Chapter Text
He had undermined how bright the morning after truly was. A stream of sunlight strikes Abaddon’s eye as he stares directly into it, the dusty glass pane distorting the radiance that divides the room. There are the shadows of cabinets that hold cans and boxes of food worth both good and terrible taste, and utensils Abaddon may use to stab the wooden tabletops. He shall dull out the forks first and then move onto the knives, rummage the cupboards for the biggest ones for last. They are great for pest hunting; for cutting a rat’s head clean off.
The seats by the table are unmanned. There are too many for the amount of people living in the building - literally - and it paints a delicious chance for a choice. Abaddon however already knows he will claim his place at the end of the table, as any powerful owner of a house should. He drags the newfound throne out, glares. A thought springs up in his mind, a conversation once held. He stays put.
“Heyy, bud”, a voice calls out, “You touched those corn flakes yet?”
There is a man managing a grand stove, quite a homely looking apparatus. Lots of these are intricate nowadays, awfully inconvenient. When Abaddon first inhabited his failure of a vessel, most human sustenance was warmed in a closed fireplace of sorts and a child could effortlessly climb into it. Abaddon had tried it twice and unfortunately been caught both times before the flames had the chance to lick his skin. It was all downhill after that. Abaddon feels stoves have betrayed him.
The man turns partly to Abaddon when an answer doesn’t appear. Messy hair creates spikes at the top of his head, and has been clothed in a dark bathrobe. He hasn’t bathed in recent hours; Abaddon would know. He listened to the pipes from the basement once dawn broke. He was curious. Humans wear strange garments at times, often when those garments do not serve their intended purpose.
“Oh. You’re just, standing there." The man’s statement sounds more of a question. Or Abaddon guesses it is a question, “You can sit down. Any chair is fine.”
Abaddon puts on a facade.
“Chair?” he asks.
“Yes, that wooden thing you seem to have pulled out”, the man points with his flat cooking utensil, “You know what a chair is, right?”
Abaddon looks at the seat, then the man, and then the seat again. He kicks it, watches it wobble and fall to the ground with a clunk.
The man only blinks, cocks his head to the side. Mouth slightly agape, he lets out a long perplexed sound.
“Okay, I greatly underestimated how long you have been outside”, he says quizzically. He then leaves the stove, comes to pick up the chair and drags it too far from the table, “You sit here”, he points at the seat. Abaddon blinks. Kicks a chair leg. It is quite fun, actually. His toes hurt.
“No, sit”, the man says and shows him, “Like this.”
Abaddon watches the demonstration. Simple, really. He truthfully does not enjoy feigning ignorance. Though sitting on a chair is an uneventful time. He’d rather stand on it or lay his back on the surface, hands and head and feet dangling from the sides. Or mayhaps he could jump up and down until the wood broke. Now that would make for a magnificent time.
The man rises from the chair and makes space for Abaddon, who with clunky movements sits and steadies his balance. The man then pushes the chair toward the table. Abaddon grabs at the side of the upcoming wooden item so he isn’t shoved too close. He knows he isn’t going to be pinned between the furniture but still shrieks for good measure. The man lets go of the back of the chair, frightened.
“Oh- Are you, gosh, I didn’t mean to-”
Abaddon turns to the man, attempting fury in his voice.
“We’re you trying to sever me in two, mortal?”
“What?? No, I-uh, you were too far to reach the table-”
“You do not wish to make the Cobra King your enemy, fool”, Abaddon flashes an unpleasant look at the man. The man straightens but Abaddon notes he isn’t afraid. Only startled.
“Right. I will not, no”, he assures. Something tells Abaddon the man does not understand the amazing title Abaddon has been bestowed. The man moves a bowl he’s set on the table closer to Abaddon, “Here you go, bud. Corn flakes. While you wait for some pancakes.”
The man leaves Abaddon with a bowl and a spoon, the latter of which Abaddon shows no interest in using. Strange grainy flakes float in the liquid, and Abaddon stares at them in disgust. Humans have plenty of acceptable forms of nourishment, which makes it extremely insulting to have alternatives such as this. Abaddon picks up one of the flakes between his fingers and crushes it. It isn’t even satisfying, as the puny particle is soft and sticky, unlike another counterpart Abaddon knows would not dispirit him.
“Are they good?” The man asks from the stove. He turns to Abaddon before there is a chance of verbal rebuttal. When the man witnesses Abaddon’s displeased display, a frown settles on his face. Soft, happy ray of sunlight hits his cheek yet his demeanor is far from satisfied, “You’ve barely touched them,” a defeated noise escapes from the man's lips, “Are they stale? Has the milk gone bad?”
Abaddon looks at his bowl of weirdly shaped provisions. These do not even mimic corn. They float in milk like sad, drowned souls. They no longer taste like pain, sharp edges deteriorated in the depressive liquid.
