Chapter Text
1458 - Enver’s second year in the House of Hope
Enver knelt on the windowsill, nose all but pressed against the glass. Outside, the shifting, violent landscape of Avernus drifted by. Fire and ash, demons clashing with devils, infernal warmachines roaring far below over the barren ground. And in the midst of it Enver Flymm, a forgotten book on his knees and a gasp in his throat as he observed a pit fiend - at least he thought it was a pit fiend; sometimes it was difficult to differentiate the many kinds of devils - getting attacked by a whole armada of winged demons. He was reminded of stormy nights where he would sit at his window and watch lightning crash from the clouds, only that now he was warm and comfortable, and lighting had been replaced by hellfire, and the lingering fear in his mind wasn’t caused by his parents, but the devil who had bought him.
“Oi!”
Something heavy hit the back of his head and Enver’s nose collided with the window. He turned around with what he hoped was an intimidating glare.
“I’m studying!” he huffed.
“Are you, now?” Lady Korrilla gazed down at him, not intimidated in the slightest, and dropped the book her mage hand had snatched back into his lap. “Who was the former Archdevil of Avernus and how was Zariel able to take their position?”
“The Archdevil was Bel, and Zariel took over by…challenging him to a duel-” Korrillas eyes narrowed “-to a battle of wits-” the book flew up and hit the underside of his chin.
“If you had spent more time staring at the book instead of out the window, you would have learned this by now.”
Enver rubbed his chin and forced back angry tears. He’d only just learned how to read longer texts and Korrilla’s books were full of complicated words he had no idea how to decipher. He tugged the sleeves of his shirt - simple black linen, but clean and soft and his size - over his fingers and sniffed.
“You’re supposed to teach me, so clearly you’re doing a horrible job if I still haven’t learned!” With that, he jumped up and forwards, just out of mage-hand range.
“Brat!” Korrilla yelled, but Enver was faster than her and bolted towards the doors. He tried to slam them shut, but they were too heavy and left him scrambling. When he saw Korrilla striding dangerously close, he stopped bothering with the doors and instead opted for running down the corridor. He skittered around a few suffering souls who were just like those creepy dolls noble children played with - had Raphael played with dolls as a child? …had he ever been a child? - and arrived in front of his room. He hesitated for a second, but that was likely where she would be looking first. Luckily, he hadn’t just spent his time in the house reading. Since he was regularly getting punished for the smallest things anyway, he’d thought he might as well make it count. On one memorable day, he’d gone and explored corners he wasn’t meant to be in. Strangely, the punishment for that had been less bad than when he had accidentally smashed one of Raphael’s prized wine bottles. In any case, what had remained of his explorations was the knowledge of some really good hiding places. The best one was a few corridors down, then past the statue of- He collided with something solid when he rounded a corner, stumbled back, and fell on his behind.
“People who run in this house are usually fleeing.”
Enver froze. Raphael. His tone was amused, but Enver wasn’t fooled by that. Raphael’s moods were never what they seemed. The devil knelt down in front of him, wings draping over the floor and arms resting on his knees.
“Did you bother Korrilla again?”
“It’s her who-” Enver started because his mouth still acted without permission when he wasn’t careful. Something Raphael had often criticised - and punished. He quickly bit his tongue.
“Oh?” A smile tugged at Raphael’s lips. His smiles were worse than his scowls. “Did someone learn their lesson?”
Enver nodded.
“Remind me, if you please.”
“Think before you speak. Will the words benefit or harm you? If it’s the latter, adjust them until they turn into the former, or don’t speak at all.”
“Bra-vo.” Raphael drawled and reached out. Enver flinched when a clawed hand landed on his shoulder. Then he blinked when all it did was pat him. Raphael’s smile was a little more genuine than his usual sharp smirks. “We’ll make a proper person of you yet.”
It felt almost like praise, encouragement that Enver wasn’t the hopeless case Korrilla always called him. Whose indignant voice now came from behind Enver.
“Lord Raphael, that brat slacked off in his studies again.”
“And yet that brat learned its lesson. Merely one of many, but one nonetheless. I think a reward is in order.” He stood up, grabbed Enver’s arm and pulled him along. Enver stumbled a little, only for Raphael’s hands on his shoulders to steady him. “Take the afternoon off, Enver. Feel free to roam the house. You like exploring, don’t you? And in the evening, you can eat with us.”
