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It starts off fairly slowly - a banner here, a flag there, some horns blowing off-key in the background as he passes gloomily through the endless corridors of rattling doors. He even notices that his demon guards have suddenly added a plume or two to their grotesque helmets, their crooked breastplates sporting an attempted shine, no doubt applied with spit and soot. He allows the bowing and the scraping, the flattery and the snivelling arse-kissing, but when he finds a haggard-looking garland made of tissue paper with crudely drawn flowers on it hanging from the wooden beams in his hall, he completely loses it.
“What the bloody hell is this?” he demands, the offending piece of papier-mache crushed in his fist. “Who’s in charge of this nonsense?”
Dromos, beaten and submissive, crawls forward on all fours and bows his head respectfully.
“Well, Sire,” he says, raising his head experimentally, and looking at the Devil with careful eyes, “we just wanted to welcome you home properly, and to let you know how really sorry we all are, for being so very naughty up there.”
A chorus of ‘hear, hear’s and ‘sorry, guv!’s breaks out around him, drowning out every other sound in the vicinity, and Lucifer winces.
Demons, he thinks and sighs, idiots, the lot of them.
“Clean this bloody mess up!” he orders them and leaves the hall.
Maybe a stroll along the Lake of Fire will do him some good.
***
It gets worse over the course of the next few days.
He’s sitting at the table in his private quarters, reading a depressingly boring book on the medicinal purposes of Yak milk, that’s been painstakingly written by some scoliosis- infested monk. He turns another page, yawns and brings a stained glass to his lips. This isn’t single malt whisky, not even close. He tries not to gag on his tumbler of cheap swill.
It really is a shame he left all his fine literature and drinks up at the penthouse; a Devil can go insane over such a poor selection.
A knock on his door brings Lucifer back to his gloomy reality.
No top-shelf drinks.
No Shakespeare and Byron.
No... Chloe.
Only Hell.
“Enter,” he sighs wearily and takes another disgusting sip.
Dromos and another demon named Crucio slither in, a large, covered iron tray in their hands. They skulk towards his table, heads bowed, and shuffle their feet, waiting for permission to speak.
“What is it?” he asks, exasperation seeping into his voice. “What have you got there?”
Crucio opens the lid with a flourish, revealing a blackened blob of goo, oozing off a dirty plate, appearing for all purposes, to be running for its life.
“We made you a cake, Sire,” Dromos announces happily, incredibly proud of himself. “We know how fond you are of sweets!”
Lucifer’s eyes widen in horror as he examines the pile of sludge before him.
“A cake…?” he asks weakly, already feeling the cheap drink trying to climb up his throat at the sight, “How… thoughtful…”
Dromos puffs out his chest at the praise.
“You’re not eating properly, my Liege; don’t think we haven’t noticed! You’re far too skinny! All that sex and drugs on Earth – they are not good for the digestion!”
Lucifer nods in ever increasing dread, unable to tear his eyes off his gift. Do they honestly expect him to eat it…?
Crucio lays a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently.
“Should you be drinking this much, my Lord?” he asks quietly. “We’re worried about you – think about your liver.”
“Gughh”, Lucifer answers intelligently, “I – er, I’m not hungry…”
The disappointment in their eyes is what gets to him.
“Honestly,” Dromos mumbles, looking away from him, “I slaved all day over this so that it doesn’t taste like ash, and still you won’t eat it…”
“Errr –“Lucifer begins feebly, but the other demon cuts him off.
“It’d be nice to just be appreciated for a change, you know?” he sniffs, putting the lid back on. Some of the escaped goo oozes onto the floor, “But I guess that’s just too much to ask.”
“Why don’t you leave it here, and –” the Devil mutters and swallows the bile churning in his gut, “And perhaps I’ll eat it a bit later?”
Two identical smiles spread over the demons’ faces and Lucifer exhales in relief. Crisis averted. For now.
“Really, Sire?” Crucio squeaks in delight. “Thank you! You won’t regret it! You’ll be licking your fingers in no time!”
I would be, Lucifer thinks miserably as the two demons bow their way out of his chambers. If I were up on Earth, with Chloe; I’d probably be licking plenty of stuff, by now.
He eyes the dripping goo with utter mistrust for a few minutes. Then he gets up and throws the ‘cake’ out of the window.
He’ll be twice damned if he spends his time in Hell suffering from indigestion.
***
He is called upon for maintenance, more than he’s called upon for torture.
“Don’t you worry that pretty head of yours with nonsense such as bureaucracy, Sire,” they tell him as they push a hairy mop into his unresisting hands. “But be a dear – the poor, widdle spiders are stuck behind the beams again, poor souls.”
“The lightbulbs in torture chamber number 78 need changing, my King,” they urge, guiding his lean form towards one of the rattling doors. “No one’s as tall as you are; we’ve had quite the issues when you were on vacation!”
“Could you maybe give us a hand, my Liege?” they beg, leading him to a large storage shed at the back of the palace. “We ran out of jars for the eyeballs, you see, and the ladder we have does not reach the higher shelves, and since you have wings…”
Lucifer sighs, and does as he’s told.
***
‘Brother,’ Lucifer prays when he finally manages to glean a peaceful moment of silence, hiding in a dusty cupboard next to the kitchens. ‘Amenadiel, Hell is worse than I remembered. There’s just no getting away from my demons. I can’t even wank off in peace without them barging into my room and offering me a tissue. Hope all is well, send Chloe my love.”
