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Abel had been in Heaven for a long, long time, yet the past month had been the most exciting, terrifying, exhausting month of his afterlife. It started when a sinner somehow redeemed himself and ascended to Heaven. Weird, sure, but cool. Then, some TV-headed guy in Hell declared war on Heaven. Less cool. Heaven was scrambling to figure out how to deal with it, and Abel? Well, he learned just how unqualified he was for a position of authority. He'd never been so scared in his life. (Except for that time his brother repeatedly bashed him over the head with a rock. That was pretty scary.)
In the end, he had the exorcist army on backup in case something went wrong while Charlie, Emily, and a bunch of Charlie's demon friends, whose names he did not learn, fixed the TV guy's mess. Then, while Emily and co were magically disarming the TV's Lucifer-powered doomsday device (long story), Lute just had to shove in and try to ruin everything. That woman was scary. It was like she wanted the device to blow up half of Hell. Crazy, huh?
Abel really didn't know what to do in that situation. He had a full-on panic attack and everything. He'd never been so stressed that his nose bled before. In the end, miraculously, he managed to summon up enough will to not just request, but command that Lute fall back, stay in line, and not cause the deaths of thousands. So, that felt good. What felt less good was how mean he felt in that moment. Sure, his dad called his exorcists bitches all the time, but that didn't make it feel any better.
After that whole mess, Heaven and the Hazbin Hotel teamed up to work towards redeeming even more sinners. (Super bummer name, by the way. Why couldn't they have chosen a more uplifting name, like, I dunno..."Happy Hotel?") Now that the whole "impending war" mess was over, everyone seemed a lot happier. Even Emily, who had lost one of her six wings during the incident, was overjoyed at how everything had turned out.
Abel was happy that everything had turned out fine in the end, sure, but everything that had happened allowed a strange, hollow feeling to burrow deep inside his chest. Hell was terrifying, Lute was terrifying, and seeing one of Emily's wings be turned into nothing but a scrap of bloodied bones was, you guessed it, terrifying. He should've felt good about how he managed to muster the courage to call Lute back into line, but truthfully, he hated how it made him feel. All commanding and mean. Yuck. He really wasn't cut out for this, was he?
He yearned to spill his guts and tell someone, anyone, how he really felt, but fear kept him in shackles. He’d tried to share his insecurities with his dad before, but all that got him was a burst of raucous laughter and the privilege of being called…what was it? A “fuck-ass little bitch who went crying to daddy instead of manning up and growing a pair?” Yeah, that was it.
So, that was how he ended up there, lying flat on his bed, clutching a soft, white, plush sheep like a lifeline. He stared blankly at his ceiling, his brain so loud and frantic it drowned out any coherent thought, leaving him sitting in a silent pool of confusing emotion. When did happiness become so difficult? He lived in Heaven. He had everything he could ever want; what right did he have to be miserable? Maybe Dad was right. Maybe he needed to just get over it. The question was: how did one go about “getting over it?”
…
Yeah, he was drawing a blank. Dangit. He would’ve been grateful when a sudden knock at the door gave him something else to focus on, if it didn’t also scare the life out of him. He sat up with a jolt, wings flaring out so fast he shed a few feathers, sending them floating harmlessly to the floor. Chances were that it was Emily, checking up on her friends like she always did. He should’ve been happy that Emily had come to say hi, but the thought of seeing her right now, or rather, seeing the prosthetic that was once one of her wings, filled him with an icy sense of dread, which melted into guilt at the realization. People were definitely not supposed to dread seeing their dear friends, right? Sure, it was an unpleasant reminder of the events that had transpired, but compared to Emily? He got off easy. Ugh. Why did he have to feel these things!? Cut it out, brain.
Abel sat up, ran his fingers through his hair, and cleared his throat, praying that he looked even somewhat presentable. “Come in!” He called, sitting up straight with a deep breath.
Lute stepped through the doors, and Abel sat up with a jolt, heart rate nearly doubling. Shitshitshitshit-! Oh, was she finally here to kill him after how he treated her? Damnit, she was just like Cain! “Ah! M-Miss Lute!” He stammered. “Hi! Um…you, uh, you need something?” Lute was silent for a long moment, simply staring at him with eyes that seemed to pierce right through him. She caught sight of the plush lamb in his lap, and her expression soured, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Abel,” She said coldly. “We need to talk.” Those words were enough to make his blood run cold, a horrible sinking feeling settling in his stomach. “Oh! Um, yeah? Okay! Shoot!” Abel laughed nervously. Lute stepped closer, making Abel instinctively shift back. “In Hell, when we were sent to fetch Emily…” She began, trailing off into an annoyingly long pause, making Abel shudder in anticipation. “...I hate to say it, but I think Adam would be proud of you.”
…
…Huh?
Abel stared blankly at her, mouth ajar. Out of all the things he’d expected to hear from her, that was definitely not on the list. The list was mostly made up of varying levels of murderous rage, but pride? Not just pride, but presumed pride from his father? Dad had never been proud of him when he was alive; why would he be now? Either Lute had lost her mind, or Abel had, and was now hearing and seeing things that weren't actually happening. “...Pardon?” Abel managed to squeak out. “You took control of the situation and asserted yourself as commander. I didn’t think you had it in you.” Another step closer. Her eyes were narrowed like a predator on the prowl, expression unreadable. “You reminded me a lot of your dad, then. He’d be proud.” Abel blinked owlishly at Lute. Was that what he did? He just remembered a lot of panic, and then calling Lute a bitch. That didn’t seem like much to be proud of, but he didn’t have the energy to argue. The sooner this conversation ended, the better. Ever since he saw her tearing up Dad’s old room, being near Lute gave him goosebumps. He couldn’t afford to show fear around her, though. He was her commander; he had to be the man in this situation. “Um, well…thanks?” Wait, that wasn’t asserting himself. “I mean, thanks. Thank you, Lute.” Damnit. Now he was just repeating himself. That didn’t seem like the confidence she wanted from him, either. Were his hands shaking? How did he make that stop? Lute quirked a brow at his behavior, but didn’t seem angry, which put him at least somewhat at ease. “Should I take this as a sign that you’ll finally be taking your responsibilities as head of the exorcist army seriously?” She asked. Right, Abel was still technically the head of an army. He’d been busy trying to forget that inconvenient little fact. “Weeeeelllll…I mean, I’ve been thinking…” Abel began. “How novel.” Lute muttered under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Continue.”