Enver stared at him. It was a trap, surely. Raphael was looking for a new excuse to punish him, or teach him yet another abstruse lesson. But… eating with Raphael and Korrilla, if it was a real offer, meant sitting at that huge table, always laden with the most lavish of dishes. Enver wasn’t being starved, in fact he’d never been this well-fed, but still. More than once he’s imagined dining like the nobles he’d sometimes observed through windows, and this was his first chance at actually doing it.
“Can you give me written confirmation that this is real?” he asked, tentatively slipping some authority into his voice.
Raphael laughed uproariously. “Phenomenal. I’m a better teacher than I thought.” He snapped his fingers and Enver startled when a burning scrap of paper fluttered before him. He grasped it with shaking fingers. Raphael’s flowing script, proclaiming that Enver would be allowed at the dining table for one evening.
“Are you serious, Lord Raphael?” Korrilla pushed her hands in her hips. “I bet he has no table manners to speak of!”
“Then we’ve found another lesson to teach him,” Raphael said merrily. “Run along now, Enver, I have something to discuss with the Lady.”
Enver needn’t be told twice, lest Raphael's mood tilt in the opposite direction. He hurried towards his favourite room - the machine room, where he’d already learned some interesting things about infernal machinery - and left them to their boring talks. The last thing he heard was Korrilla’s “I cannot believe you, this is worse than when you had that ongoing feud with the paladin!” She was the only one who dared talk to Raphael like this and Enver wondered how that had come to pass, and if one day he’d be on the same level.
-
A few days later – Enver could never really tell with the lack of day and night – he returned to his room and found it changed. There was a workbench in a corner, strange metals were stacked high next to it, and tools he had never seen before hung on the wall. Atop the workbench lay a thick book. There were strange sigils printed on the cover and when Enver opened it, more of them covered the pages. A note peaked out from underneath, again with those unreadable signs. He recognised it as Infernal, but had no idea why something in a language he couldn’t read was in his room. He gingerly picked up the note. It could be Raphael’s hand - at least the flourishes and smooth lines of the sigils looked sort of familiar. Enver considered his possibilities and was left with only one.
“Lady Korrilla?” He quietly knocked on her door. She was his language teacher, so she should be happy about him showing interest. But no one answered. When he turned around, he flinched and dropped the note. Raphael leaned against the wall and smirked down at him.
“Korrilla is busy. Maybe this humble servant can be of help, Lord Enver?”
Enver clenched his jaw. Once, Raphael had asked him what he thought would have become of him had he remained on the Prime, and Enver had stupidly told him of his goal. Ever since then Raphael enjoyed mocking him with it.
“I, uh…there was a book in my room…but I can’t read it.”
“That’s because you’re slacking off in your studies. Had you been diligent, you’d have mastered writing and reading Common and could have already started on Infernal. As it stands, you won’t be able to read the tome on infernal crafting.”
“Crafting?” Enver’s eyes widened.
“I graciously let you live in my home, give you food and a place to sleep, so of course I expect you to make yourself useful. This house needs constant maintenance, and you will be in charge of the machines once you’ve finally gained some skills.”
And even though Raphael had, as Raphael always did, done it out of selfish reasons, it felt a little like Enver had received a gift.
1459 - Korrilla’s third year having to deal with a child
There were not many things Korrilla had come to regret ever since becoming Lord Raphael’s warlock. Some might think delivering a devil’s will led to issues of morality and conscience, but in truth Korrilla couldn’t give fewer damns about souls, contracts, and the Prime in general. She was doing great, and all else wasn’t her business. Or at least, she had been doing great, up until Raphael had decided to adopt himself a nuisance. She’d expected him to get annoyed by the third month at the latest, but now they’d almost made it through the third year and Enver Flymm still haunted her waking hours. Enver Gortash, if he were up to him. Of course no one in the House of Hope called him by his chosen moniker except to make fun of him. On one memorable occasion, he’d kicked Korrilla’s shin over it. Maybe he was her punishment from the gods she’d never believed in. Or just Raphael’s idea of a prank, though she didn’t think him that cruel.
