Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Did you get enough love, my little dove,

Why do you cry?

And I’m sorry I left but it was for the best 

Though it never felt right.

My little Versailles.

- Sufjan Stevens, Fourth of July

Abaddon’s stomach growled, startling the demon from his current activity of ritual bone stacking in the vents. They were protection talismans, meant to claim the hotel’s grounds as his own. 

In past centuries he had been run off the property, beaten, chased, stabbed, thrown— seen as bad luck to anyone who owned The Undervale. And then along came Nathan Freeling, who found a little boy in a hole in the ground in the woods, and decided his safety was better than questions of his origin. Finally the hotel was once again under command of the great Abaddon, ruler of— his stomach growled again. Goddamnit, now he really had to go find Nathan. 

He set down the current talisman he was working on and began his crawl through the large air ducts to Nathan’s bedroom, next to his own honorary bedroom gifted to him upon his arrival at the hotel. It had all his favorite things— his Legos, his transformers, his candles, his bone collection, his knife collection, his hot wheels, everything he treasured. He almost moved past the entry to Nathan’s room to play with his Legos in his own, but another loud growl of his stomach reminded Abaddon of his true mission. 

He kicked the vent in the ceiling open and poked his head through to Nathan’s bedroom. “Nathan?” he questioned, looking around into a dark and empty room. “Hm.” 

Next he would try the office, that’s where Nathan talked to the kind sounding lady who gave him advice about his feelings over the computer every Tuesday at six o'clock. 

Poking his head through the duct in the floor revealed the same result as the bedroom— no Nathan. Maybe he should ask a ghost for help. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, as he turned the corner he could see Stabby Paul’s head pop through the vent, a blue glow showing where he’d phased through. 

“Paul,” he said, and the man looked up.

“Oh, hi Abaddon,” he replied, before lifting his ghost knife and running through the boy’s form while making stabbing sounds. “What’s up?”

“Have you seen Nathan? He’s not in his room or in the office,” he asked, letting the ghost pretend to stab him over and over again. 

“Can’t say I have,” Stabby Paul replied, shrugging. “Last I saw him he was out watering the flowers on the front lawn.”

“Well he’s not outside now,” Abaddon huffed, turning around. “Thanks anyway, Paul.” He crawled back from where he came, making his way down to the lobby to continue his search through the hallways. 

Abaddon dropped down onto the desk, sniffing around to see if he could smell Nathan’s distinct cologne in the area; he could always tell if the man had been in a room due to the lingering smell of cedarwood and bergamot. Still the scent eluded him, but as he turned he heard the television in the parlor playing Nathan’s favorite channel. 

Aha!

Stomach growling he scampered down off the desk, scurrying down the hallway to command his subject to do his bidding and feed him. 

“Nathan,” he called, fiddling with the door. It was locked- why was it locked? “I’m hungry! I want burgers for dinner,” he demanded, shaking the doorknob. Still the television played, no reply from the man who owned the hotel. 

“I’m starting to get irritated,” he snapped at the closed door, before reaching into this pocket and pulling out a small sharpened bone with which to pick the lock. He crouched down to look at the old piece of hardware, tongue stuck out in concentration as he maneuvered the makeshift lockpick inside the keyhole to trigger the mechanism. 

After a solid five minutes of struggling the lock clicked and Abaddon was able to kick the door open, which he did so with glee. “Inferior door, you thought you could keep me, Abaddon, chief gatekeeper of Hell at bay? Tremble before my superior might!” he crowed, puffing out his chest and pointing at the offending doorknob. 

Another loud growl from his stomach snapped him out of his gloating, and he looked around the room again. “Did you hear me, Nathan? I said I wanted burgers,” he said, spotting his hand on the armrest of the plush chair in front of the television. When the man didn’t reply Abaddon walked over to his side, confused. 

Nathan laid against the red upholstered chair, eyes mostly closed and face pale. His jaw was slack and his chest motionless, and there was a dribble of blood out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Nathan?” He poked his cheek. Cold. “Nathan?” He lifted the man’s hand and dropped it, the limb falling limply into his lap. 

That’s when he saw them, the empty pill bottles that littered the floor. He couldn’t yet read well enough to make out what they said, but it seemed Nathan had taken everything in the medicine cabinet, all of the pills he was given to take by his doctor and then some. The stiffness in his limbs told him that he’d already been dead for several hours, and there was no fixing this. 

“…Nathan?” he asked hesitantly, a hint of worry entering his tone. It was stupid for him to be worried, he was Abaddon, the Cobra King, Lord of Shrimp, Prince of Hell. Demons didn’t worry about people; people were a brief blip in a long span of eternity.

Then why did he feel so bad looking at Nathan’s lifeless hands? Why did he get a tight feeling in his throat? A stinging sensation behind his eyes? He didn’t know what he was feeling and he didn’t like it. 

Instead of fleeing he climbed into the chair with his deceased friend, hugging his knees tight to his chest and looking down at the ground. His eyes flickered from blue to red. 

He was alone again. 

Abaddon didn’t know how long he’d sat there, pressed into the cold side of the corpse of the only person who ever paid him any mind, but it was well into the next morning when he finally moved again. All night he had contemplated what to do with Nathan’s body: should he bury it? Dismember it? Cut him open and harvest his bones for his collection? Something decidedly human turned in his stomach at the idea of using Nathan’s bones in particular, that just wasn’t something he could bring himself to do. He wasn’t sure exactly why, as a demon he should have no qualms, but it made him almost sick to think about it.

There was only one thing to do, ultimately. 

He walked down the hallway and back to the lobby, steeling himself in an attempt to regain his composure. When he reached the desk he took the phone off the hook, staring at it. 

“Okay bud, if anything bad ever happens and I’m not home to fix it, you press these three buttons,” Nathan said, holding the phone and demonstrating where to press. “See? Nine, one, one.” 

“Nine, one, one” Abaddon repeated, staring at the phone intently. “This button, and then the first one twice?” He pointed to the buttons Nathan half pressed. 

“Precisely. It will call someone who can help.”

Abaddon held the receiver in his hand, and slowly pushed the buttons; nine, one, one. He needed someone to help. 

The phone rings briefly before someone on the other end picks up. “911, please state the address and nature of your emergency,” the matter of fact man on the other end recited. 

“Um…” he took a deep breath. “I’m at The Undervale,” he began, but before he could say anything else the operator sighed. 

“Sir, ghost sightings are not an emergency, call a priest if you’re so worried.” 

Abaddon felt his blood pressure rise as he glared at the receiver. “No, my— my… the owner is dead,” he snapped, before slamming the receiver down and retreating to the air vents to curl up and hide. 

It wasn’t long before the reds and blues of emergency services pulled up to the hotel, and Abaddon watched from the vents quietly. 

“He’s in here!” he heard one of the EMTs call, and after they wheeled him out on the stretcher he peeked out from around the corner following his exodus from the ventilation system. 

Unfortunately he was not as stealthy as he thought, because one of the EMTs saw him. “Hey, are you okay?” she called, and he froze. She walked closer. “Are you a guest? Did your parent make the call?”

Rooted to the spot, all he could do was shake his head. 

“Where are your parents?” 

Abaddon thought about this for a moment. Nathan wasn’t his father, he didn’t have parents. But Nathan did take care of him, and he supposed it was the easiest way to explain his situation, so he just pointed outside to the ambulance. 

The paramedic let out a soft gasp. “Oh you poor thing, let me go get you a blanket and I’ll call CPS,” she fretted, more to herself than him. 

As soon as her back was turned he made a break for it, tearing down the hallway and running through the rooms before bursting through the back door. Chest heaving, he didn’t stop until he was well into the woods when he recognized where he was. 

The pit where Nathan first found him lay gaping in front of him and without a second thought, Abaddon threw himself down into the center. He didn’t pay any mind to the scrapes and bruises on his arms and legs, they would heal soon enough. 

Nathan… would never heal. He tried not to think about it for several days and several nights, laying motionless at the bottom of the hole and staring up at the sky. It rained on him, he did not care. The sun burnt his skin, but he healed just as fast. He decided to languish there, unmoving, for as long as he possibly could. 

A promise had been broken, a promise to not leave, the one human who had ever paid him any mind was gone in the blink of an eye. 

Abaddon was no stranger to loss. He had lost everything before, his home in Hell, his powers, his grip on reality, a body he was comfortable in, a life he was comfortable with. He clutched at his chest, small fingers fluttering against the ragged brand seared into his chest. He remembered feeling the soul of the boy splutter out as it was pushed into his flesh, leaving only him in the empty vessel; the burn effectively sealed his fate, the spell binding him to that body forever. He understood the spell as well, he knew his true form was destroyed. His true form was the boy now. He mourned the loss of his home, of his body, of his past and his future. And now… no. Abaddon wasn’t mourning. 

Nathan was just a human. 

Chapter Text

Standing in the yard dressed like a kid

The house is white and the lawn is dead

The lawn is dead

The lawn is dead. 

- Adrianne Lenker, half return

“Hey bud, what’s wrong?” Nathan’s voice interrupted Abaddon’s racing thoughts and the dark haired child looked up at him. 

“Hm? Oh, nothing.”

“That’s not your nothing’s wrong face,” Nathan replied, coming to sit down next to Abaddon on the floor. “And you’re building torture dioramas with the Legos I got you.”

They both looked to the Legos on the floor, from which Abaddon had built a blocky facsimile of the various tortures in Hell. There were minifigures being torn apart, dismembered, burned alive, whipped, all sorts of horrible things. 

“I always build torture dioramas with the Legos you get me, it is the canvas upon which I paint terror and pain,” he retorted matter of factly. 

“Yes, well… these seem especially brutal,” he sighed, pointing at one of the little Lego guys that was impaled through the ass. “That guy has a spear up his butt.” 

“It builds character.” 

“I’ve never known butt impalement to build character.”

“It builds character in Hell.”

“That sounds like bullshit.” 

“It’s not bullshit, you’re bullshit!”

“Just talk to me, bud.”

“I don’t need to talk about anything.” 

“Stop lying to me.” 

“I’m not lying!” 

“Yes you are! You can talk to me, Abs!” Nathan’s voice raised a bit, and he winced when Abaddon flinched back away from him.

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” he muttered, scowling at the floor. “And you know I hate it when you yell.”

“I— I’m sorry,” Nathan sighed, placing a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “I worry about you sometimes, kiddo. I don’t ask a lot. I just want to know if I can help.”

It was true, Abaddon had been in a rotten mood all day. He had got to thinking about the future, about what would happen when Nathan grew old and Abaddon stayed the same, what would happen when someone else got the hotel. No one would ever be this good to him again, he knew that for certain. 

“You’re just like the rest of them,” he said quietly, not making eye contact. 

“Whuh?”

“You’re going to leave. Everyone does. Humans die. I don’t, trust me, I’ve tried. And when you leave someone new is going to get the hotel and they’re going to suck absolute ass and probably shackle me up in the attic again.” 

“Is… that what those chains up there are for?” Nathan asked, mildly horrified. 

Abaddon just stared at him blankly with a dead expression, not wanting to change the subject. “I’m not upset,” he reestablished, pulling a minifigure’s head off and mounting it on a Lego spear. 

Nathan’s gaze softened. “Buddy…” 

Abaddon didn't look at him. 

“Look at me.” When he didn’t for the second time, Nathan pushed his shoulder so he could better see Abaddon’s face. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Liar. You’ll die.” 

“I’ll die here, and I’ll be a ghost forever, and I won’t leave. Besides, I’m only 35, I’ve got a lotta life left in me yet. You’ve got at least another forty years with me.” 

He paused. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Abaddon said nothing, but leaned into the man’s side anyway. He supposed that would do. 

It was four months before Abaddon moved again, when the stirrings of activity in the hotel caught his attention. 

Well, more like the stirrings of activity in the hotel threw ghost rocks at him until he responded. 

“What do you want?!” he snapped up at the ghostly child as another glowing pebble passed through him. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Yeah, busy being sorry for yourself!” the insufferable brat shot back. “My mom sent me out here to talk to you, because the mustache guy is back and he’s asking for you. But nevermind, you’re an asshole!” 

Abaddon sat bolt upright. “Repeat that.” 

“No, you’re a jerk.” The kid turned around to walk away, but was stopped as the demon behind him shot out of the pit, jumping through him and standing in his way. 

“I said repeat that,” he snarled, eyes flashing red and a dark storm cloud gathering over his head. 

“Whoa, okay, okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” the kid groaned. “I said the mustache guy is back. He’s a ghost now and he’s looking for you. My mom wanted—”

Whatever the kid said next was lost on Abaddon, because the second he heard mustache guy and ghost now he whirled around, tearing through the woods and onto the grounds of the hotel. He stopped short, however, seeing the state of disrepair the hotel was in; Abaddon had grown accustomed to how nice the grounds looked while under Nathan’s care. Now the grass was dead, the paint on the front door chipping, a few boards on the porch broken or sagging. It looked sad, disheveled, hurt. Something inside him twisted at the sight, gnawing at his throat and chewing at his gut in a way he didn’t understand. He knew it felt bad, though. It felt bad. 

He took a step back, eyes narrowed shrewdly as he took in the entirety of the structure. It was still the same hotel. It was still The Undervale… and Nathan was in there. 

Nathan. That damn bastard, who did he think he was, leaving Abaddon to rot alone in the hotel just like everyone else had? Why did Abaddon think he was any better?

With a rage that only children and demons can experience boiling in his veins he scowled, stomping up the front porch and practically kicking the door open. “FREELING!” he shouted angrily, barging through the hotel with such anger that the other ghosts hurried out of his way. Breathless and angry he searched the hotel high and low before— there! In the speakeasy! 

The ghost of Nathan stood at the bar, laughing with the bartender and throwing back a spectral shot. Abaddon seethed, tearing down the stairs and charging straight at him, jumping at the ghost to knock him over… but he just fell right through. 

“Oh hey, there you are bud!” Nathan chirped happily. “I was wondering where you were!” 

“LIAR!” Abaddon roared, pointing a shaking child’s finger at him. “OATHBREAKER!” He attempted to jump on Nathan again, this time falling against the bar. He couldn’t think straight, he was so angry everything in his mind clouded into a red haze. 

“Hey, come on, let’s talk about this,” Nathan said, dodging as Abaddon tried to tackle him a third time. “Buddy, stop!” 

But Abaddon didn’t stop, spending the next thirty minutes wearing himself out in an attempt to bite and claw at the ghost of his dead guardian. He was soon too exhausted, cursing his weak child body and climbing under a table to sit and sulk. 

Nathan’s ghost crouched down to peer at him. “Hey bud…”

“I hate you.” 

“Oh come on, you don’t mean that, do you?”

“You promised.” 

“Huh?”

“You PROMISED!” he shouted back, shaking his fist. “YOU SAID FORTY MORE YEARS!”

Nathan’s eyes turned down in a sad way and he looked at his feet. “I know… I’m sorry, kid. I don’t know what happened.” 

Abaddon swallowed the lump in his throat, but the stinging behind his eyes did not subside. “Now someone new will get this hotel, and I’ll get chained up in the attic forever.” 

“I’m not gonna let that happen.” 

“You’re a ghost, you can’t do anything!” 

“I left the hotel to my sister, Abaddon, I know she won’t try to hurt you or just kick you out. Trust me.” 

Abaddon deflated. How could he trust Nathan? Nathan was a liar and a snake and a stupid piece of promise breaking shit. He didn’t know if he could ever trust Nathan again. 

Despite that he heard his own voice speak against his will. “Okay.” He swallowed his rage, leaving it simmering under the surface before getting up from under the table and leaving the room without another word. 

“Bud, come on, it’s okay, I’m still here!” Nathan called after him, but Abaddon felt too heavy to give a shit. He wanted his bed. 

On his way up the stairs and down the hall he passed Nathan’s room, the door still cracked from four months ago. He made his way inside, looking around; it was exactly the same as he’d left it. One of Nathan’s old sweaters was hung on the back of his desk chair, his slippers by the bed. There was a notepad on the nightstand with Nathan’s distinct penmanship, but Abaddon couldn’t read yet so he didn’t know what it said. The boy-demon walked to the desk and took the sweater off the chair, before deciding Nathan’s bed was a better option than his own next door. 

Curling up in Nathan’s favorite blanket felt familiar in the worst way possible. He didn’t know how to describe the sickness in his stomach and the pain behind his eyes, he didn’t know how to make it go away. 

So he just laid under Nathan’s blanket, bringing the sweater to his cheek and allowing himself to imagine better days as he inhaled the faint scent of his guardian’s cologne. Despite his many assertions that demons did not need sleep, it came for him quickly that night, pulling him into something nightmareless and heavy. 

Chapter Text

On and on, 

There are places we go but 

Never come back the same 

Unsheltered,

Where is the roof I used to know?

- Gustavo Bertoni, Unsheltered

Two months after Nathan’s return, Abaddon watched from a high window as a moving van pulled up to the hotel. Nathan rose through the floor. “Whatcha lookin at, bud?”

Abaddon just pointed at the van. “That.”

Nathan squinted quizzically, before lighting up in absolute delight when an SUV pulled up next to the van. “Oh! That’s Katherine! That’s my sister!” 

“Hm,” Abaddon replied, eyes narrowed and mouth taught. 

“Agh! I gotta go say hi right now!” the green eyed man chirped, before stopping short. “Oh man, how do I explain to her I’m a ghost?”

Abaddon shrugged in response. Not really his problem. He turned his head to watch as Nathan paced back and forth, stressed, before getting a determined look on his face and dashing out of the room. 

Katherine was thankful at least that the drive from their former home to this random hotel in the Catskills was only a little under three hours in total. It, however, didn’t stop her children in the back from being absolutely miserable; she was pretty sure the movers beat them there after Ben’s tenth bathroom emergency in what short time it took them to get there. She had told him not to eat the sugar free gummy bears but as usual, he didn’t listen very well. 

Speaking of her son, he sat contentedly in the back seat playing on his switch, headphones on and not a care in the world. It was Esther Katherine was more worried about, she knew her youngest was the most upset about moving. She looked into the rear view mirror to check on Esther, who caught her eye through the reflection and scowled, looking away to brood as she stared out the window. 

I know, I didn’t want to move either, she thought to herself, grip tightening on the wheel. 

Before too long they could see the spire of the top of the hotel in the distance, and as they drove up a hill they came to a now open wrought iron gate. “Look kids, there it is,” she said as they rolled onto the grounds, making their way up the winding drive to the stately Victorian hotel at the end. It was absolutely huge. 

“Oh wow,” Ben said, eyebrows raising as he took the old, stately building in. “That’s awesome.”

Esther didn’t say anything and when Katherine glanced back, her daughter was looking in the opposite direction as the hotel in defiance. 

As they pulled up, the movers were taking some of the last of the boxes out of the truck. “Sorry we’re late!” Katherine called, getting out of her car after parking. She hurried over, apologizing again to the movers. 

“Eh, we figured you weren’t gonna be too late,” the driver said, shaking her hand. “You got kids, it’s normal.” 

Ben pulled a grumpy Esther out of the car to help with the boxes, and the ten year old begrudgingly started sifting through their things. 

“Don’t drop that box Esther, it’s got Grandma’s ashes in it and I don’t want to have to clean that up again,” Katherine warned her, who was precariously stacking various items to bring inside. 

“Ugh, I know Mom!” she retorted, rolling her eyes. 

Katherine shook her head with a slight wistful expression; Esther was going to be an absolute terror as a teenager. Unlike her current teenager, who was—

“Hey Mom? Which box has my PlayStation in it?” Ben asked, poking his head out of the back of the truck.

“Ben, that’s not really super important right now,” she reminded him. “We just have to get everything inside, and then we can find your PlayStation.” 

“Man… I wanted to play Diablo 4,” he griped to himself, quietly. 

“Isn’t this hotel like, suuuuuper haunted?” Esther asked, walking over to her mother. 

“Haunted? As in ghosts?” Ben squeaked. 

“Where’d you hear that?” Katherine asked her youngest, looking down to meet her gaze. 

“I googled the place before we left Ithaca,” she replied. “It’s been a prison and it’s been an asylum twice! How cool is that?!” 

“You… want it to be haunted,” Katherine surmised, picking up some of the kitchenware. 

“Uh, duh! So much cool shit happens in haunted places!”

“Language.”

“I don’t want it to be haunted,” Ben said anxiously, fretting his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“I’m sure it’s fine, Ben, don’t worry,” Katherine replied, kissing his temple before hoisting the box onto her hip. “Alright, let’s go inside.”

The three newly minted Freelings (Katherine had gone back to her maiden name after her divorce, and the kids begged her to use it for them too) made their way up the fairly wide drive and to the big double doors, where Katherine fished in her pocket for the key the estate manager had given her. It was a stately old thing, made of solid iron with a decorative finish on the end. She slid it into the lock and with a little bit of elbow grease, opened the door. 

“We’re definitely going to have to get that lock fixed,” she said to herself, pushing one of the heavy oak doors open. 

A fine layer of dust covered everything in The Undervale, a symptom of laying vacant for six months. The impotent rays of early spring afternoon sunlight cast their shadows on the wood floor in front of them, dust motes floating silently through now disturbed air. The place was, although sparsely furnished, very impressive; the wood floors looked original and what few chairs and couches dotted the lobby were richly upholstered. Behind the large, ornately carved reception desk was a vintage key rack, neatly organized with all the room keys in their proper places. The cloth runner on the floor did need replacing though, as it was a bit faded and moth-eaten, and the chandelier was a tad crooked. Some wallpaper was peeling, and Katherine prayed to God that if they had to do any renovations they wouldn’t run into any asbestos (even though she knew they would). Ultimately, she could work with this. She really could.

“Wow,” Esther breathed, taking it all in. 

“Yeah,” Katherine agreed. 

“So… do you want us to take the beds upstairs, or…?” one of the movers asked as they wheeled in a bed frame. 

“Oh, the estate agent said there’s an elevator,” Katherine said, and ushered the movers to bring stuff upstairs. Ben, being ever helpful, joined in with boxes of personal items. 

Esther, however, wanted to explore. Sneaking off she made her way upstairs, going past where the movers were working to stumble across two other rooms; one with the door cracked, the other firmly shut. 

She poked her head through the crack in the door before pushing it open enough to enter. It was Uncle Nathan’s old bedroom, it seemed. His bed was unmade and he still had some old clothes laying around, which made Esther’s stomach twist something fierce. Dust covered everything, it seemed she was the first person to step foot in there since… wait, what was that?

She squinted her eyes, crouching a little to get a closer look. Footprints. There were footprints in the dust, old ones it seemed as they were still dusty, but footprints for sure. They were only a little smaller than Esther’s with a distinct solid tread like her mother’s leather dress shoes. She stroked her chin skeptically, thinking. Did ghosts leave footprints? 

Searching around the room didn’t yield any more clues so she left, closing the door behind her. Now to investigate the other room, the one with the closed door. Testing the handle she found it to be unlocked, and pushed it open carefully. The door still creaked, making her wince at the grating sound. “Loud old building,” she muttered to herself. 

This room was… interesting. There was a child sized bed against one wall, with red blankets and black sheets. The bookshelf was covered in pretty much everything but books, with bones neatly arranged by species, cool looking rocks, Hot Wheels cars, and Lego dioramas that depicted sadistic war crimes. It felt like a kid’s bedroom… though a very weird one. 

“Huh,” she murmured, walking over to the desk in the corner and looking at the drawings strewn about it. There were depictions of all sorts of monsters and ghosts and gory scenes, clearly done by an, albeit skilled, child. One in particular was of a dark haired kid who was holding the hand of someone who, based on the mustache, was supposed to be her uncle Nathan. “I didn’t think we had cousins on Mom’s side.” 

“You don't,” said an unfamiliar voice. 

“Ack!” she yelped, startled as she whirls around. Out of the floor vent climbed a very… odd looking child. He had dark hair and piercingly blue eyes, with pale skin that boasted dark eyebags as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. The strangest part, however, was his clothing. It looked straight out of an elementary school Thanksgiving play, complete with the buckled shoes and frilly collar. “Who are you? Are you a ghost?!” Rather than sounding scared, she sounded excited. 

He dusted himself off a little, and she could see he was holding some bones. The mystery boy walked past her and added the bones to the bookshelf, arranging them carefully. “No, I’m not a ghost,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

“Hey, it was a perfectly logical assumption, the Internet says this place is haunted as hell!” Esther said, arms crossed. “So if you’re not a ghost, who are you?”

“Yes, this place is haunted,” he agreed with a nod, still organizing the bones. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

The strangely dressed child paid her no mind, moving on to adjust some Lego dioramas. 

“Hey, earth to whatever your name is, who are you?” she questioned, waving her hands in front of her face as she spoke. 

“Abaddon. And you’re in my room.” He finished whatever he was doing, before opening the vent and dropping back down inside it without another word. 

Chapter Text

Are you man enough 

Are you man enough 

Are you man enough 

To take the blame for this?

- Self, Placing the Blame

“Okay, so this hotel is definitely haunted,” Ben said at the dinner table, putting down his water after taking a long swig. The Freeling family sat around the table to enjoy a meal together after a long day of unpacking and setting up bedrooms. Esther and Ben both had their pick of the rooms, and both were satisfied with what they got. In their old place they’d shared a room, because after she left Ron all Katherine could afford was a two bedroom apartment. 

“What makes you say that?” Katherine asked, raising an eyebrow at her son. 

“Because when I was using the bathroom, a man walked through me,” he replied, raising an eyebrow in return. 

Katherine had no reply to that, and Esther put her hands up, pumping her fist. “Yes! I knew it!” 

“Well… I hope they’re not too much of a nuisance,” Katherine sighed. 

“Hey Mom?” Esther asked after a bit, and the woman looked over at her daughter. 

“Yes sweetie?” 

“I didn’t think Uncle Nathan had kids.” 

“He doesn’t,” she replied, confused. “What’s this about?”

“When I was exploring I came across Uncle Nathan’s old room,” she began, and Katherine’s eyes fell sadly when she mentioned it, “and there was a kid’s bedroom right next door.”

She looked at her quizzically. “After dinner, can you show me?” 

Esther led her mom and brother up the stairs, past their bedrooms to the two vacant ones. “That one is Uncle Nathan’s room,” she said, pointing to the door on the left, “and that one’s the kid’s room.” She pointed to the door on the right. 

Katherine stepped forward and reached to open the door to the room, when an apparition of her brother stuck his head through the door. “Wait, don’t open it, he booby trapped it!” 

All three of them screamed, scrambling back away from the door and across the hall to the opposite wall, Katherine grabbing her two children and holding them protectively close. “What the FUCK?!” she yelped, heart hammering in her chest. 

The ghost stepped fully through the door with a glum sigh, hanging his head a bit. “Hey sis.” 

“Na-NATHAN?! But— I— I identified your body! We had a funeral! What—” her face was white as a sheet and she was trembling, clearly afraid. 

“Yeah… I’m sorry… I guess because I died here in the hotel, I’m a ghost too,” he explained, crouching down in front of her. 

“Uncle Nathan!” Esther cheered, jumping to hug him but her arms passed right through. 

“Ghost,” he reminded her, before hugging her as best he could. He felt a little cold and tingly under her fingers, but he still smelled like her favorite uncle and that was enough for the ten year old. 

“So… you’re not really gone,” Ben said, eyes lighting up. 

“Not really, no,” he replied with an awkward smile, before catching Katherine’s furious expression and looking down meekly. “Please… please don’t be mad, Katherine. I didn’t know this was going to happen.” 

