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Satan is a demon.
At least that’s what everyone tells him.
Though every time he looks at his reflection, he can’t help but feel… wrong.
He doesn’t know what it is. But the feeling of wrongness keeps crawling under his skin, an accumulation of little things creeping in the back of his mind until they threaten to burst out.
It’s the whispers behind his back, the sneers from other demons. Their disdain is different from the one they give his so-called brothers—his blood boils at the notion of even calling them that—their contempt stronger, tinged with revulsion and disgust.
It’s in the way pitch black writhes up his arms whenever wrath paints his vision red, raven feathers sprouting from his skin until they’re all he’s made of. The way his powers simmer in his veins, always a hair’s breadth away from exploding into a violent fit until someone restrains him. The hollow feeling in his chest, feeling too little and too much at the same time, his only emotion the deeply familiar rage seething in his brain. It’s the only thing filling his mind, his sole memories—they’re not even his—vague scraps from that asshole.
Satan grits his teeth, nails digging into his palms at the mere thought of that bastard.
But most of all, it’s his own body. It’s in his eyes, swallowing everything caught in them, their only reflection a black hole as he tarnishes even the light touching him. He has observed it since he first took note of it: watched the light dance in the fallen angels’ eyes, as well as the demon prince’s. It’s only him, only his eyes, that can’t function right. A constant reminder that he is different from them, less than them.
He stalks to the mirror in his room, scrutinizing himself once again.
The void stares back at him, mockingly, as if to say, ‘See? I’ve told you so.’
His fists shake and before he knows it, only shattered pieces lie at his feet.
Satan is faintly aware of some stray splinters digging into his hand, scalding liquid dripping down. He shakes them off, ignoring the slight sting and gushing red. His gaze skims over his broken bed, wrecked furniture littering the ground.
Agitation bubbles in his chest. It sets his nerves ablaze, fills his nothingness with hatred, hot like molten iron.
His body moves on its own, slamming the door shut as Satan steps into the dimly lit hallway, no goal in mind except to satiate this rage.
His eyes dart around, but he doesn’t see anything, only feels the way ancient wood splinters in his claws. Glass shatters, the sound music to his ears, as he drives his heels into the shards. The strong smell of iron fills his senses, fuelling his fury in the most satisfying way.
It’s not enough, he needs more.
Fabric. It tears apart. There’s something in his mouth. He bites, needles on his tongue as his canines sink in. His tail clashes against the wall. It creaks, it crumbles, he digs deeper.
Hands pierce something soft, something hard. Like a spine. He rips it out. The sound of breaking bones fills his mind, and he searches, craves more of it. Wants to hear the screams, the power as he—
Satan freezes.
Time stands still.
The metallic glint of shackles flashes in his mind. He trashes against the invisible hold, pure instinct taking over.
Nothing happens.
He can’t move.
His chest heaves as he stands over the remnants of the hallway’s contents, mind racing, searching for an escape, until he hears soft footsteps at the end of the hall.
Satan narrows his eyes and growls. He watches the dark, gaze flitting from side to side. A silhouette emerges from the shadows, asymmetric hair framing a disapproving frown.
The demon butler steps around the wreckage, stopping in front of him.
“Satan.”
Satan snarls, the displeasure in the other’s voice reminding him far too much of raven wings looming over him as if they were superior. He snaps at the butler’s raised hand, his teeth missing it by a wide margin.
The invisible grip grows stronger, forcefully clenching his jaw. The butler clicks his tongue, and for a brief moment his eyes seem to shine in an unnatural green light. But just as fast as it appeared, it’s gone.
“I do not recall you receiving permission to destroy the Young Master’s possessions.”
Satan growls, his jaw still forced shut. Acid coats the inside of his mouth, his eyes filled with hatred. If he could just—
The force squeezes his throat. With each passing minute, it’s cutting off more of his airways, slowly crushing his trachea. Satan claws, kicks, tries everything to stop it, but his limbs remain immobile. Pressure builds in his head, threatening to crack, and his lungs scream for oxygen. Black splotches creep into his vision, and he can feel his consciousness slip through his fingers.
And just as suddenly as it appeared, it drops him.
Without the hold keeping him upright, Satan crumbles on the ground like a broken toy. He greedily sucks in air between the coughs that tear through his body.
In front of him, he can make out the butler’s dress shoes, and Satan glares at him as he struggles to breathe.
The other only regards him with an apathetic glance before he turns around and walks away.
“Follow me.”
Satan watches the retreating figure. Wrath burns in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole with no outlet to direct it at.
He grits his teeth, and scrambles to his feet. His tail lashes out behind him, vexed, but Satan tamps it down. He already knows not to disobey the other.
The demon prince may be entertained enough by the fallen angels and him to put on a benevolent mask and overlook their outburst, but he’s learned painfully that the butler isn’t the same.