Enver cleared his throat in that particular way that told her his next words would make her want to dangle him over the flying House’s edge again, like she’d done after the shin-kicking. “Actually, the souls fuelling the infernal warmachines aren’t fully used up, instead the essence is burned away while the residue of the soul husk is compressed and used as ammunition for-”
“I could not care less,” Korrilla growled. She hadn’t enjoyed teaching him when he’d been an idiot, but at least then she could still look down her nose at him. Now he was an incorrigible smartass and, even worse, had hit a growth spurt, so he was doing the looking down-thing.
“You were the one who asked,” he said with that infuriating crooked grin.
She snapped an eldritch blast at him and he was too late to duck, so it hit him straight in the chest. He was thrown backwards on the ground, which gave Korrilla at least a faint sense of satisfaction.
“Know your place, brat.”
“Nasty old woman!,” he squawked and rubbed his chest.
Korrilla turned up her nose. “Lord Raphael is going to be thrilled to know who was the one who accidentally perma-locked the Tome of Lost Wishes.”
Enver scrambled to his feet. “You have no proof!”
“I saw you do it and can provide a detailed account of how it happened. I’m sure Lord Raphael will believe his trusted agent more than a brat he took in out of a random mood.” Korrilla whirled around and strode towards the entrance door. Enver stumbled after her and grabbed her robe.
“Oi! Oily fingers off my silk!”
He raised his hands. “Fine. Fine, I owe you one if you don’t tell him.”
She smirked up at him. “Boudoir duty for six months.”
“Six- no way! Two!”
“Five. And maybe you can sneak in a session in the bath, cause my boy, you need it. You stink.”
“Three. I’m an innocent child, Haarlep will corrupt me.”
She laughed loudly. Sometimes the kid’s speech belied his age. Korrilla blamed his exposure to Raphael for his prematurely developed sarcasm. Begrudgingly, she had to admit that the devil’s charisma was rubbing off as well. Less intelligent beings might find themselves charmed by Enver’s wit. Korrilla was far above that, of course. “Four. And you’re going to let Haarlep cut your hair. It looks atrocious.”
“Deal. Four months and a haircut.”
Korrilla smirked. She was glad to see he still lacked proper bargaining skills; she’d consciously started outrageously high and aimed for four.
Three days later, Enver sported a fresh haircut and was cleaning the floors of the dining room. Korrilla raised her legs so he could crawl underneath her chair and told her unseen servant to turn the page of her book when the door opened.
“Good day, Korrilla. Enver.” Raphael shook out his wings before sitting down, sprinkling Avernus’ sand across the floor and making Enver click his tongue.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Lord Raphael,” Enver muttered.
“But you know what isn’t nothing? A very specific matter I discovered when I went to the library just now. Has anyone been playing with the Tome of Lost Wishes?”
“Yes,” Korrilla said without missing a beat. Enver banged his head on her chair when he attempted to stand. He crawled backwards, observed by a very amused Raphael.
“I knew I could rely on you, Korrilla. Whoever did it will need to be severely punished.”
Korrilla bit her lip to not laugh when Enver scrambled to his feet. He clutched the dirty cloth and stared at Korrilla, apparently intent on being as obvious as possible. She didn’t pay him any attention, keeping it on the book instead. One second, two seconds, Enver’s anxiety turned palpable. “It was the Archivist,” she said casually after finishing the page. “He mentioned wanting to research methods to block wish spells.”
“Did he, now? Strange, he just told me that he found small fingerprints on the cover.”
Korrilla looked up and met Raphael’s eyes. He was enjoying this, of course he was, Raphael loved all kinds of acts and plays and fabrications. And maybe Korrilla enjoyed it, too, a little bit, because Enver looked so genuinely stunned, like there was still some residue of stupid, ignorant child left in him. “No, it was him. He must still be angry at Enver for smearing oil on the glass cases.”
Raphael nodded, an approving smile on his lips in view of this particular script, and stood up with another shake of wings and scattered the dust even further. “Well, then I better go and have a serious talk with him.”
“You lied,” Enver said carefully when he was gone. He chewed on his lip and glanced at Korrilla like he expected her to immediately demand payment. “For me?”
“That was our deal, wasn’t it?” She hopped off her chair and snapped her fingers, casting clean on the area around them. “You can lie and deceive all you want, but be careful with people you’ll have to…endure for a longer time. Avoid unnecessary contentions, they’ll only make you stressed.”
