt fear.

***

“Give me a good reason why I should open any portal for you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Astarion’s voice was full of indignation. “We’re going to pay you, is that not reason enough?”

Standing behind the counter, Helsik scoffed. “You were also supposed to pay me last time, if you recall, with the Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength you took from the House of Hope.”

“Were they now?” Raphael asked, arms crossed. Of course, he didn’t look like himself now: revealing his continued survival to a warlock of Mammon liable to immediately relay the information to anyone who may care for the right amount of coin would be, to put it mildly, sheer idiocy. A simple disguise spell had turned him into an unremarkable enough half-elf, and thank the gods Helsik seemed none the wiser. “I may have heard of those gauntlets. Extremely rare indeed. And what, pray tell,” he added, shooting a pointed look in Durge’s general direction, “has happened to those?”

Fervently hoping Raphael would shut his damn mouth before he gave the rouse away, Durge shifted a little. To be entirely honest, keeping them had been Astarion’s idea, but… well, they hadn’t protested too much, either. “It’s, you see, we figured we may put them to good use, they fit Karlach really well--”

“So they broke our deal,” Helsik spoke, her own arms crossed, and looked back at Totally Not Raphael, who was still glaring at Durge. She seemed glad to have found someone who sounded as outraged as she did. “They went ‘I just killed a devil, do you really want to argue’ at me, and just kept the payment for my services. Can you believe it?”

“I can, actually. They rather make a habit of it, I see,” he replied, his voice flat in a way that clearly suggested he had carnage on his mind, and was really quite cross that he could not enact it. He seemed about to add something else, but Astarion suddenly threw his arm around his shoulders with a laugh, cutting him off. 

He also stomped on his foot, discreetly but hard, causing him to yelp. 

“Yes, yes, it was very naughty of us, and we’re sincerely sorry.”

Helsik narrowed her eyes. “Does that mean you’re giving me the gauntlets?”

“Oh dear, we’d love to! But, they’re currently with our friend in Avernus,” he added, gesturing rather meaningfully towards the floor. “See, if you open us a portal, we can retrieve them…”

“Try again.”

“Hey now--”

“It’s an upfront payment. Forty thousand.”

“FORTY--”

“Twenty thousand for the portal I opened last time, and twenty thousand for this one.”

“We need you to open two portals this ti--”

“That will be sixty thousand, then. Upfront.”

Astarion let out a noise of pure distress. “You can’t be serious!” he protested, only for Helsik to raise an eyebrow. 

“Do I look like I’m joking to you?” she asked. She did not, in fact, look like she was joking. 

Astarion scoffed, obviously scandalized at the notion the diabolist would demand upfront payment for her services to someone who scammed her once before, and turned to the others. Before he could voice what would probably be his suggestion - ‘let me drain her a bit and see if it mellows her’, Durge suspected - Raphael stepped forward. 

“I do understand why you’d mistrust these miscreants, as they already took advantage of your services without paying their due,” he said, gesturing towards them. “However, I hope you can extend me some grace, as I have done no such thing. I have a proposal.”

“I will hear you out, nothing more. And you are…?”

“Israfel will suffice. I’d rather not disclose my business in the Hells, as I’m sure you understand. It will not matter either way. Once I’m there, the two of us will never have laid eyes on each other, as you will have had no part in getting me there.”

Helsik nodded curtly, arms still crossed. “Good to see you know the rules,” she said, “but I have yet to hear your proposal.”

Raphael nodded. “Of course. The gold we have at our disposal to pay is, in total, thirty thousand gold. It is enough to cover the debt for the services you provided last time but, I understand, not enough to open a second portal now. Let alone a third.”

“Sound math. Still waiting for the proposal.”

Clearly disappointed by the refusal to play along, Raphel sighed. “As direct as your patron, I see. Very well. While these-- people owe you a great deal for your services, I believe you’re overlooking something that comes quite close to canceling out that debt.”

Helsik’s eyebrows went up almost to her hairline. “Oh,” she droned. “Am I now?”

“Indeed. You did not ask to be indebted, yet indebted your are.”

A scoff. “And what, exactly, do I owe them?”

A smile, and Raphael leaned against the counter, turning to gesture at the collection of artifacts all around them. “Why, isn’t that obvious? The continued existence of this fine establishment of yours, of course. The reason for their previous visit to Avernus was the retrieval of an artifact which, as it happens, was vital to their goal of taking down the Netherbrain. Had they not succeeded in the endeavor-- well. Baldur’s Gate would be no more, along with much of the Sword Coast, and your establishment with it. Of course, you could have set up shop someplace else if you managed to escape - but how many of these treasures around us would have been lost? I am certain you have a very good idea of what the answer would be. The answer, and the cost.”

For a few moments, Helsik said nothing. She ran her gaze across the shop, obviously running the numbers in her mind, then turned that gaze on Durge. A frown, but not quite the glare they had given them before. In the end, slowly, she nodded and turned back to Raphael. 

“... Very well. Duly noted. Your proposal?”

Raphael smiled. “My proposal is, we hand over all of the thirty thousand gold in our possession for you to open a portal to Avernus, and as payment for services rendered previously,” he said. “I do understand this means a significant discount on your usual rates, but it would be thirty thousand gold more than you’d get otherwise. And, I believe, it does account for the role they unwittingly played in keeping the Devil’s Fee in business.”