He keeps all his invocations short, in fear of becoming too emotional. Dad knows what will happen if one of his demons finds him moping in the corner, hands clasped in prayer. He can’t show weakness. He won’t.
No, he must suck it up and be the Devil that he was meant to be. Powerful, just, and – above all – fearless.
Beyond the door, he can hear Dromos roaming the halls with a certain degree of urgency.
“Lucifer, Lucifer!” the demon cries insistently, and stops in his tracks, noticing another of his kind making his way to the kitchen. “Hey! Have you seen the King? Only, I have some nourishing soup for him right here, that he simply must eat. If you see him you come and tell me, yes? - Lucifer! Lucifer!”
The Devil cowers further into the tiny space of the cupboard and stops breathing altogether until the threat passes.
When the halls are silent again, Lucifer huffs, exhausted, and shakes his head.
For the first time in years, he’s seriously contemplating praying to his father.
***
“Where are you off to, Sire?”
The question catches him off guard as he makes his way out of the hall, fiddling with his cufflinks. He turns back to face the inquisitor, and finds Dromos, in a French maid’s apron, dusting.
“Er –“ he begins eloquently, staring at the demon, eyes unblinking, “just – you know, up – to, er – sit on my throne. You know, that tall, isolated seat, up there? That only I can reach? On account of me being an angel? With wings?”
Dromos throws the feather duster into a dark corner and shakes his head, arms akimbo.
“Now, my Lord,” he begins in that pseudo-soothing tone of his that reminds Lucifer of why he feels so uncomfortable amongst children, “you know how chilly it gets up there! How about you sit down by that nice lake of spitting fire in the gardens and warm up, while I go and fetch you your favourite bowl of soup. How does that sound, eh?”
When Lucifer only squeaks and coughs in reply, Dromos frowns and nods to himself, already untying the apron.
“Oh, this coughing doesn’t sound too good; better fetch you a jumper too, while I’m at it,” he mutters under his breath, throwing the silly garment to the floor to keep the feather duster company.
Lucifer watches the demon shuffle towards the kitchens in morbid fascination for a full minute before he gets his wits about him and does a runner.
At least up there, his demons can’t metaphorically bludgeon him to death with their insistent mothering.
***
About a month after his imminent return to the damned afterlife, his most ‘trusted’ demons decide to ambush him on his way out for his morning stroll.
“We’ve got a – what you may call – a pressing issue, my Lord.” Crucio comes to him with a severe look on his scarred face, “Very pressing indeed. Now, before we say anything, just remember, that we have your best interests at heart.”
“That’s right, Sire,” Dromos nods in agreement, crossing his arms over his chest; Lucifer can’t help but notice that he’s wearing a pink apron with the words, “BBQ naked, show us your buns”, embroidered on it in red sequins. “We just feel that you’ve been moping around for far too long and that this infatuation with the human woman has got to stop.”
“Moping?” Lucifer asks, incredulous, and, quite frankly, a tad murderous. “Infatuation…?
“Yes!” Crucio agrees, ignoring the growing note of ire in his master’s voice. “Quite frankly, Sire – Can the human even peel off fingernails as well as our Paimon can? Or rip off limbs like Mazikeen? Honestly, my dear, we’re not mad, just… disappointed.”
“You know them Miracles, my Liege,” one of the demonesses closer to Lucifer leans in to stage-whisper in his ear, “nothing but trouble. Not like our good, solid demon girls!”
“Right!” Dromos interjects, noticing his King’s eyes beginning to shimmer with Hellfire in the gloom, and raises his hands in a placating manner. “All we’re saying, Sire, is that now you’ve returned, we feel that it’s really time for you to settle down with a nice demon lady. Have you met Sheda? Azazel’s girl? Fine lass; fine lass. She’s got a bit of a squint and a bad leg, but she can twist the nipples off a man using nothing but her pinkie!”
A few encouraging cries for the eligibility of Sheda can be heard from the crowd.
“That’s right, my King,” bellows someone at the back. “When are you giving us some little antichrists to fuss over, eh? We’re not getting any younger, you know!”
He shouldn’t be surprised, not really. This is Hell, after all, and it seems that his demons, upholding his kingdom’s best tradition, saved the very worst torture for last.
“Er –“ he begins, backing away slowly from the crowd and up the stairs to his palace, “I’m not really a marrying kind of Devil, you see –“
“Nonsense!” Dromos cries heartily, advancing on him with the determination of a sledgehammer about to strike. “You just haven’t met the right demoness yet!”
“My cousin, Stalos, has a fine girl; tits like a cow!”
“I saw his girl, she’s the size of a mountain; don’t listen to him, my Lord – my girl spits fire! That can sure come in handy!”
Lucifer barricades himself in his rooms for two whole days.
****
A few days later, he finally manages to escape his pesky demons.
With a roll of his shoulders, he spreads his white wings and flies upwards to sit on his throne.
Silence.
Finally, silence.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying not to choke on the falling ash.
Alone, at last. Now he can finally think of Chloe in peace.
Out of the blue, a bellow interrupts the eerie stillness of the upper atmosphere.
“Sire!” Dromos’ booming voice resonates through the vastness of Hell, washing over the terrain like a putrid wave, “You forgot your jumper!”
Lucifer groans.