He opened his mouth and Korrilla could almost hear the thank you, but decided she didn’t want a puny brat’s gratefulness. “And for Asmodeus’ sake, Enver, you need to learn to act casual.” She poked his chest.
He glared. “It’s Gortash,” he muttered half-heartedly. That was more like it.
“How did you even come up with that name?”
“It sounds good! – doesn’t it?”
Sometimes, she remembered that despite everything, he was still only 12 years old, and that his story wasn’t all that different from hers. She knew where the insecurity in his eyes came from; years upon years of neglect without a single word of affirmation.
“It does,” she said. His eyes widened. “Way too good for you, brat. Now go and study. I know you’ve been slacking off with your Infernal again.”
Children were a blight. At least Enver had become somewhat bearable.
1460 - Barovar’s fourth attempt at making a deal with a devil
Barovar swallowed heavily and glanced around. A large chaise and a table with a fruit platter on it stood in the middle of the room, and underneath a window was a dark wooden desk with a simple chair. He considered where to sit, then settled on the chaise - the farther away from the window, the better. The view unsettled him. Instead, he eyed the fruit. It looked normal as far as he could tell; large apples, perfectly ripe bananas, something temptingly pink he’d never seen before. Still he didn’t touch any of it. It was probably illusory. Or poisoned. And he was determined to not take any risk down here. Devils were cunning and ruthless, but he was certain he could outsmart them and get the best deal possible if only he kept atop of the game. The door flew open and he straightened reflexively. But who strolled inside wasn’t a devil, but a boy. He couldn’t be older than fifteen, with dark, unruly hair and even darker shadows around his eyes. There were the patchy beginnings of a beard on his cheeks, and his arms where the sleeves of his simple shirt were pushed up were covered in scars. He looked more like a stray you stumbled over in the slums than a resident of this lavish devil’s mansion.
He didn’t say anything, merely sat down at the desk and leafed through the parchments laying atop. A servant, perhaps? Barovar shifted uncomfortably; the unexpectedness of the whole situation threatened to get under his skin. He flinched when the boy spoke. “Your own guild?” He turned on the chair, one leg tucked underneath him and his elbow leaned on the backrest. His fingers were stained with something black - oil, soot, or things Barovar didn’t want to think about - and there was something strange about the way he stared.
“Excuse me?”
The boy gestured to the parchments. “It says you want to have your own smithing guild. Have it be the most successful one in Waterdeep. Have you considered putting in the effort and working for your success instead of making infernal deals?”
Barovar swallowed down his discomfort and narrowed his eyes. “Who even are you?”
“Gortash. And you better show some respect if you want a good deal.” The boy smirked - a sharp, unpleasant thing that made a shiver run down Barovar’s spine - then turned back to the parchments. There was a loud laugh, a grating, condescending sound. “Thirty percent of your earnings? What does he need money for? To buy roses for Haarlep?”
Barovar shifted on his seat and loosened his collar. It was hot, the air stifling, and there was something incredibly wrong about this Gortash. “Listen, kid, I don’t know what you’re even doing here, but I am here to make a deal with Lord Raphael, so if you could please get him, that would be great.”
The legs of the chair scraped over the floor when Gortash pushed away from the table and stood up. He looked down his nose at Barovar with far more contempt than a boy his age should be capable of…and suddenly Barovar realised. He must be a devil as well, what with those dark, malicious eyes and the sharp smile. Might it be Lord Raphael in disguise? Barovar flinched terribly when the door opened once more. A tall man – in the broadest sense of the word – strode in and destroyed that Raphael-theory. Because this one clearly resembled the man Barovar had encountered in the tavern, albeit minor changes like…well, red skin, giant horns, and bulky wings.
He clapped his hands and smiled. “Well, then, let’s- Enver? What are you doing here?” The devil sounded utterly exasperated when his eyes fell on the boy.
“I’m doing what you told me to.” The boy - Gortash? Enver? - stood up and crossed his arms in front of his chest like a petulant youth.
“I’m quite sure I didn’t tell you to talk with my clients.”
“You have to learn human nature-” By the Gods, had he just imitated the devil? “-is what you said. How am I supposed to do that in the hells?”
“You’re about to learn a whole lot more about human pain perception if you keep this up.”