The man walks up to the table once again. He reaches for a carton of milk, sniffs it and after a short, cautious glance, takes a swig. Abaddon has not been allowed to do that, albeit he would rather rip the packet in half than perform such a cautious routine.
The man does not swallow immediately, his eyes mimic thoughtfulness. Humans are always like this; they perform with their faces. Abaddon still does not understand why. Thoughts are meant to be preserved and used for cunning plans, to hide true intent under a facade of neutrality. This is how he, Abaddon, Prince of the Underworld, had kept his status in the ranks of hell. And it is why humans could never climb in the hierarchy of demons.
“Tastes fine to me”, the man shrugs until a new emotion dawns on his face, “Oh, unless you’re lactose intolerant.”
Abaddon blinks.
“Lack of toes?”
“I should’ve asked first thing”, the man groans, “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, I am upset now”, Abaddon nods. In all honesty, that is exactly what this meal was missing.
“I’ll whip up something new”, the man grabs his bowl and puts it away on another countertop, “What do you want? Bacon? Eggs? Uh, toast?” He rummages through the cupboards, the cold cabinet, the top shelves.
“Toast, yes”, Abaddon says, “Do that to the toes. I’m intolerant of not having some.”
The man’s search attempt is frantic for a moment, but he hardly picks out anything. It takes a while, the jumble of limbs that reach and retreat, grab and let go. Eventually he stops, hand extending towards a box with bold letters on it. Something is off; there is no bewildered remark, no recognition of Abaddon’s choice of words. Abaddon bends and searches for the man’s face to determine what is wrong. Maybe an arachnid jumped onto the man or he is seeing unimaginable horrors hiding in the cabinet.
Soon the man does let up, closes the cabinet door and almost turns to face Abaddon. What is he undergoing this morning? What kinds of images are running through his head?
Abaddon notes something else, however. His attention swiftly moves to the dark circles under the man’s eyes. They’re almost purple, reminiscent of a healing bruise. When Abaddon shifts his gaze back into the man’s eyes, something inside Abaddon shifts. The look that greets him is hollow, almost glazed with nights of no sleep, and prostration. Like a veil of some kind. It drapes over the man like finest silk, faint yet shimmery, and there is something hidden behind it. It is almost wicked in presence, and Abaddon shifts in his chair, disconcerted.
As if on cue the man suddenly raises his eyebrows. A confused smile appears on his face, or whatever kind of a smile Abaddon can see form under that bushy concentration of facial hair, and the man perks up. His eyes lose the glossyness, the veil shifts to hide habitually concealed intentions.
“What you said… That’s a double negative.”
For some reason the man chuckles at his own retort. Abaddon goes slack. He does not understand what is so funny, the shift of emotion. He shakes his head, remembers he has made a request, a simple one for this simple human, and the man suddenly takes it lightheartedly?
And after whatever had just happened.
“Listen here, mortal”, Abaddon growls, quickly composing himself, “You have no right to ridicule me. I am to have toes for this morning feast and I shall not be let down after your initial offer. I am a guest at your house and should be treated as such, for I am Abaddon, a demon of high honor from hell, a prince and gatekeeper-”
“Abaddon”, the man interrupts, “That was your name. It’s quite… Rare. And interesting, I’ll give you that.” His eyes glisten at the furious Abaddon, “Are you cranky because you slept poorly? I’ll try to figure out a better room for you tonight. The other residents can get loud at night.”
Abaddon doesn’t care about that. He hasn’t slept for over a hundred years. And he did see many residents last night. Only a few of them saw Abaddon. There was a knife fight he did not take part in but would have if he had had access to a weapon nearby. He went on to see watchful paintings, cursed books, and artifacts in a newly dusted library. He found a corridor that led to a wonderfully foul and odd corner of the building. He has gotten acquainted with the supernatural in this area but being let inside this high house of horror is a rare treat. Even though he is not too thrilled to talk to the ghosts.
“Okay, I should not overwhelm you”, the man sighs. Regardless of all the blabbering and the ominous pause Abaddon witnessed, he manages to seem a tad chipper. “One thing at a time. Abaddon, what would you like for breakfast?”
Abaddon turns to look at the stove. “Something prepared in a fiery pit.”
A cloud of smoke begins to engulf the kitchen. The man yelps and rushes to the source of the newly begun fire, carbon coated cakes made on a pan, and frantically attempts to smother the flames with a lid. He stumbles as he moves the pot off the stove, opens the window and then starts to flap his arms around as if that would help the smoke clear faster. Abaddon thinks it comes across as the oddest dance he has ever seen. He inhales as much smoke as he can, enjoys the fumes piercing his lungs and swirling around in his pathetic human body.
