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Neabaz fidgeted at the doorway, stained-glass wings flitting intermittently as he paced back and forth. He did not seem to notice Glasya as she arrived, his attention firmly elsewhere. Glasya had never seen any of Baalzebul’s servants look anything less than perfect, yet now the frays came loose. Neabaz’ hair was tangled, flashing different shades of red and pink with none of that calm stark white Glasya was used to. His clothes were tattered and he limped as he paced.
She cleared her throat, drawing Neabaz’s attention, then his ire. He flitted off the ground, or tried to, for in unfurling his wings he revealed an horrid hole torn into one, and with one pump, he winced and dropped back down with a cry. Glasya rushed to catch him–mostly on instinct she told herself. Neabaz’s face was twisted in pain. Air had passed over the torn wing, and now he felt it, agonizingly.
“What’s going on?” she asked, trying to keep her voice low. “Where’s Baalzebul?”
Neabaz just let out a sob, and Glasya lowered him to the ground and hissed to a devil servant, grabbing their attention.
“Get him back to his chambers and send for a healer,” she snapped. “ I will deal with your Lord.”
The devil hesitated, clearly not wanting to leave Glasya alone in the palace, but her ensuing glare made them gather Neabaz and usher him, stumbling, down the hall. Neabaz glanced back once, his watery eyes wide and fearful. Glasya almost felt bad, almost. Insect-winged devils had delicate wings, and healing them was difficult. She wanted to make certain whatever had caused that hole would not ground Neabaz permanently.
Why? She didn’t know.
The hallway beyond the door was destroyed, the stained glass shattered, statues smashed, and marble floors cracked. Glasya had to pick up her dress to properly step over the rubble.
This was not wrath, this pandemonium, and they both knew it. Even fallen as low as they could possibly sink, angels did not rage this destructively. This was more like an ornamental bird destroying its gilded cage because the bars snapped its wing. Panic, agony, despair perhaps, but not anger. Poor Neabaz, Glasya thought, to be so close at hand when his beloved angel had flown into such a state. Poor Baalzebul, she thought further, to have hurt his beloved herald so gravely.
The feathers appeared after a moment, iridescent white feathers edged with blacks and greens like some sort of fiendish patina. Angels, like birds, molted and plucked at their wings when in pain or stressed. Glasya picked up one feather, spinning it in her hand as she continued her careful walk. She suspected her father of this, in truth. Asmodeus did not hate Baalzebul–to say as much would be too generous. Glasya’s father, more accurately, preferred Baalzebul shattered, broken, naked and vulnerable.
Glasya pushed aside the tattered curtains leading to Baalzebul’s personal chambers, finding the angel himself crumpled at the end of a great circular bed, sleeping limply as his rampage must’ve left him exhausted. His wings were barely feathered, and one hung askew, broken. Glasya felt a bit of a pang in her chest. She had broken a wing before, the pain had been unbearable. She shifted the wing lightly, just positioning it so it could be set easier, then looked around.
Baalzebul’s bedchamber was rendered all in white and gold, lit only dimly with star lamps, mostly framing a great mural on the wall behind the bed. The painted heavens stretched out with a spine of stars, wide and great. Across the night sky flew a great comet set with reds and pinks and oranges. Glasya traced the red comet gently, marveling at how carefully it had been rendered. The detail was so precise. She had only seldom seen the night sky, but knew in her chest this mural was rendered from memory.
Behind her, Baalzebul grunted, stirring, she turned, watching his eyes open slow as he sat up. Tears tracked down his face, and his usually shimmering eyes had dulled to a dark green, left puffy and red. His auburn hair was a tangled mess and as he sat up he grabbed his shoulder and grimaced. He let out a soft cry of pain, and Glasya rushed to him.
“Gentle, gentle Baalzebul,” she begged. “I can fix it. Just stay still.”
Baalzebul blinked, sending tears down his cheeks as his brow knit. Using one hand as a guide, Glasya moved the bones of Baalzebul’s wing back in place, making him whimper and clutch the bedsheets with both hands. His shoulders shook as he resisted writhing in pain. As each bone fell back in place, Glasya sent a bolt of healing magic through his wing. It did nothing for the molt, but the wing eventually looked like new. Baalzebul stretched it a little, but kept his head buried into the end of the bed.
“What do you want?” he asked, his tone a lot more hostile than Glasya thought deserved.
“Originally, this was about trade disputes,” Glasya plopped down next to Baalzebul and looked up at the beautiful mural of Celestia painted across the ceiling. “Then I saw Neabaz outside your chambers.”
Baalzebul bolted upright and began to stand. His legs unfolded and he began to leave when Glasya caught him.
“I told your servants to look after him,” she reassured the panicked angel. “I want to know what happened to you .”
Baalzebul spat at Glasya. She flinched, but held her resolve, even as Baalzebul struggled and kicked, trying to pull himself free.
“Stop, stop, you’re going to hurt yourself,” she urged, pulling Baalzebul over to sit down. “Neabaz is fine .”
Baalzebul bared his teeth, but seemed to realize the tactic wasn’t working and settled a little. He still glared at Glasya, but it was progress. With Baalzebul still and his destroyed wings folded behind him, Glasya took the time to bind both of Baalzebul’s wings in blankets, then settled behind Baalzebul, brushing through his long auburn hair.
“My father did this,” she guessed. “Didn’t he? No one else would dare.”
“I hurt Nea,” Baalzebul croaked out.
“Your wing was broken,” Glasya pointed out. “Neabaz adores you. He’ll understand.”
Baalzebul lifted his hand to his shoulder. “Why are you helping me?”
“You’ve never given me reason to hate you,” Glasya reasoned. She let Baalzebul’s hair settle and sat beside Baalzebul. “I also think it’s horrid, what my father’s doing to you…what Celestia did to you.”
“What Celestia did,” Baalzebul echoed, the bitterness playing in his throat. “I did everything my god asked of me, I did it perfectly , like he wanted.”
Glasya took Baalzebul’s hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I wish I could help.”
“I don’t want you to help,” Baalzebul answered. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt because of me.”
“I don’t think my father cares.”
“Your father can fucking choke.”
Glasya smirked, then looked back at the mural above the bed. “Is that the view from Celestia?” she asked, drawing Baalzebul’s gaze.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “The balcony overlooking Lunia from the Court. That,” he pointed to the comet, “is the King-Killer Star. It passes by Toril every three hundred years.”
“Why’s it called the King-Killer?” Glasya asked, rolling onto her stomach. Baalzebul fell back and smiled, seemingly aware of what Glasya was doing.
“The elves of Toril set up a mythal connected to the comet, and it drove one ancient dragon king so mad his subjects were forced to slay him. As he died, he said ‘the red star murdered me’.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It is. I used to watch it pass the mountain from the balcony. The stars were always so perfect. I wanted to be like them.”
“Do you miss seeing them?”
Baalzebul stared up at the mural, the answer unspoken but Glasya waited for it anyway.
“Yes.”