“...Okay. Well, um…” Wait, where was he going with this? Right! The exorcist army. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve started to wonder if we even need an exorcist army. Y’know, with the whole redemption project and all?” Abel regretted verbalizing his thoughts the moment he saw the look on Lute’s face. Ice-cold, and sharper than a razor blade. Shit! What could he say to make this better? He’d say anything for her to stop looking at him like that! “Have you forgotten what they’ve done to us? What they did to your father?” Lute growled.
Somehow, this frigid fury was heaps more terrifying than her usual explosive outbursts. Abel shivered under her gaze. “I-I mean, that was self-defense, right? We were the ones going down to their home and-”
“They were filthy sinners who deserved to die! Adam was not!” Lute shouted before Abel could even finish his thought, making the jittery blonde freeze like a statue. He never said his dad deserved death! Abel wanted to reply, but couldn’t find the words. “How could you forgive the very same lot responsible for his death? Are you that eager to let the souls with your father’s blood on their hands into Heaven? What, you looking to thank them?” Abel felt a sharp pang in his chest. Did she really think he thought that? The idea of anyone believing such a thing of him made his stomach twist. Then again, he’d heard whispers about how he “moved on from the tragedy too quickly.” Not just from Lute. Even Saint Peter had commented on it.
“Y’know my ‘shoulder to cry’ on offer is always available, right?”
“What? Oh! I appreciate it, Peter, but I’m actually fine! Really!”
“Really? ‘Cause your dad, who you knew for a few thousand years, just died, and I’ve only seen you cry about it, like, once.”
The words stung more than he’d even admit, especially coming from the man who knew him better than anyone. Did Saint Peter think the same thing Lute did? Sure, his relationship with his dad was…rocky, but that didn’t mean he was somehow happy about his death. Ooooh, he was thinking about this too much; it was making him sick. Happy thoughts, Abel. Happy thoughts. Hold on, he should probably say something, right? He really hoped Lute hadn’t seen his pause as suspicious. “I-I miss my dad,” (Did he? Or did he just miss the way he took care of things so that Abel didn’t have to?) “I don’t want to thank anyone for his death.”
“They still have that filthy little maid who killed him working at that hotel. She hasn’t faced a single consequence for her transgressions. How could you possibly stand behind this hotel when your father’s killer gets to run around carefree down there?” Lute pointed out, gaze unwavering. Abel felt a raw sense of horror settle into his very bones. Was that true? He didn’t know many of the details concerning his dad’s death; he’d always been too scared to ask. This maid, she got to keep living the same life she always had, oblivious, or perhaps just ignoring the grief she left behind?
No. NO! He couldn’t think like that. Emily believed in the hotel, and so would he! “It was self-defense!” He retorted, his voice coming out far more pleading than he’d prefer. “It wasn’t,” Lute hissed. “Adam was already down when the maid stabbed him in the back. They had every chance to show mercy. They’re no better than you think we are, Abel.” Abel really didn’t like the mental images Lute was painting in his mind. He felt like he was gonna puke. Did Emily know about this? Was she friends with this maid? Abel felt his eyes sting, his throat going dry as his stress compounded. Hold it together, Abel. Stay strong. Be the man Dad wanted you to be. The man that Lute needs you to be. “Are you saying that they all deserve to die, because one of them did something wrong?” He asked timidly. “They’re all the same! With this ‘redemption’ project, who knows what could happen? We could be opening the pearly gates to the very same sinner who slaughtered your father, for all we know!” Lute shouted, making Abel shiver, both from the thought and the sheer intensity in her voice. That couldn’t be true, could it? Not for someone like that. God, his chest felt tight. His skin was crawling. “I-I-I…” Abel stammered uselessly, words catching in his throat like they were barbed. Was there even a point to speaking? Did he have anything of value to say? Lute simply sighed, like the conversation was exhausting her. “Listen. Tomorrow, at noon, Sera and Emily have called a meeting to discuss the future of the exorcist army. Consider the facts before you jump to defend your friend. Your decision could end up with us defenseless the next time Hell tries to fight back.” She said coolly.
Was that why she was here? She really could’ve led with that, instead of taking Abel on this very unwanted emotional rollercoaster. “Okay.” Abel squeaked. Lute hummed, seemingly satisfied, and turned away, leaving without another word. Abel let out a long, exhausted sigh as soon as the doors closed behind her and flopped back onto his bed with all the grace of a whale falling out of the sky. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, the emotional fallout from the past few days seemed determined to cling to Abel like a parasite. He pulled the plush sheep against his chest and buried his face in its soft wool. Tomorrow, things would become clear, surely.
—
Abel didn’t get much sleep that night. Then again, he didn’t get much sleep any night as of late. He kept getting these nightmares about Lute with her hands soaked in red and gold, looking at him like Cain had looked at him all those centuries ago. Still, he was no slouch, and he was at the meeting on time and well-groomed, dragging Saint Peter behind him all the while. Nobody else seemed to think he had anything of value to input, but Abel liked having him around, so he’d keep dragging Heaven’s gatekeeper around until he got sick of it. It was pretty much tradition.