The boy glared and looked like he had several things he wanted to say to that, but eventually settled for a huff and stomped past Lord Raphael.
Halfway out of the door, he very audibly muttered “It’s always torture when you run out of arguments,” then slammed the door shut. Lord Raphael pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Do you have children?” he asked out of the blue.
“Yes? A- a son and two daughters.”
“Horrible creatures. I thought it would get better over the years, but he’s only getting worse.” He took the seat Gortash-Enver had vacated.
“Those years between childhood and adulthood are the most difficult. They have to deal with a lot of change…” Barovar felt utterly mortified as he realised he was discussing puberty with a devil. “And the, uh, the moods…you know…”
“Do I ever,” Lord Raphael sighed and for the fraction of a second, Barovar thought he’d caught a flash of fondness in his smile. But then it immediately sharpened.
“But we’re not here to discuss children. You’re here to make a deal. So, about the price-”
Barovar had sworn to himself that he would be on top of his game, but he barely heard what the devil said. Instead, he wondered whether devils could father children, and whether the entity opposite of him was just another overworked single dad.
1461 - The Archivist’s fifth year of cleaning oil-stains off of display cases
The Archivist had finished sorting through the new arrivals in the library and was on his way back to the exhibition room. It had been a nice and quiet couple of days, mostly because that cursed entity spent most of them in its new workshop. There were explosions every now and then - the Archivist just knew he was being loud on purpose - but at least then his grabby hands and disregard for clean display cases stayed far away from the archives. How Lord Raphael hadn’t killed the boy yet was a true mystery. In the beginning, the Archivist and Korrilla used to complain about the nuisance together, but during the past year her complaints had lost their edge. Somehow, the brat had charmed her. Only yesterday he’d seen the two of them sitting together playing ‘Escape the Claw’, both cheating to Nessus and back, of course. But the Archivist wouldn’t let some puny human wrap him around a machine oil-stained finger, and anyway-
He stopped dead in his tracks. Behind the door leading to the archives, he heard the very worst thing in all nine hells, even worse than a teenager. The voice of Verillius Receptor. She’d been here mere months ago, why was she visiting again?
And then the Archivist realised something even worse.
He was hearing her voice. Which meant that, unless she had taken up talking to herself, she was conversing with someone. And to his knowledge, neither Lord Raphael nor Korrilla were currently present in the house. The Archivist trembled slightly as he inched closer to the crack in the door and peered through.
“- one of the more interesting collections. But he has a penchant for hiding the truly interesting things, so I have to make sure nothing that doesn’t belong to him finds its way here,” said Receptor, today in her favoured guise of an elven girl about the same age as that damned boy. Speaking of the damned boy - he was leaned against one of the display cases and looked perfectly comfortable in the company of one of Avernus’ most horrifying entities.
“You speak of finding, but what if he creates a powerful artefact himself?” he asked.
Receptor laughed brightly. “Something created by a cambion can hardly be considered powerful!”
“Cambion?” Enver asked, and the Archivist should probably intervene, but why face your nightmares when the annoying human child your boss adopted for some reason was distracting them so well?
“He didn’t mention? That’s just like him.” Receptor’s voice turned deceptively soft. Always a bad sign. “Raphael is no full devil, my little friend. He’s the product of a devil’s union with a human. Quite pitiful, really, so doomed for eternal mediocrity. He constantly tries to prove himself, of course, but no one believes that he’ll truly amount to anything. Poor Raphael, unwanted by all.”
Enver stared at her. “Unwanted…”
“His father, most of all. I await the day Mephistopheles finally kills him.” She chuckled and took a step closer to Enver. “Would you be interested in getting off this sinking ship? It’s only a matter of time, and maybe you can find a place elsewhere. I see potential in you, boy, and Mistress Zariel is always willing to accept promising new recruits, even if they are mortal.”
There was a long moment of silence. Then, to the Archivist’s greatest surprise, a smile spread over Enver’s face. “No, thank you. I’ve heard enough about Mistress Zariel to know I want nothing to do with her.”
Receptor stilled. It was a very dangerous kind of stillness. The Archivist should definitely intervene now, or soon enough there would be no nuisance left. Which he would welcome, but he had the feeling Lord Raphael might be of another opinion.