“Hmm.” Helsik seemed to think it over, and glanced past Raphael. Astarion smiled, and held up two bulging sacks of gold; she stared at them a few moments before nodding and turning back to Raphael. “You said you need two portals opened. I will not do it for thirty thousand gold.”

“But, for thirty thousand gold and the gauntlets you’re owed?” Raphael countered, smiling. “If we don’t survive our little vacation in the First, you’ll be thirty thousand gold richer. If we do survive, we will come back and hand you over the Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength currently in the possession of our dear friend trapped in Avernus.”

There was a sound much like a barely restrained laugh from Wyll, and Durge almost chuckled himself. Karlach would not be pleased to hear Raphael, of all beings, had referred to her as a ‘dear friend’. She wouldn’t be happy to see him at all, most likely, and much less to learn she’d have to bear his presence until they either died or completed their mission. She’d have many good reasons to be displeased, of course… but needs must when the devil drives. 

Quite literally, in that instance.

Unaware of their thoughts, Helsik was nodding. “I see. If you come back, and hand me the gauntlets you promised, only then will I open the second portal for you. It makes sense.”

Raphael’s borrowed face opened in a smile. “I knew you’d see reason.”

“And where would this second portal need to lead?”

“Cania. Mephistar, to be precise.”

“Ugh, again?” A sigh, a shake of the head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Since the gentleman over there and the late Lord Gortash raided the vault, Lord Mephistopheles has upped the magical defenses. I have been trying to find a way around them for months, but so far I’ve had no success. I cannot open a portal anywhere in Cania as of now.”

For a moment, the features of Raphael’s borrowed face twisted in aggravation; it was almost funny, really, how even in this disguise he scrunched up his nose. Then, as quickly as anger had come, it faded. “... Well then, we shall content ourselves with the closest you can get us to it. The second portal will be to Maladomini.”

Helsik raised an eyebrow. Hard to tell whether she was impressed by the boldness, or unimpressed by the madness on display. “Lord Mephistopheles and Lord Baalzebul are hardly allies. You really think you can sneak from the Seventh to the Eight and keep your life?”

“My friend,” Raphael said, smiling, “I cannot possibly overstate how little I have left to lose.”

Another pause and, finally, a shrug. “Hmm. None of it is my business as long as I’m getting paid, so-- very well. Avernus first and, if you live and give me the gauntlets, Maladomini it is. I’ll go fetch the necessary items. You wait here - but first, the gold.”

“Half the gold now,” Raphael countered. “And half once you hand over the items we need.”

“Distrustful, aren’t you?”

“You shan’t take it personally, I hope. You may consider it practice for the Hells.”

“With the company you keep, you have reason to be distrustful in any plane.”

“I am well aware, believe me.”

The first half of her payment taken, Helsik disappeared in the basement. As soon as she was gone, Wyll let out a low whistle. “All right,” he conceded, “that was really good.”

Raphael scoffed, walking away from the counter and right past him. “It was a child’s play. But I had no doubt it would impress you.”

“... Still mad because I knocked the rapier from your hand thrice this morning, huh?”

“Don’t be absurd. As I believe I made plain, I don’t need to carry a toothpick in bat--” Raphael began, only to trail off suddenly, freezing mid-step. He was staring at something on a table, and it took Durge only a moment to see exactly what it was.

The Orb of Infernal Envisioning. Last they had gazed into it, Durge had seen Raphael himself, covered in blood, dangling above Mephistopheles’ maw. Now, however, they saw something else. It was still Raphael in the Orb, or at least his ascended form, wreathed in flames, standing amidst walls of ice. It towered above a human woman who stared up at it, making no move to run. On the contrary, she was reaching up, as though to touch the creature.

“What is it?” Astarion spoke up somewhere on their left. “I can’t see anything in it. Halsin?”

“Not a thing.”

“I see Mizora,” Wyll said, stepping closer. “She’s holding some kind of contract, and… bowing? There is someone else there, but it’s just a shadow. I can’t see their face… are you seeing this too?” he asked, only for Raphael to ignore him and Durge to shake their head.

The Orb shows you what is fitting for you to see, Helsik had said once. It seemed they were not all seeing the same thing, after all - even those among them who could see something in it. Durge frowned, and looked back at Raphael. “... I see your Ascended form, and a woman. Inside Mephistar’s vault, I believe. A debtor, perhaps. Is that what you see?”

Wordless for once, eyes fixed on the orb, Raphael nodded. The two of them, it seemed, were indeed seeing the same thing. “I… have seen that mortal before. It’s the debtor who helped me escape,” he murmured. Slowly, he lifted a hand towards the orb, as if to touch it… and then there was the sound of a trapdoor to the basement being pushed open. Raphael pulled his hand back as though burned, and they all turned to see Helsik was back, a bag in hand. 

“Here’s all that is needed, and you know your way upstairs. Remember, you have never been here. Now hand over the rest of the gold, and scram.”

Gold changed hands, despite Astarion’s slightly pained expression, and Durge took the bag. “Before we go, we could use some supplies,” they said, and held up their bag of holding. Collecting just about anything they came across in their travels did pay off; by the time they were done trading, they were… reasonably well-equipped to survive Avernus. Hopefully. They closed the bag, and nodded towards the stairs. “All right,” they said. “Time to go to Hell.”

“Not a moment too soon,” Raphael muttered, and headed upstairs first without another word, a stiffness in his back that wasn’t there before.

*** If you're wondering who Antilia is:

*** [Back to Chapter 8]

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