Splintered wood and glass shards crunch beneath his sole: the only sound in the quiet of night.
The other leads Satan to the kitchen. With a flick of his fingers, the candles light up, and he gestures towards the table.
“Sit,” the butler orders him, not even bothering to look at Satan as he browses the cabinets.
One of Satan’s eyebrows ticks in annoyance, but he bites his tongue and complies, sharp nails digging into his palm. The phantom of cold metal stings around his wrists.
Satan waits as the butler prepares a cup of tea, ignoring Satan’s presence until he places the steaming beverage in front of him.
“Drink.”
Satan doesn’t move. He eyes the cup warily till he hears a low chuckle and glares at the demon.
The butler just smiles at him, infantilizing, and his arrogance makes Satan’s fury surge up.
Chains, bound too tight against chafed skin, a whip lashing against his open wounds. His nails draw blood.
“Rest assured. If I wanted to harm you, it would not be by poison.”
For a moment, the butler flickers before his eyes. Satan blinks at the trick of light, and when he opens his eyes again it has stopped. He grabs the teacup—ceramic, an awful choice—but doesn’t drink.
“What do you want?”
A small hum. The demon sits down across from him, folding his hands.
“I believe I told you, I do not appreciate you wrecking havoc on the Young Lord’s property.”
Satan growls.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” If it did, they wouldn’t be sitting here.
Another hum. It pisses Satan off, cracks forming beneath his hands, the hot drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
The butler ignores his temper, an undecipherable look in his eyes.
“You might say, I’ve felt a kindred soul.”
“Bullshit.”
The other chuckles again, eyes crinkling into crescent moons, watching Satan as if he could see right through him.
“We’re not really demons.”
What?
Satan tries to make sense of the sentence; he tries to string together the words which he understands individually, but which together lose their meaning. They repeat in his mind until one stands out in particular.
“We?”
The butler smiles down on him, as if he were looking at a stupid child. As if Satan should already know what he meant.
Ceramic shatters under his fingers, and Satan bares his teeth.
He hates it. He hates how everyone seems to know everything and expects him to do the same. Hates how no one ever explains anything, how he is the only one stumbling around in the dark, getting stuck on the most mundane things.
Hatred burns in his veins, clouding his mind in its familiar—comforting—emotion.
Only the scorching memories of his cell in the dungeon keep Satan in his seat.
“You and I,” the butler speaks, as he picks up one of the ceramic shards. “We’re not really demons. If I had to elaborate, I’d say a demon is the closest being we resemble.”
The other opens his palm, holding the fragment of Satan’s teacup. His eyes glow and his wing-like horns flutter minimally. Satan doesn’t know what he sees, can’t find the words to describe it, as time and space seem to warp in the butler’s hand. The pressure in the room rises, knocking the air out of his lungs.
Seconds later, the shattered tableware is in front of him, not a crack to be seen. The boiling water in the cup is crystal clear. Next to it, a small pile of tea leaves. He watches as they grow from their shrivelled up state, vivid greens painting their surface. They levitate, as stems and roots sprout from their cut ends until a small plant sits on the table.
Satan looks up, and he swears that he can see the inklings of a clock hand in the fading glow of the butler’s eyes.
The air lightens and he can breathe again.
“What was that?”
It wasn’t a grand or powerful spell by far, but with everything Satan knows it should have been impossible. Matters of death were strictly restricted to reapers, and even then, they were just passive overseers.
But without batting an eye, the butler—is he a butler at all?—resurrected the plant. Was it resurrection? Perhaps something else? Reversion?
The other doesn’t look exhausted, as if this were as easy as breathing.
“What are you?”
“I am Barbatos.”
Satan hisses. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I already told you. I’m as much Barbatos as you are Satan. And I’m no more a demon than you.” He sighs, hands folded again. “The Devildom doesn’t take kindly to outsiders. Let this be a warning: you must adapt. Almost everyone here already hates you and your brothers, but they can’t do anything as long as the Royal Family favours the fallen angels. Don’t let them find out you’re different.”
His gaze bores into Satan, and he can’t look away. For the first time, Satan notices the lack of a reflection in the other’s eyes. They swallow the light in their infinite depth, never to return what they’ve taken.
The butler is the first to break the contact, standing up and walking to the door.
“I will retire for the night. I ask you, for your own good, to refrain from another rampage. For tonight, you may use the room next to yours.”
With that he leaves.
His words still echo in Satan’s head, the plant in front of him healthy and alive.
There was something in the other’s eyes, in the tone of his voice: a deep-rooted understanding Satan has never experienced before. It was a far cry from sympathy—or what he read sympathy to be—more like raw knowledge, a cautionary tale.
And even if Satan doesn’t want to admit it, Barbatos is the most kindred being he has met since he opened his eyes for the first time.