“And why is that, boy?” Receptor used her real voice now, dark and distorted, echoing between the walls. Enver seemed unaffected.
“People who don’t earn their title and only have it because someone more powerful gave it to them bore me. She won against Bel just because Asmodeus favoured her. If his favour shifts to someone else, well…” He grinned. The kid was absolutely insane. Receptor stalked closer to him, her bones cracking, and the Archivist knew exactly what she was doing to intimidate him - letting parts of her real visage shine through.
“I could kill you right here and now, boy,” she growled. “But I’m not going to. You know why?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Because I don’t want to dirty my hand when I can just wait. Watching you go down with that imbecile of a cambion will be a true delight.” She reached out and grazed a finger across his cheek, whispered “We’re always watching. You can’t escape our eyes,” and vanished in a burst of pitch black flame. Enver stood there for about two more heartbeats, then he crumpled to the floor and clutched the case next to him, obviously scared out of his mind. He let out a small yell when there was more fire next to him, this time warm orange.
“Impressive,” Lord Raphael said. “Not many can bear to look at that piece of abstract art she calls her face.”
“What even is she?” Enver’s voice shook.
“Who knows?” Raphael knelt down next to him. “Powerful, that much I can tell you. Joining her might have been the smarter option.”
“And become Zariel’s slave? Get killed the second I’m not useful anymore? No, thank you.” he glared at Raphael.
“You think you’ll fare better here? Who says I won’t get rid of you once I don’t need you anymore?”
“Well, then I’m better off against a cambion than an archdevil, right?” Enver huffed and finally detached himself from the display case. The Archivist cringed, partly because he saw the oil stains from where he was standing, partly because the nuisance had gone and done it - Lord Raphael hated when people mocked his heritage, any second now Enver would turn into a smudge of ash on the pristine floor-
A loud laugh. “I’ve taught you well, Enver.”
“It’s Gortash,” the boy grumbled. He seemed to hesitate, then glanced up at Raphael with determination in his eyes. “Being underestimated is great. Because then it’s even better to see them fall when you prove them wrong.”
Raphael didn’t reply. The Archivist couldn’t see his face, only how he reached out with a clawed hand and- buried the fingers in Enver’s hair, mussing it up. Enver gazed at him with wide-eyed disbelief, though not as much as the Archivist imagined was on his own face.
“Words of wisdom from the little lord,” Raphael said and there was something very, very wrong about his voice. It lacked any and all sarcasm. The Archivist turned away. Somehow, this was even more disconcerting than looking directly at Verillius Receptor.
1462 - Raphael’s sixth year of trying his claw at education
Raphael was well aware that his time of having to entertain a child was nearing its end, something he was immensely grateful for. Only yesterday did he have to save the uncontrollable chaos forced into humanoid shape from a swarm of Ayperobos that had spied him lounging on the House’s terrace. Enver liked to think himself quite ingenious (granted, Raphael had never bothered to teach him humility), but while he might be able to best lesser-devils in a battle of wits, he was still very much a human child, and thus ill-equipped to physically fight anything bigger than an underdeveloped imp.
“I could have managed!” Enver snapped and stomped away - 16 was the worst age, but Raphael had thought that about every age - to lock himself in his workshop for the remainder of the day. Raphael let him, glad about the reprieve.
“It’s your own fault he’s this prideful,” Korrilla huffed, as if she hadn’t been the one to compliment his quick learning abilities, thus encouraging said pride.
But it didn’t really matter anymore because Raphael had imparted the most important lessons needed to succeed in the mortal realm: how to lie, manipulate, deceive, persuade, and intimidate. Soon, Enver could be released back onto the Prime. And if Raphael had mentioned the Crown of Karsus and its potential usefulness for up-and-coming rulers every now and again, well…
Raphael idly tapped his quill onto the parchment. One more year, maybe. Some final teachings, some more mentions of the Crown to make sure Enver really had enough motivation to go after it, and then Raphael would get back his well-deserved peace of mind.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes.”
“Lord Raphael. There’s an issue with the little lord.”
Raphael slammed down the quill and spun on his chair. “What is it now? There was an issue only yesterday, what could he have possibly done today? Caused another explosion in his workshop? Accidentally angered a pit fiend? Got attacked by the styx dragon?”