“You should go to the living room”, the man ushers Abaddon. A loud beeping sound begins to emit from the ceiling. Abaddon cannot tell if he hates it or if it elevates the chaos, “This is not good”, a cough, “Place for you to- Oh, is it still on fire?”
Some ghosts hurry to witness the ruckus at the door. Stabby Paul is immediately worried about the knives being lost to a fire and a man with a candle on his head looks around in search of, hm, alight candles. A loud shriek is then heard from the living room and lots of murmur follows, some regular panicked screams harmonize in the agonizing terror of the unliving.
“Everyone, everyone” the only alive adult yells, “I’ve got it under control, please, if you could just back off a little…”
Abaddon finds this all rather amusing. Now that the loud ceiling beeping has properly claimed its place in the cacophony of great disorder, the whole scene is perfect. This circus being led by a human accompanied by a terrible sense of preparing sustenance and a naive mind? It is almost as amusing as that one lady who attempted to bury Abaddon in the backyard. It was relaxing to be tucked underground for a week.
He has missed this. He has missed Nathan, this man in the bathrobe whose sleeve also gets mildly burned amidst the commotion. Abaddon had let slip that this moment was the reason why the garment never reappeared on Nathan. The first day after he was escorted to the hotel is one of his fondest memories of this blip, and it feels strange to live through it once more. A do-over, though he is not here to gawk at old paths once lost. He is here to progress and to strike at the pivotal moment, scheme in hand.
As Nathan escorts him to the living room, coughs still keeping him captive, Abaddon listens for the ghosts’ chatter in the hall. He hears the worried yelps of the residents, but also words of displease are shared, in the way of ‘we have once again let humans run rampant with the stove’ and ‘I don’t want to test my luck outdoors, I’m an indoor ghost’. Abaddon glances at Nathan whose brows twitch with something more than embarrassment. And something flares behind his irises. The same vast emptiness Abaddon recognized only moments before. Abaddon glares at the ghosts, their words not welcome. He clenches his fists, wishing he could effectively curse the pathetic ghouls.
Nathan lets out a small chuckle. “Wow, I really messed up. And I was so looking forward to those pancakes…While I sort this out, have an apple, bud.” He hands Abaddon the fruit, unpeeled. “I take it you’ve had a couple of these outside?”
Abaddon takes the round specimen and shoves it into his mouth in full. Nathan looks wildly concerned but Abaddon grinds the fruit in his jaws and gulps the mush effortlessly. It leaves Nathan blinking, but at least he does not look miserable.
In fact he flashes a smile at Abaddon.
“You know what? That is really impressive. Now I’m not surprised how you have managed to survive on nuts. And the squirrels, even though that is extremely disturbing…” He grimaces but his face turns soft once more, “Alright, bud. I’ll fulfill that promise on breakfast later but I got some stuff to attend to. As in make sure I didn’t cause property damage.”
He quickly pats Abaddon. Nathan’s palm is warm from all the fire he has had to handle, and his touch is firm. It isn’t painful, quite the contrary; it has the uplifting affection of a guardian. Abaddon jolts but forgets to shove Nathan away as he isn’t wary of him. He trusts Nathan, even if he should not yet.
“You can explore but I’d rather ask you to wait here”, Nathan says, “I can give you a tour, might be safer than wandering off by yourself.”
Abaddon watches as Nathan heads back to the hallway. Nathan discusses with the ghosts, a bit more sure of himself. The ghosts let him speak since Nathan is one of the most cooperative owners the hotel has had. He manages to put everyone on equal footing and agrees that he will clean the kitchen with a group of united ghosts who shall approve of his success. They disappear to the kitchen, and Abaddon disappears upstairs.
It is the first day Abaddon begins the period inside the Undervale. He knows the surrounding area more than well but being let in the hotel is different. Nathan has been the only human to give him access to roam around as he pleases. Only that Abaddon had made sure to sabotage the other hotelkeepers; he has a favored one. You see, Nathan acquires Abaddon special treats (syrupy froot loops, after all these years), fixes his tattered clothes and closes the lights of the hotel only after Abaddon’s returned from daily travels. Nathan does not know Abaddon sneaks out at night and stalks the animals in the woods, digs up bones of people and squirrels, awaits for a prophecy in the moonlight. In the morning Nathan always has something prepared for him, and they go on short walks around the property or find something wonderfully awful from the basement below. Eventually Nathan finally learns who Abaddon is, because humans take a surprising amount of time to convince of Abaddon’s demonic powers and presence. Abaddon has known only one person who has taken him seriously almost immediately.
And then one night, Nathan dies. Abaddon knows he will, and needs to let it happen. The door closes one more time, the tired sigh of the armchair echoes in the solitary room. Hours later Abaddon walks past the door, sees the light of the TV illuminate from the gap under the door. No shadow, no movement. Through the keyhole he sees one lax arm peek from the chair, and an empty orange container fallen on the carpet.
