Chapter Text
A tyrant; that is what they called her.
A conqueror on a warpath paved with blood and fire and death.
She was young, then. She was brave, bold, and brash and so eager to prove to herself and the world that she was worthy to rule. "Join or die" became her unofficial motto; join her growing empire or be trampled underfoot. It was in this way that she swept across the land. It was in this way that she crushed all who dared oppose her. It was in this way that she became the Empress of Hell, the unquestionable ruler of the underworld.
And then, as all things do, she changed. Time passed and with it, she shed the armor of a conqueror in favor of the robes of an Empress. The blazing fire and fury of her youth was tempered into a calm flame. She learned to rule with a gentle hand where applicable, and with an iron fist when necessary. With the passage of time she gained wisdom, and so she became the great Empress history would remember her by.
When her time finally came, as it does for all things, the Empress greeted it with a calm acceptance that comes with old age. Surrounded by those she loved, the First Empress of Hell passed into her final slumber, content and at peace.
He didn't want to die; that was the thought most prevalent in his mind as he stumbled blindly through forest, the full moon shining down through the branches.
He was scared, frightened, and confused, not yet able to fully come to terms all that had happened in the last couple days.
It had started as a day like any other. He awoke with the rising sun, washed and dressed himself, and ate the breakfast set out by the kitchen staff. Then he attended his daily lessons, where he studied politics and math and literature under private tutors. After an afternoon meal, he underwent his combat lessons with the captain of the guard, which went on until the sun began to set. A short time later, just before he would have his dinner, everything went to brimstone.
His first warning had been a cry of alarm and then the sounds of fighting echoing through the halls of the castle. Confused and unsure where to go, he ran to the throne room where he was certain his father would be - loathe as he was to rely on the man who had become so distant after mother died, his father was king and the safest place would be at his side. As predicted, he found his father in the throne room, but he was unprepared for what he found.
Laying in a pool of blood was his father, royal garments stained with that vital essence. Above the king stood a dreadfully familiar man: Samael, the stranger who appeared shortly after mother's death and took advantage of the king's grief to insert himself as the king's closest advisor. He had never trusted the man whose handsome face and charming personality gained the favor of many, a wolf in sheep's clothing. Still, right as he was, it did not please him in any way to witness the sight of Samael standing over the king's corpse. Rather, it filled him with terror, even more so as Samael's gaze found him and gestured to him with the bloodied sword. From the shadows stepped men in dark armor, who rushed toward him at the betrayer's command.
Fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins, he ran as fast as he could from the usurper, the heavy sounds of metal boots close behind him. He did not pay close attention to his surroundings as he ran, years of living in the castle allowing an almost instinctual awareness of the castle layout that made it all the easier to escape. And then he was outside, through courtyards and gardens and the defensive wall. Through the city that lived beyond the castle, ducking through side streets and alleyways until he was beyond even the city. He ran until his legs fell out from under him and his lungs burned, and as he looked around he saw he was quite a distance away from the place he called home... and shadowy figures carrying torches were slowly approaching him from down the road.
Once more, fear drove him to run, and so he did. He did not keep track of how much time passed, only stopping briefly to rest or eat a bit of food he had managed to steal from a village he passed through. All other time he spent running, constantly looking over his shoulder and watching his surroundings with something equivalent to paranoia. He had made it to the edge of the territory of the kingdom that once belonged to his father when they caught up to him.
His foot caught on the raised root of a tree and he went careening forward, tumbling to the forest floor with a grunt of pain. The impact took the breath from his lungs and stunned him, leaving him only able to numbly roll onto his back and watch as men in dark armor, carrying torches to light their way, closed in on him. One, nearer to him than the others, drew a blade and prepared to strike.
He didn't want to die.