Chapter Text
Raphael had decided that tonight would be the perfect time to indulge in an awfully mortal philosophical discourse that quite literally, apparently, had gotten some people wanted and murdered in the 17th century.
He had been pacing across the marble floors of his boudoir. One hand on his chin, as the other held none other than Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy.
Before him, Haarlep lounged on the velvet bed of his, impatiently waiting on their beloved master to finally join them for bed. Or perhaps, join them for something more fun.
“Raphael,” Haarlep purred, “You have been on that book of yours for hours on end now.” The incubus stretched like a cat across the bed with a grin on their face. “Perhaps we can try something more fun than mulling over a poor mortal’s existential crisis.”
Raphael halted mid-pace, but his eyes didn’t leave the book. “What could be more interesting than studying a mortal’s weakness that was just waiting to be exploited?” He stated as a matter of factly. “This work may not be pointing towards the truth of our world, but it is fascinating. I must meditate on this.”
Haarlep tilted their head in confusion. “If it isn’t even true for our world, then I doubt that it is even worth your time, master of mine.”
“Ah, doubt,” he said, almost as if to himself. “To doubt is the first step one must take to meditate on this.”
Oh no. Haarlep slowly sat up. The incubus’ mind was racing, trying to find a way out of being an unwilling audience and participant of whatever discourse Raphael decided to meditate on.
But the moment Raphael raised his one hand, reading the first sentence of the book aloud, Haarlep knew that they had no choice but to indulge in the spawn of Mephistopheles’ grandiose act of deciphering mortal philosophy.
“To begin: the senses deceive us. The senses can be easily deceived either by an all powerful deceiver, devils like you or I, or simply from mistaking a mere vivid dream as reality.”
Haarlep face scrunched. “But devils most certainly have better things to do than deceive mortals like Dee-cart-ice.”
“Descartes,” Raphael corrected the incubus.
“If they can be deceived,” the cambion pressed on, “then I can be deceived. What if everything I, Raphael, have ever perceived has been nothing but illusion? What if my entire reality, my wins and losses, my past and present, my grand plan, are all simply a dream?”
Haarlep grinned. “There’s some truth to that.”
Raphael glared at the incubus before continuing. “Consider this: I perceive myself as handsome, intelligent, powerful—,”
“Debatable.”
“—but what if some powerful deceiver, some supreme trickster, a master of manipulation, has fashioned an illusion of my life so convincing that I merely believe myself to be all these things while, in truth, I am none?”
Silence.
Haarlep stared at him, then slowly curled into laughter, hiding their face in a pillow.
Oh, their next report to the Lord of the Eight would be exceptionally interesting.
“Oh, my little brat,” they gasped between giggles. “You have finally done it. You’ve thought yourself into an existential crisis. How do you feel?”
But Raphael simply ignored the incubus. He was pacing once more. This time, his eyes wide with revelation.
“Nothing is certain,” he muttered. “Nothing can be trusted. Perhaps even the Nine Hells are nothing but a figment of my corrupted imagination.”
“I must doubt everything,” Raphael declared. “Even you.”
Haarlep lifted their face up from the pillow, staring at him in shock… and something else.
After a pause, the incubus clutched their chest in mock heartbreak. “Doubt me? After all the decadent moments we have shared on this very bed? My little brat, you know better than to assume that.”
“No, especially you,” Raphael insisted. “After all, you might be the deceiver.”
“Mm-hmm,” Haarlep said, patting the space in the bed beside them. “Come lay with me before you let yourself spiral further, little one.”
Raphael relented, and sat beside the incubus in the bed before exhaling dramatically. “So it begins. The first of my meditations… the dissolution of all I know.”
Haarlep sighed before curling their tail teasingly around his thigh. “Then let me remind you, dear one,” they purred, “exactly why your senses are most trustworthy here in this world of ours.”
“I have arrived at a new certainty!” Raphael declared, startling the incubus awake. “Even if everything else is deception, I must undeniably exist. As something must be doing the doubting.”