Abaddon waits in the creaking hotel as the cold night blows ice and wind towards the windows. He sits outside the room, back against the wall. He is not going in to be with Nathan. That was a mistake he had made before. Humans are so… Uninteresting when they sleep. They become cold to touch and they begin to smell, and even though Abaddon does not mind the stink of rotten flesh, he would rather not live through this specific experience again.
Abaddon waits for days until cars with flashing lights appear at the hotel’s driveway. He runs out the back door into the woods, and does not return until new ownership arrives.
The season changes once or twice, Abaddon has quit counting, only noticing if it is very hot or very cold. He is a demon who has lived for millenia, seen the tides of time more than once. That is why he is back here; to make things right. Nathan’s death was part of this plan. He reminds himself of this fact, that he must follow the experiences of a past lifetime. Only then will he be able to reach a moment in time that requires a do-over.
During the days and nights outdoors he eyes the somber hotel. Sometimes Abaddon catches glimpses of the residents haunting the halls. Never does he notice Nathan.
The humans arrive on a cloudy afternoon. They have taken their time, Abaddon regards how his hair has become scraggled and how much dried blood from squirrels and other outside rodents have stained his shirts. His reflection on the windows is filthy, but his eyes are brighter than ever. He vigorously searches for familiar coats, hurrying children and the like. The massive vehicles are blocking his view. Abaddon curses and sneaks off, attempting to catch a glimpse of the newcomers.
He spots a young girl child, about the same height as he is. Scraggly hair, a huge coat with lots of pockets. Wary yet mischievous eyes. Abaddon relaxes and jolts at the same time. This is what he has waited for, this is what he aimed for. He stares at her when she takes a right at the door. She is going to the living room. Abaddon rushes to meet her at those windows.
When Abaddon arrives, the girl isn’t there. Instead a woman has stepped into the living room, facing a view full of boxes owned by Nathan. She walks to one of them and begins to scavenge the treasure. A highest honor breached. Abaddon wonders if he should step in.
That is when Nathan’s ghost appears through the wall. The woman screams. Abaddon freezes.
The woman appears terrified. Nathan attempts to begin conversation, asking about how and when did Katherine come by and what she is doing. The woman stutters, you’re dead, you should be dead. Nathan’s brows furrow. He is bewildered. He chuckles it off and says he does not remember how it all happened. He just woke up a ghost.
That is the moment two children burst into the room. The mischievous one and her older brother. The taller one squeaks pitifully and stares at Nathan, eyes wide open. The girl, however, studies Nathan in awe. Nathan wonders what the offspring are doing here, the woman tells him that they cannot be left alone at home. Nathan then says that none of them should be scared, ghosts are real and they are indeed on a haunted property where everyone who dies reincarnates as a ghost. Confused, typical human silence follows until the child of shorter stature glances at the window and notices Abaddon staring at them. She then asks if the child on the window is one of the ghosts. This startles the other two living people in the room, but Nathan is as still as ever. He has now noticed Abaddon as well.
Nathan immediately smiles. The moment is too short; Abaddon cannot tell if he sees something behind Nathan’s radiance or not.
“Oh, that’s Abaddon. He’s my ward. Hi buddy!” He waves at Abaddon.
A lot of disbelieving noises follow. You were raising a child here, what is he doing outside, why is he creeping around like that. Abaddon opens the window and climbs inside. He stays where he is. Mostly because everyone rushes to him, Nathan included, his hand floating on Abaddon’s shoulder.
“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you indoors or even at your nearby hiding spots.”
Abaddon does not have a chance to respond. The family comes to gawk at him too. They want to know if Abaddon has eaten anything or where he has been. The little girl has the audacity to ask about his hiding places. These are the people Abaddon has come to know and care for - Esther, Ben, Katherine. Their delicate human bodies have not melted in a pit of magma. They’re here, all of them, and they huddle around Abaddon without the knowledge of what might be coming.
“Oh my God, has he bled?” Katherine yelps as she sees the bloodstains on Abaddon’s clothes.
“Oh yeah”, Nathan raises his brows, “Abaddon, what have you eaten this time?”
“Squirrels”, Abaddon looks at him, “I am now their king. And their deepest, darkest fear.”
Esther’s impressed smile as she realizes Abaddon has successfully reduced the property’s squirrel population warms Abaddon from the inside, filling him with a hint of power he hasn’t felt in ten thousand years. He is back, and he has a scheme - a magnificent plan to thwart his cult and ensure the family’s safety - and it will not come to naught. For he is Abaddon, the High Prince of hell, and he has a grand purpose. A promise he has kept for millenia.
“What is he on about?” The woman looks at Nathan.
“Oh, he’s a demon trapped in the body of a boy from the 1700s.”
Now the only thing Abaddon must do is wait a little longer.