His sister sighed, slumping down a bit. “I know,” she said, and when she looked up again he had his arms open for a hug. She returned the embrace, sad her brother was dead but glad at least she could still talk to him. 

Then she remembered the door. 

“So, why can’t we open this door?” she asked Nathan, and he smiled sheepishly. 

“For the last… four? Yeah, four. For the last four years I’ve had a sort of… situation.”

“Situation?”

“Er… yeah. Situation.” He stood up and turned back to the door, poking his head through the wood. “Disarm it,” they heard his muffled voice say, and another muffled voice replied. 

“No. They can’t come in.”

“Okay, I’ll let them know not to come in, but this is my family, bud, and you gotta meet them!”

Katherine was utterly puzzled. The voice sounded fairly mature, but Nathan spoke to it as if it were a young child. “What the hell is in that room?” she whispers to Esther. 

“He told me his name was Abaddon,” she replied.

“You’ve met him?!” 

“Briefly!” 

They then heard Abaddon’s voice say “fine. I will disarm it, but only if I can have three yogurt cups tonight instead of two.” 

“I’m sure we can work it out with Katherine, little buddy,” came the good natured reply. Nathan stepped back from the door and they heard all manner of shuffling, rustling, and stuff moving across the floor. 

“Uh… what’s going on?” she asked Nathan. 

“He booby trapped the door after Esther walked into his room earlier,” he explained. “He’s pretty territorial with his things.” 

Before any of them could say anything else, the lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal a slender, somewhat gaunt looking nine year old with a knife. 

“That’s a kid,” Katherine said in plain shock. 

“Uh… kinda?” was Nathan’s best response. 

“You had a kid and you didn’t tell us?!” Now Katherine was back to being angry. 

“Whoa whoa whoa, no,” he said, waving his hands. “He’s not my kid!” 

“I think that’s worse,” Ben stated. 

Abaddon’s eyes flashed red and he puffed up indignantly at the chatter, hair curling slightly. “I AM ABADDON, THE COBRA KING, HIGH PRINCE OF THE BLACK REALM AND GATEKEEPER OF LOST SOULS,” he shouted, voice sounding three times larger than it should, “And you all are being very irritating!” 

The three living humans sat in stunned silence. “Yeah, as I was saying, this is Abaddon, he’s an immortal demon trapped in the body of a little boy from the 18th century, and he’s my little buddy!” Nathan chirped.

“Demon… ghost… this is too much for me,” Katherine said, standing up. “I’m going to take a walk in the garden alone to cool off. I need like thirty minutes,” she continued, before turning to her kids. “You two will be alright?”

They both nodded. 

“Alright. I’ll be back,” she said, standing up and walking off. 

Abaddon watched her leave, before turning his attention back to the two kids. “My room is off limits to the both of you,” he snapped, slamming the door shut. 

“Well isn’t he just a ray of sunshine,” Ben quipped, rolling his eyes. 

“He doesn’t really like strangers much,” Nathan sighed. “They make him uncomfortable. And he’s kinda mad at me for dying, so…”

“Hey, dying wasn’t your fault!” Esther said, frowning. 

“Oh yeah, how’d I die?” he asked her. 

“You don’t remember?” Ben questioned. 

Nathan shook his head. “Nope. I just woke up in the TV room two months ago and realized I was a ghost when I could phase through the table.” 

“You choked on a grape watching ConAir,” Esther said with a shrug. 

“Man, now that’s a way to go out!” Nathan chuckled. “Now, it is getting late, you two should probably get ready for bed so your mom doesn’t kill me,” he said, walking them to their rooms. 

After wishing the kids goodnight, Nathan went to check on Abaddon. “Hey bud,” he said, phasing through the door. “You good?”

Abaddon was playing Jenga by himself, the tower precariously and impressively tall. “I am fine.” 

“You kinda lost your cool back there, though,” he replied, sitting down next to his ward. “You don’t get upset like that often.” 

The boy demon kept placing blocks. “They were loud,” he said matter of factly, “it was pissing me off.” 

“That’s fair, I suppose, but you shouldn’t lose your cool with family.” Nathan pointed to one of the Jenga pieces. “Put this one at the top for me?”

Abaddon complied, pulling the piece and setting it atop the tower. It swayed a bit, but didn’t fall. “Your family,” he corrected Nathan. “I am a demon. I do not have family.” 

Nathan frowned, watching the tower get taller and taller. “I mean… I suppose. But there’s people in the hotel now, not just you, and I think you and Esther would get along well.” 

The tower swayed. “I do not want friends.” 

“They can take care of you bud,” he began, but before he finished the Jenga blocks crashed to the ground, tower destroyed. 

Abaddon’s eyes flashed red and he stood, stomping his foot and baring his teeth at Nathan. “Why, so you can pawn me off to the next human like everybody else?” he snapped, hair fluffing up like an angry cat. “So I don’t bother you anymore?!”

Nathan was taken aback. “Abaddon, that’s not—”

“If you hadn’t left, everything would be fine,” he bristled. “I don’t need them.” 

“But I want you to be—”

“And I want you to be alive!” he shouted, before the bit of him that existed before possession, the mild mannered child he fused with, recoiled at the idea of yelling at an authority figure. “I just want you to be alive.” He slumped down, eyes still burning a sharp crimson. 

Nathan put his hand on Abaddon’s shoulder, and to both of their surprise it connected. Without hesitation he pulled the boy into a hug, one which Abaddon didn’t necessarily return. Instead of wrapping his arms around him he buried his face into Nathan’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of his cologne and cotton of his sweater. 

Just as soon as it began it was over, Abaddon’s face phasing through Nathan’s neck as soon as he calmed down. 

“We’re gonna be okay,” Nathan assured. “I promise.” 

Chapter Text

And I try to calm the wolf

To remind her I am both 

Still she tears at my sweater

Not a lot, just forever. 

- Adrianne Lenker, not a lot, just forever 

Katherine stood outside in the garden looking at the stars with half a cigarette between her fingers, mind racing faster than she could follow and chest aching with a pain she thought she’d gotten past. 

Nathan was dead, but not gone. While part of her rejoiced in that, she knew he was still dead and a part of the hotel forever. Not to mention the demon possessed child her brother apparently cared for for the better part of four years without telling anyone. Maybe Esther wouldn’t have been so lonely in elementary school if she’d had someone her own age to play with.

She took a long drag off the cigarette, closing her eyes and sitting down on the steps. It was hard to be here, hard to see everything Nathan added to the hotel and hard to feel him in every room. Now that he was a ghost she doubted she’d ever recover. 

“Mom?” Ben’s voice snapped her out of her thought spiral. She quickly stubbed out her cigarette, trying to hide it as she turned to look at her first born. 

“Hey sweetheart, are you okay?” she asked hurriedly, trying to snap back to Mom mode as fast as she could. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Ben, sitting down next to her. “I know you’re not, though.” 

“It’s not your job to worry about me, Ben,” she assured, putting her hand on his shoulder. 

“I know that,” he replied, kicking a bit at the pebbles in the gravel walkway. “But you’re my mom and I love you.” He saw the cigarette butt and smelled it on her clothes, face falling almost imperceptibly. Katherine couldn’t help it, she threw her arms around her son and hugged him almost painfully tight. He hugged her back, resting his head on her shoulder. “I remember last year when I didn’t make the tennis team, and you told me it’s okay to not be strong all the time. I think anyone would find it hard to be strong right now.” 

Quiet tears roll down Katherine’s cheeks, staining both their shirts. “When did you get so grown up?” she asked, voice strained in her attempt to be lighthearted. 

Ben didn’t reply, chest tight and trying not to cry himself. He may not have been very vocal about it but he had been so angry lately— so angry seeing what his dad’s deception and lies did to his mom, so angry that none of their extended family reached out to help, so angry that all of Uncle Nathan’s funeral costs had been dumped on his poor mother, forcing her to go into debt just to receive his ashes, only for his grandmother to steal them out of their house. He was also angry with Esther, angry that she outwardly blamed their mom for the move and for all her problems. Ben had never been an angry boy before, he didn’t like how it felt. 

He was content to let his mother think he was out of the loop for most of it, but the truth of the matter is that kids are much smarter than adults give them credit for and adults are much worse liars than they realize. He knew why his parents got divorced, hell, he wasn’t even surprised when Uncle Nathan told him and Esther that they were splitting. Ben remembered pretending to be surprised for the sake of his little sister who didn’t see it coming at all, as she was only seven at the time. He had been relieved, though, that he wouldn’t listen to them yell at each other for hours into the night anymore. He’d given up on having a good relationship with his dad two years ago when the man dragged out the custody battle in court, getting Ben’s mom investigated by CPS for bogus reasons and dragging her reputation through the mud. Ben didn’t hate a lot of people, it was against his beliefs, but he hated his dad. He hated him for what he did to his mom. 

“Ben? Are you alright?” Katherine asked when they finally parted. 

He shook his head a little as if to clear it before nodding. “Yeah, I’m alright, Mom. I promise.” 

She checked her phone. “Mh, it’s 11 o’clock, you better get to bed,” she said, kissing him on the temple. 

He nodded, standing. “Okay,” he replied, giving her one last hug before heading inside. He passed Uncle Nathan in the hallway, walking in the direction Ben came from. “Goodnight, Uncle Nathan,” he said, smiling a little sadly. 

“Goodnight Ben,” the man replied, giving him a short ghost hug before the teen went into his room to start his bedtime routine. “Sleep well.” 

“I know you’re behind me, Nathan,” Katherine said, not looking up from where she sat. Even as a ghost his presence was as obvious as a bullhorn, if you knew what you were looking for. 

“I just wanted to say that—”

“I’m not… I’m not upset,” she said, turning to look at him. Her cigarette was relit, smoke trailing with her words as she spoke. 

“I thought you quit that,” he said, frowning in a way only an older brother can. 

“I did,” she said plainly, taking another drag and exhaling softly. 

“I don’t like it.” 

“You’re dead. I don’t care,” she snapped, before instantly regretting it. “Sorry. I’m overwhelmed.” 

The mustached man sat next to her on the steps, putting his arm around her. “I know,” he said quietly. “You know I never intended for you to inherit this place. I put it on my will in case of a freak accident and well…” he chuckles wryly, “guess the grapes had other ideas.” 

“The kids told you?” 

“Yeah,” he replied. 

The two of them were silent as Katherine finished her cigarette, stubbing it out for the final time. “Okay, now for the elephant in the room.” 

He looked at her in surprise. “You know about the elephant?” 

She stopped short. “I’m sorry?”

“Hannibal, the ghost elephant,” he said. 

“Wait… is he named for the serial killer or the Carthaginian general?” she asked quizzically. 

“The general, he died a hundred years before The Red Dragon was written,” he chuckled. “But he is a ghost because he got shot after eating like… twelve children.” 

“An elephant ate children?”

“Stranger things have happened!” 

“Before today I wouldn’t have believed you, but now I’m inclined,” she chuckled wryly. “But no. I’m talking about the kid.” 

“Abaddon?” 

“Yeah. Abaddon. What the fuck is up with that?” 

Nathan sighed. “He didn’t have anybody. I found him alone in the woods, and when I brought him inside to make sure he ate he told me he hadn’t had a proper meal in three hundred years. I felt bad for him.” 

“You felt bad… for a demon? He’s a literal demon?”

“Yeah,” he said, scratching his head. “But he doesn’t have any of his powers. He’s really more just a super ornery kid. He doesn’t admit it ever but he needs… I dunno. Like, attention and care.” 

“Like an actual kid.” 

“Yeah, like an actual kid.” He deflated a little. “For a while he was all I had.” 

Katherine was taken aback by this. “What? No, you always have me!” 

“You were going through your divorce,” he said hoarsely. “And that piece of shit was dragging you to hell and back. I couldn’t put that on you, Kathy, you had enough going on.” 

She drooped at these words. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you,” she said quietly. 

“It’s alright,” he assured softly. “But now Abaddon needs… a not-ghost to take care of him. He’s pretty self sufficient most of the time, but…”

“I understand,” she replied. 

“Also I promised him if he took down all the booby traps you’d let him have yogurt.” 

She snorted. “Yogurt?”

“Yogurt and Froot Loops are his favorite foods in the world,” he laughed. 

“Also, booby traps?!”

“He was… under the impression I was replacing him and tried to run you off,” he sighed. “So… yeah. Yogurt in exchange for no booby traps.” 

Her heart clenched a bit at the ‘replacing’ comment. “That is one strange kid.” 

“Trust me Kathy, you don’t know the half of it,” he laughed, a genuine smile on his face for the first time in a long time. 

“I should probably get him his yogurt,” she said, standing. 

“Probably.” 

The two of them walked back inside, Katherine disposing of her cigarette butt in the trash. When they entered the kitchen the aforementioned demon child was sitting at the table, drawing quietly. Katherine walked over, getting a look at the illustration. It was pretty well done for a child of his age, (well, physical age) and depicted the outside of the hotel. “Hey, that’s really good,” she said to him, and he looked up. 

“Hm? Oh, thank you.” He went back to coloring it in with his crayons, falling silent. 

Katherine opened the fridge and pulled out a tub of strawberry Greek yogurt, scooping a fairly large portion into a bowl and putting a small spoon into it. She brought it over to the kid, setting it down in front of him and sitting at the chair kitty-corner to his. 

He looked at it, distracted from his drawing. “Go on,” Katherine urged, with a small half smile on her face. 

Abaddon attacked the yogurt, devouring it like a starved man as Nathan entered the kitchen. “Oh hey, good, you haven’t lost your taste for yogurt, bud,” he said with a warm smile.

“I could never,” he asserted, coming up for air before inhaling the rest of the bowl. When he was finished he looked to Katherine, an unreadable expression on his face before he spoke. “Thank you,” he said simply. 

“You’re welcome,” she said honestly. “If you want to join us for breakfast tomorrow morning you’re welcome to.” 

His eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly, but he gave her a short nod. “I find that amenable. Goodnight, Miss Freeling.” He hopped down off the chair, making his way out of the room. 

Before he left, though, she spoke up. “Just Katherine is fine, Abaddon. Have a good evening.” He gave her another polite nod, leaving the room. 

“Wow,” Nathan said, watching him leave. “That went really well.” 

“Did it?”

“Yeah. He didn’t even try to bite you.” 

“Did he bite you?!”

“Oh yeah,” he laughed. “All the goddamned time. Lil bugger bit hard, too,” he said, showing her a faint scar on his arm. “This is from the first time I tried to give him a bath.” 

“Oh my god, I’m going to have to do that, aren’t I?”

“Probably, yeah,” he replied. “I have welding gloves in the bathroom for that occasion, though.” 

“Man. What did you get me into, Nathan?” 

Her brother just laughed, attempting to ruffle her bangs with his incorporeal hands. “Fun!” 

Chapter Text

When I look out my window

Many sights to see

And when I look in my window

So many different people to be 

They’re strange, so strange

It’s very strange to me

You’ve got to pick up every stitch 

You’ve got to pick up every stitch

You’ve got to pick up every stitch 

Oh no, must be the season of the witch

Must be the season of the witch

- Donovan, Season of the Witch

It had been three weeks since the Freeling family had moved into The Undervale, and all present members had fallen into some sort of comfortable rhythm. The kids would go to school, Katherine would get chores done and ask Nathan for help with the various ghosts and monsters, and Abaddon would cause abject chaos in a way only a demon-possessed nine year old could. 

“For the last time, Abaddon, I’m not going to give your gutting knife back until you clean up the mess you made in the parlor!” Katherine exclaimed, pulling the kid along. “I did not appreciate waking up to five dead songbirds on my carpet arranged in the shape of a pentagram!” 

“It was for protection!” he insisted, tugging against her iron grip with futility. “The blood of the birds purified the— ACK! Hey!” he squeaked, losing his footing and dangling from her grip. “Ow…”

“Can we do protection rituals that are less… messy?” Katherine asked, picking him up and setting him on his feet in front of the carnage before them. 

Five dead birds were arranged at each point of a star, neatly disemboweled with their intestines drawing the lines of the pentagram between them. Blood was painted to form the circle to close the pentagram, and there was a lit candle above each bird. 

“I don’t see the issue,” he stated plainly. 

“Clean it up.” 

“No.” 

“I said clean it up,” she repeated, using her best stern mom voice. 

He paled a little, pulling out of her grip. “You don’t understand,” he insisted, putting a bit of distance between them. “The end of the month is Samhain and the veil is thin here! If I don’t protect the hotel, another being could take it from me.” He clenched his fist, staring at his hand. 

“Samhain?” 

“All saints day? Ah, what’s it called now… Hallowed… All hallows… hmm…”

“Halloween?” she guessed. 

“Yes! Halloween. That’s it. I do this every Sam— er, Halloween.”

“What would happen if you didn’t?”

“I no longer possess enough power to protect the hotel without the aid of magic,” he replied. “I would not be able to defend this place from any manner of otherworldly attack.”

She sighed. “How long does it need to be up?” Katherine asked begrudgingly. 

“Just two hours.”

“Okay… I can do two hours. And then you’re shampooing the carpet.” 

Pff, as if. Abaddon wouldn’t shampoo the carpet, he’d make Esther or Ben do it like always. “Okay,” he said, crossing his arms. Katherine left to return to her task of tidying the front desk, when Esther entered the parlor. 

“Abaddon,” she said in greeting. 

“Esther.”

“Whoa, what’s with the dead birds?” she asked, fascinated. 

“Protection ritual to ensure I stay the rightful ruler of this domicile during Samhain,” he explained, hopping up onto the couch and sitting down. 

She crouched down next to the blood circle, trying to memorize the whole thing. “Right, ‘cause the veil is thin then?”

He nodded. “Yes. Are you knowledgeable in the Dark Arts?” he asked her, intrigued. 

“Not as much as I’d like to be,” she replied. “I wanna do magic, it sounds so cool. I found some spell books in the library, all I can do right now is light a candle.” 

“If you can already light a candle you likely have a knack for it,” he said, watching her inspect his handiwork. Humans were so curious, always getting into things they shouldn’t. Children were more like demons than adults, more inclined to the chaotic and otherworldly; they lost that spark as they aged. 

She looked up at him. “How much magic do you know?”

“I am a master of Black Magic,” he replied, chest puffed proudly. “Any spell I have the supplies for I am capable of.” He put his hands together in an intricate formation, eyes turning black and pupils flashing red. “STINGUO,” he recited, and all the lights (save for the ritual candles) in the room cut out. 

“WHOA,” Esther gasped, whirling around to look at him with giant sparkly eyes. “You have to teach me that.” 

“No,” he said, snorting. 

“Please?!”

“No.”

“Pretty pretty please?!”

“No.” 

“Pretty pretty please with whipped cream and a cherry on top?!”

“No! What does that even mean?”

“It means I want you to teach me magic, goddamnit!” Esther exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. 

He looked at her for a long moment, and watched as her eyes grew wider in hope and glee. “No.” 

She deflated. “Oh come on! I’ll do anything!” 

“Anything?” A sly grin wrote itself across his face, uncomfortably sinister on a child as young as he appeared to be. 

“Anything.” 

“I fail to see what this has to do with magic,” Esther griped, scrubbing at the carpet with the special cleaner. The time for the ritual had elapsed and with the hotel boasting a fresh ward, the carpet was in desperate need of a good shampoo.

“Katherine said I had to clean up my ritual when it was complete,” he said from where he was lying on his belly on the couch, kicking his feet a bit as he propped his chin up with his hand. 

“So why aren’t you doing it?” she groaned. 

“You said you’d do anything, remember?”

“Ughhhh,” Esther growled, going back to scrubbing. 

“You clean it, I teach you.” 

“I know,” she huffed, “I agreed.” She finished cleaning up after forty five minutes, sitting back on her heels and wiping her forehead. “Alright, now to hold up your end of the deal.” 

“Meet me in my room,” he said, climbing into the vent. 

“I thought I wasn’t allowed in there?”

“Without permission!” his voice echoed through the ventilation system. 

She rolled her eyes, jogging up the stairs and down the maze of hallways until she got to Abaddon’s room, pushing it open just as he was climbing out of the floor vent. He reached up into his bookshelf, pulling down a box of white candles before sitting on the floor and motioning for her to join him. Esther plopped down beside him, watching as he put a candle in front of her. “Light it,” he ordered. 

“Huh?”

“Light it. Show me what you know.” 

She frowned, looking at her hands in order to make sure she got the position right. “Um… ignis!” Nothing happened. 

“Again.” 

“It didn’t work.” 

“You lack conviction,” he said, glaring at her with an accusatory expression. 

“O-okay, okay!” Esther squeaked, folding her fingers again. “IGNIS!” The candle ignited, flickering gently at the end of the wick. “Whoa! I did it!” 

“Hm. Not bad.” Abaddon looked vaguely unimpressed. 

“Not bad? That was awesome!”

“STINGUO,” he said, and the candle blew out. 

“Oh come on, I just lit it!” Esther threw her hands up, glaring at him. 

“So do it again,” he demanded, gesturing to the candle. “Magic takes practice.” 

“IGNIS!” The candle ignited with a soft fwoosh. 

“STINGUO. Again.” 

“IGNIS!” Fwoosh. 

“STINGUO. Again.”

“IGNIS!” Fwoosh. 

“STINGUO. Again.” That back and forth of Esther lighting the candle and Abaddon extinguishing it continued on for more than thirty minutes. Finally she stopped lighting the candle, growing bored. 

“I think I got it, Abaddon.” 

“You definitely do,” he replied. “I’ve been fucking with you for the last twenty minutes of that. Here is how you extinguish the candle.” He showed her the proper hand motion. “IGNIS,” he said, the candle lighting. 

“STINGUO,” Esther replied, and the candle went dark. 

“Adequate,” Abaddon concluded, before climbing back into the vents. 

“Oh come on, I wanna keep going!” she called after him. 

“Yeah, I’m done,” his voice echoed back. 

“Fine,” she sighed, taking the candle back to her own room to continue practicing, which she did for the next several hours. 

For the next several days Esther was buried in spell books, learning as many phrases as she possibly could. She took notes, drew diagrams, and collected spell components, hanging herbs in her room and collecting stones and wood in jars. 

One day when she came home from school, she walked into her bedroom to see Abaddon standing in the middle of her room, arms folded behind his back as he examined her collection. “Whoa, hey, what are you doing in here?” she demanded, bristling. “I didn’t tell you that you could come in here!” 

He ignored her, stepping forward to examine the crystals on her shelf. “You have an impressive collection of components,” he observed. “How did you know all these were used in spells and magic? I haven’t told you any of this.” 

Esther sighed, getting over the fact he broke into her room fairly quickly as she walked to her giant bookcase. “These,” she replied, gesturing to the books before pulling them down and plopping the heavy tomes onto her bed. 

“Books,” he said, tilting his head. 

“Yeah, spell books. There’s a lot of really cool information in these, one of them is all about demonology!” 

Fascinated, he climbed onto the bed next to her. “And you glean information from the pages?” 

“Yeah, I read ‘em.” 

“Reading,” he parroted, looking over her shoulder at the open pages. The letters were gibberish to him, he had always assumed books were full of useless drivel. Perhaps he had been wrong. “Can you read it to me?”

She looked back at him. “Wait, you don’t know how to read?” 

The way she phrased it and the tone of her voice made Abaddon feel funny and small and he frowned, face heating up in a way he didn’t understand. He pulled back, looking away. “I never needed to,” he asserted, clearly embarrassed. 

“Oh,” she said, seeing his red face and choosing not to antagonize him further. “I mean, I can teach you.” 

He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “Teach me to read?” 

“Yeah. You give me more magic lessons, and I teach you to read and write,” she offered. 

He was quiet for a beat, before opening his mouth to speak. “Sure. That sounds… fine.” 

“Want me to teach you how to write your name?” Esther offered, getting one of her binders out of her backpack and pulling out a piece of lined paper. 

“Sure,” he replied, watching as she picked up the pencil and began. 

She wrote slowly in all caps, so he could follow along. “You write your name like this,” she started. “A-B-A-D-D-O-N. Here, now you try.” She set the binder and paper in his lap, handing him the pencil and showing him how to hold it. He gripped it just a bit too tightly, face scrunched in concentration as he painstakingly copied her penmanship. It was shaky and inconsistent, but it spelled his name. “Hey, that’s good!” she said, smiling. 

He blushed hard again, still embarrassed in a way he couldn’t identify. “Just show me more,” he muttered. 

The next few hours were spent going over the alphabet, having Abaddon recite it while he wrote it. He wore the determined expression the entire time, clearly engaged and serious about learning everything he could. 

“You’re doing really good,” she reassured as he finished writing everyone’s names. 

Abaddon bit his lip, clearly proud upon receiving the compliment. “I will surely conquer the written language arts in no time,” he asserted, chest puffed a little. 

“Yeah, that’s the spirit!” 

Later that evening as Katherine was picking up the parlor from the day’s mess left by the kids, she came across a pile of paper which bore Abaddon’s signature childish art style. She paused, looking through them, before finding one that made her smile a little. 

It was a drawing depicting a man, a woman, a teen, a girl, and a boy, clearly colored to look like all of them. In shaky, childish penmanship, each of their names was written above their heads. 

She took it into the kitchen, pinning it to the fridge with a magnet next to Esther and Ben’s school photos, looking at it with the beginnings of pride. 

Chapter Text

Every other day I’m wondering 

“What’s a human being gotta be like?

What’s a way to just be competent?”

These sweet instincts ruin my life. 

Every other day I’m wondering

“Was it a mistake to try and define

What I’m certain’s mad incompetence?”

These sweet instincts ruin my life. 

- Sidney Gish, Imposter Syndrome

Abaddon sat proudly at the breakfast table with Ben and Esther, his adult sized trilby set upon his head, slipping down into his face and almost covering his eyes. He kicked his feet, eating the bacon and eggs Katherine cooked for the three kids. 

“How’s your arm and chest doing?” Esther asked, looking over at him curiously as she stuck a piece of bacon in her mouth. 

He rubbed at his shoulder a bit. “A little sore, but I’m fine,” he replied. “The most important part is that I have recovered my beloved trilby.” He patted the hat on top of his head, smiling with self satisfaction. 

“It really looks like a fedora,” Ben muttered to no one in particular. 

“It’s not a fedora!” Abaddon insisted, brandishing his fork at the taller boy. “If I still had my trident I’d gut you nave to chops for such disrespect!”

“We’re not gutting anyone from nave to chops with or without tridents,” Katherine admonished, turning to glare at the boy demon. 

He jutted his chin out defiantly, crossing his arms. “It’s not a fedora.” 

“Fine, it’s not a fedora,” Ben conceded, rolling his eyes. 

“Ha!” Abaddon crowed, thrusting his fists into the air. “Victory!”

“You’re so weird,” Ben groaned, shaking his head. 

“Hey, Abaddon’s not weird, you’re weird!” Esther said defiantly, pointing her bacon at her older brother. “You think close up magic will make you cool and you write My Little Pony fanfiction!” 

Ben paled. “You know about that?!”

“I know everything about you,” she asserted. “So don’t be mean to Abaddon. I can make your life hell if I wanted.” 

“Esther,” Katherine said sharply. 

“What? He was being mean to Abaddon!”

“Weird isn’t a bad thing,” Katherine tried to argue, but Esther crossed her arms. 

“I know that, but Ben didn’t mean it in a cool-weird kinda way, he meant it in a freak-weird kinda way. And Abaddon is NOT freak-weird.” 