Sera stood tall and imposing as ever, watchful gaze taking in every minuscule movement in the room, expression neutral. Emily was much more open about her excitement at seeing Abel, waving at him like she was trying to dislocate her whole arm. Lute wasn’t glaring at him for once, which was somehow more unnerving than the status quo. She was looking at him almost expectantly. Abel hoped he wouldn’t disappoint her if she really was expecting something from him. Abel waved back at Emily with a genuine smile before taking his seat, hands folded politely on his lap. Saint Peter did the same. “You’re all here,” Sera noted. “Good. We may begin.” She stepped forward, hands behind her back, effortlessly regal as always. Abel wished he had even a smidge of her composure. “As you know, we are here to discuss the future of the exorcist army. We have reached a tentative peace with Hell, and the yearly exterminations have been put on hold. With these new developments, the exorcist army has seemingly become obsolete.” Sera turned her cool, grey gaze to Abel. “Abel, as head of the exorcists, it’s only fair that you get to decide the fate of the exorcist army. Where do you believe the army should go from here?” Abel felt the weight of authority crash back into him like a rock to the head. How could she say something like that so casually? This was a big decision! One that rested entirely on him. No pressure, right? He couldn’t help but dwell on Lute’s prior words, shivering at the memory. He had wanted to disband the army entirely and leave this whole “Commander Abel” thing behind, but what if Hell did declare another war? In an emergency like that, they didn’t have the time to scramble trying to get a bunch of out-of-practice exorcists back together. Of course, if such a thing ever happened, Abel didn’t want to be the one in charge of the army, but he couldn’t exactly step down, either. Next in line for the commander position was Lute, and there was no way he was giving her that power. “Um. Well, uh…” Abel flapped his hands about uselessly as he tried to find the words. Oh no, now Emily was giving him a concerned look. She was disappointed he didn’t immediately disband the army, wasn’t she? She wanted him to make complete peace with Hell, and he was already failing. He couldn’t give anyone what they wanted. Not Emily, not Lute, and certainly not his dad. He was as helpless as he was all those thousands of years ago. “I-I mean, do we have to go anywhere? We’re alright where we are, right?” Abel glanced around as he spoke, desperately seeking even the smallest crumb of approval. Lute hummed thoughtfully, but didn’t comment further, while Emily’s expression twisted into a frown. Saint Peter looked as uninterested as ever. “Charlie said guests are uncomfortable with the idea of there still being an army of exorcists on standby, and the exorcists have started to comment about feeling useless.” Emily said, earning a scoff from Lute. Sera nodded in agreement. “It’s true. Many exorcists have expressed interest in moving away from the army now that their efforts are less…in demand.” Sera explained. That was the first Abel had ever heard of anything of the sort. Some commander he was. He didn’t even know about the discontent in his own army! Dad would’ve known, wouldn’t he? Dad would have made a decision by now. No matter if Abel agreed with his choices or not, his father was firm and decisive, the perfect traits for a leader to have. “Their efforts are still needed, whether they know it or not,” Lute hissed, giving the pair of seraphims a look of poorly hidden scorn. “A precedent has been set, and just because one warmonger has been disarmed doesn’t mean more won't try following in his footsteps. To leave Heaven defenseless would be reckless and foolish.”
Abel hated that both stances made sense to him. He hated that Lute of all people was making sense to him. He’d been there when the TV guy declared war, and he had to pace for a solid hour and a half just to work through his anxiety. It would’ve been worse if they didn’t have a backup plan, right? Then again, he was also there when the TV man’s weapon went haywire, and the exorcists hadn’t done a thing to help disarm the giant death laser. Having an exorcist like Lute down there only made the situation worse. “Can we not just…let them leave if they want to? I’m sure some will stick around if we need them…” Abel mumbled. Lute shot him a death glare. “You are their commander. You don’t give them choices, you give them orders.” Lute growled, eyes smoldering with embers of white-hot fury that made his feathers stand on end. Oh, how desperately he wanted to run out of the room and never look back. “Well…I order them to choose their own future.” Abel offered with a sheepish smile that wobbled far too much to be genuine. That only made Lute scowl harder. “Those filthy demons have only been getting bolder, and your solution is to reduce our ranks even further? You’d be dooming all of Heaven to the same fate as your dad!” Abel winced hard, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emily do the same. “Yikes.” Abel heard Saint Peter mutter from his side, helpful as ever.
Lute got to her feet and stepped in front of Abel, grabbing his hands and squeezing tightly enough to bruise. The cold, hard metal of her prosthetic made Abel feel like his fingers were being crushed in a vice. “Listen to me. Heaven is more at risk now than ever. If that princess is going to keep forcing sinners through the pearly gates, then we need to be prepared for when they show their true colors. Remember the maid? What happens if she ends up here? You think she’ll stop at your father?” Abel swallowed thickly, a pang of fear shooting through his chest like a bullet made of ice. Why, oh why did she have to keep bringing that up? “Do you even care about your dad’s sacrifice? He gave his life fighting back against demon scum, and now you want his death to be in vain?” Lute hissed, her grip on his hands getting impossibly tighter. Even with her bruising his hands, there was a hint of fear and desperation in Lute's voice that tugged at Abel's heart. “W-what?! NO! Of course not!” He shrieked, trying and failing to pull his hands away. His face distorted in pain as he gritted his teeth. “Lute! Let him go!” Emily cried, fluttering over to hover over Abel like a worried mother bird. Lute bristled and flared her wings, looking like she was just about ready to pounce on poor Emily. “Not until he sees some sense!” Lute barked back. Abel flinched, while Emily simply gawked at the blatant insubordination. The energy in the room had shifted at a breakneck pace. Before it was tense; now it was downright suffocating. Trapped in Lute’s grasp, powerless to get away from her abnormal strength, Abel felt his heart begin to pound, the sound thrumming loudly in his ears. Faintly, through the rush of blood in his ears, he could hear Saint Peter and Emily both protesting, but it wasn’t until Sera said her name that Lute would let go. Abel immediately jerked his trembling hands back, clutching them protectively against his chest. He stumbled back, accidentally bumping into Saint Peter in the process. “Shit!” Abel hissed under his breath, tripping over his own feet. Saint Peter had to catch him to keep him from toppling over entirely. The feeling of his friend's arms supporting him was not helping with his already rapid heartbeat. “Jeez, man! You good?” Peter whispered in his ear, barely audible over the sound of Sera scolding a fuming Lute. Abel couldn’t find the words. He could still feel the ghost of cold metal against his hands. His eyes darted around, flitting between Sera and Lute arguing, Emily scurrying closer to fuss over him, and Saint Peter gazing down at him in concern. Why did every meeting with Lute have to turn out like this?? Every. Damn. Time. Abel staggered to his feet, away from Saint Peter. His vision blurred with unshed tears. He wasn’t upset with Lute, at least, not entirely. No, he was upset with himself. He hated how easily he unraveled. He hated how weak he was in the face of the smallest inconvenience. He outright despised how fragile he was, and his loathing only made him tear up more. A horrible concoction of panic and self-loathing rapidly compounded inside of him, turning any remaining shred of Abel’s self-esteem into dust. He couldn’t do this. He had to get out of there before he snapped. Ignoring Saint Peter and Emily’s worried cries, Abel swung the doors of the council room open and ran as fast as he could.
—
Abel had wanted to collapse back into the familiar softness of his bed and pretend he never left it in the first place, but the rapid rise of bile in his throat convinced him to make a pit stop. It only took a few violent heaves over a nearby trash can for the contents of his guts to come pouring out, the sweetness from the candy he always seemed to be snacking on mixing with the bitter bile that burned in his throat, creating a sickening nectar that coated the inside of his mouth in a vile, acrid flavor. His throat stung, leaving him coughing violently over the bin even after the outpouring of vomit ceased. He felt something warm run down his cheek, and he couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears. His legs were shaking like a newborn faun, his heart beating fast enough to make a hummingbird worry. His vision blurred, and all he could see was the terrifying image of Lute glaring at him, eyes blazing. That look in her eyes…it was the same look Cain had given him moments before his world went black. Uncut hatred and jealousy, burning brighter than the sun. Lute was stronger and more experienced than Abel, not to mention she had access to angelic weaponry. If she wanted to overpower and kill him, she could do so. Easily. The thought earned another violent heave from Abel.