Haarlep blinked, one hand rubbing against their eyes. Groaning in slight annoyance after being abruptly woken. “So… your grand revelation is: you exist.”
“It is foundational!” Raphael snapped, insulted. “I am a thinking thing. The very being who thinks and who doubts.”
“Ah, that you are. A dramatic brat who thinks very loudly,” Haarlep corrected, before slumping back to bed.
Raphael paced toward one of the many candles decorating the House of Hope. He cupped a hand dramatically around one of the hardened wax stuck on the floor.
“Behold: a piece of wax.”
Haarlep arched an eyebrow. “And?”
“Allow me to indulge you in a thought experiment,” he invited, although he sounded more like a poor man on the streets of Baldur’s Gate whose mind had been wrecked by a fae.
“This wax. It is solid, shaped, scented. Yet, it remains identifiable even as its properties change. Its essence persists regardless of what the senses report.”
“Mm. Fascinating. Truly. I am on the edge of my seat,” Haarlep didn’t even bother looking up. Instead, they kept their gaze on their own copy of a mortal literature Korrilla had dropped off this morning; A November 2025 issue of The Vogue.
With a snap, Raphael melted the wax with a small spark of hellfire. The shape softened, sagged, dripped onto the floor. Haarlep finally lifted their nose from the magazine and gestured lazily at the mess. “And… what have we learned?”
“That the senses mislead,” Raphael said, triumphant. “Understanding comes only from the intellect. From reason alone.”
Haarlep nodded, although their eyes had already returned back on the article that was desperately trying to sell them an overpriced lump of rock. “I don’t think I need to melt candles to know that, dear one.”
Raphael sat dramatically on the velvet sofa in front of his boudoir, startling the poor debtor who was nearby.
“Consider this,” he said, “the idea of a perfect, infinite being.”
Haarlep’s eyes gleamed, curious. “Oh? Finally writing that autobiography of yours?”
“No,” Raphael hissed, annoyed. “For I, as magnificent as I am, are unmistakably finite. Yet, the idea of perfection exists within my mind. Such an idea must have a cause, and that cause cannot be me.”
Haarlep smirked. “I never thought that you would ever admit your weaknesses this easily, Raphael. I am impressed.”
Raphael glared at the incubus.
“But it’s what you said.”
Raphael sighed. What has he become? But, he mustn’t allow himself to be caught by his own ego. “It is philosophy, Haarlep. I…” he cleared his throat, “… must make allowances.”
Raphael poured himself a chalice of wine.
“Now, if a perfect being exists, it would not deceive me. Therefore, when I err, when I make a mistake, it is not malice from above but my own misuse of will.”
Haarlep nodded thoughtfully. “So… your mistakes are your fault,” they grinned. “Good to know.”
“What?! No!” Raphael immediately said. “It simply meant that I had failed to restrain my will.”
“So… that sounds like your fault.”
“It is simply the natural condition of finite intellect!”
Haarlep patted his cheek. “Of course it is, my little brat.”
Raphael sighed deeply, existentially this time. His hair was now a strewn mess, no longer beautifully and immaculately combed back. His doublet looked wrinkled. Truly an unusual sight for the typical grandiose Raphael you might expect.
“I have reached my conclusion, incubus. Our bodies exist. The external world exists. Sensation has its uses, provided that I approach it with proper caution.”
“So…” Haarlep said, painting their nails with a beautiful black polish they received from a PR box sent by some pretentious expensive mortal fashion brand, “…the universe is real again?”
“In a way. We can say that it is true, provisionally.”
“And that I exist?”
“It is probable.”
“How about the bed we are lying in?”
Raphael paused, squinted, tapped his chin, “It depends, we must—!”
Haarlep stuffed a pillow over his face, interrupting him.
“No,” they said firmly. “No more. Say one more word and I will not hold back from smothering you to death.”