Katherine gave her daughter a look that made Esther realize she didn’t agree. “I mean…”

“You think he’s a freak too?! UGH! Come on Abaddon, we’re gonna go play a game or something  in my room and let these jerks be dumb jerks together,” she said, grabbing Abaddon’s hand and taking him upstairs with her. 

He had watched the whole exchange somewhat puzzled, he was used to being called weird or a freak. Ben saying it wasn’t any different than any of the others that had ever said it. It was true, after all; Abaddon was a freak. A freak among demons and a freak among humans, he’d heard it a million times. When she tugged at his hand he let her, following silently after her to her room. 

She slammed the door, scowling. “Ugh. I’m sorry about them… Ben can be such an asshole sometimes.” Esther stomped over to her bed, flopping onto it with a frustrated huff. “And my mom… ugh!” 

He walked over, sitting down next to her quietly. “I don’t know why you did that,” he said, in an honest tone. 

“Huh?” She lifted her head. 

“I don’t know why you argued with them on that. I am freak-weird.” 

She sat up. “Wait, is that what you think?” 

He tilted his head in confusion. “It’s… what I know. I was an outlier amongst demons and well, you know how I am amongst humans.” Abaddon shrugged as he spoke. “It’s not anything I’d never heard before.” 

Esther sighed. “That’s… that’s not… you’re not a freak, Abaddon.” 

He just blinked at her. 

“You’re not! You’re a person like me!” she insisted, poking him in the chest. 

He looked at her finger and then back up at her. “I’m not human the same way you are.” 

“I know that,” she retorted. “I said person. You’re a person, Abaddon. A living, breathing person with wants and needs and hopes and dreams, even if they are mostly bones or starting an apocalypse! They’re still yours and being yourself doesn’t make you a fucking freak!” Her eyes watered a little and she wiped them furiously, sniffing angrily. 

“Why are you so upset for me?” He was well and truly confused by this conversation, tilting his head again the other way. 

“Because you… because you won’t be. You’re used to people treating you bad as normal.” She sniffled again. “And because I know what it’s like to feel like a freak.”

“I don’t think you’re a freak,” he replied. 

She wiped her eyes a bit, hugging him. “Thank you, Abaddon.”

He smiled and patted her back, content to let her hug him without him fully reciprocating. “I still don’t really know how humans act. I don’t think I’m very good at being one.” 

“I’m not either,” she said honestly, resting her head on his shoulder. “I don’t think most people do.” 

He snorted. “The Matriarch seems to have some idea. At least, she tells me I’m not normal every day.” 

Esther frowned, worrying her jacket hem between her fingers. “My mom… I…” she sighed, expression falling. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to make her like you.” 

Ouch, that one stung. He’s not really sure why it did, though. 

Well sure, Abaddon knew Katherine hated him, but hearing it out of Esther’s mouth made it worse somehow. No matter, it was of little consequence. He was the Cobra King for God’s sake! One person’s opinion didn’t matter much to him. Or well, two people’s opinions, as he knew Ben didn’t like him either. 

He didn’t reply, quiet for a bit. “You wanted to play a game,” he said, shifting gears so she would stop moping on his shoulder. 

She straightened, running her fingers through her hair to tame it a bit. “Ye-yeah. Yeah. Do you wanna play Kirby’s Epic Yarn? I hooked up Uncle Nathan’s old Wii to the tv.” 

He didn’t know what that was but he nodded anyway and the two of them climbed down to sit in front of the small screen, which sat low to the ground. She handed him a controller and went about setting up the game, showing him the basics.

The next few hours were fun. Abaddon absolutely sucked at the game, but that’s unsurprising. Esther was having fun which was all that mattered to the boy-demon, he absolutely despised when she was upset in his general vicinity. He soon got tired, though, and made his current state of boredom known by flopping over with a groan. “I think I am done playing this game with the pink beast inside the box.”

She laughed. “You held out longer than I expected, you did better than the last time we played a video game!” 

“Well, at least I did not fail as miserably,” he snorted, crawling over to the vent and opening it up. He turned to Esther, who tilted her head with a little smile. “I will return at six for reading and magic.” 

“Sounds great!” Esther grinned. 

He dropped down into the vent, off to cause mayhem elsewhere in the hotel. 

When Ben found Abaddon he wasn’t doing anything destructive for once, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace and working on a large puzzle of the native birds of New York. 

The teen sighed, rubbing his shoulder. He knew he’d been rude to Abaddon earlier, but it seemed to upset Esther more than the dark haired menace that she was practically inseparable from. 

“Hello Benjamin,” Abaddon said without looking up, putting together some edge pieces. 

“Hey, Abaddon…” he said awkwardly, fidgeting. “Do you want help with your puzzle?”

Abaddon looked up and nodded. “Yes. Look for corner pieces.” 

Ben sat down near him, gathering some pieces and arranging them by color. “I… uh… mh. I wanted to apologize for being mean to you earlier. You’re not weird.” 

“Yes I am,” Abaddon replied, turning to stare at Ben with large owlish eyes. They flicker from ice blue to red, and Ben can’t help but feel trapped by his gaze. 

“I— I mean yeah, but… you’re like, good-weird. Not freak-weird.” 

“Hm.” Abaddon didn’t let up, his piercing gaze completely unreadable. 

“Look, I— I’m weird too, okay? And so is Esther and so is Uncle Nathan and even Mom is weird, even though she hides it. So you being weird… isn’t weird.” 

Abaddon was silent, moving pieces into place. “What’s it like to be a real person?” he asked randomly, after a solid two minutes of unbroken quiet. 

“Huh?” Ben was taken aback by this, not sure what he meant. 

“What was it like to be small, and then grow into something taller? To start as a babe and to grow and stretch into something fully fledged?” Abaddon had stopped putting the puzzle together, and was now looking at Ben with an expression the teen couldn’t even begin to understand. 

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” he replied honestly. “And you are a real person.” 

“Not in the way you and Esther are,” he pointed out. “You were born of flesh and bone, you grew from a squalling squishy thing into something full of life. You figure yourselves out over decades. I was born from a primordial ichor in the space between worlds, outside of time itself. I was bound to a pit and knew my duty from the time I could even form thought. So no, I’m not a person the way you are. And I’m a shit excuse for a demon.” 

Ben didn’t know what to say to that, so he just focused on the puzzle. “I don’t really have answers for any of your questions or explanations for anything you just asked. But to me being a real person means spending time with the people you care about, and who care about you.”

“Shouldn’t you be with Esther, then?” Abaddon asked genuinely. 

“No. We’re brothers, remember? We fought that lake monster together.” 

“A shared battlefield makes for a powerful ally indeed,” he said, nodding sagely. “I understand your words, Brother.” 

Ben just nodded. He hoped he was saying the right things… he wasn’t sure. Abaddon really wasn’t all that bad all things considered. Sure he used the vents as a way to get around, needed his nails clipped weekly so he didn’t scratch people, often ran on all fours and hunted small animals in the yard like a cat, but he had saved Ben before. The first time he saved him had been at the water mill, and the second time was the previous night. Sure it ultimately was Ben who’d pushed PK out the window, but Abaddon had been so hellbent on retrieving that stupid hat that he caused a decent distraction. 

“You care about people too, right, Abaddon?” Ben asked. 

“Mh… until recently I would have replied no,” he said, fitting together more puzzle pieces. 

“What changed?”

“Nathan,” he confessed.

“How so?” Ben was so sure he was close to getting through to Abaddon, the demon seemed somewhat capable of vulnerability at the least. 

He frowned, looking down. “He was nice to me.” 

The teenager paused. “Is that… all?” Was that all it took to win Abaddon over?

“No one else ever had been,” he replied with a self conscious shrug. He didn’t like the way Ben was looking at him, a mix of pity and regret painted across the taller boy’s face. “No need to feel sorry,” he said quickly, shooting Ben a glare. “I am a demon and I do not require kindness.” 

That seemed to make Ben even sadder, though. “But… you like it.” 

“I only concern myself with things I require,” he retorted hotly. 

“And yet you ‘concern’ yourself with Uncle Nathan,” Ben replied quickly, matching his energy. 

Abaddon puffed up for a tirade of blustering and badgering Ben about what was and wasn’t his business, but all of the wind left his sails the second he opened his mouth to speak. He closed it, looking at the ground. Ben for the first time was struck by how small Abaddon actually was; he knew the demon’s vessel was about nine years old but the combination of improper nutrition and a formerly Puritan colonist diet had led him to be rather tiny for his age. “Yeah,” was all he said in reply. 

Ben didn’t say anything snarky, instead he handed Abaddon all four corner pieces. “I found them,” he said, before sliding some bits he’d done to the side into place. “It’s looking good.”

“It is,” Abaddon agreed, giving Ben a small smile. It was a real smile, not the manic grin he often wore or the smug look that he reserved for moments of triumph. This was a true little kid smile, sunny and cheerful and radiant despite its gentle nature. 

And goddamnit, it made Ben smile too. 

Chapter Text

When a human strokes your skin 

That is when you let them in 

Let them in before they go 

I would rather feel alive

With a childlike soul

With a childlike soul 

- AURORA, Through the Eyes of a Child

Life went on, Esther getting better at magic, Ben becoming an expert on running a hotel, Abaddon still learning how to read, Katherine attempting to learn to relax, and Nathan watching television or getting wrapped up in whatever shenanigannery the kids were getting up to. Lately, though, the hotel’s resident demon had been causing Katherine no end of problems, ranging from a rampage in the lobby over seeing his reflection to kidnapping the owner of the bed and breakfast in the town and tying him up in the closet. 

Abaddon saw how much trouble his actions had caused, however. Katherine had never been anything but nice to him (albeit often begrudgingly) and he was ruining her day. As much as he liked to ruin days… Katherine didn’t deserve it; at least, not right now. So he decided to fix it. 

As Charlie left with Amber and the water guy trailed after them Abaddon’s careful facade broke, and the boy-demon proceeded to puke an enormous volume of blood onto the floor. “Get me a dead squirrel,” he gasped at Esther, clutching his chest in pain. 

“Abaddon, what was that?” Katherine asked, clearly shocked and reaching for the boy cautiously. 

“That was me meeting you halfway,” he struggled, looking at her with hope in his eyes. “May I have my vest?”

“I guess you’ve earned it,” she replied with a bit of a smile, handing the vest of the bellhop uniform to Abaddon. She paused, confused after he took it from her. “Wait, how did you get free?”

“Hm? Oh, I cut my hand off,” Abaddon answered, pulling the bloody stump out of his pocket to show the Freelings. 

“Oh god,” Katherine gasped. 

“Damn!” Esther yelped, grimacing. 

“I’ll get the packing tape,” Katherine sighed, walking to the supply closet as the kids helped their scorned guest pack furniture into his car. Abaddon trailed after her, holding his vest in his existing hand. She grabbed the clear tape, motioning for Abaddon to follow her into one of the guest bathrooms, which he did, sitting on the edge of the tub and holding his stump out expectantly. “Where’s the hand?” she asked. 

“Oh, here,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the dismembered limb to give to her. 

She sighed, cleaning both the stump and the hand with antiseptic, which made Abaddon hiss with pain. “How’d you even manage to cut it off?” She looked at the hand, which had frayed flesh hanging off it and tendons dangling in a way that reminded her of a bear attack. 

“Well… more like chewed,” he admitted as she put the hand in place, carefully taping it back to his wrist. 

“Does that not hurt?” She couldn’t imagine chewing her own hand off like an animal caught in a trap. Katherine paled a little upon realizing that is exactly what Abaddon did; he had been a fox stuck in a crushing snare, the only way to free himself was to chew his own arm until the limb broke away from the joint and he was able to free himself. She wondered just how long in the past he’d been chained up there, cold and starving, before finally resorting to gnaw away at the limb that kept him trapped. 

“Oh, it does,” he shrugged. “But I am stronger than the pain.” 

“It seems like it…” she said more to herself than him. “So why’d you puke blood?”

“I stopped the bleeding by putting my wrist in my mouth, and I ended up swallowing more of the blood than I intended to.” 

She shuddered a little. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.” 

“It wasn’t,” he agreed. 

She wrapped his wrist up with gauze next, and then a water resistant film. “You’re also getting a bath now, you’re covered in vomit and your own blood.” 

“Oh come on,” he whined as she unbuttoned his outer shirt, but complied anyway, taking over getting undressed as she drew a bath. “I hate this.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m not bathing you fully clothed in the sink again, because I’d rather wash your things off your body.”

“I detest baths.”

“I don’t know why, baths are nice.” 

“The soap hurts my nose.” 

“Don’t put it in your nose, then.” 

“No, the smell. It stings,” he said, arms crossed as he sat in the bubbles, dark brown hair wet and plastered to his forehead. 

“Oh. Are you sensitive to smell?” 

“I have a strong sense of smell,” Abaddon explained as she started washing his hair. Despite how much he hated baths, he had to admit that getting his hair washed felt nice.

Katherine made a mental note to purchase unscented hygiene products for Abaddon, she supposed it might have been a sensory thing. “Is there anything else that bothers you about bathtime?” she asked, prodding in a gentle way only a loving caretaker can with a small child. 

“The water,” he replied. “Well, in the bath the water is nice. But when I get out I feel so bare and cold, it’s like the deepest and innermost circle of Hell.”

She made another mental note to put his towel in the dryer before he got out. “Hang on right there,” she said, slipping out to do just that. When she got back he was playing with a rubber duck, completely oblivious to her previous absence. “Aaaaanything else?” 

“The hair brushing is fine. Nathan used to do it every morning. But I hate that infernal wind machine, it screams in my ears like the souls of the damned and makes my head throb with its incessant shrieking. I cannot abide by it.” 

Okay, no hair dryer, got it. She would towel dry his hair from then on, or perhaps order a nice noiseless one. Her former sister in law had an amazing Dyson dryer that she remembered fondly… but they were so expensive. She’d keep looking. There was a pause of silence as she rinsed the shampoo out of his hair. “So why’d you do it? All that effort just to meet me halfway? You don’t even like me,” she said, breaking the silence. 

Abaddon opened his mouth and closed it again, thinking before finally replying. “That’s not true.” 

“You literally tell me every day when I stop you from doing something stupid or destructive that you hate me.” 

“I don’t hate you.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because— because you matter to Nathan,” he admitted, looking at the water with a vulnerable expression. 

Sitting there in the tub she could almost forget he was a demon, he looked every bit a sad child despite his oddly deep voice and dismembered hand. “You’re pretty attached to my brother, huh?” 

He idly kicked at the water as she did a second shampoo, carefully removing dirt and blood that had been caked in his hair with a wide toothed comb. “He was good to me.” 

“Yeah… he’s a good person.” 

“He is. Well— I thought so.” 

“Hm?”

“I thought he’d given up,” he began. “He gave me cheesecake for lunch and all the sugary snacks I wanted. I thought he was just being nice, but no, he left like everyone else.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly, voice softening to a near whisper as she rinsed his hair, careful not to get any soap in his eyes.

“I wanted burgers for dinner. But he locked me out and when I managed to get in, I found the sleeping pill bottles.” 

She gasped, hand flying to her mouth. 

Abaddon turned to look at her. “Katherine?”

“You were the one who found Nathan,” she said softly, eyes welling with tears. 

Shit, he’d made her sad. He looked down at the water glumly, feeling small. “He taught me how to call for help, so I did.” 

She looked at him with an expression he didn’t understand as tears began to roll down her face. Not caring that he was wet she leaned over the side of the tub and hugged the boy tightly; he didn’t hug back, but he did bury his face into the side of her neck the way Esther did when she was young. “Oh Abaddon,” she said, voice not even above a whisper. 

“So no, I don’t hate you. You’re nice to me, which is more than I had hoped, at least.” 

Fuck her, she was feeling bad for the demon. As she conditioned his long hair she closed her eyes, blinking back more tears. It was one thing to imagine the years of pain that he endured inflicted on a demon, but like this all she could picture was a small child, beaten and drowned and left for dead over and over again. “One of the ghosts told me what they used to do to you.” 

He shuddered at the mention of it, hugging his knees. The burn scar on his chest felt taut and itchy and he wiped at his face in a desperate attempt to keep his eyes from stinging. “It’s nothing I couldn’t handle.” 

“It’s okay to need help sometimes, Abaddon,” she said quietly, helping him out of the bath and wrapping him in the warmed towel after quickly fetching it. The boy seemed pleasantly surprised at it, pulling it tight around his shoulders. “And it’s okay to not be strong.” Her hand paused over the brand on his chest, and she looked at him with so much concern and empathy that it turned his stomach and made him feel sick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he growled as she dried his hair with the towel, then carefully brushed his silky dark locks until they shone. 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m pathetic. Something to be pitied. I’m not,” he spat, before his voice broke. “I’m not.”

She knelt down beside him, and he looked at her with the most wounded expression she’d ever seen on a child’s face. “I know you’re not,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. She was only half truthful, though. For the first time her heart truly ached for Abaddon, for this clearly young demon trapped in the body of an even younger boy in the place he despised. For this child, he really was just a child, who’d been beaten and chased off and scorned his whole earthly life, wrapped in chains and tortured by the adults around him. 

Adults were supposed to protect children, not harm them. Even demon children. 

She scooped him up, taking him to his room before getting some of Nathan’s old pajamas out of storage and helping him dress into them. “I’ll wash your clothes,” she promised. 

“Okay,” he replied, climbing into bed. “I’ll lay down, but I don’t want to sleep.” 

“Why not?”

He looked down, drawing his knees to his chest. “Because I might not wake up,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. 

Because Nathan didn’t. 

Abaddon didn’t have to say it out loud, she understood. She did. 

Katherine sat down next to him on the bed, wrapping her arm around him; he seemed incredibly surprised at the gesture, but didn’t pull away. “If you fall asleep, I promise you will wake up,” she assured him gently. 

“Humans break their promises.”

“This is one I will never break.” 

He looked up at her with something so innocent and yet so ancient in his eyes that it almost scared her, and he gave her a single nod. “Okay.” 

“Do you want me to read you a story?” she asked, rubbing his upper back soothingly. 

He nodded, and then looked at a book at the end of his bed. “Nathan used to read that one to me but now he can’t turn the pages,” he stated, and once again all those emotions flooded back. 

“I’ll read to you, kiddo,” she said with a sad smile, reaching over to pick up the book. The Hobbit. 

“This was my favorite book growing up, Nathan used to read it to me when I couldn’t sleep,” she said wistfully, and then looked down in shock as he leaned against her side of his own volition. 

“He did voices.” 

“I’m not as good at that…”

“That’s okay. I just want to hear the part with Smaug.”  

She read to him and his eyes grew heavy, and in his tired state he clutched at her arm. “I know you hate me, Katherine,” he said quietly, voice heavy with sleep, “but thank you for reading it.” 

Her heart broke a little more than it already was hearing that, but before she could reply he was already out, snoozing softly against her side. She stood up, combing his hair gently with her fingers as she tucked him in. In sleep he was a peaceful child, features gentle and oh so small. It was hard to reconcile this with the knowledge he was a demon. 

She left his room, turning his lamp off and closing the door; not a moment too soon also, because once in the hallway the weight of his words hit her like a truck and she let out a broken, choked sob as she slumped to the floor. This was too much for her; the demon that terrorized her and made her life as hard as it was, was really just a sad, hurt boy underneath everything. She knew the scar on his chest was from something, but he had never explained it. Katherine figured it had to do with former hotel owners, but something about the story he told her earlier in the day in the laundry room made her stomach burn and veins run ice cold. She let herself cry, cry for the child he’d taken over, cry for the priest he killed, cry for everything that Abaddon endured after. 

After a bit Katherine got up, wiping her eyes and seeking out her daughter, whom she found curled up in the parlor with her heavy copy of Junji Ito’s Tomie. “Hey, Esther?” she asked after making sure she didn’t look a mess, and the ten year old looked up. 

“What is it, Mo— oh my god, are you okay?” She was immediately concerned, noting her mom’s red eyes and damp sleeve. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, sweetie, don’t worry. I had a question about magic.” Katherine stood by the chair across from the couch, leaning against it a bit. 

“What is it?” 

“How do you bind a demon to a vessel?” 

“Pshhh, oh, that’s easy,” Esther said, waving her hand. “You need something to permanently hold them together. These days people go for a tattoo, but traditionally seals were done with brands. Why?” 

The crucifix on his chest. She felt nauseous. “Oh, nothing sweetheart, it was something one of the ghosts said and I was curious,” she replied, regaining her composure as best she could. “I am curious too about why you would bind a demon to a vessel. Can’t you just exorcise the demon without it?”

“Sometimes,” Esther informed. “But for powerful demons, you have to bind the souls as a last resort. It’s kinda…” She grimaced. “It’s kinda like, suuuper unethical, though, because performing the exorcism on a bound soul kills both the demon and the host. Wait, who was the ghost you were talking to? Was it Jeb? Because if so, tell him he owes me a ten minute dance!” 

“Okay, I will,” she replied with a practiced smile that only mothers can give their children before turning to leave. “Goodnight, Esther, I love you.” 

“Love you too Mom!” 

She needed a drink. Making her way into the kitchen she poured herself something stiff and took a swig, hoping it would dull the sting behind her eyes. 

“Whoa, Katherine, are you good?” Nathan asked, walking through the wall.

She shook her head quietly, taking another sip of the whiskey in her hand as tears streamed down her face. 

“Talk to me?”

She sobbed quietly into her hand. “Abaddon was the one who found your body. He called 911 to help you.” 

Nathan’s eyes widened and he put a hand up to his mouth, pale. “Oh no.”

“And I found out why he has that scar on his chest. The man that tried to exorcise his son to be rid of Abaddon bound them together by branding them with a fucking crucifix. He was going to kill them both.” 

Nathan stared at the floor. “I knew that part,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t have had to see that. It’s horrifying.”

“Why are you really so attached to him?” she asked. “I know it’s because you said you didn’t have anyone, but was that all of it?”

He hung his head a little. “Because I was all he had too,” he replied quietly. “And when he’s not on the defensive he is a truly wonderful kid.”

“You don’t see him as a demon at all, do you?”

“How can I?” Nathan asked genuinely. “I’ve bathed him, cooked for him, watched tv with him, colored with him, gone on hikes and gone fishing and read him bedtime stories— you can’t do that with someone you believe is evil. He’s not evil. He’s just a kid.” 

Katherine ran her hand down her face. “A kid who thinks I hate him.” She took another long swig of the whiskey, wiping her eyes again. 

“You don’t, though, right?”

“Of course not,” she replied much too quickly, before hanging her head. “I… I did,” she admitted, voice thin and shaking. “But… I really don’t think I do anymore. Not at all. He’s ornery and a jackass and absolutely insane, but he’s… I don’t know. He’s not a bad kid.” She poured herself another glass. “What am I doing, Nathan?” 

“Um… drinking whiskey?” Nathan supplied, a little puzzled. 

“No, no, just in general. I’m running a hotel with the ghost of my dead brother, my daughter is a witch, my son is dating a ghost and my nephew is a demon boy who can regenerate limbs,” she exclaimed, gesturing with each word. 

“Nephew?” Nathan questioned, a little self conscious. 

Katherine ignored him. “And not to mention I can’t get my deadbeat of an ex husband to pay fucking child support and the courts are no use because he’s been evading taxes for ten years so legally he has no reported income and he refuses to talk to his children! Hell, he’s in fucking Syracuse right now, not Ithaca, and I had to find that out from his new girlfriend of the week contacting me to threaten me not to talk to him!”

“Oh… shit,” her brother said, chewing his bottom lip. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Kathy.”

“Please, don’t be, Nathan.” Even though it is your fault. She didn’t say that, though, she knew he didn’t know, and even if he did she would never put that on him. She couldn’t. 

“If I hadn’t died you wouldn’t be in this situation. You’d be fine, back with the kids in Ithaca, Abaddon wouldn’t avoid alone time with me, and everything would be okay!” 

“Please don’t think like that,” she said, looking up at him with watery eyes. “The kids have their own rooms here. Esther finally has friends and Ben is actually getting good grades now. Abaddon— I… I don’t know how to fix that one, but I’ll work on it. I promise. I don’t want you to blame yourself, Nathan. Not every change has been bad. I’ve just had a long day.”

“I know, Kathy,” he said softly, hugging her. 

She hugged him back, his form almost solid enough to feel underneath her fingers. “I love you, Nathan. I never said it enough.” 

“I love you too, Kathy. Neither did I.” 

Chapter Text

It’s a long long road 

From which there is no return

While we’re on the way to there, 

Why not share?

And the load

Doesn’t weigh me down at all

He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother. 

- The Hollies, He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Ben asked nervously, following Esther through the woods. Abaddon walked beside him, just content to be included. The weather was changing, autumn growing cooler and Halloween growing nearer, which Esther told him meant the veil between worlds was thinning. 

“Uh, duh, what kind of witch would I be if I couldn’t find magic mushrooms?!” Esther demanded, gesturing to punctuate her words. “Geez, Ben!”

“Okay, when you say ‘magic mushrooms’ do you mean like, actual magical mushrooms, or do you mean the drugs? Because with you it could be either and ten is WAY too young to be doing recreational drugs,” Ben fretted, hopping over a log she’d just clambered across. 

“Pff, wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased, turning to look at him, walking backwards. 

“Yeah I would,” he replied. “That’s why I asked!”

“They are magical, not intoxicants,” Abaddon stated, speaking up for the first time since they’d left the hotel thirty minutes ago. “Esther needs more spell components and I am here to ensure neither of you get lost.” 

“Lost? Do you even know how to get around these woods?” Ben questioned. 

“I’ve roamed these woods for three hundred years, mortal,” he replied quickly, eyes flashing red to punctuate his point. “If I didn’t know these woods at this point I would be a lousy excuse for a demon.”

Ben wanted to argue that Abaddon was a lousy excuse for a demon, but he knew that would just start a fight and it wasn’t one he necessarily wanted to engage in at the moment. He and the boy had been on better terms recently, Abaddon actually sought him out for help with things now and included him in adventures with Esther. He smiled a little to himself, remembering Abaddon’s most recent drawing of Ben, Esther, and the boy-demon. He had given it to Ben at breakfast one morning, leaving the table wordlessly and disappearing into the ventilation system of the hotel. It was currently hung on Ben’s wall with his other art and posters, where he could look at it and feel that odd warm feeling in his chest he got when he thought about family.

It was kind of nice, he had to admit, having another kid around (even if that kid was an immortal demon who collected bones, stole his mom’s earrings, drank drain cleaner and ate rats under the stairs). Ben mused that it was like having a little cousin, especially with how close he and Esther were and how much he looked up to and cared for Nathan. 

“Guys, catch up! I think we’re getting close!” Esther called, dashing down the dirt path with a wild wave for them to follow. 

Ben picked up the pace a bit, breaking into a jog with Abaddon trailing just a few steps behind. “Slow down, Esther, you know my ankle sucks!” he shouted after her, before promptly tripping and falling flat on his face. 

Abaddon paused when he caught up to Ben, stopping to help him up. “Brother,” he said simply. 

“Thanks Abaddon,” he said, standing and dusting himself off. “Agh, shit,” Ben groaned, seeing a now-skinned knee. “I’ll have to clean it when we get back to the hotel.” 

“Does it hurt?” Abaddon asked, crouching down to look at the bleeding abrasion. 

“Just kinda stings a bit,” he shrugged. “We should probably catch up with Esther, though.” 

“Probably, yes,” Abaddon agrees, and the two of them continue down the path. After a few minutes the kid pointed to Esther’s footsteps veering off the trail. “I believe she went into the underbrush.”