Suddenly, Abel felt a hand rest upon his shoulder, and he screamed. His whole body jolted and thrashed like he’d been hit by lightning, wings puffing up to twice their usual size. He whipped around, shouting what was meant to be: “Oh my God, please don’t hurt me!” but came out in a burst of panicked gibberish instead. Saint Peter flinched back, staring wide-eyed at his terrified friend. Guilt pooled in Abel’s chest at the sight. Shit. He hadn’t meant to lash out at poor Peter like that. “Uh. Sorry.” Peter managed to blurt, openly stunned at Abel’s outburst.
Abel blinked his blurred vision back into focus, trying to ground himself on the familiar sight of his best friend's face. He let himself sink into the clear blue pools of his eyes, cool and comforting, even when brimming with worry. Abel inhaled deeply, letting Peter’s frustratingly perfect presence be his anchor. “Oh, jeez. I’m so sorry, that was really loud.” Abel stammered, waving his hands about helplessly. Peter’s eyes tracked every movement, like he wasn’t entirely sure Abel wouldn’t freak out again and hit him. “Are you alright?” He asked, then immediately shook his head. “Actually, don’t answer that. You’re clearly not, and as much as I can appreciate a dramatic exit, I have a feeling that wasn’t just for theatrics.” Abel would’ve laughed if he weren’t still so on edge. He wished he had a fraction of Peter’s ability to find humor in even the craziest shitshow. With his quick and easy wit, it was no wonder they got along. Meanwhile, Abel could barely form a cohesive sentence. Why Peter tolerated him would forever be a mystery to Abel. “I, um…yeah. Sorry, just didn’t wanna throw up in the council chambers, y'know? Seemed like a bit of a faux pas…” Abel shrugged meekly. Peter gave him a skeptical look for a few beats before sighing with all the exasperation of someone who dealt with Abel undermining his issues more than anyone else. “I get it. Lute is scary. Remember that time she nearly threw a sword through my head?” Abel grimaced at the memory of Lute’s violent tendencies, and Peter clearly noticed, giving him a sympathetic wince which made Abel’s heart ache. He wasn’t the only one affected by Lute’s temper, but he was the only one making such a scene about it. “Yeeeeah, probably shouldn’t have brought that up. Point is, I get it. Can’t blame you for being scared of her getting all angry and handsy. Totally not your fault.” Peter assured him, but Abel couldn’t bring himself to believe his words, no matter how well-meaning. His dad never had these sorts of problems with Lute. Who else could be to blame for Abel’s cowardice? There was a pregnant pause as Peter waited for a response, but none came. Abel was far too distracted by his typical spiral of thoughts, only intensified by the shame and adrenaline he was bathed in. He kept fiddling with his hands to distract himself. “...Listen, Sera told me I could go check on you only if I brought you back to finish the meeting, but…y’know. We don’t have to go back.”
“What!?” Abel exclaimed, wide-eyed and gawking at the sheer audacity. “Y-you can’t just disobey a direct order from a seraphim!” He shrieked.
“And drag you back into a room with Lute? After all that? You’re kidding.” Saint Peter’s eyes began to gleam with a familiar mischief, one that Abel had both come to love and dread. Though the gleam usually only appeared when Peter wanted to make Abel fill in for him at the gates, or to gossip about Heaven’s newest arrivals when Sera wasn’t looking. “Come on. I’ll take you out for ice cream, my treat.” Damn. His two biggest weaknesses, Saint Peter and sweets, were being used against him. Also? He really wanted to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. How could he say no?
—
Personally, Abel thought that ice cream was one of humanity's best achievements, and he’d existed for nearly as long as humanity itself. Sat outside of a glittering ice cream parlor, Abel let a cool cone of chocolate soothe the sting that throwing up had left in his throat. Meanwhile, Saint Peter was prodding at a sundae that Abel was sure was about 90% sprinkles. Seriously, he couldn’t tell what flavor it was under the multicolored mountain of sugar. Peter seemed happy, though, so…more power to him? “Sooooo…anyone interesting come through the gates, recently?” Abel said between laps of ice cream. Small talk. He could do small talk. “Nope,” Peter shrugged. “Emily says I’ve gotta keep an eye out for redeemed sinners, but Sir Pentious skipped right past the gates, so I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that.” That made Abel hum thoughtfully, putting a hand on his chin. Why didn’t Pentious show up at the gates? From what Emily told him, he just sort of…appeared in front of her and Sera. “Do you really think he was the first sinner to be redeemed? I mean, ten thousand years' worth of human souls and all, surely someone found redemption in that time.” Abel wondered aloud, licking his lips. Saint Peter paused, spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. “...huh.” Peter popped the spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, pondering while crunching on a monumental amount of sprinkles. “I guess I wouldn’t know if they didn’t tell me, but then, why did Pentious show up in front of the seraphim sisters when no one else did?” He hummed, legs swaying idly.
“Maybe it was to send a message?” Abel offered, gesturing with his cone, accidentally sending a droplet of melted ice cream flying. “Y’know, big man upstairs telling us to give the hotel a chance.”
“Hm. You should tell Emily that. She’d love it.”
Abel laughed fondly, already imagining Emily’s excited squeal at his words. “She probably already came to that conclusion.” He said, earning an amused nod from Saint Peter. “True. Now if only Lute would come to that conclusion and save us the trouble.” Abel shuddered at the mention of Lute, quickly returning to his ice cream for some semblance of comfort. He let out a soft, incoherent mumble of affirmation, hoping that Peter would take the hint and drop it, but taking hints was neither of their strong suits. “So…when are you gonna fire her?”
“What?” Abel blurted.
“Lute, obviously. I mean, she makes everyone uncomfortable, and you’re kind of her commander, so why not fire her?” Saint Peter asked with a flippant wave of his hand. Abel reared back with an incredulous expression plastered on his face. With the way Abel was looking at him, you’d think Saint Peter had just boldly declared his undying love for Lucifer himself. “Wh-what? I can’t do that!” Abel shrieked, wings flapping in a tizzy. “Why not?” Peter asked, cocking his head.