Korrilla cleared her throat. “By a Shredwing. He’s in his room now, I was just about to get him a healing potion. He said not to tell you, but his recent recklessness worries-”
“So he was on the terrace again, despite my clear orders? I don’t know why I ever bothered to punish him when clearly he enjoys getting hurt!” Raphael stood up, ignored Korrilla’s, “Wait, don’t-” and snapped his fingers.
In a burst of flame maybe a bit fiercer than intended, he appeared in Enver’s room. It had seen some changes since its occupant first moved in six years ago; most notably, it had gained a mess. Enver might have his own workshop to craft in, but that didn’t stop him from keeping all kinds of tools, parts, and blueprints in his room. Raphael stepped over something mechanical to reach the bed where Enver sat, knees tucked up to his chest and a large bleeding gash on his shoulder.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” Enver glared up at him.
“It seems like it was only yesterday that you almost got torn to shreds by a bunch of lowly devils - oh, it was only yesterday. Are you intent on proving your stupidity?” Raphael would threaten torture, but he knew his injured pride hurt Enver more than anything, so gloating was more effective.
The kid scoffed and looked away. No justification, not even an insult. Very out of character. “Why were you outside again? Is it that boring in here? Maybe you can ask Zariel to enlist you in the blood war, I’m sure she’ll be happy to-”
“Well, I’m sorry I tried to help, it won’t happen again!”
Raphael was about to threaten torture after all, interruptions were something he did not tolerate, but something in Enver’s expression stopped him. Was that a glint in his eyes? Raphael could brook interruptions if that meant he didn’t have to endure wailing. “Help?” he crossed his arms. “Help me lose the final bit of patience I somehow still possess?”
“Help you shield your stupid home from observers! Not that I did it for you. I just wanted a challenge. See if it’s possible to block Receptor’s eyes on the House. Which it is,” he added haughtily, then flinched when he moved the wounded arm. “If your fucking neighbours didn’t keep attacking me!”
Raphael manifested a healing potion and threw it on the bed next to him. “And you didn’t consider telling Korrilla or me so we could aid this oh-so-important endeavour of our little lord?”
“Oh, and who said that asking for help should always be a last resort because being in others’ debts is the worst thing that can happen?” He grabbed the healing potion and wrestled with the cork.
Raphael blinked. It was the truth, of course, and wise, too, as all his teachings were. “You’re usually so good at ignoring my teachings, and this is the one you heed?”
“I heed all of your stupid teachings,” Enver muttered, threw the cork of the healing potion in a corner and downed the red liquid. “Like, putting others in my debt. Which you would have been, if only I’d managed to complete that damned shield.”
Ridiculous, that Enver thought his meagre tinkering could block an Archdevil’s magic. Even more ridiculous, more so; insolent, that he would think he could somehow put Raphael in his debt. Raphael had to admit that he might have been too lenient recently. And maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten a bit too invested in the little lord’s development and progress. He found himself genuinely hoping for his success later on.
He didn’t say it, of course. Instead, he sat down next to him and glanced at him from the side.
“You’re a foolish child.”
Enver glanced back, rubbing his healing shoulder. “And you’re the worst father in all the hells.”
Silence.
The whirr of machinery around them grew louder.
Enver stared at Raphael.
Raphael stared at Enver.
Somewhere outside, a demon shrieked.
“I didn’t-”
“If you want to install your little toys, Gortash, just tell me. I’ll keep an eye out.” Raphael turned away because for the first time in his life, he had no idea what his expression was doing. This was just about the worst thing that had ever happened to him, which, coming from a resident of the hells, was saying a lot. From next to him, he heard the rustle of sheets and indistinct muttering.
“What was that? Speak up, boy, I told you that no one takes mumbling little mouses seriously.”
“I said,” Enver said loudly and sniffed. “Thank you.”
Ugh. It would have been better had he insulted Raphael again. “Yes, well, it helps no one to waste your talents.”
More muttering. Raphael sighed and ventured a glance to the side. Enver was staring down into his lap as he picked his nails, and there was the smallest of smiles on his lips.
One more year. Or two, depending on how slowly the little nuisance developed. Maybe three if he proved to be especially dense and needed more teachings. After all, Korrilla had so gotten used to him, and Raphael didn’t want to anger his most important personal assistant.