“Ugh,” Ben groaned. “The underbrush is where all the monsters are.” Despite this, however, he dutifully stepped off the path to find his sister. He may not love monster hunting or galavanting off to God knows where to rob some grave or conduct heinous experiments, but Ben was a good big brother and had to protect his little sister. She and Abaddon frequently ditched him, however, but he’d grown to trust the boy-demon with her safety at least. He knew she’d resent the fact he felt obligated to protect her but he couldn’t help it; if anything ever happened to her he would never forgive himself. 

“We’re here,” Abaddon said, snapping Ben out of his musings and back into reality. He looked over to see Esther crouched in the rich loam of the forest clearing, hands muddy up to her elbows as she picked absolutely gargantuan mushrooms. They were a pale blue, almost white, and had a faintish glow to them that made them look completely alien. 

“Whoa,” he said, walking over to stand by Esther. His sister was sorting them by size and bagging them up to place in her backpack, eyes sparkling and face plastered with the biggest smile Ben had seen on her in a long time. 

“They came up well,” Abaddon remarked, joining them. “Excellent work, Esther.” 

“Oh, did you plant these?” Ben asked, crouching down to help her sort and bag them. Abaddon started poking through the dirt, looking for only God knows what. 

“I did,” she said proudly, holding one up that had to be the size of a dinner plate. “And look how beautiful they are!”

“They’re really pretty,” he agreed. “What do they do?” 

“This is my moonsbreath patch,” she explained. “They’re used a lot in healing spells and medicinal potions.” 

“Oh. Do you have other mushroom patches?”

“All kinds of magic plants. Abaddon helps me tend to them a lot and brings me dead stuff to fertilize the soil.” 

“Is that what you guys do out in the woods for ten hours a day?” 

“Yeah, mostly! Sometimes we’re in my lab or in the graveyard, though.” 

“Oh. That makes a lot of sense,” he replied. “I didn’t know you were into gardening.” Ben loved gardening. Outside of the hotel he had a flourishing vegetable garden with all manner of foods, from tomatoes to broccoli, cabbage, peppers, lettuce, Brussel sprouts, onions, garlic, and plenty of herbs. He had started the garden initially to help ease his mom’s grocery bill, but after a while he’d grown to love it. “You know that’s like, my thing, right?” He didn’t know why, but it hurt a bit to know that his little sister was engaging in a form of his hobby without him. Hell, she included Abaddon, but not Ben?

Esther picked up on Ben’s disappointment and looked at him with a bit of surprise on her face. “I mean… yeah, I borrowed a bunch of your books on horticulture to make sure I was doing it right.”

“Is that where those went?!” Okay, now he was a bit pissed off. “Seriously, Esther?!”

She hugged her backpack to her chest defensively. “You hate magic stuff,” she said, mouth pinched and expression guarded. “I didn’t wanna bother you with stuff you wouldn’t even wanna do.”

Now it was Ben’s turn to be defensive. “What? No, I don’t hate magic!” 

“Yes you do. You never want to hear about what I’ve learned or anything.” 

“You never share!”

“You never ask!” 

“I—” he stopped, sighing. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He bagged a few more mushrooms, slumping a little. “I just… I dunno. It kinda scares me.” 

“Why?” She stopped sorting, hugging her knees to her chest. When she was little, Esther really looked up to Ben. He was like her protector, she always knew he’d be there to pick her up when she fell, especially after their parents divorced. But ever since they moved to the hotel Ben had pulled away. They were less close; she stopped telling him stuff about her life and he stopped listening. It hurt, but she just told herself she didn’t care. 

“I think it’s because I’m scared of a lot of things I don't understand,” he confessed. “The hotel really scared me for a while and you doing magic and hanging out with a demon made it way worse.” 

“Hey, what’s wrong with Abaddon?” she asked defensively, and Ben looked over at the other boy who was playing with a millipede he found in the dirt. 

“Nothing, actually. But I didn’t know it at the time.”

“You don’t have to be scared for me.”

“That’s not really something I can control,” he admitted. “I’m scared for everyone.” 

“Even Abaddon?”

“Yeah. Even Abaddon.” 

She’s quiet for a solid minute, looking at her mushroom patch. “…do you want to see my garden?” she finally asked, looking up at her older brother. 

He smiled wide, the prominent gap between his front teeth on full display. “Yeah, I do!” 

She smiled at him and stood up, hoisting her backpack. “Hey Abaddon!”

“Hm?” The boy looked up. 

“Ben wants to see the garden!” 

“Oh wow,” Ben whistled, thoroughly impressed by the garden in the small forest clearing. There were all sorts of plants he didn’t recognize, neatly plotted and well organized. There were all sorts of colors of mushroom, weird looking fruits on bushes, tall, reedlike plants with slender seed pods, and so much more. He honestly didn’t know if he could have done any better himself. “What are all these?” 

Esther walked forward, chest puffed proudly. “The tall ones are marrowreed, they can be used as a replacement for certain human ingredients, like bones and tendons and stuff, in a lot of spells,” she explained. “The berries are bloodfruit, and are a common component for energy potions.” She gestured to the plants as she named them. “That one is lamb's ear,” she said, pointing to a fuzzy, soft looking leafy plant. “It’s not inherently magical but it’s an incredible catalyst for other ingredients and also has minor healing benefits. The black mushrooms are deathsbane, do not eat those. They will kill you before you even swallow it.” 

“Not me, though,” Abaddon said, poking his head up from the marrowreed.

“Yeah, not Abaddon. We conducted an experiment to see the effects it would have on the human body and he proceeded to puke blood for six hours. It was awesome.” The ten year old looked way too gleeful about this for her older brother’s liking.

Ben frowned. “…awesome?” That sounded anything but awesome. 

“Yeah, he also had a simultaneous nose bleed and eye bleed! He looked so freaky!” Esther giggled. 

“It sucked,” Abaddon huffed. “But it was interesting nonetheless.”

“I think you and I have different definitions of interesting,” Ben replied. 

“The red mushrooms are called alchemist’s tongue, they act as a booster for one’s own magical abilities. The brown spotted ones are for Abaddon, he likes them and they're hallucinogenic.” 

“What do they do?” Ben asked, curious. 

“They make my brain fog up and I get all floaty,” he replied, picking one and moving to pop it in his mouth before Esther smacked his hand and made him drop it. He rolled his eyes, going back to looking for bugs to play with.  

“So… drugs.” 

“I mean… yeah, kinda, but a magic drug. It won’t do anything to you if you have no connection to magic,” she replied.

“Oh. Are they safe for me to eat then?” he asked, staring at them. 

“Nope.” 

“But I don’t do magic.” 

“True, but since you live at the hotel and are surrounded by it 24/7, you already have latent magic. Oh and also you’re a soul conduit, which means you’re basically a being of magic itself.” 

“Wait, what?” he asked in surprise. 

“You’re a being of magic or power,” Abaddon clarified before Esther could. “Much like a demon or an angel. However you are from this plane. Some humans are born connected to the spirit world and supernatural in a manner that defies understanding, and it manifests in different ways. I suspect Esther is as good at magic as she is because you are such a person.” 

This was all new information for Ben. “Wuh… huh?!”

“Your sister is a skilled witch before she is even of age because you, her older brother, are a glowing beacon of spiritual energy that you cannot turn off even if you tried.” He scribbled in the dirt with a stick absentmindedly, as if this wasn’t life altering information for Ben. “On Samhain next weekend I can teach you to harness it, as the veil between worlds will be thin enough that any magical being will be drawn to you naturally and you need to learn to defend yourself against anything malevolent.” 

“What’s Samhain?”

“The ancient pagan word for Halloween,” Esther explained. “The Undervale has been the site of a lot of weird shit on Samhain so Abaddon and I have been working on protection talismans. But good idea, Abaddon, we need to teach Ben how to use his conduit abilities.” 

“Yes, for his own safety and that of your family.”

Ben rubbed his arm, suddenly self conscious. He had liked being a soul conduit before, interacting with the ghosts had a somewhat euphoric feeling to it, but now he wasn’t so sure. “You mean all the weird stuff that happens around here is because of me?” he asked, a shadow passing over his face. 

“Not necessarily,” Esther clarified. “The hotel is technically built on the hellmouth Abaddon made when he arrived on earth. Weird stuff already happens here, it just happens in higher frequencies around us.” 

“You made a hellmouth?!”

Abaddon just shrugged. “It’s not like regular humans can be affected by it.” 

“But I can.” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh that’s fantastic!” he cries sarcastically, throwing his arms in the air. “The hotel is a hellmouth and I’m a fucking spirit beacon!” 

Esther frowned. “Ben, it’s not a bad thing.” 

“It sure sounds like a bad thing!” he snapped back, before noticing the look of hurt on her face and sighing. “Sorry, Esther. I just… I thought it was just a way to interact with ghosts. But it’s not, it’s a lot more than that and I don’t know how to deal with it.” 

Esther shook her head with a little smile. “Ben, Ben, Ben, don’t worry. You’re in the hands of two experts.”

“…yeah, that doesn’t make me feel any better,” he deadpanned.

Chapter Text

If I was dying on my knees

You would be the one to rescue me

And if you were drowned at sea

I’d give you my lungs so you could breathe

I’ve got you, brother. 

- Kodaline, Brother

“Okay, how is this supposed to help me?” Ben asked, picking up the amulet around his neck to look at it more closely. “What does it do?” It was fairly small, gold wrapped around a blue crystal etched in runes he couldn’t read, hanging from his neck on a leather cord. 

“That is a channeling amulet,” Abaddon replied, as Esther looked through one of her spell books. 

“Where did you get it?”

“I made it,” he replied. “Esther got the supplies and I attuned it to your essence for maximum protection.” 

“I have no idea what that means, so I’m just gonna say thank you.” 

He gave Ben a singular nod, a grave and serious expression on his face. “You are welcome, Brother.” 

“Also I don’t know what a channeling amulet is.” 

“It’s a piece of jewelry that acts as a focal point for magic,” Esther explained, skimming the page in her book before flipping it around to show Ben. “You can store energy in it, and use it as a reserve for healing or spells and stuff.” 

“I don’t know any spells,” he replied with a frown. 

“As a conduit, you don’t need to. You can perform magic without the components needed because you’re effectively a battery,” Esther says. “Conduits usually do mostly protection magic.” 

Ben perked up a little at this. “I can work with protection magic.” 

“You know that thing you do with Anabelle?” Esther asked, switching gears, and Ben’s whole face turned bright red. 

“Why is that relevant?” he squeaked, avoiding eye contact. 

“Ugh just like, the way the magic feels,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic all the time dude!”

“Uh… yeah,” he said, still uncomfortable. 

“Can you conjure that feeling on your own?”

“I dunno, I’ve never tried,” he admitted, shrugging. 

“Well you should be able to, according to my book,” Esther said thoughtfully. 

“Wait, I thought you said you were an expert!” he exclaimed, suddenly very nervous that his sister and his not-cousin were going to get him seriously injured and/or dead. 

“Expert in training,” she replied with a sheepish grin. 

He moved to yank off the amulet. “Yeah, fuck this, I’m not—” Before he finished his sentence, however, Abaddon stepped in front of him.

“Benjamin.” 

Ben looked down at the boy and balked a little, he’d never seen such a grave expression on Abaddon’s face. “…yeah?” 

“This is not something you can walk away from. Samhain begins tonight upon the sun’s descent in the sky when the light weakens, and with it the barrier between this world and the next. You are a conduit, and not only that, an incredibly powerful conduit with the kind of untapped potential that any supernatural being in their right mind would not hesitate to take advantage of. So get a grip, sit down, and do what the witch says.” He punctuated each statement by poking Ben in the chest, red eyes glaring up at him with such intensity the teen thought he might pass out. 

“Right— o-okay,” he stammered, sitting down on the sofa and hugging his knees to his chest. 

The next six hours were spent teaching Ben to harness and use his innate magic. He struggled at first, clearly uncomfortable with his own abilities, but after two of those six hours he started to get the hang of it. Abaddon taught him how to protect his mind from psychic attacks, Esther taught him how to create protection spell circles, and the both of them instructed him on the rites of purification to keep the hotel safe. All the while the amulet on his chest glowed faintly, its warm weight a welcome way to ground himself when he got overwhelmed with their directions. 

As the sun set Abaddon turned to Ben, nodding solemnly. “You have done well today.” That might have been the first compliment the demon had ever given him, and his eyes widened a little in surprise. 

“O-oh, thank you.” 

“You are more competent than you give yourself credit for. Fix that.” Ah, there it was, the usual snark that followed most of Abaddon’s remarks. 

“…thank you?” Ben wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not, but he decided not to think too hard about it. Some movement in the front drive caught his attention and he looked outside, seeing a medium sized van pull up to the hotel. “Oh hey, we have guests.” 

“Bet they’re having a little Halloween party,” Esther commented as the three of them watched the group pile out and enter the hotel. There were five of them in total, two guys and three women, all looking to be in their early twenties. They had suitcases with them as well as a few boxes, which seemed to contain what looked like decorations. Katherine checked them into two rooms next to each other on the third floor, smiling and calling after them to enjoy their stay. 

“Isn’t this great, guys?” she asked excitedly as the three kids left the parlor and walked up to the front desk. “Multiple rooms! I thought for sure it would be dead tonight.” 

“Well it’s Halloween,” Esther said, hopping up onto the counter to sit. “Who wouldn’t want to stay in the most haunted place in upstate New York during the spookiest night of the year?” 

Katherine’s face fell. “It’s Halloween?” she asked them, and they nodded. “Oh hell, I completely forgot, you two, I’m so sorry,” she said. “We didn’t get costumes or even sign up for the school’s harvest festival…” She rested her face in her hands. “I dropped the ball.” 

“Don’t, Mom,” Ben said, waving a hand nonchalantly. “It’s no big deal! There’s plenty of fun stuff to do in the hotel, anyway.” 

“Yeah, like commune with the infernal, raise the dead, summon imps, watch scary movies, fight vampires, let the ghosts chase us and pretend they can actually hurt us, there’s lots of things to do!” Esther chirped. 

“Esther, please don’t raise the dead,” Katherine deadpanned. “Or any of that other stuff.” 

“Ugh, not even scary movies?!”

“Fine, scary movies are fine,” she replied. “You can hang out on the grounds and do what you’d like as long as you’re safe and you bring your brother, okay Esther? Just no property damage.” 

“Woohoo!” Esther cheered, hopping off the counter and pumping her fists in the air. “Let’s have a Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie marathon!” 

Ben watched her run down the hall and sighed. “Come on, Esther, those movies aren’t even good!” he called after her. 

“You’re right, they’re GREAT!” she shouted back, voice echoing from the parlor. 

“I’ve never seen it,” Abaddon said. 

“Oh you’d probably love it,” Katherine replied. “A guy in a mask dismembers people with a chainsaw for an hour and a half.” 

His eyes light up. “Esther, put on the chainsaw movie!” he shouted, running off to join her. 

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Ben promised his mom, who smiled and nodded at him as he walked after the two troublemakers. 

Katherine was right, Abaddon absolutely adored the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies; he was glued to the screen from beginning to end, giggling wildly every time someone got their limbs chopped off. If Ben hadn’t been expecting it he would have been mildly horrified.

“Can’t we watch a horror movie with more finesse?” Ben complained, laying on the couch. 

“What more finesse do you even need?” Esther demanded and her older brother yawned loudly. 

“I dunno, something more psychological like The Shining or Silence of the Lambs,” he suggested. 

“Maybe after our marathon,” she huffed. “We’re almost done with this one anyway.” 

“Come on, it's almost midnight,” he complained. “I’m tired.”

“So go to bed,” Esther shot back. 

“So go to bed,” he parroted in a mocking voice, and the ten year old girl chucked a remote at him. 

“Ugh, fuck off, Ben!” 

He got up, stretching a little. “I’m going to bed. Don’t die or get eaten or explode something or summon some horrible abomination,” Ben admonishes, heading out of the parlor. 

“Don’t forget to cast the protection wards before the witching hour,” Abaddon called after him. “The one I did last month may not be enough to hold for the night!”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he replied, only half listening as he walked upstairs and started his nightly self care routine, complete with a warm bath and a face mask while listening to ABBA. After pulling on his pjs he crawled into bed, sleep claiming him quickly before he could cast any of the wards Abaddon taught him. 

Sleep didn’t last long, however. Ben felt as though he had just closed his eyes when something akin to an earthquake woke him up rather unceremoniously, bed rattling and picture frames falling from the walls. 

“What the…” he muttered, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Did he hallucinate that? Another rumble tears through the building. Nope, definitely not a hallucination, this was real. He checked his clock, groaning a little at being woken up at 3:05AM.

He stood, climbing out of bed and attempting to walk down the hallway only to be interrupted by consistent, exponentially worse tremors. The lights in the hallway flickered and the ghosts he could see all looked alarmed, dashing out of their hiding places to find new ones. 

“Oh, Ben!” He turned to see his Uncle Nathan jogging towards him, nearly tripping as another tremor shook the building. “You’re awake! Do you know what’s going on?!” 

“No idea,” he replied, before shrieking as a picture frame narrowly missed crashing into him. “It’s freaking me out!” 

“I’ll go find your mother, you find Esther and Abaddon!” Nathan directed, then dashed off before he could protest. 

“Okay, Ben, you can do this, find Esther and she’ll know what to do,” he said to himself, taking a deep breath and blowing it out quickly. 

The trip to the lobby was rough, the stairs cracking and nearly giving way under his feet as the rumbling got more consistent and more frequent. He nearly tipped over the mezzanine at one point, clutching the railing as a door flew past him and crashed into the wall.

“ESTHER!” he shouted, falling the rest of the way down the stairs and scrambling to the parlor. “ABADDON!”

To his relief they’re there, but the furniture had been piled up and Esther was struggling to pull Abaddon out and failing pretty miserably. “Ben, help!” 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” He dashed over and started pulling the furniture off Abaddon, and the two of them managed to yank him out from under the heavy loveseat that had been pinning him down. “What the hell did you do?!”

“The fort collapsed,” Abaddon panted, one hand on his chest as he tried to catch his breath and get his racing heart under control. 

“No no, I mean—” before he could finish his statement the hotel shook again, sending more valuables crashing to the ground. “That!”

“What the hell Ben, this wasn’t us!” Esther said indignantly, before promptly falling flat on her ass as another tremor ripped through the building. “We were just playing a horror game!” 

Abaddon attempted to stand but aborted that plan as the ground shook, opting instead to crouch. “I dislike the feeling in the air,” he said. “It feels wrong.”

“I’ll say, the hotel is falling apart!” Ben exclaimed. 

“I don’t understand how something of this magnitude could be happening, you put the wards up,” Abaddon fretted, rising to his feet and leaning on the wall for stability. 

Ben froze. Oh no.

“Ben?” Esther said, staggering over to him. “You did put the wards up, didn’t you?” The guilty expression he wore said it all and she threw her hands up into the air. “I swear to GOD, Ben! You had one fucking job! One! Fucking! Job!” 

“I’m sorry! I forgot!” he stammered, clutching the amulet at his chest. “I forgot!”

“You forgot? You FORGOT!?” Esther shouted at him, grabbing him by the collar of his buttoned pajama shirt and shaking him with surprising strength for a girl of her size. “This is your fucking fault!” 

Tears welled up in Ben’s eyes, hot, angry, sad tears. He pushed her off of him and a tremor caused her to hit the floor, landing on her wrist in a way that made her yelp in pain. “Don’t yell at me!” he cried, hands balled into fists. “I hate it when you make me feel stupid!”

“I don't make you do anything, dumbass, you ARE FUCKING STUPID!”

“Esther. Language,” barked their mother’s voice, and all three kids turned to see a tired but determined looking Katherine standing in the doorway, holding flashlights with Nathan right behind her. “Stop yelling at your brother. It’s clear this wasn’t intentional.” She stumbled into the room, floors rumbling, before handing all of them flashlights. “I need to get the guests out and then we need to get to safety,” she instructed. “Ben, take your sister and Abaddon onto the front lawn. Nathan and I will get the guests.” 

Despite Esther’s protests Ben did as he was told, grabbing the wrists of both kids and forcibly pulling them out of the hotel and onto the drive. “You idiot!” Esther growled, tugging at his iron grip. “Mom’s gonna get herself killed!”

“Esther is correct,” Abaddon agreed, raising his voice to be heard above the crashing and rumbling. Even outside they weren't free of the tremors, the gravel bouncing underneath their feet and bushes trembling. “The Matriarch is indeed in danger!”

Ben didn't let go. “I wouldn't forgive myself if anything happened to either of you!”

“Could you forgive yourself if something happens to Mom? Because that’s what’s about to happen!” his sister retorted, trying to yank herself from his grasp with growing frustration.

He pauses, conflicted. Ben had always been a good kid, always did what he was told, didn't rock the boat and didn't fight with his mom much. What would happen if he disobeyed her? What if his mom didn’t need their help, and everything was totally fine? He’d totally get grounded. But… what if Esther and Abaddon were right? What if their mom was about to die?

He sighed, dropping their wrists. “Okay, let’s fix this.”

The three kids took off running towards the hotel, Abaddon wrenching the door open and shutting it behind the siblings as they entered. In the short time that had elapsed since they were outside Ben felt something odd in the air. “Guys? Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Esther asked. 

“Yes,” Abaddon replied. “The pull.”

Indeed, deep in Ben’s gut he felt this pulling sensation, as if he were on a lead and had to follow. “We need to go to the sub basement,” he gasped, and took off running for the stairs. 

The other two took off after him, following him down the hidden staircase in the back of the building. With the tremors that rocked the structure, however, it was extremely difficult, and Abaddon lost his footing. He went careening into Esther who shrieked when she landed on her injured wrist on the step, which caused Ben to whirl around and stare dumbfounded as the two smacked into him and the three of them went tumbling down the stairs before landing in a heap on the stone floor. 

“Ow,” Ben groaned, dragging himself out from under them. He heard quiet sniffling, and looked up to see Esther cradling a clearly swollen wrist. 

“It hurts,” she whispered, arm shaking and hands trembling. 

Ben was immediately up, crawling over to his injured sister. “Here, let me see,” he said gently, and she showed him her wrist. It was getting more purple by the second, swollen and angry looking; it absolutely was broken. “I’m sorry for pushing you,” he said quietly, hugging her carefully so as to not injure her further.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” she replied, wiping tears with her good hand. “But we gotta fix this.” 

Abaddon, who had been silent, nodded. “She is right.” He didn’t know how to handle human emotions, whenever Esther cried he left it to Ben or Katherine to solve. 

Ben helped his sister up and then helped Abaddon, and the three of them made their way into the sub basement proper while leaning on the stone walls as the ground shook under their feet. “We’re close, I can feel it.” 

Abaddon pushed out in front, grabbing the heavy wrought iron door at the end of the hallway and yanking it open with an audible grunt. It slammed against the stone, leaving the room before them visible. 

Ben could only describe it as Hell. 

Chapter Text

Lo, 

That’s the way that it goes 

I'm sorry you’ll never be free

If all that you see is the danger 

The cage will relieve. 

Oh no,

That’s the path that you chose 

A true hedonist indeed. 

So don’t lift a finger your warden 

Provides all your needs—

But never a key, oh,

But never a key. 

- Dirt Poor Robins, But Never A Key

“Oh my God,” Esther whimpered, gripping the sleeve of Ben’s pajamas tightly. 

“That’s bad,” Abaddon muttered. 

Before them yawned a glowing crack splitting open a pit that appeared as though it was punched through the basement floor, the air roaring with the sound of the wind whipping about the room and distant tortured screaming. Raking his eyes across the room he saw their mother chained to the edge of the pit, and right next to her Uncle Nathan lay bound by some kind of glowing golden rope. Before them were four of the five guests, dressed in white robes and holding hands in a circle; in the middle of the circle lay the bloodied and broken body of the third woman, stomach torn open and intestines arranged in some occult symbol. 

Over the wind and the screaming Ben could hear the four of them chanting in something dark and ancient, older even than the Latin and Greek that Esther and Abaddon used when casting spells. Said demon grabbed Ben’s sleeve and tugged on it, eyes wide with something that almost looked like fear. “We need to stop the ritual,” he said, wind whipping his bangs into his eyes. 

“What’s happening? What kind of ritual even is that?” Esther asked, voice a hoarse shout over the roaring of the wind and the shaking of the building. “It looks like they’re just summoning a demon. I mean, we can handle a demon, right?” 

Ben leaned forward a little bit, trying to make out what the robed figures were chanting. “Aw rabbā gūrā, qum men beyrā d-tukh, u-faṣṣen men basran meskenan,” their voices droned, the air filling with the smell of ozone. 

“Rabba goo-ra something something, I dunno!” Ben replied. “It sounds freaky as shit, though!” 

“We need to go help Mom and Uncle Nathan,” his sister declared, and carefully cradling her broken wrist she slides down the sloped and broken walls of the broken sub basement floor. “Uncle Nathan! Mom!” 

“You need to stop her NOW,” Abaddon said, shaking Nathan’s sleeve with the kind of urgency he reserved only for bone sorting and ritual performance. “Once they’re done with the chant it will be too late to stop them!” 

“Paṣṣen mennān,” the voices cried out in unison, feeling unusually and unnaturally loud.

“What happens when they finish the chant?!”

“They’re summoning— ESTHER NO!” Abaddon shrieked, jumping from the ledge and going tumbling down the broken craggy pit wall. Ben clutched the door, watching as he struggled to free Esther from the glowing rope that bound his Uncle Nathan; it appeared that when she touched it, it restrained her in the same manner and bound her to her uncle, despite the fact he was a ghost. 

“Paṣṣen mennān, Mot!”

Now Ben was all alone, standing in a trembling doorframe in only his pjs as his family watched four guests ritually sacrifice their friend to who knows what. 

“Qabel teshbuḥtan mekhikhta, aw qaddisha; u-dakī l-‘ālmā b-rūḥāh, w-nuhrāh neḥsā ḥaṭhēn qadmāyk,” the chant continued.

Abaddon struggled fruitlessly at the bottom of the pit to free their family, pulling at the glowing rope in frustration. 

Ben was scared. He was scared of a lot of things, yes, but this had to take the cake of all cakes. He’s seen Esther summon imps and smaller spirits, he even helped fight Mortoth that one time; all of it paled in comparison to this. Only the biblical apocalypse could ever come close, but Ben wasn’t sure that’s what was happening here.

“Paṣṣen mennān, Mot!”

He steeled himself, taking a deep breath and sliding down the pit to join his family. “Mom, what happened?”

Katherine looked up, a bit bruised and battered but ultimately alright. “Oh thank God you’re okay,” she cried out, leaning against him. “When Nathan and I got down here they were chanting in this pit they somehow dug, and the girl was in chains.”

“And then we watched them execute her and draw weird symbols with her guts!” Nathan exclaimed, horrified. “And the chanting didn’t stop!”

“Abaddon, do you know what’s going on?” Esther asked, voice a bit muffled by her jacket from how she was restrained. 

“Yes,” the demon replied darkly. “They are attempting to reinstate the Baal Cycle.” 

“Oh no,” she replied, eyes widening. 

“What’s the Ba—” Ben began to ask, but was cut off by a much more severe tremor than before. 

“Paṣṣen mennān, Mot, paṣṣen mennān!”

The Freeling family looked on in horror as a massive, glittering onyx hand pushed up through the crack in the floor, the orange glow from within growing brighter.

“The Baal Cycle was the turning of the seasons as described by the Canaanites,” Abaddon replied, raising his voice to be heard. “Though when humanity moved on the Cycle grew dormant and was taken over by other gods. They are attempting to revive Mot, the god of death, to provoke Baal Hadad from slumber to fight for the seasons!”