“W-well, because-!” Abel sputtered, hands flapping about like a confused seal who hadn’t quite figured out the whole “flippers” thing. Did Saint Peter not understand what Hell would break loose if he fired Lute? Him firing her would be like taking a razor to her last thread of sanity and making a clean cut. She could and would retaliate, and Abel didn’t want to end up impaled on the end of her sword. “Because!” He declared, throwing his hands up in the air.
“...Because?” Saint Peter echoed, face twisting in confusion.
“Because.” Abel nodded firmly, expression resolute.
“...uh-huh. I don’t get it. Why are you-” Peter began, but was abruptly cut off by a bright flash of angelic light, causing an immediate bustle at the surrounding tables. Sera’s commanding voice boomed through the courtyard, filling the air with her overwhelming presence. A few angels froze up, gaping as the high seraphim appeared, while others scrambled away. Leave it to Sera to make a dramatic entrance. “Saint Peter.” Sera resounded, appearing before the guilty blondes in a resplendent display of flapping wings and glowing eyes. Saint Peter locked up, giving Sera his best deer-in-the-headlights impression. “...shit.”
—
Trying to explain themselves to Sera was more about them fighting over who would take the most blame than any actual explanation. Peter insisted that it was his fault for dragging Abel away in the first place, while Abel insisted that it was his fault for saying yes. All the while, Sera looked like she was experiencing four different headaches at once. They got off with little more than a slap on the wrist, but Sera assured them that if they ever tried anything like that again, they wouldn’t be let off the hook so easily. Neither doubted it. Truthfully, Abel was just grateful she had in her heart to be so lenient with them, even after dealing with Lute. (Though, he was pretty sad that he never got to finish his ice cream.)
Saint Peter walked him back to his room before he inevitably had to return to the gates, each step twisting Abel’s heart. He was still vulnerable, and Saint Peter was like a bandage to the millions of wounds that every encounter with Lute left behind. If he went, Abel would bleed once more, beared raw to the world. He would kill for just a moment longer to heal.
Was he really that weak?
“Welp! Guess I should get back to the pearly gates before I get in any more trouble.” Saint Peter said with an all too loud clap of his hands, snapping Abel out of his trance, while simultaneously scaring the living daylights out of him. Wait, they were already at his door? Yikes on bikes, how badly had he zoned out? It was like his brain had grown a pair of wings and flown away. Abel chewed pensively on his lower lip, curling his wings around his shoulders like a makeshift safety blanket. He wanted more than anything to ask, no, beg for Saint Peter to stay, but he’d already embarrassed himself enough by storming out of the meeting and throwing up in a trash bin. He needed to man up and get over it on his own.
He gazed up at Saint Peter, taking in his perfect, untouchable hair, his ocean blue eyes that shimmered like the very gates he guarded, and his glowing smile, not a chip or gap in sight. Then there was Abel, with his crooked halo, tired eyes, and what felt like a smudge of ice cream still lingering on the edge of his lips. Even if it weren’t utterly pathetic to ask Saint Peter to stay, Abel simply wouldn’t be worthy of his presence. He never was, but especially not like this. So, with a strained smile and a limp wave, he sent Peter on his way, because maybe he needed to bleed before he could become strong.
—
Adam never liked Saint Peter, and when he found out Abel was friends with him? Oh, he was anything but pleased. "Seriously? You’re actually friends with that sparkly little cream puff? Sheesh, kid. Just when I think you can’t disappoint me anymore…"His father's words were like a knife to the chest, and in a desperate attempt to win back what little favour his father still had for him, he broke off his friendship with Saint Peter. What did it matter how well he and Peter got along if his father hated him for it? His heart ached every time he saw the other blonde merrily fluttering through Heaven, or singing his heart out in Heaven’s royal choir, but Abel was no stranger to sacrifice. Anything for his father’s validation. For centuries, he avoided Saint Peter like the plague, until one fateful day, Emily “introduced” them. “You’re both two of my dearest friends, and I think you would really get along!” She’d innocently declared. Abel had expected he’d have to grit his teeth through the whole ordeal, but it was startlingly easy. They fell back into nostalgic banter, only dampened by the occasional awkward moment, which Emily could easily pull them back from with just a smile. By the time the day was over, Abel didn’t want to say goodbye.
So they didn’t. Emily, being the perfect ball of sunshine she was, invited the pair over for a sleepover. That night held some of the most treasured memories in his nearly ten thousand years of existence. The weight of his father's expectations had dissolved, and for once, he felt like he could breathe.
Then came the time to sleep, and the crushing weight crashed back into him like a meteor. He could remember it so clearly. He and Peter lay in plush sleeping bags at the foot of Emily’s bed, Abel facing an already asleep Saint Peter. The only thing lighting the other man’s peaceful expression was the twinkling stars shining through Emily’s open window. The light caught his hair, making it shimmer like golden threads of silk. Abel recalled how his smile remained, even in his sleep. How could he be so flawless, regardless of whether or not he was even conscious? Abel remembered the gentle weight that settled over him at the sight; not like the titanic weight of his father’s gaze, no, it was more akin to a weighted blanket, or a warm hug. Saint Peter was…pretty. Really pretty.
Wait. Shit.
As it turned out, there was a deeper reason as to why Abel constantly refused his father’s attempts to set him up with some of his “bitches,” as his dear old dad so eloquently liked to put it. Abel had always insisted he’d find a good girl someday, without his father’s interference, and for the longest time, he’d believed his own lie, even if his father didn’t. That night, his intricately crafted house of cards had toppled, and it stung. Not just knowing that all those horrible things his father had called him were true, but knowing that for several millennia, he’d been living a lie. Though the general attitude in Heaven had shifted over the years, his father’s attitude had not. If Adam knew how Abel felt, he’d be disowned on the spot. The shame of his sexuality was something that haunted him ever since that day, following him like a loyal pet. It kept him on a tight leash, tugging him every which way until he felt like he might tear in half. Saint Peter was very open about his “everyone is hot” policy, so to watch him fly free while Abel’s own wings were clipped only twisted the knife. Envy was a sin, though, so Abel forced a smile on his face and tried to ignore the dull pain that lingered in his chest.
Abel’s mind struggled to parse the mixture of soul-crushing longing and easy joy that spending time with Saint Peter filled him with, but he couldn’t stay away.
He was hopeless.