“Paṣṣen mennān, Mot, paṣṣen mennān!”

“Is that bad? It’s just weather!” Nathan asked as Abaddon struggled with the glowing rope. 

“Yes it’s bad!”

“Why?”

“Mot isn’t the weather god, Baal Hadad is! Did you not just hear Abaddon? Mot is a death god! A death god, Uncle Nathan!” Esther exclaimed, looking at the pit with growing horror. 

“Paṣṣen mennān, Mot, paṣṣen mennān!”

“So why don’t we just wake Baal Hadad?” Ben suggested, completely at a loss for what to do.

“I’m guessing they’re going to try after Mot is free!”

“Okay, is that bad, then?”

“YES!” Abaddon and Esther shout in unison. 

“Is it stupid to ask why?” Nathan asked, “if the situation will just fix itself?” 

“Because Baal Hadad will require the moloch to awaken!” 

“The moloch?” 

“Sacrificial immolation!” 

“Paṣṣen mennān, Mot, paṣṣen mennān!”

“Okay? But they don’t have anyone else to sacrifice!” 

“Yes they do!” Abaddon argued. “In fact, they have two blood sacrifices right here!” He gestured to Esther and Katherine. 

“Oh fuck,” Nathan breathed. 

“How do we stop it?” Katherine asked, before another tremor was sent through the building, the hand gripping the edge of the pit and digging its fingertips into the earth. 

“Paṣṣen mennān, Mot, paṣṣen mennān!”

“Thousands of years ago the soul conduit warrior Anat battled Mot and destroyed him, cutting him into small pieces and scattering him across the land to give Baal Hadad time to escape the underworld. Baal Hadad was touched by her selflessness and granted her godhood, becoming her sworn Brother. We can only solve this the same way!” 

They all fell silent, turning to look at Ben. He felt his stomach turn, twisting itself into knots unknown even to Boy Scouts and sailors as he backed up a little. “Can I pass on that?” he squeaked. 

“Paṣṣen mennān, Mot, paṣṣen mennān!”

A second hand broke out of the crack upon the completion of the chant and the cultists turned from their dead sacrifice, the four of them walking to where the Freelings were bound. “No, no no no wait!” Ben cried out as one of the two men grabbed him, restraining him roughly as the other tied him up. “STOP!” 

The young man looked at him with an unreadable expression before giving him a little smile. “Do not fight it. This is fate.” One of the women walked over to where Esther and Nathan were bound, flicking her hand up in a spell to separate them while still keeping them tied up. 

“Rejoice, Daughter of the Stars. You have been chosen as a child of Anat for the sacred moloch, your blood will break the barrier.” 

“Put my child down so help me God!” Katherine shrieked, struggling against her bonds. “Do not lay a finger on her, do you hear me?! DO NOT TOUCH  A HAIR ON HER HEAD!” 

The woman ignored Katherine, picked Esther up despite her kicking and struggling, and carried her to the spot with the other sacrifice. “Oh Lady Anat, goddess of the heavens, hear our prayers. Take this humble child as your fruit and lend us the power to free the mighty Baal Hadad, so he might restore the natural balance of things,” the young woman prayed, dipping her fingers into the spilled blood of the dead woman. “Shema‘ī lī, Anat, w-shadhrī lī ḥaylek marīrā,” she whispered, drawing a sigil on Esther’s forehead. 

Esther’s heart pounded in her chest, feeling like she was about to throw up. Something in her ribcage felt heavy, off, like it was being squeezed by an otherworldly hand. She wanted her mom. She wanted her brother. “Ben! Help! Help me, BEN! BE—” She collapsed where she was kneeling, eyes glowing a bright white as she twitched a little. The woman above her smiled warmly, as if this were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Katherine shrieked in the background, terrified for her only daughter. 

The other woman walked over to Abaddon, yanking him to standing by his wrist. “You are needed.” 

“NO!” shouted Nathan, struggling against the enchanted rope. “LEAVE HIM ALONE!” Tears began streaming down his face. “ABADDON! NO! ABADDON!” 

The boy demon struggled against the woman holding his arm, but it was no use. Her grip was like a vise, he couldn’t even wiggle his wrist beneath her palm. She pushed him down to kneeling in front of where Esther lay catatonic, before yanking his head up by gripping his hair. 

“Esther,” he rasped, scalp stinging from the firm hold on his hair. “Esther, talk to me.” 

Esther lifted her head, eyes still glowing like radiant twin stars from within her skull. “Kammā ḥdīt anā l-meḥzayk, Abdanā Malākā d-Tehomā. Maṭīb ant l-meḥzay ḥubbī?” How happy I am to see you, Abaddon, Angel of the Abyss. Are you ready to behold my love?

“…Esther?” 

“Hānū shemā d-mā’nā hānā? Shappīr huw,” she replied, though her voice was not Esther’s. Is that the name of this vessel? It is a good one.

Abaddon grit his teeth, fused soul inside him burning in anger. “Shbuqūn lan,” he spat, chest heaving. Let us be.

“Deḥīlā anā d-men k’dū aḥar hī,” she replied in a chilling tone, smiling unsettlingly. I am afraid it is already too late.

Before Abaddon could reply, however, there was a deafening roar that filled the air, so loud that it transcended sound itself and simply reverberated in everyone’s chests, playing their lungs like a goatskin drum. The crack in the earth widened, and Mot began to pull himself free. 

This would not be the end of the world, Abaddon knew that much. This was not his prophecy, the one written by the One Most High, whose four letter name he could not safely utter without his tongue tasting like sulfur and charcoal in his mouth. Abaddon was here to bring about the end of days when the time was right, and the time was not right. This was not His plan. Though not apocalyptic, however, this would wreak havoc upon the earth, disrupting the natural balance of the seasons and reintroducing lost gods to mindless people with poor judgement and limited free will; on top of that, the Freelings would be dead. 

Ben looked on at Mot in horror, bile rising in his throat at the sight of something no mortal man was ever meant to witness. 

The whole god appeared to be made from the same stuff his hands were, glittering black faceted obsidian— sharp in some places and smooth in others, with great horns like that of an oryx upon a head that resembled a tiger’s skull. Eyes of white light shone from their sockets, an ancient crown of gold upon his brow. 

It was the most terrifying thing any of them had ever seen. 

Katherine shrieked as one of the robed figures drew a dagger, walking over to Esther and kneeling before her. Abaddon struggled against the woman above him but the grip on his hair was firm and eye wateringly painful. 

Ben couldn’t take it. His sister was being used as a vessel for an ancient goddess and would soon be sacrificed, these guests were trying to free a death god for who fucking knows what reason, both his mother and his uncle were sobbing, and he was scared down to his core. 

He wasn’t only scared, though, he was downright fucking furious. 

There was a tightness in his head and chest he couldn’t explain and the world felt distant as he let out an angry cry. It was like he wasn’t seeing with his eyes, like he was outside of everything looking at the scene through a screen. 

Abaddon looked over and his heart lept— finally, finally Ben was doing what he was supposed to. The ropes that bound him loosened, floating around his form in glowing light as the same gold shone out of his eyes and his mouth. The thirteen year old floated up into the air and with the curling of his fingers into a fist, the glowing red rip in reality began to knit itself back together.

Mot shrieked, the rift squeezing his midsection. He struggled against the rock, still trying to get free, but as it squeezed harder, ultimately the only way to stay in one piece was to slip back down into the depths of the rift. Ben’s chest heaved as he took heavy, laborious breaths; using this much power for a conduit, especially an inexperienced conduit, was immensely taxing— bordering on dangerous. As the last of the rift began to disappear the cultists howled in frustration, running to it in a futile attempt to stop it. Ben waved his hand, knocking all four white robed figures as well as the corpse into the slowly shrinking hole before lifting his fist, sealing them away with their god whom they tried to free. 

Abaddon scrambled over to Esther once the lady released his hair, wiping the blood sigil off her forehead. The light glowing from her eyes shut off and she slumped into his lap, breathing ragged as she returned to herself. “Fuck,” she coughed. “That was ass.” 

He nodded. “Ass indeed,” Abaddon agreed. 

“What happened? How’d you—”

Abaddon just pointed up in the air at where Ben was floating, rope still orbiting him with golden light. Her jaw dropped. 

“What?! Can conduits even do that?!”

“Yes. Rarely. He will likely never be able to replicate this,” he replied, untying her. 

Ben waved his hand and the bonds around his mother and uncle fell away. The second they were free his eyes rolled back in his head, and he plummeted towards the ground. 

Katherine dashed forward, catching him at the last minute in a painful dive that ripped the fabric from the knees of her pants. “Got you,” she whispered as Esther scrambled over to them. She launched herself into her mother’s arms with a sob, shaking. “Oh no, Esther, your wrist!” she gasped, looking at the now purple joint of her daughter’s right hand. “Are you okay?”

“It’s just broken. I— I’m okay. I’m okay, Mom, I promise.” 

Nathan walked over to Abaddon, hugging his ward as tightly as a ghost can. “I’m so glad you’re okay, bud,” he said softly. 

Abaddon nodded, leaning into the ethereal touch. “That was bad.” 

“Yeah. Real bad. On the bright side, we don’t have to hide a body anymore.” 

Abaddon groaned. “I wanted the bones,” he replied, half serious. 

…

Esther turned her arm, looking at her new cast proudly. “I don’t gotta do homework now,” she giggled, showing Abaddon. 

“I shall mark your cast with my sigil, as I have heard from Nathan is customary to do with peers who have broken a limb,” he declared, grabbing a sharpie and holding her arm. She let him, and he drew his sigil on the back of her hand. “There. I have completed this custom.” 

Esther giggled, before running off to find Nathan. “Uncle Nathan! Uncle Nathan, come sign my cast!” She dashed off, forgetting that her uncle couldn’t even hold a pen. 

It would ultimately take two days for Ben to wake up again, and in that time the hotel slowly knit itself back together as it always did, wallpaper mending and door hinges straightening. It was one of the Undervale’s many oddities, perhaps being so haunted had given it a life of its own. 

Abaddon walked past Ben’s room when he heard rustling from inside. He pushed the door open. “Ben?” 

The teen was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “God I have such a headache,” he groaned. 

“I can imagine, you almost killed yourself back there,” Abaddon said, walking to stand by the edge of his bed. 

“Did we win? I barely remember anything,” he admitted, running a hand over his face. 

“Yes,” the boy replied. 

“I don’t want to do anything like that ever again.” 

“Hopefully you never will have to.” 

“Yeah.”

“You did well.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Ben said softly, before looking at Abaddon. “Brother.” 

Abaddon smiled. 

Chapter Text

Come help me die, my daughter

Walk me beside the river to the beach

Take a branch with your knife

Take my left with your right

Don’t be afraid, my girl

Take me to the shore 

I’m not cold, I’m not cold

Take my hand, take ahold

Let me lie in your arms

I’m weightless in the sea

Up to my ears the salt sits 

In a circle around me 

Take my life into your life 

Take a branch with your knife

Come help me die, my daughter

- Adrianne Lenker, come

Esther might have been a wild card, she might have been a bit rude at times, and she might have somewhat of an ego, but Esther was never unprepared. 

But she had been unprepared for Annuna, spawn of Rabisu.

Esther Marian Freeling had been unprepared for the Assyrian demon, unprepared for creating an anti possession talisman, unprepared to nearly drown to death with her family, unprepared to learn the truth about her uncle’s death. She had heard from within her own body, though the demon Annuna held the reins. 

She dragged herself out of the lake, coughing up water as she clutched soft grass under her fists. She dug her fingers into the soft earth, feeling the grit against her skin and mud cake itself under her fingernails. It was real, it was land, these were her hands, this was her home. 

Abaddon rode a buck deer over, hopping off and helping her and her brother up. “I have saved you and earned allowance,” Abaddon said proudly, before going to help Katherine up. “I am sorry it took as long as it did.”

Katherine picked the boy up, giving him a tight hug that was uncharacteristic of her with him. “Thank you, Abaddon,” she said softly. 

The boy looked down, oddly shy. “I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t try.” 

Nathan grinned, hugging Katherine while she hugged Abaddon. “You saved our family, bud! I’m so proud of you! Tonight we celebrate!”

“Yeah, I’ll make you any dessert you want,” Ben declared. 

“I’ll go get the raccoon skull I was saving for our next slumber party!” Esther giggled, running towards the hotel.

Nathan placed a ghost kiss on Abaddon’s temple. “Proud of you, kiddo. You did a good job.” 

Abaddon felt warm with pride, leaning against Katherine. She ruffled his bangs, smiling at the boy. Sure he was a pain in the ass most of the time, and ate all the spare lightbulbs under the sink, but he did save all of them. 

He sighed softly, one small child’s fist curled around the collar of Katherine’s cardigan. “I am not hungry, though. I wish to watch the magic box with the dogs.” 

When they got inside the hotel, Esther trotted up to Abaddon, who was still being carried by Katherine. “Here’s the raccoon skull!” she giggled, holding up a cleaned, intact skull of said animal. It had all its teeth and no defects, it was absolutely beautiful. 

He accepted it from her, looking it over with a smile. “It’s very impressive. Where did you find this?” 

“Next to the death cave!” 

Katherine’s eyes narrowed. “Should I know about this death cave?”

“It’s just a place we find all sorts of bones,” Esther fibbed, and Abaddon smiled. 

The death cave was like any other sandstone cave in the Catskills, except this one was on hotel property, meaning it was affected by the trans-dimensional hellmouth. In the center of it was a large, glowing pool that you couldn’t see the bottom of, and whatever entered it was rendered to bone in mere seconds. Abaddon had stuck his hand in it once out of sheer curiosity and had nursed a skeletal hand back for two whole weeks, thankful that now he had Katherine to reattach his limbs when they were damaged. In the past he would have to wait for them to grow back, like he had to wait for the tendons and muscle of his hand to regenerate. 

“What do you want for dinner, kiddo?” Katherine asked, carrying him into the kitchen and setting him down at the table. “Since you saved the day you get to pick the meal.” 

Abaddon was a little surprised, Katherine hated him, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“And it has to be real food, not Froot Loops,” she added. 

He huffed playfully. “Ugh, fine. Can we have that stuffed chicken you made two weeks ago?” 

“Sure. I didn’t know you liked it!”

He nodded. “Yes, I did. It was very pleasant.” 

“That’s good to know,” she replied, reaching over to ruffle his hair. He squeaked in indignation, attempting to bat her hand away, and she just smiled before beginning to prep the meal. She knew Abaddon thought she disliked him, but that was far from the truth. Sure he was a massive pain in the ass, destructive, cryptic, frequently terrifying and an absolute problem child, but he was also tenacious, playful, wild, and a free spirit. He reminded her of Esther very much, and it would be hypocritical of her to dislike him when she loved her own daughter so dearly. It was also impossible to see him as a demon at this point; despite his occult knowledge and ancient age he acted just like a nine year old in need of care, a nine year old who had never expected kindness because it had never been shown to him. And he tried, he really did try. 

She thought back to when she used to grow frustrated with the boy-demon over the simplest of things, at least things that would be simple for a human. It was infuriating, because to her it felt as though he was doing it on purpose. But she had to change the way she saw him, and change she did, meeting him halfway had begun to be a lot easier. 

As she cooked she heard the telltale sounds of crayons on paper, Abaddon happily scribbling away behind her.  

“Whatcha drawing, Abaddon?” she asked, walking over to look. 

“You guys,” he replied, and sure enough it was a drawing of them. His color choices were a bit odd per usual, not totally off but enough to make her wonder if he couldn’t see certain colors very well. All of the Freelings in the drawing were holding hands, with Nathan and Katherine on either side and the two kids in the middle. Surprisingly in this drawing Abaddon drew himself next to Katherine rather than Nathan, but the two of them were not holding hands. 

“It’s lovely,” she said honestly. “Though, why aren’t we holding hands like I’m holding hands with Ben?” 

Abaddon looked up at her with an unreadable expression, looking so taken aback and vulnerable and surprised all at once. “I… didn’t think you would… appreciate… it,” he said, choosing his words slowly and avoiding eye contact. 

She reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “I would,” she assured truthfully. “I would appreciate it, kiddo.”

“O-okay.” 

As she went back to cooking she heard him working on the drawing again, and she didn’t get a good look at it until after dinner when he brought it to her. 

“Here,” he said, handing her the drawing as she put away some dishes Ben just dried. 

She took the drawing and there it was, all five of them holding hands. She looked down at the nine year old and smiled warmly. “It’s perfect, Abaddon,” she replied, sticking it to the fridge with his favorite magnet. “You did a wonderful job.”

Abaddon looked up at the drawing with an odd sense of pride; it was such a minor thing and yet Katherine, the Matriarch, had asked him to join the family in holding hands. The woman he was sure despised him wanted him to be a part of things. He didn’t exactly know how to react to it or to her calling it perfect, so he just smiled up at her quietly before dashing off to find Esther. 

It wasn’t long before Abaddon was sitting in front of the parlor TV watching Bluey and eating yogurt, wrapped in a blanket and thoroughly enjoying his evening. He had done good today, he had saved the family and earned a dollar! A whole dollar, all to himself. He felt proud. Esther had watched a few episodes with him, but had soon gotten restless and decided to go work on some magic. Whatever, more Bluey time for him he supposed. 

Nathan came into the room to join him, sitting down next to him on the sofa. “I meant what I said, you know.” 

Abaddon looked up at him, yogurt around his mouth. “Hm?”

“I am proud of you.” 

Abaddon took another bite, quiet. 

“I am.”

“Yes… well…” Abaddon said, voice almost inaudible. “They’re your family.”

Nathan wrapped his arm around Abaddon and for the first time in a while he didn’t pull away from the ghost’s embrace. “They are. Not just mine, yours too.” 

Abaddon had no response to this, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them. Why did Nathan have to leave in order to gain this? Why did Abaddon always have to lose something before getting anything else? 

Abaddon was selfish by nature. 

He would never understand.

Elsewhere in the hotel, Esther rubbed her recently healed wrist absentmindedly as she looked through the library for all the books she could find on demonology. She needed every last page on anything wicked, anything hellish, anything ancient or eldritch or lost, anything that might want to hurt them. She carried the massive stack back to her room, dropping it to the floor with a thud and sitting down to sort through them. 

After about a half hour of poring over books there’s a knock at her door. “Come in,” she called, still buried in the tome in her lap. 

Katherine stuck her head through the door. “Hey, Marian-berry,” her mom said, using a nickname the kid hadn’t heard in years. “You okay?”

Esther looked up as her mom entered, sitting down next to her on the floor. “Hm? Oh. Yeah. I’m fine.” 

Katherine frowned. “I know you think you’re a good liar, Esther. But you really aren’t, at least not to me. I know when something is bothering you.” 

“Really, Mom, I’m being honest, I’m fine,” Esther lied, clutching the hard cover of the book tighter, knuckles whitening. “I’m just doing some light reading.” 

Her mom craned her head to read the spine. “Demons of Ancient Mesopotamia is light reading?”

“For a witch, yeah.” 

She sighed. “Esther, you’re my daughter. I know when something is bothering you, sweetheart. You can always tell me what’s going on.” 

Esther’s lip wobbled and she looked up at her mom, eyes shining and shoulders trembling slightly. “I just gotta get better at this. That’s all.” 

Katherine put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Talk to me about it? I want to know what you’re learning.” 

“W-well, I’d never heard of a Rabisu before today,” she explained, picking up the demonology book and flipping to the right section. “I decided I need to research as many different kinds of demons as I possibly can. I knew about cambions and drudes, but my knowledge of anything older is lacking.” She turned a few more pages, frowning. “Like, not only are there Rabisu, but there’re also these things called Gallu, they’re specifically Underworld demons, as well as Lilu and Lilitu, which are like Babylonian incubi and succubi.” She showed her mom the illustrations in the book, pointing to each kind of demon as she spoke. “I’ve been unprepared too many times in these last few months. First with the Mottites and now with the spawn of Rabisu— it’s unacceptable and I can’t allow myself to be caught off guard like that ever again.” 

Katherine was silent, listening to her daughter describe these otherworldly horrors that she should know nothing about, proclaiming that it was her job to defend the family. Esther, her ten year old daughter, felt obligated to protect them. 

She supposed it was also partially Abaddon’s influence, she knew he often saw himself as the protector of the Freelings, as much as he was loath to admit it. Esther and Abaddon were far too alike in their goals and their drives, but Esther was more family oriented. No wonder she felt it was her duty, she was the only one who knew anything about any of this who actually gave a shit. 

But that just made everything worse in Katherine’s eyes. How dare she have taken enough of a backseat that her elementary school aged daughter felt it was her duty to protect her? How dare Katherine allow anything like this to happen to her family, not once but twice? 

She thought back on Mot, blood turning to ice in her arteries as she remembered the horrifying visage of that great beast, the so-called imprisoned god. And the sacrifice… oh God, the sacrifice. Katherine had seen a lot of horrifying things in her life, but one of the most disturbing definitely had to be the sight of the men restraining her as one of the robed women cut her while she was still alive, pulling out her writhing intestines to arrange them into the proper summoning sigil for awakening the god Mot. The wet slicing sound of the metal slipping into her flesh, the pop of separating bone and cartilage, it played in her head in an insidious loop.

When the poor girl had tried to get away, tried to call to a bound Katherine and Nathan for help, one of the men had stabbed her in the eye before slashing her throat and coating the ground in the woman’s blood. Katherine had almost thrown up right then and there. Seeing gore and viscera on dead, intangible ghosts was one thing, but watching a woman die brutally at the hands of the people she thought to be her friends was on a whole other level. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the screaming, the ear piercing wail of someone afraid to die, the gurgling of aspirated blood, the wet slimy sounds of live entrails on broken concrete. It would haunt her forever, she still woke up from nightmares where she held her own intestines in her hands as that glittering obsidian hand reached up to take her to Hell. 

Esther sighed, snapping Katherine out of her thought spiral. “I just… I can’t fail like that again.” 

Katherine put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, and the girl turned to look up at her mother. “Esther, this is more than anyone could ever ask of you. You’re a child, sweetheart.”

“But I’m the only one who knows anything about this! I’m the only one who can fight it!” Esther’s hands balled into fists and her lip wobbled, looking down sharply to avoid eye contact. “I’m the only one who can do anything about these things. That’s my job. Ben mans the desk and takes care of guests, I keep track of the ghosts and fight supernatural evils in the hotel to make sure everyone is safe. That’s why everything runs so smoothly.” 

“Esther… do you really think it’s all on you?” Katherine asked gently, eyes worried and brows pushed together. 

“I don’t think, I know. Ben’s too scared and you’re too sensible and Uncle Nathan is a ghost.” She paused. “I mean, Abaddon helps, but he’s often just off doing his own thing.”

“It’s okay to ask for help, Esther,” she replied. 

She doesn’t meet her eyes. “I just have to get better. That’s all. And then this won’t be a problem.” 

“Esther…” 

She sniffled. “I can’t fail again, Mom,” she insisted, voice cracking as she fought tears. “I can’t get that close again.” Katherine pulled her daughter into a hug wordlessly, stroking her hair lovingly. The fifth grader clung to her, sobbing into her cardigan. All the stress, all the anxiety she’d been bottling up tumbled out, pouring from her eyes as she held her mom as tight as she could. “I don’t want anything to ever happen to you or Ben,” she wept, shoulders shaking as she struggled to catch her breath. “I couldn’t go on without you guys.” 

Katherine rubbed her back in gentle, soothing circles. “I love you so much, Esther,” she said softly, holding her close. “And I believe in you. I trust you. But it’s not your job to protect me.” Katherine paused. “Maybe… you could teach me a little magic?” 

Esther sniffled, looking up at her mom as she wiped her nose. “You wanna learn black magic?”

“I mean… I don’t think it’s a want at this point. It’s a need. And… is white magic an option?” she asked. 

“I mean… technically I’m a grey witch,” Esther replied, still snuggled into her mom. “I practice both. But I can teach you some white magic spells, if you want, and you can borrow my spell books and stuff. You have all those crystals too, right?”

Katherine fidgeted, still embarrassed about the crystals. “I mean… yeah…”

“Crystals are used in a lot of white magic, so you could focus on that,” she suggested, resting her head against Katherine’s chest. Her mother’s heartbeat gently thudded in her ear, calming and grounding her. 

“Okay,” she replied with a smile, kissing the top of her head. “That sounds perfect, sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

Time and again boys are raised to be men

Impatient they start,

Fearful they end

But here was a man mourning tomorrow 

He drank,

But finally drowned in his sorrow

He could not break surface tension

He looked in the wrong place for redemption 

Don’t look at me with those eyes 

I tried to un-heave the ties 

Turn back the time that drew him

But he couldn’t be saved. 

A sadness runs through him. 

- The Hoosiers, A Sadness Runs Through Him

Nathan stood in his old office with the light off, television on low volume as it illuminated the room with his favorite channel. His old chair was as comfortable as ever, he could still feel it if he sat down, even as a ghost. 

As a ghost. 

As a ghost.

As a ghost.

He could handle an accidental death— those were freak tragedies that struck every so often to ruin lives. But ultimately people picked up the pieces of their lives and put them back together again. 

He could handle a death of natural causes, like when his father passed of pancreatic cancer two years ago. It was horrible, yeah; it sucked the soul out of you and buried you six feet under with the person you lost. But you healed. 

But this?

How do you even begin to handle this?

He didn’t remember it— no, he did. He did. Now that he knew… it felt like deja vu, something he knew he was supposed to remember but couldn’t, itching at the back of his mind like a bug tickling the back of his neck. 

The pills…

The whiskey…

He felt sick. 

Ghosts couldn’t throw up, so Nathan did the next best thing; he curled up against the wall and hugged his knees to himself like a child. His chest hurt so bad; every breath felt like torture, like someone had wrapped his lungs in molten hot chains and was slowly pulling them taut. 

The whiskey slowed his veins and clouded his mind, making it difficult to open the safety lid on the bottle. When he finally managed to wrest it free it popped open loudly, pills going everywhere. He cursed himself in his drunken stupor, fingers imprecise as he picked up as many as he could. 

Thankfully he’d already written the notes. 

He had everything in his cabinet— ibuprofen for liver failure, all of his antidepressants for serotonin syndrome, an entire blister pack of Benadryl, and some of the leftover painkillers from when Abaddon bit him and he had to get stitches. They were expired by now, but he didn’t care. He just needed whatever he could get. 

Abaddon… his gut twisted. 

He didn’t want this. Not really. But he also desperately needed it. He needed the release of falling asleep and never waking up, the quieting of his mind to a point everything stopped. He needed out of this. It clawed at his heart and wrapped its icy fingers around his ribs, shaking his lungs and digging into his trachea with its lies. 

Abaddon would be fine. He’d witnessed many generations of owners in the hotel through the years, one more was nothing. His boy would be fine. 

He turned the television on to his favorite channel, and before he could change his mind he set about taking as many pills as he could in his drunken stupor. When he was done, he just sat back and watched the television, barely registering the heaviness in his limbs or the shuddering of his nervous system, slipping in and out of consciousness for God knows how long before he stopped remembering. 

The Benadryl had other plans, though, and in this addled state he saw his sister rushing towards him, grabbing his hand and begging him to talk to her. “Kathy— I’m— I’m alright, it’s—” but it wasn’t Kathy anymore. Now it was Abaddon, gripping his sleeve tightly and staring at him with baleful eyes. “Oh… hey Abs…” he managed, trying to reach out to him to reassure the boy before slipping into something almost like sleep. 

Everything went blissfully silent. 

Katherine… he had willingly left Katherine to that shitty two bedroom apartment in Ithaca, fighting for custody against that shitbag snake oil salesman Ron O’Neil. He had plenty of rooms— why hadn’t he invited her up to live with him and Abaddon? Why hadn’t he thought to give her that out? Why did he have to wait until he was dead to see her again? He kicked himself mentally, feeling rotten and hollow and dreadful all alone in that dark room. He loved his sister, he loved his wonderful sister Kathy more than anything in the whole world. The two of them had been close throughout childhood but had drifted apart when he left for college; he supposed it was likely the burgeoning depression he had been dealing with, that awful evil beastly liar that took and took and took and took. It took his joy, his stability, his heart, his soul, and ultimately his life. It had taken him from the people he loved most in the world— why hadn’t he reached out? The what if was killing him. How on earth was it that he was happier in death than in life? How could it be that it took him dying to finally live the life he wanted? He could have had this wonderful family life he had now, with his sister, his nephew, his niece, and his ward. 

His ward. 

Abaddon. 

His Abaddon. 

Nathan’s stomach twisted again and he covered his face, shaking as silent sobs wracked his body. Abaddon. Oh… Abaddon. How could he have done this? How could he have doomed that poor boy? No wonder he was still so distant with him, so hesitant to be a part of their family. He had broken his promise of at least forty more years; Abaddon had every right to be as furious as he was and Nathan felt rotten for it. 

He tipped his head back, looking up at the ceiling in an attempt to process this information when it hit him that he had left himself for his ward to find. How could he do that? HOW COULD HE DO THAT?

He couldn’t stay silent anymore, real, raw sobs tore from his throat and spilled over the room, tears pouring down his face and staining his sweater. He didn’t deserve this happiness, the afterlife he had there in The Undervale with his family. He didn’t deserve any of it. He deserved to rot in Hell for all eternity, to be cast into the pit of eternal darkness and suffer forever. 

“Nathan, you stupid fucking asshole,” he sobbed to himself, slumped against the wall. “You just have to go and hurt everyone you love. No wonder Kathy sent you that angry email you fucking douchebag, you killed yourself! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” He clutched his head, fingers balling into fists in his hair and pulling hard just to feel something external, just to express the pain that was all his fault. 

He didn’t know how long he laid there sobbing but it certainly was a while, long enough for someone to overhear him. 

There was shuffling in the ceiling above him that he ignored as he wept, cursing himself into his hands. The vent pushed open and Abaddon dropped through silently, Nathan barely paying attention through his tears. 

“…Nathan?” Abaddon said quietly and the man looked up, sniffling awkwardly and trying to wipe his tears to regain his composure. 

“O-oh, hey bud! I didn’t see you there,” he replied, attempting a jovial tone and sitting up properly. “What’s up?”

Abaddon stood awkwardly in front of him, picking at the hem of his doublet. “I heard you crying.” 

“No, no I’m fine,” he lied, taking a deep breath. “I’m fine.” 

Abaddon frowned. “I know that to you I’m just a kid,” he said, sharply and sternly, “but I am far older than you realize and I know when you are lying to me.” 

Nathan knew that wasn’t entirely true, Abaddon sucked at sarcasm and metaphors and fibbing and dad jokes, but he decided to let that detail slide. “…okay,” he said to the boy, who was staring at him with intense red eyes. 

“You are upset.” 

“Yes,” he admitted after a moment, quiet. 

“Is it to do with the spawn of Rabisu? Everyone lived,” he said, attempting to assuage his guardian’s feelings. 

“I mean— no,” he replied. He didn’t want to talk about this with Abaddon, he didn’t want to talk about this with anyone. He just wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear.

Abaddon continued to stare at him with unsettling stillness, the slight frown on the boy-demon’s face voicing the fact he did not believe Nathan. He sat down directly in front of him, crossing his legs and folding his hands. “You hide too many things,” he said, tone accusatory. “I do not like it.” He picked up the remote, turning off the television so he could focus on Nathan better. 

Nathan didn’t reply, staring at his feet silently. What would he even say? How would he even begin to talk about this with Abaddon?

As if reading his mind Abaddon’s face fell just a little. “Did Annuna tell you?”

Nathan looked up in surprise. “Hm?”

“How you died.” 

“…no.” 

“Who?”

“Kathy,” he said, voice a hoarse whisper.

“Mh,” was his only response, crawling over to sit beside his guardian. 

“I…” his voice trailed off, and Abaddon looked up at him expectantly. “I…” He took a deep breath. “I don’t even know where to start.” 

Abaddon was quiet, thoughtful. “You broke your promise,” he finally said, after what felt like an eternity. 

“I know,” Nathan rasped, hand covering his face in shame. 

“You said forty more years.” 

“I know.” He fought tears valiantly but ultimately lost, more streaming down his face and dripping off his jaw hot and salty. “I know.” 

Abaddon looked up at him. “Why?” 

“I… I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “I don’t.” 

The room was silent for a bit, the only light coming from the crack under the door and Abaddon’s twin glowing ruby eyes. “Was I not enough?” the child asked in a tiny voice, and Nathan’s heart shattered like glass, small and sharp and cutting. 

He turned to his ward sharply, putting his hand on Abaddon’s shoulder. It surprisingly connected yet again, but as Nathan cupped Abaddon’s cheek and turned his face to him, staring into the child’s red eyes, it clicked. Rock, paper, ghost. 

“Please, please don’t ever say that,” he begged hoarsely, voice ragged and eyes red rimmed with tears. “Please never doubt that. Ever. Never ever.” 

Abaddon’s lip wobbled but still he didn’t cry. In fact, Nathan had never seen the child cry, not once. Not when he lost a limb, not when he fell out of the car, not when Nathan had to wrestle him from the powerful grasp of Jessica, hotel’s resident menace. This was the closest he had ever seen Abaddon come to crying. 

Seeing as the boy’s eyes were still red he pulled him into his lap, holding him very tightly. Abaddon trembled, clinging to Nathan with a desperation only lost small children reunited with their parents knew. He shook, but no tears fell. He was in his guardian’s arms for the first time in a year, holding him and feeling his warmth and the tickle of the mustache on the top of his head. 

“I wanted burgers,” he said quietly, pressed into Nathan’s ghostly chest. “You were asleep and you didn’t wake up.” 

Nathan is silent. 

“When you wouldn’t wake up I didn’t know what to do. I just sat in the chair with you.”

He’s surprised to feel his scalp grow wet, looking up to see Nathan crying once again. “I can’t believe I chose this,” he said, before pressing a tender, fatherly kiss to the top of Abaddon’s head. 

The world fell out from under him. 

“I… what?” he stammered, suddenly nervous about the intensity of the platonic affection he felt for the gentle man. Demons didn’t do this. Demons didn’t have family, demons didn’t feel love. This wasn’t right. Nathan was human, mortal, insignificant, a blip in his life destined to end one way or another. And yet, it felt so bad. So incredibly, horribly bad to physically exist without the first person to ever show him any sort of kindness. 

“I shouldn’t have ever left you, Abaddon,” he said quietly. “I should have stayed.” 

Abaddon’s sharp red eyes searched his face with trepidation. “I didn’t want you to go. You’re my… my… I…” 

“Family,” Nathan supplied. “You’re family, Abaddon. I’m your family. You’re mine. And I broke my promise. I left you.” He hugged him again, and despite every demon instinct inside him screaming to run, Abaddon finally felt a sense of peace over Nathan. “I’m so sorry.”

Did he forgive him? He… he didn’t think he could. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive Nathan for this. It still stung the back of his eyes, still made bile rise in his throat when he thought of that day, exactly one year ago. 

But Nathan didn’t ask for forgiveness. He knew it was much too heavy a burden for a child to bear, that of forgiving an adult in their life of something so heartbreaking. “You don’t have to ever forgive me,” he said quietly, as if reading Abaddon’s mind. 

“I want to,” Abaddon confessed, clinging to the man who took care of him for four years. “But… I don’t think I can yet.” 

“That’s okay, son.”

… 

When Katherine found her brother again after the horrible run in with the spawn of Rabisu, he was three drinks deep at the ghost speakeasy. It was funny how the ghost booze worked, it really did seem to affect the spirits of the hotel. 

Nathan sat at the bar, nursing a cocktail with three empty shot glasses around him. Stabby Paul walked up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Yo dude, ya good? That’s a lot of booze for ya, I’ve seen ya drink one glass of wine and pass out on the floor. What’s eatin’ ya?”

Nathan just turned to him with a glum expression. “I don’t really wanna talk about it right now, Stabby Paul. Maybe… maybe later.”

Paul nodded, giving his shoulder a friendly pat. “Anytime you need a listening ear, pal,” he said, before walking away to join Oscar and Angela at a booth. 

Katherine walked up and sat down next to him, pulling out a beer she’d stuck in her pocket. She couldn’t drink the ghost booze, so she’d brought her own. 

“Hey, I don’t want any compa— oh. Hey Kathy,” Nathan said, looking at her with an expression that could only be described as intense guilt. 

“Hey, Nate.” 

His eyes widened. He hadn't heard her call him Nate since he left for college nearly eighteen years ago. “I…” his voice trailed off, at a loss. 

“I meant what I said on the bank,” she replied, popping the bottle cap off on the counter with the practiced ease of a college party animal, taking a long swig. “You can talk to me. It doesn’t matter if you're a ghost. Everyone needs someone to talk to.” 

“I hate myself,” he finally replied, after a long silence. 

“Why?”

“I never went home enough, I only ever called Mom and Dad to ask for money because I was embarrassed, I failed in my career and was kicked out of twelve cults, I abandoned the one person who relied on me by killing myself, and now I’m a useless ghost who can’t do anything to help my family, even when they’re in trouble.” 

She nodded. “I hate myself too,” she said. 

His eyes widened. “Wh—what?! Kathy, what the fuck? How could you possibly— what?!”

“I hate myself for falling in love with the wrong man, I hate myself for not being able to provide for my children, I hate myself for my inability to handle Abaddon the way he needs, I hate myself for not calling Mom enough, I hate myself for not being there for you when you needed me the most, and I hate myself for not being able to run this fucking hotel. There’s more, but that’s like, what keeps me up at night,” she explained, downing another long sip of beer. 

“Look at us. We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

“A total spaghetti fight.” 

He chuckled softly at the memory that invoked, of the two of them as kids throwing spaghetti at each other while their dad yelled at them before joining in. “Yeah. A total spaghetti fight. Does Mom still talk about who was mean to her at work?”

“It’s literally all I hear about,” she huffed. “I don’t really talk to her, though. I don’t forgive her.” 

“What? I thought you two were on decent terms,” Nathan replied, surprised. 

“Not after she stole your ashes,” she said bitterly. “Yeah. I didn’t actually lose them. Mom stole them out of my apartment in the middle of the night.” 

“What?! Why?!”

“Well, you know how Catholic she is,” Kathy sighed. “Apparently it’s against Catholic belief to separate a deceased person’s ashes. She got mad I wouldn’t respect her religious beliefs and broke into my apartment to steal them. The police said it was a civil matter because she had a key and there was nothing they could do about it.” 

“Oh my god,” Nathan breathed. 

“Like, she didn’t even want you cremated. She wanted a proper burial in her church’s cemetery but it was so expensive,” she continued. “I couldn’t afford that and she tried to guilt me into going into debt for it because it was ‘important for your immortal soul’ or whatever. And I had to explain to her that you weren’t even Catholic, so her pleas for your immortal soul would do nothing. She insisted that because you were baptized it still counted… I finally put my foot down.” 

Nathan hung his head. “I’m so sorry, Kathy. I… I did this. This is my fault.”

She turned to look at him with an intensity he’d never seen before. It honestly scared him a little, her gentle honey hazel eyes boring straight into his very soul. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Nathan Robert Freeling,” she said gravely, jaw set sternly. “What happened is NOT your fault. Much of this may be the result of your actions, yes, but depression is a disgusting evil beast and it will twist it into something much worse in your mind. You fought as long as you could and as hard as you could until you couldn’t anymore and I will never be angry at that. I am not angry with you. I am angry with the part of your brain that told you that you had to die to escape your pain.” 

He sniffed, wiping his eyes. “I love you so goddamned much, Kathy,” he whispered, fighting tears. “I wish I’d talked to you. I wish I’d invited you three to live up here with me and Abaddon, the kids could’ve had a cousin and—”

She cut him off. “Stop.” 

He looked at her in surprise. 

“The what-ifs will eat you alive. What matters now is what is real and happening.” 

He nodded, quiet for a minute. “When did you get so wise?” he chuckled ruefully, sipping his drink. 

“Grief counseling,” she replied, and he deflated. 

“I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but I feel like a lot of what you’re saying is counterproductive,” he admitted, gripping the glass tightly. 

Katherine frowned a little. “I’m gonna be honest, I have no idea how to make you feel better.”

He looked up at her in surprise again, puzzled. 

“I just wanted you to know you’re not alone anymore.”

“Oh,” he whispered hoarsely. 

“And that I’ve got you. Forever. I’m never leaving your side, Nathan.” 

“I love you so fucking much.” 

“I love you too.” 

Chapter Text

Of all the money I e’er had 

I spent it in good company 

Oh, and all the harm I’ve ever done 

Alas it was to none but me. 

And all I’ve done,

For want of wit,

To memory now I can’t recall

So fill to me the parting glass

Goodnight and joy be to you all. 

- The High Kings, The Parting Glass

The weeks following Rabisu’s brief reign of terror felt subdued in a way Abaddon was not used to. Sure, things were returning to normal, but what on earth was normal in this place? 

Katherine had devoted herself to learning white magic, which meant countless protection matrices in all sorts of inconvenient places for Abaddon. He found them everywhere, in the garden, the woods, the front lawn, the hallway, he knew she was practicing with Esther but he wished she’d take them down when she was finished. They stung every time he came across them, seeing as they were anti demon spells and wards to fend off evil. Encountering one made his hair stand on end and his teeth itch; the sight of the black tourmaline or amethyst at the points of the matrix, the divine script about its outer edge got under his skin like thousands of ants. He’d have to talk to Esther about maybe keeping her lessons out of public spaces. 

As a result, Abaddon was spending a lot more time in the vents. 

It wasn’t that bad, no, Abaddon loved the vents. They were his pathway around the hotel, his method of spying on each member of the family. He also took secret naps there, and Jessica knew not to bother him. The last time she’d tried to sneak up on him in the vents he nearly chewed through one of her tentacles when she caught him; messing with Abaddon was no longer fun for her. 

And so there he was, crawling through the vents like any other day, when he came across something he hadn’t seen in a year. 

When Nathan had first manifested, Abaddon had spent a whole month in the vents avoiding the man. It had become a sanctuary of sorts, a way to escape from all manner of problems that followed him around the hotel like leeches for the soul. Specifically he had found this junction deep in the walls of the hotel, an area where multiple ducts combine and formed a little room of sorts. He had bone talismans hung in every opening, a candle for light, a nest of blankets as the perfect secret napping spot, and hordes of trinkets he’d stolen from guests, all just as he left it ten months ago. 

Abaddon smiled a little, and decided to lie down in his blankets for old time’s sake. “IGNIS,” he whispered and the candle flickered to life, the shadows of the bone talismans flickering around the junction in a wild and beautiful sacred dance. He curled up under his favorite blanket, a fluffy one he’d stolen from Nathan, and closed his eyes to sleep. 

As he was getting comfortable, however, he felt a crinkling under him. He frowned, wriggling a bit in order to get the noise to stop and to get his nest to settle, but every movement just caused more crinkling. Frustrated, he sat up, moving the blankets to discover the source of the infernal noise. 

And there they were. Twin letters written on yellow lined notepaper, both in Nathan’s clean handwriting. He frowned again, trying to recall where he got these when he remembered his first day back, swiping the notepads off Nathan’s desk as he escaped into the vents come morning. He hadn’t been able to read then, but now he could to a certain extent. There were words he couldn’t make out, either too big or too complex for him to sound out like Katherine taught him, but he recognized names. 

Dear Katherine,

He put that one down. He would read it later, and then perhaps give it to her. He picked up the next note, eyes lighting up in recognition as he saw his name written out on the top line. Reading it was difficult, but over the next several hours he had carefully sounded out the whole letter, front and back. He sometimes redid sections when the letters danced around to trick him, just like the Matriarch explained. There was a logic to it, he remembered her telling him. The letters were like a puzzle, and he had to be careful to put them in the right place. 

Abaddon…

I’m sorry. I guess that’s kind of it, bud. I’m sorry. But then again, maybe that’s not really it. I mean, I am sorry, yes, but I lied when I said that was only kind of it. 

You deserve more. You deserve so much more than I could ever give you. You deserve a loving family, you deserve more than a single man in his mid thirties running a failing hotel, who can barely afford food or the water bill. You deserve the world, and I can’t give you that. 

Abaddon frowned at that. What did Nathan mean, he couldn’t give him that? Wasn’t that what the hotel even was, his world?

You’re a good kid. You’ve made my life a whole lot brighter just being in it, you’ve made every day better because you exist. Yeah, even when you sank your teeth into my upper arm and almost ripped out a chunk of my bicep because I tried to give you a bath that one time. I mean, that wasn’t like, actually better, but despite how much that hurt I guess it’s a fond memory because you’re in it.  

But I can’t… I can’t keep doing this. I just can’t. Every day is heavier than the last, every moment I’m awake I so deeply wish I wasn’t. I don’t expect you to understand— you’re an immortal demon after all. But I’m so tired of being tired. 

Abaddon did understand, though. 

He thought back to the first time he tried to die, immediately after killing the priest he had flung himself into the sea. He wandered down there for a while, lungs burning but never needing air. 

He thought back to the second time, when he broke into a Quaker settlement and stole his now prized gutting knife, shoving the blade into his vessel’s left wrist where he felt the pulse of life, pulling all the way up the arm and feeling the telltale chill of bleeding out on the frozen earth in late fall. But it hadn’t mattered, he lost consciousness and when he awoke the vessel was intact— covered in blood still clutching a knife in his small boyish fingers. 

So no, Nathan. 

Abaddon did understand. 

Every day I wake up and I run the same race and bud, I’m not enough. I’m not enough for you, for me, for anything. I can’t keep you here, stuck with me. I’m crushed by the guilt of knowing that you’ll need more than I can ever give you. 

And maybe this is selfish. 

Maybe I should try harder to be what you need. 

Maybe I should let loving you be enough. Hell, loving you is enough. But I’m not enough, and I never will be.

My sister Kathy is enough— she will love you like I was never able to. She will show you the kindness of a mother, the strength of a mentor, the joy of a friend. I left the hotel to her, I know she will treat you right. 

I hate this, I hate that I want this, I hate that I need this, but buddy… I’m just not strong enough to fight this anymore. 

I love you to Hell and back. 

Always and forever yours,

Nathan Robert Freeling

Abaddon put the note down, stomach twisting into knots, intestines writhing in his abdomen like a pit of distraught snakes. His throat was choked and tight, eyes stinging. Nathan was wrong. He was wrong, wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Wrong. 

“WRONG!” Abaddon found himself crying aloud, clutching the note tight and breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. “You’re wrong, you asshole!” Katherine hated him, he knew that. She didn’t love him like Nathan said she would. He made her life miserable; she had said herself he was a third of all of her problems. Is that what Nathan had wanted? To leave him with someone who hated him?! 

“You’re wrong,” he said hoarsely, feeling something hot in his eyes he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Not now. Not ever. 

He picked up the note addressed to Katherine, skimming it and only catching every third word. He stuffed both notes in his pocket, staring at his feet with a hollow sick feeling in his chest. 

He wanted Nathan, but he couldn’t show him this. Not after the other night. 

He… he needed Katherine. 

It may have been the middle of the night, but that had never once stopped the boy-demon from his various missions. He crawled through the vents towards Katherine’s room, passing over guest bedrooms and even an area where the ghosts were having a party. 

Eventually he came upon the correct room, pausing to look inside. 

It had been a while since he had been in here for anything other than placing fare for the ferry, close to several months now. The first week the Freeling family had moved in he had snooped, going through everyone’s stuff. Katherine had caught him red handed and thrown him out, yelling at him to keep his hands out of her things. He flinched at the memory, never wanting to hear her yell like that again. He hated when people yelled at him, especially adults. It brought back horrible things, visions of an angry crowd, a roaring priest and a red hot brand. 

He knew she might yell at him for this, but he couldn’t just keep this all to himself. 

Abaddon pushed the grate open, peeking his head through. Katherine was in bed on the phone, chatting jovially with someone. When she looked up to see Abaddon a look of confusion passed over her face. “Hey, Joel? I’m gonna call you back, I think one of the kids needs me.” 

“Okay!” Abaddon can hear from the other end. “I’ll talk to you later, Katherine!”

“Talk to you later, Joel.” She hung up, setting her phone down before looking up at the boy poking his head through the vent in her ceiling in mild irritation. “What is it, Abaddon?” she asked, sounding a bit exasperated. “Please don’t tell me you’re beefing with Jessica again. I already explained to you that she does whatever she wants, and you already know that because you’ve been at this hotel since it was built.”

Abaddon’s face fell as he listened to her gripe. “I… it’s nothing,” he replied, feeling strangely guilty. “I won’t bother you.” 

Something in his tone set off her mama bear alarm, however, and as he started to pull his head back into the vent she cleared her throat. “No, no, come on down here, Abaddon. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that, it was unwarranted.”

Wordlessly he dropped down from the vent, cautiously approaching her side of the bed. “Did you have a nightmare or something?” she asked. 

“I am the most frightening thing in this hotel,” he replied defensively, looking away as his eyes flashed red. “I don’t get nightmares.” That of course, wasn't true, but he wasn’t about to reveal that to anyone. 

“You’re right,” she placated, sitting up and motioning for him to sit beside her by patting the bed. He did so, hopping up by her, shoulders hunched and face weary. “Okay, what’s wrong?” she asked, now actually a tad worried. 

“I found these,” he said hoarsely, reaching into the pocket of his doublet and pulling out two rumpled letters written on yellow lined notepad paper. “I… I first found them the day he came back, I went to his room. In the morning I realized they were on the desk. I couldn’t read, I just took them.” 

He handed them to her, and when she smoothed them out her stomach dropped. They were Nathan’s suicide notes. The police had told them they didn't find any notes— but Abaddon had. Abaddon had found them. 

And now he could read.

“Did… you read it?” she asked gently. 

“Only the one with my name on it,” he replied, drawing his knees up and hugging them to his chest. She didn’t even chastise him for putting his shoes on the bed. “It was hard but I sounded it out like you showed me to do.” 

She was silent, skimming over the letter written to Abaddon and feeling her heart clench, reading the words he wrote to the boy-demon. Surely he knew Abaddon couldn’t read… but she supposed in the moment it hadn’t mattered. The love he had for the child was real and raw and powerful, the kind of love only a parent feels for their kids. Her guilt for treating him poorly in the beginning piled back up in her throat, and she swallowed hard. 

Abaddon is silent, and Katherine flipped to her letter. 

Dear Katherine,

You probably hate me right now. Hell, I would hate me. I would hate me a whole lot.

I’m sorry. I really truly am sorry. I don’t even know how to begin to explain this, and honestly I don’t think it would make much sense. The world is falling apart around me and I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep picking up the pieces that I drop over and over again, and I realize that means I’m leaving the pieces to you…

But you always have your shit together. You always look like you know exactly what you’re doing 100% of the time, you know what needs to be done and how to do it. I’ve always envied that, sis. You’re so much stronger than I am.

I’m sorry I’m leaving you with this hotel. It’s important to me, there’s no one else I’d trust to look after it after I’m gone. 

You’re the best person I know. 

I hope you can forgive me one day, even though I know I would never forgive anyone for doing something like this. Make sure Mom knows I love her, and that I don’t care about what happened at Uncle Eddie’s funeral anymore. Make sure Esther knows she’s the best niece in the world, and make sure Ben knows I’ll always love him. And make sure Ron knows he can rot in fucking hell because I hate him so much. 

And make sure you know I love you. I love you Kathy, I love you more than anything. You’re the morning ray of sunshine in the dark bedroom of my life and I regret every day we drifted further apart. But I can’t fix it now. I’m too broken. 

I don’t want this, but I need this. I can’t keep running around like a chicken with its head cut off and no end goal in sight. 

Please take care of Abaddon for me, he’s the little boy who’s dressed like it’s still the 1700’s. He’s actually a demon trapped inside a little boy’s body, but he’s more little boy than demon. 

He’s important to me. I know you’ll understand. He’s so perfect and wonderful and I feel so fucking awful for leaving him, but I’m not enough. I’m not enough for him, I’m not enough for Mom, I’m not enough for you. 

And I never will be enough for you. 

I can’t keep going on like this, Kathy. I can’t keep pretending I’m okay. I can’t keep getting out of bed every day to take care of the hotel, I can’t even take care of myself. It’s not your fault, it’ll never be your fault. 

I just can’t go on like this. It never ends. 

With all the love in my heart,

Nate the Great

By the time she’d finished reading the note she’s openly weeping, and she put down the piece of paper to cry into her hands. 

Abaddon didn’t know what to do, so he just reached up to put a hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.” 

“No,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Thank you for showing these to me.” He nodded a little as she put the notes away in her nightstand. “I’m going to put these away for now, okay? I think they’re a little too much for both of us right now.” 

He nodded again. “Alright.” He looked defeated, like all the air let out of a balloon. Katherine thought back to everything Abaddon said about her hating him, and that combination with how Nathan said she would love the boy made the heavy anvil of guilt in her chest even more crushing. 

“Hey, Abaddon.”

He turned to look at her, those icy blue eyes searching her face in confusion. 

“Do you think I hate you?” 

He seemed to shrink in on himself even more. “I… know you hate me. You said I’m the cause for a third of your problems.” 

She closed her eyes as he said this, taking a deep breath. “I was wrong.” 

“Huh?” He blinked in surprise and squeaked a little as she pulled him into her lap, wrapping her arms around the boy. 

“I don’t hate you. I was so wrong in how I treated you when I first moved here, you didn’t deserve any of it. Like me, you were also hurting. And I refused to try to understand you. But every day you show me more and more how wrong I was, and how right my brother was for loving you as deeply as he did. I am so sorry, Abaddon.” 

He buried his face into the side of her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo and perfume; the gentle scent of apples and jasmine grounded him as he wrapped his arms around her, returning her embrace just as tightly. “I’m sorry too.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“That’s not true. I was pretty mean at first.” 

She rubbed his back soothingly and he practically melted under her touch, the motherly gesture so powerful and overwhelming it almost broke him. “Well then, I forgive you,” she replied gently. He was a child, none of this was his fault, but she knew no matter what he wouldn’t believe she didn’t blame him unless she stated her forgiveness. 

“I— I forgive you too,” he whispered into her collarbone, clinging tightly to her pajamas. 

“Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?” she offered. 

“I don’t sleep,” he lied.

“Well, then, would you like to rest in my bed tonight?” 

Abaddon nodded, before reaching down and unbuckling his shoes. He kicked them off and pulled off his doublet as well, crawling under the covers when Katherine held them open for him. As he laid down she pulled him close, and he instinctively snuggled into her embrace. She was so warm and safe, her arms were a sanctuary. 

If he ever had a mother, he hoped she’d be just like Katherine. 

“Goodnight, Abaddon,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

He nestled in close, curling up against her torso. “Goodnight, Aunt Kathy.”