—
It was…the next day? No, two days later. Whatever the case, it was Wednesday, and that meant pancakes with Emily and Saint Peter. Abel wasn’t sure how the tradition had started, but it had turned the most forgettable day of the week into the one Abel looked forward to the most. Mercifully, Saint Peter and Emily were adept at avoiding the uncomfortable topic of Lute’s prior outburst and his subsequent floundering, and it made him feel a million and one times more at ease. Things felt normal. At least, they felt normal until Emily pulled him aside while they were all leaving the diner and asked to have a private word with him. Since when did Emily keep secrets? He cracked a little joke about how ominous that sounded, but he knew that Emily wouldn’t hurt a fly, and followed her without question. “Abel, I think you should come to Hell with me.” …well. That was certainly an icebreaker, wasn’t it? “Eh, what?”
“If you come down to hell with me, and see how good all these sinners trying to find redemption really are, I think you’ll see exactly why we don’t need the exorcist army anymore!” Emily chirped, clapping her hands together in excitement. “Charlie could tell you alllll about how much progress the newest residents have been making!” Abel stared at her blankly. Back to Hell? Where his father had died? Where both a man with a TV for a face and Lute lost it, and nearly got everyone killed? That Hell? He felt a refusal already forming on his tongue, but he forced himself to swallow it like a pill. There was something he’d been dying to know, and maybe if he had the chance to ask the princess herself, he might finally find a taste of closure. His legs were already shaking at the thought. The smell of sulfur and blood had clung to him for days after he’d been there last, and the heat was suffocating, but nobody else could give him a straight answer. “...I think I’d like to talk to Charlie.” Abel said with a nod. “Wait, really?” Emily stared at him with big, startled eyes. Evidently, she wasn’t expecting a yes. “She must've thought I’d chicken out like always.” Abel thought ruefully. Maybe willingly returning was just what he needed to move on from things. A perspective untouched by the threat of war…wouldn’t that be nice? That’s right, it was time he took things into his own hands and overtook his fears, just like his dad. “Yeah. I’ll come with you on your next visit, if you want me to.”
“Perfect! It’s in an hour.”
“...wait, what?”
—
Abel truly believed he’d have more time to prepare mentally, but here he was, red skies overhead, surrounded by demons. The hotel was bright, busy, and red. Neon signs, decor that would look more at home in a circus, and a flashy marquee over the entrance? He almost hated to admit that he liked it. It was raw self-expression; how could he not appreciate that? “Emily!” A familiar voice called from across the lobby as he and Emily emerged from the portal. Charlie squealed as she ran up to them. Abel awkwardly shuffled his feet from the sidelines as Charlie pulled Emily into a big hug, something the little seraphim was more than happy to return. “Oh, I see you brought a friend! Abel, right? It’s so nice to formally meet you!” Charlie beamed and pulled back from Emily’s downy embrace to offer her hand up for a handshake. Abel gave her a sheepish but genuine smile, finding her enthusiasm contagious. No wonder she and Emily got along. Abel shook her hand, finding it abnormally hot to the touch. Well, it was abnormal to him, at least. Maybe all demons were that warm? “Hi! Yep, I’m Abel. Son of Adam, and all that.” He introduced himself the way he always had, but by the way Charlie’s smile faltered at his words, he was starting to think that maybe he should’ve left out the whole “son of Adam” thing. Whoops. Thankfully, Emily was there to break the tension, her cheery voice easily cutting through the tense air. “Soooo, Abel is here to learn more about what you do here at the hotel. Think you can help me fill him in?” Charlie squealed as Emily spoke, bouncing eagerly on the heels of her feet. “Uh, of course! Come on, Abel. Let me show you around!” Abel opened his mouth to protest, but Charlie suddenly had a death grip on his hand and was dragging him behind her. “Trust me, you’re gonna love what we’re doing here!”
—
Their first stop was the bar, where a winged cat man was wrestling a flask from the mouth of a tiny, horned, devil pig. Truly, Hell was a fascinating place. “Give it back, you little shit!” The cat shouted in a surprisingly deep voice, tail lashing so hard it thumped loudly against the side of the bar. Abel flinched at the yelling, but Charlie seemed unfazed. “This is Husk, our bartender, and Fat Nuggets, our resident cutie pie!” Charlie exclaimed with a flourish. With one final heave, the cat, Husk, managed to pull the flask from the little pig’s jaws. With a growl, Husk unscrewed the flask and downed the contents, making Fat Nuggets whine sadly, his ears drooping with a flurry of downtrodden little snorts. Abel felt the overwhelming urge to scoop up the little cutie and protect him from the mean kitty, but he knew better than to handle Hell animals without gloves. Who knew what kind of infernal disease he’d catch? “He seems…nice.” Abel struggled to find a single positive adjective for what he had just witnessed. “Oh, he is! He’s just going through a little…something right now. I promise, he’s got a heart of gold.”
“Pfft! Yeah, right. What heart?” A cyclops woman interjected in a loud, boisterous voice, plopping down on a nearby barstool and spinning in her seat. “Oh, fuck off, Cherri.” Husk snorted, clearly trying to sound stern, but failing to stop his mouth from twitching into a begrudging smile. Abel’s nose wrinkled in confusion. They seemed to be getting along while simultaneously insulting each other. Was that how friendship in Hell worked? Was affection expressed through cursing down here? “Maybe dad was doing the same thing with me?” Abel thought hopefully. “So, what are you doing down here, squirt?” The cyclops, supposedly Cherri, asked him. Abel flustered at the unexpected attention, all eyes suddenly back on him. “Oh! Um, I, uh,” He floundered. “...I just wanna know more about the hotel.” He finally managed to squeak out, shooting Cherri a sheepish smile. Husk raised a feathered brow, but thankfully held his tongue. Cherri rolled her eye, but didn’t care enough to pry further. “Whatever you say, angel boy,” She shrugged, snatching the flask clean out of Husk’s paws. “And you? Listen to the pig.” She scolded, making Husk’s fur bristle in agitation. Still, he didn’t fight it, only sulked. “...fine. You’re right.” He sighed, ears folding back in resignation. Cherri shot him a triumphant grin, and Abel felt something inside of him stir. It was startlingly human, the way they bantered. It almost reminded him of the way he and Saint Peter would lightheartedly rag on each other. How many people just like them had fallen at his dad’s hands? No, he couldn’t think like that. Focus on the tour, Abel. He tugged on Charlie’s sleeve to get her attention. “So, uh, what else do you have around here?” He asked, an unspoken plea in his words.
—
“-and here is our illustrious lounge!” Charlie declared with a grand, sweeping motion. It was relatively quiet, barring the set of sinners crammed together on the couch, watching something oddly familiar on the TV.