But since it fell unto my lot 

That I should rise 

And you should not,

I’ll gently rise and softly call

Goodnight and joy be to you all. 

Chapter Text

I have hands for building altars

Lips to pray to reckless gods 

Yeah, I was made to be a devotee

His mangroves held me til I died 

My body’s relic left behind 

To fossilize beneath the willow tree. 

- Rabbitology, The Bog Bodies — Dorm Demo

After the sun went down and after bedtime, when everyone was tucked into bed and supposedly snoozing away in the comfort of their blankets, Abaddon prepared for the night’s events he had planned. He fastened the coat he wore around his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons for a moment before he got it right. He pulled on his Bluey rain boots, ensuring they were snug as he grabbed a canvas knapsack, slinging it over his back. 

Abaddon walked over to the open floor vent, dropping down into it and closing it quietly behind him so as to not disturb the night’s stillness. He crawled through the maze of air ducts, checking on each Freeling to ensure they were sleeping or otherwise occupied. 

Ben was watching reruns of Gilmore Girls, wrapped in a blanket with Anabelle. She had her arms wrapped around him, able to touch him thanks to the pendant Abaddon had made. Next he checked on Katherine, who slept peacefully a few doors down. Nathan was in the lobby, which he already knew; the man didn’t care what Abaddon did in the middle of the night. 

Finally, his destination. 

He pushed open the creaking grate and poked his head up through the floor. “Esther,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “Wake up.” She, however, remained dead to the world. He rolled his eyes in irritation, climbing all the way out of the vent and walking over to her bedside, poking her repeatedly in the top of the head to rouse her. “Esther, wake up!”

She stuck her head up above the blankets, coppery hair a wild mess. “Fuck do y’want?” she huffed, voice fuzzy with exhaustion. “I’m tryna sleep ‘cause I gotta test tomorrow.” She batted his hand away roughly, yanking the covers back over her face. 

“Esther,” he hissed, more irritated. “Come on.”

“Mom said if I don’t get at least a C she’s gonna ground me again,” she replied, sounding a little more awake.

“Ground?” Abaddon didn’t understand. 

“Y’know, like the time Mom took Ben’s phone and he wasn’t allowed to see Anabelle or play PlayStation because he threw that party without her knowing?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, that’s grounding.” 

“I’d rather that not happen to you.”

“Same! So go do whatever it is you wanna do. I wanna sleep.”

He frowned. Normally Esther jumped at the opportunity to have an adventure, why was she being so difficult today? He set down his bag, brow furrowed. “I don’t understand why you do not want to have an adventure.” 

Esther looked conflicted. “I do…” 

“Then why are you being so difficult?”

“Because my birthday is next week and if I’m grounded I won’t be able to have a party or do anything fun,” she replied, glum. 

“Your birthday is next week?” Abaddon didn’t know when his vessel’s birthday was, and demons didn’t have them in the first place. This tradition humans had of celebrating their day of entering the world always intrigued him, but he’d never partaken in any festivities related to it. 

She nodded. “I’m turning eleven.”

“Oh,” he replied, unsure what to do now. This was important to Esther, and while he selfishly wished to adventure regardless, he didn’t want to upset her. “I… can go alone,” he decided, making his way back to the grate and opening it to slip inside. 

Esther watched him climb into the vent in his oversized coat, bag slung over her shoulder. As much as she wanted to go with him, she wanted to risk grounding much less. “What are you even doing?” she asked, sitting up. 

“Going hunting for relics and spell components you don’t have yet,” he replied, and slipped down into the vents quietly. 

Goddamnit, that sounded like so much fun. Esther flopped back onto the bed, groaning; she had a decision to make. Fun with Abaddon, or not being grounded? The choice was a hard one for the almost eleven year old. “Fucking hell,” she hissed to herself after about five minutes of internal grappling. “I really want new spell components. I can focus on the test too if I try hard enough…”

She slipped out of bed, hurriedly whipping off her pajamas and pulling on pants and a t-shirt, hopping on one leg as she yanked her rainboots up over her ankles. Esther grabbed a backpack and her favorite green jacket, quickly zipping it up and heading to the door before pausing. She would have to pass her mother’s room in order to make her way out of the hotel, and she knew Katherine was an extremely light sleeper. No doubt she would wake up to her daughter sneaking out on the creaky floorboards.

Her eyes roamed her room before settling on the window. Maybe she could climb out? She quickly abandoned the idea after a bit of thought, she was too high up to risk it. 

That left one method of exodus— the vents. Sure Abaddon used them all the time, but Esther’s greatest and most intense fear was claustrophobia and she had never been inside them. Not to mention, she didn’t know her way through the hotel via the vents. “Oh hell,” she muttered, getting down on her knees in front of the metal grate, pulling out some spell components and murmuring quietly as she performed a tracking spell. “INVENI ET MIHI NUNTIA,” she said softly, placing a strand of Abaddon’s hair over the carefully arranged hemlock sticks on the floor. She watched as the hair flickered before glowing blue, transforming into a line of magical energy drawn across the floor to report her cousin’s whereabouts. She gathered up the components, putting them back into her backpack, before opening the grate and slipping down into the dark metal chute. 

Esther didn’t know how Abaddon did this so regularly. It was dark, cold, drafty, and smelled like old wood. “You’re one strange dude, Abaddon,” she muttered to herself, following the glowing blue line into the bowels of the hotel. 

After what had to be at least ten minutes of winding turns and short drops, Esther arrived at the back room. She pushed the grate open from the wall and tumbled out onto the floor, covered in dust and cobwebs. She was certain there were spiders in her hair, and her knees ached from crawling on metal so long. Most of all she was glad to be free of that cramped, dark space, any more time spent inside and she would have started getting anxious. The glowing line snaked across the floor and out the back door of the hotel, and Esther took a moment to brush herself off before picking up her backpack and breaking into a trot once she’s outside. 

The November air was cold, biting at her skin with tiny icicle teeth and blowing her hair haphazardly with a brisk late autumn breeze. She shivered a little, drawing her coat close; it was always this time of year she regretted cutting her hair when she was nine, but never enough to grow it out again. 

“Your hair is so pretty, pumpkin,” Esther’s dad said as he brushed it out, weaving her ginger tresses back into a braid and tying a bow around the end. 

Esther’s russet hair fell almost to her low back, shining and coppery bright like a sunset. She had the signature O’Neil hair, thick and wavy, and she knew her father was so happy that one of his kids had inherited it. “Thank you, Dad,” she said, beaming. 

“You look like a princess.” 

Esther felt like a princess. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing against the recollection as she hefted her backpack. 

He never called, never texted. When it was his custody time he barely paid any attention to her or Ben, leaving them with their paternal grandmother to watch them while he was off doing God knows what. 

And Esther hated it. 

She hated that he didn’t want them like she needed him. She hated that she wasn’t enough. 

“Are you coming home for dinner tonight?” Esther asked her dad over the phone, sitting on the couch with her blanket and a book. 

“No, sorry kiddo,” Ron replied, sounding distracted. “I got caught up at work.” Over the phone she could hear what sounded like a party. Liar. 

“…but it’s my birthday,” she said, voice tiny. “Grandma is making chicken parm.” 

“I can’t, Esther, I’m sorry. Ask Grandma for some money and you can get something nice for your birthday, it’ll be a present!” 

She frowned. Did he not even get her a gift? Her own father? “But— D-Dad—”

A loud cheer sounded from the background of the call, the heavy bass thumping in her ear. “Sorry, pumpkin, gotta go, love you, bye!” 

Click. 

Esther got up to get a glass of water, feeling numb. She caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror, bottom lip wobbling as she looked at the hair her Dad loved so much. In that moment she hated it, stomach turning at the idea of looking anything like him. 

Esther ran into the kitchen, silent tears running down her cheeks as she grabbed the scissors out of the junk drawer before dashing back to the bathroom. She grabbed locks of her hair in one fist and with the other, hacked at it with the scissors bit by bit until her long, fiery hair lay strewn across the white tile floor. 

She stood holding the scissors as she stared at her reflection in the mirror again, chest heaving and heart pounding before letting out a ragged sob, slumping against the wall bonelessly. 

Esther wept, and soon the door flung open to reveal Ben. “Esther? What’s— oh my God, uh…” he stared at her, at her long red hair in chunks on the ground, at her shitty chop job. “GRANDMA!” he called, and the elderly woman rushed to join him. 

She gasped, hands flying to cover her mouth. “Esther, dear, what did you do? What’s wrong?!”

Esther just cried harder. “He’s not coming home tonight,” she sobbed, gripping her shirt tightly enough to see her knuckles whiten. “I don’t want to ever see him again!” 

Her grandmother’s heart sank and she hurried into the bathroom, bundling the newly-nine year old into her arms and holding her lovingly. “I’m so sorry, Esther. I’m so, so sorry.” She kissed the top of her granddaughter’s head, rocking her gently. “Let’s go to the salon and get you a cute haircut, would you like that?” 

She looked up at her and nodded, eyes rimmed red from crying. “Yeah.” She sniffed. “I wanna cut it all off.” 

She scowled, shaking off the memory as she hunched her shoulders, following after the glowing blue line on the ground deeper into the forest. Fuck him. She didn’t need him. Uncle Nathan was way cooler than her dad ever would be. 

Before long she comes upon footprints, starting to jog as she gets closer and closer. “Abaddon?” she calls, looking around for her cousin. The blue line snaked down the path further still, and she bore forward through the loam and leaf litter. “Abaddon?”

“Esther?” 

She looked up, seeing the tracking line end at the feet of her cousin, who was carrying a bag already partially filled with wild mushrooms and hemlock wands. “There you are!” She grinned, falling into step beside him. 

“I thought you had a test tomorrow?” he questioned, puzzled. “You needed sleep.” 

She frowned. “I mean… yeah, but also adventuring with my bestie is worth getting grounded for, especially if we find something really really cool.” 

“I have no doubt we will find something you take interest in,” he agreed, nodding. 

Esther followed Abaddon through the woods, the only sound the whooping of night birds and the crunch of their footsteps. The moon was full, illuminating their path as if it were daytime. Esther was glad for this, she couldn’t see as well in the dark as her counterpart could, so the extra light was welcome. “So… where are we going?” 

“The whispering swamp,” he explained, helping her over a pile of rocks in order to start their descent into a small valley nestled between a few hills. 

“We have a swamp?” she asked, eyes lighting up. 

He nodded. “We do indeed. There are a great many artifacts of ancient power there that have cropped up over the years.” 

“Because of the hellmouth?”

“Because of the hellmouth.”

Esther jogged a little so she could walk beside him, hoisting the bag they brought with them. “So like, are these Hellish relics? Or celestial? Or other various supernatural stuff?” she inquired, looking around as the dense forest gave way to even denser swamp. She was glad she wore her rain boots, otherwise she’d be moored with no way of escape. 

“All sorts,” he replied. “I have been meaning to take you here, I figured you’d get a kick out of it.”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes, I absolutely will get a kick out of it! Are there any ghosts there?” 

He frowned, thoughtful. “Probably, yes, we will likely encounter a few spirits. But further than that we may encounter fae or will-o’-the-wisps.”

As they tread over the increasingly boggy ground their footsteps filled with water, the sound of bugs in the air as the humidity increased. “Whoa, is it warmer here?”

“It is indeed,” Abaddon confirmed. 

“Lemme guess, hellmouth again?”

“Hellmouth again.” 

She bent over when she saw a bit of white in the mud, pausing to dig out a human skull. “Hey Abaddon! I found another one for your collection!”

Her cousin turned, lighting up when he saw the fully intact skull in her hand. “Oh, that one is lovely! Give it here,” he said eagerly, opening his hands. When she handed it to him he admired it openly, turning it about so it caught the moonlight. The zygomatic arch was perfectly formed, curving across the face into the maxilla like the petals on a flower. Flipping it gave him a view into the cranium, picked clean by scavengers and perfectly preserved internally. “This is going into my collection,” he said, motioning for her to turn so he can secure it to the outside of her bag with a strap, threading it through the zygomatic arch and clipping it back to the backpack. 

She grinned. “I love how much you like bones.” 

“I adore bones.” 

Esther just laughed, prodding at his back to get him to continue leading the way. “Come on, I wanna see the cool swamp.” 

“We’re in the swamp, Esther.” 

“Yeah, but not the part you told me about!” she protested, gesturing to make her point. “I wanna see the ruins and the will-o’-the-wisps!” 

He rolled his eyes with a stifled chuckle and grabbed her sleeve, pulling her after him. “If it will get you to shut up I’ll show you anything.” 

Before long they were practically up to their knees in the murky sludge, the fog hugging the ground catching the moonlight and glittering like diamonds. Abaddon got to work, sifting through the mire with tiny practiced hands. It was almost therapeutic, searching for items of unimaginable power with Esther, an easy way to ground himself and feel alive. 

The swamp shimmered in the pale candescence of the full moon, the fog breathing like a living thing. As they dug in unison, a soft whispering voice caught their attention. 

Esther looked up, surprised. “What was that?” she asked in a quiet whisper. 

Abaddon looked up as well. “Mm, a will-o’-the-wisp,” he replied in an equally quiet voice, pointing into the thicket. There, above the peat moss, a flickering blue glow danced on the surface. It whispered and sang to itself, bobbing and twisting across the swamp with carefree ease. 

Esther stared, completely enraptured. She had seen a lot of insane things at the hotel and on the surrounding grounds, but she had never seen something this beautiful. Though she had brought a jar to capture something she couldn’t get herself to disrupt it, enthralled. 

She slowly got up from her crouched position, slowly wading through the swamp towards the mesmerizing blue spirit. It called to her, its voice captivating and irresistible. 

Come closer, it beckoned. I have something to show you! Esther crawled to it, but the elusive little thing stayed just outside her grasp as her hands swiped at the air. 

“Esther,” Abaddon warned, wading after her, “snap out of it.”

But Esther didn’t pay Abaddon any mind. She needed this thing, this beautiful blue flame, she needed to see what it wanted to show her. It had to know the location of something ancient and terrible, something they were looking for. 

It’s just over here! It warbled, dancing around her fingers as she clutched at the open air. 

“Esther!” Abaddon barked, lunging to grab her jacket. His fingers just missed the green fabric, and he fell face first into the peaty mire. 

She was so close, so so so close, the wisp was just out of reach—

The swamp gave out from under her and she was sucked under, the heavy muck quickly filling the place she had just been. As soon as there was peat moss where air should be her senses returned to her, every instinct screaming to swim; but it was a swamp and not a pool, swimming was impossible. 

The damned thing had tricked her, luring her forward to a sink pit. It wanted her dead, drowned, a part of the swamp forever; a new bog body for whatever ancient force it fed on. 

Esther thrashed as well as she could under the weight of the swamp, unable to scream for help. After what felt like an eternity her hand bumped something stone, and in her desperation she grabbed it tightly. She was too oxygen deprived to think properly, clutching at this strange object with the delusional hope it would help her out. 

Suddenly, the back of her collar went taught and the front of her jacket jammed into her throat. Did she get caught on a root or something? As she squirmed she felt a pull, but she was fading fast. The lack of air made her head feel fuzzy and floaty, the muck in her nose and mouth clogging her airways. It would be so much easier to go to sleep…

Abaddon watched in horror as Esther was sucked under, and immediately started scrambling at the peat. Curse his small frame and weak hands, she was going to die because he wasn’t strong enough to help. 

In his desperation to dig her out he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until he felt a hot breath on his neck. He paused, turning, and found himself face to face with Bulþorn. 

The eldritch stag gazed upon him unblinking, bearing no hostility this time. Had Esther not been in mortal danger Abaddon would have found himself questioning why, but this was no time for such things. “Þú verður at hjálpa mér, vinsamliga!” he begged. You have to help me, please!

The response came in the form of a thought, in a deep and otherworldly voice that practically rattled the bones under his flesh. “Hvat er at?” What is the matter?

“Frændkona mín drukknar, ok ek em eigi nógsamr at draga hana lausa!” he replied frantically. My kinswoman is drowning and I am not strong enough to pull her free!

Wordlessly Bulþorn crouched down into the mire, lowering his head until it was nearly flush with the peat. “Óttask eigi, gamli.” Fear not, old one. Abaddon watched with bated breath as the ancient god plunged one of his arm like antlers into the muck. Just as soon as he had, Abaddon watched as the appendage jerked upwards, pulling a motionless Esther out of the swamp. “Hún andar eigi,” the beast states solemnly. She breathes not.

“No, no no no no!” Abaddon gasped frantically, pulling the odd disk-like relic she had pulled from the mire out of her hands. He began pushing on her chest quickly like he had seen on television, but mud just gurgled out of her mouth and nose. “Esther! NO!” 

This was all his fault. How on earth would he explain this to Katherine? To Ben? To Nathan? That he had taken the girl out to the whispering swamp and got her killed? 

No one would ever forgive him. 

His heart hammered in his chest as he continued to push on her ribs, that odd stinging sensation returning behind his eyes. “Esther, please,” he begged quietly, voice ragged. 

“Stǫðvað. Leyf mér,” Bulþorn said, reaching down and picking up the girl with his antlers again. Stop. Allow me. 

Abaddon watched with his heart lodged in his throat, hands shaking. He was at the mercy of this beast, this ancient god, and he was powerless against whatever came next. 

Bulþorn began to hum, an ancient droning that filled the air with a thousand voices. The swamp fell still, every living creature holding its breath as the stag god held Esther’s small body up like an offering. “Óðinn, lát þessa sál snúa aptr til vár; hennar tími er eigi enn kominn,” the voices that filled the air droned in unison. Odin, let this soul turn back to us; her time has not yet come.

A green mist poured into her nose and mouth, and with a rough twist the swamp gunk she had inhaled shot out of her lungs and throat with a wet squelching sound. Bulþorn set her down on a patch of solid moss, quiet. 

Abaddon watched with wide eyes and trembling hands, and sighed in relief as she sat bolt upright, inhaling loudly and desperately before promptly puking up mud all over the ground in front of her. He grabbed her hands, still shaking a bit. “Thank God,” he whispered. 

“My everything hurts,” Esther grumbled, sneezing out more swamp. “I feel like I got hit by a bus.” As her vision came more into focus she looked up to see Bulþorn peering down at her. “Uh… Abaddon?” 

The boy demon looked up to where Esther was. “Oh, that’s Bulþorn,” he said, still catching his breath from the anxiety that had wracked him moments earlier. “He is an ancient water being, and he helped.” 

“Oh.” She narrowed her eyes up at him, before smiling a little. “Thanks, Bulþorn.” The behemoth simply nodded, before turning and disappearing into the mist. 

“Don't ever go chasing after will-o’-the-wisps ever again,” Abaddon chided harshly, smacking her arm. 

She slumped over a little and sighed. “I won’t, I promise.” The disk-like object caught her eye again and she turned to it, pulling it over into her lap. “What’s this?”

“You were holding it when he freed you,” Abaddon explained. 

“What does it do?” She peered at it closely. 

“I’m unsure,” he replied, running his finger along the edge. As he did so it lit up, sucking a pile of leaves into the center. 

“What the hell,” Esther breathed. 

“Huh. It…” Abaddon looked at the runes along the circumference of the relic, “it sends things back to the dawn of time.” 

“Oh, COOL!” Esther said, eyes lighting up. “Let’s go show Mom!”

As they stood up and bagged the relic the beginnings of sunlight began to peek over the trees, morning washing over the Catskills once again. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes I go to sleep

And I’m still 17

You still live down my street 

You’re not mad at me 

And in that dream, I will say everything I wanted

That every day after May, I haven’t found what I needed

No one has come close to you 

And I don’t think anyone will 

- Sydney Rose, We Hug Now

Abaddon walked around the kitchen with the relic in his arms, holding the large object up to various items in the room. Shwoop went the dishes in the sink, disappearing in a brief flash of light. He chuckled a little to himself, enjoying experimenting with the large stone disk. 

Behind him Esther and Ben argued, bickering over Esther’s collection of very dangerous items. The compass that pointed to a vampire was something he had created with her last month, when one of the guests had made them both suspicious. As it turned out they were correct, and the woman that had been following Katherine around uncomfortably close for three days had indeed been a vampire. Esther had wanted to stake the undead woman, but Ben had been horrified with the idea and insisted they simply ward her off with garlic and a crucifix. The crucifix had made Abaddon’s skin itch and he was glad when the vampire left. 

The ring that belonged to a demon’s bride was another story; Esther had been exploring the sub basement and returned to show Abaddon her spoils. She had found several cursed books in an ancient script she couldn’t read and various pieces of jewelry in a small ornate box. It was a long forgotten dialect that Abaddon hadn’t seen in thousands of years, and while it took him a bit he managed to decipher it. The books were a collection of journals by a young woman from a world long gone, her hand in marriage promised to Ammon, another demon prince he was familiar with. This had excited the witch immensely, and the books and jewelry now sat proudly on her dresser. 

While the kids argued Katherine and Nathan looked over the bills, Nathan trying to suggest ideas that could make them money. The Matriarch had been more and more stressed as of late, and her constant worrying was starting to get to Abaddon. He didn’t like when she worried, it hung over her in a heavy cloud of suffocating fear that he could practically taste. 

“Right Abaddon?” Esther asked, but the boy demon wasn’t paying attention. “Abaddon?” 

He had stopped playing with the relic to send various kitchen appliances to the dawn of time and sat in the big double sink, staring out the window. “There's a man in the yard.” 

The rest of the family came to look at the man in the strange tattered robes, a belt of rope around his waist and a deep hood obscuring his face. “That's a man in the yard, alright,” Nathan replied, hands on his hips. 

“There’s something off about him,” Esther said, climbing into the sink next to Abaddon and narrowing her eyes. “Maybe it’s the cloak?” 

“Oh I like the cloak, it’s jaunty,” Ben replied, smiling. 

“The man in the cloak won’t bother us if we don’t bother him,” Katherine asserted, sounding too tired to deal with whatever horseshit was about to go down. Just as the words left her mouth another cloaked figure pulled up on a battered bike, and four more piled out of a branded van. “Oooookay, that’s more concerning,” she breathed, and Nathan just nodded in agreement. “I’m going to call the police.” 

“What do you think they want?” Ben asked, leaning forward to peer out the window more. 

“No idea. I hope it’s nothing like the Mottites again, though,” Esther replied, climbing down out of the sink without taking her eyes off the robed figures. 

“Hi, yes, I’m the owner of The Undervale Hotel— no no wait, don’t hang up!” Katherine snapped into the receiver. “Okay, thank you. Yeah, so anyway, there’s a bunch of hooded figures standing out in the drive, and— no, they’re not doing anything, but it feels like a crime!”

“We’ve got a bus,” Nathan said in a singsong tone, pointing at a large travel bus pulling into the long drive. 

“They’re really organized,” Ben said, impressed. The bus doors opened, and a dozen or so more of those strange people exited the vehicle to join the others in standing completely motionless, staring at the hotel. 

“How do they stand so still?” Esther wondered, tilting her head, puzzled. 

“Statistically, one of them should have sneezed by now,” Nathan added, frowning. 

Abaddon was over it. As the three at the window chatted about the situation unfolding outside he climbed down out of the sink, taking the relic to the fridge and sending more objects back to the Big Bang. The milk, the eggs, the salad dressing, the yogurt— wait, no, the yogurt! He mentally cursed himself for being so foolish. Now they were out of his beloved dairy treat and he would have to wait for the Matriarch to purchase more, which she only did if he behaved himself. Life could be so cruel sometimes.

“So I should call back when a knife is literally in my chest?!” Katherine growled into the receiver, sounding incredibly displeased. Abaddon took it that the phone call was not going well, and stopped his fridge raid to listen. “Y’know, I’m glad I haven’t paid taxes in three years!” She hung up, scowling as she turned to her family. “The cops are useless.”

“Good. Because you just confessed to tax evasion on a recorded line,” Nathan replied, eyebrows raised as he turned away from the window.

“I just mean we’re on our own,” she clarified with a sigh, shaking her head. 

Esther walked up to Abaddon and her mother as the latter spoke, putting her hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “We hear you, Mom. Loud and clear.” 

“Sorry, you hear what?” Katherine asked, puzzled. 

“Your message! We're on our own, and we’ll do what needs to be done.” Esther clenched her fist, grinning nefariously. She turned to Abaddon and nodded, the two of them dashing out of the kitchen and down the hallway. 

“Hey, no, you added that last part. You added that last part!” Katherine called, chasing after the two kids fruitlessly. 

The both of them ran up the stairs together and into Esther’s room, Abaddon closing and locking the door behind them. He set the relic down on the floor, and joined Esther where she sat on the bed. He reached over, picking the twigs and leaves out of her sunshine hair from the previous night. “It sounds like you have a plan,” he said to her, letting her fix his hair in turn. 

“The beginnings of one, yeah,” she replied, hopping down off the bed once her cousin’s hair was suitably clean, and walking to the corner to grab a short wooden spear and a pocket knife. She tossed both to Abaddon, who caught them and got to work sharpening the head. “I’m still working out the kinks.” 

“What sorts of kinks?”

“Well…” she frowned, pacing a bit. “So I’ve got a jar of spiders I’ve been collecting for a while, they’re always useful…” 

“And you gave me this spear,” Abaddon replied, holding the weapon up before going back to sharpening it. 

“I did,” she agreed. “You’re good with violence, right?” 

“I was born in it,” he asserted, eyes flashing red briefly. “I shall bring pain upon any whom I deem fit.” 

“Excellent,” Esther said, nodding slowly. She turned back to look at her room, taking in all the magical objects around her. “Think you could threaten to stab the head guy?” 

“Absolutely.” 

She moved to the floor, wiggling the loose boards she had turned into the entrance for a secret compartment; reaching in, she pulled out a large jar filled with dozens of house spiders. None of them were nearly as big or as impressive as his beloved Jarbon, forever lost to time, but that was of little consequence now. “Okay, so the plan is: I release the spiders, the spiders cause pure and utter chaos, at which point…” She held the jar up, looking at Abaddon. 

“I stab the leader in the heart!” he replied gleefully, holding the spear with a wicked grin. 

“You threaten to stab,” Esther clarified, tucking the spiders under one arm. “Actual heart stabbing would be murder.” 

“Less fun, but okay,” Abaddon agreed, setting the spear down. He knew what was coming next— the handshake he and Esther had created together a few weeks ago. 

Esther entered the parlor where Abaddon was sitting on the floor, working on a Lego set. “Hey, Abaddon!” She had on a large backpack, stuffed intriguingly full of unknown goods. 

He looked up, raising his eyebrows curiously. “Hm?” 

“I heard on the news that the auroras are supposed to be visible right now, let’s go up to the top of the roof and watch!” Esther clenched her fists excitedly, bouncing up and down a little in her enthusiasm. “I’ve never seen them before and I really really want to!” 

He shrugged. “Sure. Right now?” 

“Right now!”  

Not bothering to clean up his Lego mess Abaddon stood, walking over to join her. The two of them made their way to the elevator, riding it all the way to the third floor. They’d have to get up to the attic for roof access, and as they stepped out from the large red elevator doors Esther pulled out the key. 

“Have you ever seen the aurora?” she asked him as they walked to the heavy oak door that led to the attic staircase. 

“Yes, once,” he replied. “It didn’t look like much then, though.”

“Oh, right. You’re colorblind. Will this even look cool to you?” she asked. 

“I perceive color better now than I did then,” he answered, nodding. It had been a steady, gradual thing he had noticed, since living in the hotel with Nathan. It originally disturbed him, how the world started to take on new life— he had no idea why it was happening and he would be lying if he said it didn’t still scare him a bit. But he had grown used to it, and had found that he quite enjoyed the blue of the sky and the shining reds of the cardinal birds that flew past the windows. 