Wait, was that one of Heaven's channels? He knew cross-transmissions were possible from the whole Pentious debacle, but that was a special case. A one-time thing, or so he thought. How long had this been going on? Abel felt his feathers stand on end, a terrifying thought forming in his mind. Had Hell been spying on them? How much had these sinners learned from Heavenly programs? Maybe the information gleaned from these pirated programs was used in the attempted takeover of Heaven. “How did you get that on the TV?” Abel asked tentatively, glancing nervously over at Charlie. Charlie tilted her head before her eyes widened in realization. “Oooh! Well, that would be the work of Baxter! He made a system for Voxtek to air shows from Heaven and Earth down here in Hell! Ever since we learned about that, we hired Baxter to rig things so we could get Heaven TV without Voxtek's interference. It’s a lot better of an influence than the stuff we usually watch down here.” She eagerly explained. Voxtek? Why did that name sound…oh. Right. Vox. The TV man.
The man who attempted the revolution had unfettered access to Heavenly media?! “What?? How long has Hell been viewing this? Why did you hire someone who works for Vox?” Abel asked in an embarrassingly high pitch. Charlie just stared blankly at him, like she couldn’t possibly understand how this could be a problem. “Um…well, he doesn’t actually work for Vox anymore, and in terms of how long…” She trailed off before walking over to the edge of the couch and waving to one of the sinners sitting atop it, a little fish man with another, much smaller cyclops glued to his side. Abel could only assume they were a couple by the way the little cyclops was affectionately clinging to him. “Hey, Baxter? When did Voxtek start airing Heaven channels?” She inquired. Baxter turned his head to look at her, seeming a bit cross at having his leisure time interrupted. “Hmm. I would say… forty years, give or take?”
“Forty?!” Abel squawked, making every head in the lobby turn towards him. His face immediately flushed as red as Hell’s skies, cheeks burning almost painfully hot. He let out a tiny whine of embarrassment and his face behind his wings. “Oh, dear. Has he come to punish me for piracy?” Baxter sighed, as if an angel coming down to Hell to arrest him was just a minor inconvenience. “Oh, no, nothing like that! Abel here is getting a tour of our lovely hotel! Abel, this is Baxter, a dear resident of ours.” Charlie beamed as she introduced the pair. “I see. I can’t blame him; this place truly is fascinating.” Baxter nodded, making the little dangly bit on his head bob in a very distracting manner. Abel kinda wanted to touch it. Without prompting, the little cyclops butted into the conversation. “Hi! I’m Niffty! Can I touch your wings?” She grinned, all sharp teeth and manic energy. Abel blinked owlishly at her. How in the world was he supposed to respond to that? “Niffty, dear, what did Charlie tell you?” Baxter asked.
“Um…no more roach puppet shows in front of new guests?”
“...No. The other thing.”
Niffty stared blankly at Baxter for a long moment before something in her brain finally seemed to click, and she immediately slumped. “No more taking souvenirs from the visitors…” She sighed like they’d gone over this many times now. (They had.) “...but his feathers would look so pretty in my collection!”
“I’m sorry, your what?” Abel squeaked, pulling his wings protectively against his body. Charlie laughed nervously and rested a reassuring hand on Abel’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about her, she’s mostly harmless.” She assured him. Baxter scoffed, a fond smile on his face. “Sure. Harmless. Niffty here is by far one of the most formidable warriors I’ve ever met. She went toe to toe with one of the Vees and won.” He gloated. Niffty giggled, but her expression was far from bashful; instead, it was proud. Abel had no sweet clue what a “Vee” was, but evidently, defeating one was something to be proud of. Perhaps it was a breed of hellish beast that she’d protected the hotel from. He couldn’t imagine such a tiny little thing taking on a mighty hell-beast, but maybe that was what made it impressive. “That was nothing! Charlie told me to protect you, so I did!” Niffty declared. Abel had to resist the urge to coo. She was protecting her friend? (Lover? Abel still wasn’t clear on that.) That was so sweet! Such a tiny thing, taking on a (presumably) major threat just to protect someone she cared about, not to mention winning. Immaculate vibes. “So, is she the hotel’s…security guard? Protector?” Abel asked Charlie. Charlie shook her head with a little laugh. “Niffty? Oh, no, she’s the maid. She just also happens to be a bit of a scrapper, is all.”
…the maid?
There was a beat, then Abel’s heart just about stopped. No wonder she had a reputation as a fighter; this was the same maid, wasn’t it? The one who…who…
Abel took an instinctive step back, staring at Niffty with wide, shaken eyes. There she was, smiling like the cat who got the cream, watching TV and clinging to Baxter like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Abel? Are you okay?” Emily asked from his side, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Abel swallowed thickly, trying to link the cheery little maid in front of him to his father’s murderer. If even the most innocent-looking sinners could hold such terrible secrets, then what was everyone else hiding? “I-I…um…I need the bathroom!”
—
As soon as the bathroom door closed behind him, Abel slumped against it, falling to the floor. (In hindsight, probably not the best idea. That floor was filthy.) The maid, Niffty, really was still welcome in the hotel. Not only that, she seemed to be thriving. She didn’t seem to know who he was, or what she’d done to him. Did she ever think about the blood on her hands? Did she feel sympathy for the people who mourned Adam?
His mind drifted to Sir Pentious, the sweet, well-meaning, if not slightly chaotic serpent. Had he killed angels before? Those whom people had loved and cherished? He was involved in the battle against his dad’s army. Hell, he’d died in that very battle. Chances were, he had angel blood on his hands, too. Abel felt tears sting in his eyes, threatening to spill. Pentious was his friend. He’d never given a second thought as to whether or not he was a good person because, well, he was in Heaven. He’d never questioned his past, never bothered linking it to the hellish reality. His heart sank further the more he dwelt on it. Hell, Pentious had actively tried to kill his dad.
Then, his dad had actually killed him.
Abel realized with a horrible ache in his chest that Pentious, despite knowing who his father was, was still willing to be friends with the child of the very man who had killed him. Or…tried to kill him? He supposed he wasn’t actually dead, but the intention was there. Maybe…maybe his dad had killed friends or family of theirs. Friends of Pentious, or even Niffty. Did they feel the same way he did when they looked at him?
His father had taken thousands of lives, yet not once did Abel weep for those souls. His mind hadn’t once wandered to them, too busy trying to sort out the tangle of emotions about his estranged father. A hot tear finally slipped free, rolling down his cheek, burning the skin like acid. For the first time, he cried for the lives his dad stole. Irreplaceable souls lost forever, stomped out like bugs without a second thought. Souls like Pentious, potential friends he’d never get to meet. Abel sobbed freely, not worrying about what his father would think if he saw him crying for the first time in, well, ever.
He had taken up the mantle of a murderer.
Abel wasn’t sure how long he spent crying. Minutes, hours? Everything blurred together. His face was wet with tears and snot, dripping onto the already dingy floor. After the tears slowed, Abel stood up on shaky legs and splashed his face with water, trying to wash away the evidence of his grief. It was a horrible feeling, such overwhelming remorse, but in a way, he was grateful to have felt it. Finally, he found certainty in his path forward.
Knock, knock! “Abel?” Charlie’s voice called from the other side of the door, dripping with concern. “Are you alright in there?” Abel stood up straight, wiped his eyes, and opened the door. Despite the redness of his eyes, he managed to give Charlie a small, genuine smile. “Charlie? Can I ask you something?”
“Oh? Of course! What is it?”
“...what did you do with my dad’s body?”
"...Oh."
—
If you told yesterday’s Abel that he’d be willingly following the princess of Hell past an old, spooky trapdoor, he’d probably have flown very fast in the other direction. Yet, there he was, trotting behind her with his head held high. The rickety wooden stairs creaked ominously under his weight, but held firm. The air around him was empty and stale, almost ominously quiet. The further he went, the more a strange, earthy scent seemed to grow, like moss and petrichor, with notes of something sweet. Honeysuckle, maybe? Soon, a soft glow came into view, framing Charlie’s form in an almost angelic light.
At last, they arrived, not into a mildewy basement, but an underground meadow, blanketed in green. Moss, grass, and vines coated every surface. The tangling vines were plentiful with luminous, golden flowers, illuminating the area with their ethereal glow. The most striking part of this miniature Eden was the dark, smooth, gravestones, seemingly formed from polished basalt, with the engraved names embossed in gold. Despite everything else being vastly overgrown, the graves remained clean and untouched. Abel’s gaze trailed over the names. Cassandra, Scarlet, Bianca, Juno…
These were exorcist gravestones.
“How did you find their names?” Abel asked, wings tucked close against his body, like he was afraid to touch anything. He felt almost unworthy of being there. “My girlfriend, Vaggi, was once an exorcist. She knew most of these people. A lot of them were her friends, once upon a time.” Charlie explained with a sad smile, running a hand reverently over an unlabeled tombstone. “I wish we could have known all their names.”
Vaggi? Abel could’ve sworn he’d heard his dad complaining about an exorcist with a similar name “going rogue,” as he put it. Maybe this was the same person? He could have sworn it was pronounced with a soft “G,” though. Weird.
Charlie pointed to the center of the graveyard, where a familiar name sat upon a dark headstone, glimmering gold in the low light. Not a grand statue or flashy memorial, just another grave in a line of lost lives. “He’s buried there.” Charlie murmured gently. Abel closed his eyes and took a deep breath, taking slow, measured steps towards his father’s grave. The plush moss under his feet was reminiscent of heavenly clouds, dizzyingly familiar. He sat at the foot of the tombstone, the moss soft and spongy underneath him. “...I’d like a moment alone.” Abel whispered. Charlie nodded and began to make her way back up the stairs. “Take as long as you need.” She added as she left. He heard the creak of her steps, then a thump as the trapdoor closed. Abel felt the tension melt from his body as he heard the heavy wooden trapdoor fall shut behind him.
“Adam. First man. Father to humanity.” The epitaph read simply. Even after he’d killed thousands of their people and left their corpses strewn across the streets, they still chose to give him a proper burial. It was a show of humanity not even Heaven had afforded. Abel bet it was Charlie’s idea. Despite being the daughter of Lucifer himself, she seemed to be a truly pure-hearted person. Abel wished he’d met her sooner. He’d heard that his dad had a meeting with her months before he died, but wasn’t given any further details. He’d convinced himself that the princess must have said something truly horrible, and that was why the extermination was moved up, but that couldn’t have been the case. Charlie was kind, far kinder than his father could have dreamed of. Abel had created a castle of fallacies, justifying the exterminations and excusing his dad’s actions, just so he wouldn’t have to face the reality of who his father truly was. He remembered what felt like a million lifetimes ago, when they were mortal, and his father seemed to care for him. He taught him how to survive, provide, and thrive. For a brief moment, Abel could have sworn that he and Cain were the most important things in their dad’s life. That was the father he mourned, not the man who came afterwards. He didn’t know what exactly had changed, but Heaven had slowly morphed his father into something unrecognizable.
“...I’m sorry, Dad,” Abel whispered aloud. “I can never be the man you wanted me to be. Trust me, I’ve tried.” He sighed, tracing the engraved words under his thumb. The stone was cool and smooth under his palm, grounding him. “The man you wanted me to be wasn’t a good person. I don’t think you were a very good person, either.” He admitted, a silent tear falling to the ground, soaking into the moss. “...but despite everything…I’m grateful I’m your son. I’m glad I got to take your place, because now I have the chance to right your wrongs.” Abel smiled tearfully. “I wanted to outrun the responsibilities you left me with, but they were never a burden; they were a blessing.” Abel let out a wet, broken laugh, shaking his head. How had it taken him so long to realize? Abel stood and wiped his tear-blurred eyes. He stared at his father’s grave for a long moment before turning his back on him for the last time. “I’m sorry I never got to make you proud, but I have to make myself proud now.”
—
Heaven was rotting from the inside out, and everyone else was blind except for Lute. She hadn’t expected from Emily, let alone Abel, but to have Sera back the Morningstar’s pitiful little pipe dream was an insult to all of Heaven. Lute was convinced the princess had let a plague into Heaven, and now it was spreading. If no one else would listen, that was fine. It would be her responsibility to cut out the rot before it reached Heaven’s heart, and hers alone. “Whatcha brooding over now, danger tits?”
Well, not entirely alone.
Lute sighed and paused sharpening her blade to look at Adam. (Well, her mind's apparition of Adam, at least.) “Heaven is falling apart. We need a savior, and that’s who I’m going to be,” Lute stood, holding her spear as if it were an extension of her very self. She grabbed a mask, lovingly modeled after Adam’s own, with both eyes represented by white X’s. Its grin was unusually wide, reaching the very edges of the mask. Adam’s phantom grinned with approval as she slipped on a dark cloak, deep and crimson like the blood of the demons she’d slain. “I’m going to eliminate the problem at the source.”