“Oh. Huh. That’s kinda weird,” she chuckled as they mounted the stairs beyond the door, pushing open the hatch into the attic and climbing through. 

Abaddon frowned a little once in the attic— he had spent a lot of time here in the past, chained to that God forsaken wall. He was glad when Katherine promised to never chain him up again, reassuring him that it was wrong if her to do so and apologizing for what was likely a very bad reminder of the way former hotel owners used to treat him. Esther instinctively took his hand, leading him away from the stark reminder of the pain he had endured at the hands of mortals and walking to the roof access ladder.

She climbed up first, pushing open the wooden hatch to the small platform at the highest part of the roof. As she pulled herself out she turned and offered a hand to Abaddon, who took it readily as she helped him up. 

He took in the night sky, holding onto the old wrought iron railing as the distant stars shone down upon them. Before the hotel he had thought the night sky was black, an inky pit of nothing with tiny pinpricks of light sneezed onto it haphazardly. But now he could see the complexity of it, the deep navy velvet that blanketed everything in peaceful sleep, interrupted only by twinkling gold and silver of worlds far away. Nighttime was his favorite part of his basic world giving way to color, everything was so quiet and perfect. 

Behind him Esther was setting up blankets to ward off the November cold, handing him a fluffy red one she knew he liked. He pulled it about his shoulders, turning to join her. 

“Thank you,” he said, sitting down next to her as she wrapped herself in a blanket of her own. “When is it supposed to start?”

”Soon,” she replied, handing him a bag of popcorn. She ripped open one of her own, crunching loudly beside him. He popped a few kernels into his mouth, eyes tracing constellations he did not know the names of. “You mentioned the nine stars of morning a little while ago,” Esther began, “can you point them out to me?” 

“Mh,” he replied, chewing and swallowing the popcorn in his mouth. “Only about five of them are out right now.” He motioned for her to follow his finger as he pointed the visible ones out, all across the sky. “When all nine form a glorious asterism, a straight line across the heavens, the sky will unzip and the mighty hand of Hell itself will rise from the darkness below to meet the armies of God above.”

”Whoa, God is real?” Esther asked. 

“You are literally eating popcorn with a biblical demon right now, Esther.”

”You’re biblical? I didn’t think you came to earth until like, the 1700’s!”

”Well, yes, but I am described and mentioned in the book of Revelations, written by the Godly man John on the island of Patmos. My coming to earth was to fulfill the prophecy of Armageddon,” he explained. 

“Oh. Wow. I really gotta read the Bible,” Esther said, pondering his words. 

He shrugged. “Eventually. You already are well learned. If you have any questions, you can probably ask Nathan.” 

“Wait, is Uncle Nathan a Christian?” she asked, tilting her head. “I didn’t think that queer people could be Christian.” 

Abaddon scoffed at this. “Preposterous. God doesn’t care about silly things like gender. He created love itself to be enjoyed by all His creation, queer or not.”

“…oh.” 

“Is that something you were worried about, Esther?”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Grandma Diane once told Uncle Nathan he would have to repent because bisexual people don’t get into heaven.” 

“Plenty of bisexual people get into Heaven. Your Grandmother Diane knows not of what she speaks.” 

“Really?”

“Really.” 

“So it wouldn’t matter if I liked girls?”

“Like whoever the fuck you want, Esther. God doesn’t care, I don’t care, no one who matters will care.” 

“Okay,” she said softly. She leaned against his shoulder a little, smiling. Abaddon really was her best friend… she didn’t know what she would do without him. “Oh look, it’s starting,” she said, pointing up at the first licks of pink and green that start to dance across the sky. 

“Wow,” Abaddon whispered. Earth was so beautiful sometimes. The colors grew brighter and bigger, spinning and twisting around each other like spectral snakes. They jumped and twirled like frenzied ribbon dancers, never ceasing in their endless sojourn over the Milky Way. 

They sat transfixed for several minutes before Esther spoke again. “What will you do when we’re gone?” 

This caught Abaddon off guard and he stiffened, mouth twisting into an almost frown. “What exactly do you mean?” 

“Like… when we all die. What will you do?” 

Fuck. He hated thinking about this. He wanted his seventy years, goddamnit, and he hated knowing there was a possibility he wouldn’t even get that. “I… don’t know,” he said quietly after several seconds of silence. 

“I don’t want you to be alone,” Esther asserted. “Ever.” 

Abaddon didn’t want to be alone either. “Oh? You’re mortal. Not much you can do about that.” 

“That’s not true,” she replied. “I was doing a lot of reading on this stuff last week… I want to give you my soul.” 

The words caught in Abaddon’s mind like impaled mice on a shrike’s pantry of thorns, prickling around like fire in his veins. Every inch of demonic power in him screamed for Abaddon to take this offering, to bind her to him for eternity. But unfortunately for that part of him, Abaddon was no longer that man. He quietly grit his teeth, warring against the dark parts of himself that still sought to consume, devour, destroy. 

“Do… you… have any idea… what that means…?” he finally managed to spit out, eyes red and pupils sharp black slits. 

Esther looked confused before paling. “Oh God, is it like a romantic thing? Ew, no, I’m sorry, that’s not— Eugh! You’re my cousin, that’s— oh God that’s just icky!” 

“No, it’s not,” he replied. “It can be, but it’s not.” He looked down at the blanket beneath him, eyes still a stark crimson. 

“Oh. Then… what’s wrong with me promising you my soul?” 

His chest seized again and he gripped the blanket, fingernails digging into it as if it were soft flesh to rend under his former claws. “You’re too young to fully understand.”

All this did was irritate Esther. “I’m not a baby, Abaddon!” she replied, glowering at her cousin. “I’m old enough to understand plenty of stuff!” 

“It’s not something you can ever take back. Not in a million years. It’s permanent.” 

“I don’t want to ever take it back.” 

“When you die, you will not move on, even when your unfinished business is complete.”

“So?”

“You will not see Heavenly Paradise.” 

“I’m not religious, Abaddon.” 

“You will not see your family again.” 

She paused for a moment. “I wouldn’t if I didn’t, too.” 

He looked at her, puzzled. “What?”

“You’re my cousin, dumbass. That counts as family.” 

“Oh.” That made him feel all funny inside in ways he couldn’t explain. Esther was… fuck, Esther was everything. He would never tell her how much she meant to him, no, he couldn’t. Admitting that out loud was a fool’s errand and admitting it to himself was even worse. “I still will not allow you to give me your soul at your current age. You are almost eleven, and that is far too young a soul for a demon to take.” 

She frowned. “But—”

“We can revisit this when you are of age,” he replied. 

“Of age?”

“Eighteen.” 

“Okay,” she conceded, nodding. “I can deal with that.” As the auroras flickered about the sky she turned to study Abaddon’s face, his pale skin and round, cherubic cheeks. There was something about him that pulled at her, like they were two sides of the same coin. He understood her in ways no one else ever had, and for that she was eternally grateful. Anyone to misconstrue her feelings about him for a crush were wrong, that’s not how she felt at all. But there was something deeper about the connection she felt with him, as if it were forged by Fate herself.

He caught her looking at him. “What?” he asked, mildly irritated. 

“We should have a secret handshake.” 

“Huh?”

“Well, if I can’t promise you my soul just yet, we gotta have something that ties us, right?” she asked, holding out a hand. 

“I… suppose.” 

“C’mon, it’ll be cool.” 

He chuckled a little, extending his hand in a spell position. “How about like this?”

“It’s a good start.” 

“She-mon,” Esther began, clapping their hands together. 

“Demon,” Abaddon replied, pressing their index fingers and pinkies together in the spell position. The both of them brought their hands up to their heads, making horns with their fingers. 

“Always be schemin’,” they said in unison, and Esther beamed at him. 

Abaddon smiled back. Time to fuck up some cultists. 

I have a feeling you got everything you wanted 

And you’re not wasting time stuck here like me 

You’re just thinkin’ it’s a small thing that happened 

The world ended when it happened to me.

Chapter Text

You know that I love you so 

I love you enough to let you go 

I want you to know

That it doesn’t matter

Where we take this road,

But someone’s gotta go. 

And I want you to know

You couldn’t have loved me better 

But I want you to move on,

So I’m already gone. 

- Sleeping at Last, Already Gone

“Okay, so we’re going to make our way down the stairs, and on three we jump over the railing onto the front desk and threaten these guys,” Esther said to Abaddon in a hushed tone. The two of them were crouched on the mezzanine, peering over the edge at the lobby full of red robed figures. 

“Right,” Abaddon replied, holding the spear tightly. “Are you sure I can’t stab anyone?” 

“Not yet,” she admonished. “It needs to start as just a threat. If someone else gets violent, though, go ahead. That way it’s self defense.” 

“Self defense,” he parroted, still a little confused. “Alright.” 

The two of them crawled down the stairs, before Esther jumped onto the large oak counter that served as the front desk, raising the jar of spiders. “Time to check out!” 

“THREAT OF STABBING!” Abaddon yelled, jumping over her and brandishing the spear wildly. 

“Esther no,” Katherine said softly, sounding more tired and disappointed than frustrated. 

“The child!” the leader exclaimed, eyes wide as he pushed past Katherine before falling on his face before the two of them. A ripple of gasps surged through the present cultists, and all of them promptly fell to their knees in a reverent bow before the front desk, quiet, devotional utterances of my lord leaving their lips. 

Esther stood with Abaddon in plain shock, looking upon the strange display in disbelief and confusion. “Does he mean me or you?” she asked Abaddon, who just continued to stare. 

“My king, at last, you honor us,” the man who seemed to be the leader postured, crawling forward to cradle Abaddon’s foot as if it were the most sacred thing in existence. 

Katherine was just as confused as her kids, walking over. “Wait, Todd, your king is Abaddon? You know he’s a demon trapped in a little boy, right?”

The man who was apparently named Todd stood fully, brushing his hands off on his red robe. Probably a good call, Esther thought, who knows where Abaddon’s shoes had been. Thank God the man hadn’t started kissing the buckle, she was sure he would have been patient zero for some sort of zombie outbreak, and they sure as hell didn’t need more zombies. “Ah, sorry, did I not mention? We’re the Acolytes of Abaddon,” he replied, gesturing to the group of worshippers who had all also stood, “and we’ve come to fulfill the prophecy.” 

Esther chuckled incredulously, grinning at her best friend. “Whoa, Abaddon, you’ve got a cult? Make them do something pointless!” She tossed the jar of spiders behind her, which broke on the wooden floor and flooded the area with the dozens of arachnids she had caught over the course of a few weeks. 

“Yeah, let’s not—” Katherine began, but Abaddon cut her off. 

“Do a backflip,” he deadpanned, pointing at one of the acolytes with his wooden spear. The man, who looked to be in his late forties and not in any sort of shape to be doing backflips, jumped up and back, promptly landing horribly and likely breaking several bones. He lay in a twitching heap, and all the others seemed unfazed. 

“Awesome,” Esther breathed in wicked delight, her expression a devious grin. 

“Our order spent decades searching,” Todd began, walking over to join the others. “Spirit channeling confirmed Abaddon was bound to a mortal form, but we never knew where he was— until we found his internet videos!” They all lifted their phones, gazing at Abaddon with reverence. 

Nathan walked over, just as baffled as the rest of his family. “You came all this way to worship Abaddon?” he snorted, incredulous. 

“We’re not just here to worship him, we’re here to bring him home,” was the reply, and all the other acolytes nodded. 

Abaddon dropped his spear. Home. Home. How he missed that word— home! He was going home, these people had come to the site of his most wretched failure with the sole intent to reunite him with the beloved misery of his long lost home. 

Esther laughed. “Home— like, to Hell? Uh, no offense, but this is Abaddon’s home and—”

Abaddon pushed past her, interrupting whatever she was going to say next. “AT LAST! I’m free of this mortal wasteland!” He shrugged off his teal doublet and white collared shirt as fast as he could, leaving him in his white linen undershirt as he tossed the heavier wool fabric to the ground and jumped off the table. “No more dogs or soft whispers or simple pleasures!” He kicked his solid leather shoes off with each declaration, before doing a happy little dance and turning to face Todd, hands clasped and eyes pleading with all the adorable innocence of a normal human child. “Ahaha, are we leaving now? Bus or car?””

Todd chuckled. “The journey is one of the soul, my lord. A-and once the preparations are complete, it will happen here.” He gestured to the hotel around them, smiling. ”You are the lock.” He put his hands above his head, falling to his knees. “We are the key.”

The other cultists followed suit, hands held high as they knelt before the boy-demon. ”You are the lock. We are the key.” 

”Mom, you’re not gonna let them do this, are you?” Esther asked, an edge of pain in her voice that did not go unnoticed by her mother. 

”I mean we all love Abaddon…” she turned to look at the boy, who was currently riding one of the cult members like a horse and spurring him on by hitting him with a belt, “…in a way. But if paying customers want to fill my hotel and send the demon who eats our lightbulbs back to hell, who am I to stop that?” She turned back to her daughter, hoping the girl would understand.

Esther crossed her arms. “Woooooooooow. Ben, back me up here.” 

Ben wasn’t paying attention, and to top it all off he was wearing one of those damned robes. “Do I have to sign anything in blood? The doctors say I have one less pint than I should,” he asked the blonde cultist, following her into the next room.

“Ugh.” So Ben was useless. Good to know. She turned away from her family, irritated with all of them. Did no one else want Abaddon to stay? 

As she walked over to Abaddon, one of the cultists plopped him down in one of the upholstered parlor chairs like a throne, and the boy-demon looked at his hands with a wicked grin. “Farewell, little boy fingers. Soon the power of ten thousand storms will course through my talons.”

Esther approached him, eyebrows practically fused in worry. “Abaddon, you don’t want this!” she exclaimed, holding her hands out in frustration. 

”Really?” He looked around, a little confused. Why wouldn’t he want this? His acolytes were bringing him offerings of human bones and his favorite toys, how could he not want this? “I feel like I do.”

Esther’s eyes widened. “Dude! We made a whole list of things to do this year! I-I was gonna teach you how to ride a bike, and you were gonna teach me how to turn a man’s shadow against him!”

That was true… he thought back to when he saw her and Heather riding the bike down the hill, going so fast that Heather’s hair whipped into Esther’s eyes from where she sat on the handlebars. Esther had almost crashed the bike, cheering and hollering all the way down. It had looked like so much fun that he demanded Esther teach him, he wanted to ride the two wheeled death contraption too!

Before he could say anything in response, however, Todd leaned down to cut between them. “Oh, sorry to interrupt, we need to get Abaddon fitted for his robe and crown,” he said, voiced laced with fake apology. 

Abaddon nodded, and the cult closed in. “You, lift me up,” he said to one of them, pointing. As he came over to lift the chair he pointed at another acolyte. “You, make train sounds.”

Esther watched him leave, heart hammering in her chest. Not only was she sad, she was angry, goddamnit! How dare he leave them! Didn’t he know she needed him? “At least pick a better cult, they can’t even do backflips!” Esther yelled after him, hands balled into fists. 

Her Uncle Nathan walked over, putting a spectral hand on her shoulder, the other hand on his hip. “Face it Esther, we may have lost Abaddon forever, and Ben temporarily.” He paused, watching all of the red robed figures file out of the room. “I’ll take one more crack at Ben.”

Esther huffed, setting her jaw. “And I’ll threaten the cult with violence.” There were a few ghosts who owed her favors, time to pull some strings. 

Abaddon hopped down off the makeshift throne once they were in the suite that he supposed they were using as a preparation room of sorts, putting his doublet back on as a cultist handed it to him. “I heard mention of a robe and crown?” he asked, and the woman who seemed to be in charge of this part of the operation beamed. 

She shooed most of the others out, leaving just her and two others. “Yes! We have spent years crafting what we believe would serve you best, my lord,” she said. 

“What is your name?” he asked, disliking not knowing his worshippers. If he was to be revered, he wanted to respect those who honored him. 

She lit up like a Christmas tree, biting her lip. “He wants to know my name!” she whispered excitedly to the others, before regaining her composure. “I am Leader Marissa, second only to Leader Todd,” she said proudly, “though we are more of a team.” 

“I see,” he replied, walking past her to sit on the bed. 

“He’s my husband,” she went on, providing details that the boy-demon certainly hadn’t asked for. “Truthfully it is my father who started this all, he and Todd always had such a reverence for the occult. He spent his entire adult life searching for you, my lord. When he found your internet videos, we knew we were finally saved!”

“Saved?” he asked, tilting his head. He thought he was the one who was to be saved. 

If Marissa had heard him at all she gave him no indication, going to one of the large trunk suitcases and unlocking it. “We hadn’t realized you were bound to the vessel of a child,” she explained, pulling an adult sized robe out of the large wooden chest, laying it on the bed across from him. It appeared to be some shade of dark blue with golden trim, but his color vision had not yet perfected itself so he could not be sure. “We had this made some years ago, but realized he had to quickly recalculate once we found your YouTube channel. You’re so… small.”

Abaddon frowned at this. “I did not ask to be bound to this form,” he replied a bit gruffly, irritated at her assertion of inferiority. “I was to leave it as soon as my job was done.”

“R-right,” she said quickly, pale at the thought of invoking her demon god’s wrath. “Forgive me, my lord, I spoke rashly!” 

Her tone sounded so… frightened. Why was she frightened? It was flattering, yes, but not many people were frightened by the boy-demon now. “If you are frightened, don’t be,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I am not strong enough to hurt any of you in this body.” 

Marissa just bowed her head nervously, rifling through the trunk for the second robe. This one was child sized, in the same colors as the large one. “Here, my lord, try this on,” she urged, holding it open for him. 

He hopped off the bed and shrugged it on over his doublet and pants, holding his arms up as she fastened it in the front. It was a bit too long, and she started pinning the excess fabric back. “We will have this perfect for tomorrow.” 

One of the other two acolytes walked over to another box, opening it and pulling out a magnificent crown. It was bronze and gold and silver, inlaid with two rubies and bearing the mark of his former hellish castle on the brow. Two large curving antlers were affixed to the sides, and he looked at the whole thing with big eyes. 

They placed it on his head and it fit perfectly, resting just above his ears. Abaddon turned to look in the full length mirror on the wall, taking in his appearance; something was missing. He looked magnificent, but… not magnificent enough. 

He turned to the three of them, frowning. “I believe the crown is bare.” 

“Pardon, my lord?” Marissa squeaked. The watch him with nervous eyes, not wanting to disappoint him. 

He shrugged off the robe and set the crown on the bed. “Give me a few minutes, I shall be back,” he asserted to them, walking over to the floor vent and hopping down it before any of them could protest. He made his way through the metal air ducts, finally coming upon his little nest in the junction. 

Abaddon busied himself picking up bird skulls given to him by Nathan, small bones from Esther, a length of black twine, some feathers that were a gift from Ben, and a few crystals he stole from Katherine. “Mm, this will do,” he said to himself, before turning around and making his way back. 

He climbed into the makeshift fitting room again, closing the vent behind him. “I have acquired the necessary supplies,” he said to the three confused cultists, picking up the crown and sitting down on the ground. 

He emptied his pockets and got to work, stringing up the bones, crystals, and the feathers before setting them aside. Next he wrapped the antlers in the same black twine, working carefully and quietly as the acolytes watched on curiously. Once he was satisfied with the wrappings he picked up the strung trinkets, affixing them to the wrapped antlers so they hung down from them gracefully. 

Abaddon sat back, admiring his handiwork with a nod. “Yes, this will do nicely,” he asserted, putting the crown back on the bed. He turned to Marissa, brushing twine fibers off his doublet. “Have my robe prepared for me by the morning,” he said, before walking to the heavy oak door. He slipped out and down the hallway before any of them could say anything, too dumbfounded by his behaviors than anything else. 

The Freelings would join him in more ways than one, he decided, as he walked to his bedroom to prepare for the next day. 

This had to work. It had to. Esther couldn’t bear the thought of losing her best friend in the whole world, the very thought made her want to cry. She gripped the blanket tightly, making her way down the stairs before quietly padding into the kitchen. “Abaddon, you awake?” she whisper-shouted, looking around. 

Her cousin opened the cabinet under the big steel double sink. “I haven’t slept in a hundred years,” he replied, which she knew was a lie, she’d seen him passed out in her mom’s arms just last week after a particularly dramatic tantrum over opossum bones. 

“Cool, slide over,” she said, crouching down to join him under the sink. To his right the relic sat, stone and unmoving, and she smiled a little at the memory of the previous night. Sure, she had almost drowned, but her favorite person in the world had saved her and that was all she needed. Esther took a deep breath, before handing the soft blanket in her arms to Abaddon. “I know tomorrow is a big day, so I made you something, for you to remember all the good times we had. It’s a quilt. Each patch represents a different adventure we’ve had, and… the last patch is blank to represent all the adventures we’ll never have when you’re gone,” she explained, and an unreadable expression passed over his face, pale blue eyes filling with something incomprehensible. 

“I already have a blanket, so,” he replied, frowning. 

Esther threw her hands in the air, slumping against the wooden wall of the cabinet. “Come on, man! I was trying to manipulate you into staying! I don't know why I even have to after everything we’ve done together!” She hugged her knees, feeling her heart squeeze uncomfortably with his rejection. “You’re my best friend, and I thought I was yours.” 

Abaddon frowned a little again, before reaching up to pat her head as he spoke. “You are a very close acquaintance.” 

Rage flashed through her at those words, and she slapped his hand away. “EXCUSE ME?!” 

“I’m an immortal demon, I measure moments in millennia,” he explained, moving his hand as if showing a timeline. “Our time together was a blip.” 

This angered the girl even more, her hands balling into fists. “I’m a blip?!” she gasped incredulously, kicking the cabinet door open and crawling out, too upset to stay under the cabinet with him like she planned. “You know what?! Have fun in Hell!”

“Aw, thank you! I will,” was his reply, and she scowled. After a moment, Abaddon leaned out of the cabinet door and held up the supposed quilt. “This is just an ordinary blanket.” 

“Why would I know how to make a quilt?!” Esther snapped, stomping her foot and slamming the cabinet door shut in his face. Of all the outcomes of this conversation, this was probably the most crushing one. She couldn’t believe he would say that to her— she’d promised him her soul when she was of age! And he just blew her off to go back to Hell? The Undervale was his home, goddamnit, not some fiery pit of eternal damnation! 

Esther ran out of the room choking back tears, dashing up the stairs to the hallway where her family’s bedrooms were. She needed her mom, she needed to be held and comforted by someone who would understand. As she came upon her mother’s door, however, her previous words echoed in her mind. 

“If paying customers want to fill my hotel and send the demon who eats our lightbulbs back to Hell, who am I to stop that?”

She backed away from the door; her mom wouldn’t understand. She didn’t care about the boy demon the way Esther did— Abaddon was Esther’s whole world. She lived for his laugh and his snarky remarks, she loved their adventures and escapades, but more than that, she loved her cousin. They were as close as siblings, and she knew Ben also felt protective of the smaller kid, claiming he only joined them on their adventures to protect the both of them. Esther knew it was because he cared, though. 

No, Esther couldn’t talk to her mom. She needed Uncle Nathan. 

She dashed down the hall to where she knew his room was, but she didn’t see the glow of his feet on the floor. Esther walked away to go find him, but as she passed Abaddon’s room she saw Nathan standing in the middle of the floor through the open door, shaking hands balled into fists. 

“Uncle Nathan?” 

He turned to face her, furiously wiping at tears that streamed down his face. “Hey squirt,” he tried, taking a deep breath, “why are you awake? You should sleep, we’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.” 

Esther stepped into the room, face hot and tight with unshed tears. Seeing her Uncle Nathan cry so freely, however, made them now pour over her face unbidden and she let out a choked sob, running to him and throwing her arms around his spectral body. “I don’t want him to go,” she sobbed, falling to her knees on the floor. 

Nathan held her as best he could, sinking to the ground with her. “Neither do I.” 

“He’s my best friend,” she continued to cry, shuddering with each ragged breath. “I don’t want to lose him!”

“I know exactly how you feel,” he replied, tears returning to his own cheeks, though far quieter than his distraught niece. “And I’ll bet this is how Kathy will feel when you guys go off to college.” 

“He’s your kid, why won’t you stop him?!” Esther demanded, glaring up at him with wet eyes and a red face. 

His own face falls. “I’m a ghost, I can’t do anything. Not only that, but I would feel horrible if I kept him here against his will. Sometimes, when you really really love something, you have to let it go,” he said softly. “You can’t always be selfish.” 

Esther wiped her eyes, staying with her uncle for a little while longer before hugging him and getting up. “I— I’m gonna go to bed now. I love you, Uncle Nathan.” She had an idea, and while she was tired, sleep had to wait for what else was in store.

“I love you too,” he replied, smiling sadly from where he sat on the floor. 

Esther turned to leave, walking back to her own bedroom. She made a detour to the laundry room, grabbing stacks of abandoned guest clothes in all different shapes and colors. 

Abaddon was getting that quilt. 

Remember all the things we wanted 

Now all our memories, they’re haunted 

We were always meant to say goodbye…

Chapter Text

Birds of prey spiral around my head

They hiss songs of your birth 

They caw visions of death 

I’ve watched it happen again and again 

Haunted by

A thousand kind beginnings

And a thousand bloodied ends. 

I shouldn’t play with fate…

But what if once, I could make you safe?

- Rabbitology, Preybirds 

Katherine walked into the ballroom, surveying everything the cult was doing. They were hanging tapestries, stacking bones and skulls, lighting candles, and painting the wall with… She stops short. “Is that blood?”

Todd looked up from his clipboard, turning away from where he was supervising Lorraine’s handiwork. “Katherine, I’m going to be honest with you. Some of it is.” He fished around in his robe, grabbing his wallet and pulling out a fat stack of cash. “Tell you what— here’s the cleaning fee.” 

Katherine took the money, frowning. “Because you can’t take it with you.” She was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. Maybe she should have listened to Nathan…

“Hey, you said it, not me!” Todd replied jovially, walking off to oversee some other acolytes. 

Speaking of Nathan, as Katherine turned around she found herself face to face with her son and her brother, who were both wearing the red robes. Well, Ben was wearing the robe; since Nathan was a ghost, there was a man standing behind him holding the garment up to his shoulders. “Nathan?” she asked incredulously. “I thought you had a problem with the cult.” 

Nathan grinned. “Oh huuuuuuge problem. But then I found out that this cult actually knows what they’re talking about.”

“It’s not manipulation if they’re right!” Ben added, holding up a finger to punctuate his point. 

“Uh-huh.” Katherine was unconvinced. 

“Did you know that I’m the Woodsman? Very important to the mythology. Basically number two behind Abaddon!” Nathan said, putting a hand to his chest proudly. “They even gave me this guy who follows me around with a cloak so it looks like I’m wearing it. Here, watch this!” He danced away from the elderly man, jumping just out of reach as the poor cultist did his best to follow him around. Katherine tried not to facepalm right then and there, this was turning into an absolute shitshow.

“And I’m carrying the Candle of Provocation. It’s the fifth highest honor you can get. Really has me chasing those other four honors,” Ben said, holding up a bronze glittering candle, pride evident in his voice. 

Abaddon’s ears pricked up at the sound of the family chatting, and he trotted away from a now flustered Marissa to join them. He cleared his throat, fidgeting with his blue robe and adjusting his crown. The three of them turned to look at the boy-demon, and he suddenly felt very small and awkward under their gaze.

“Abaddon! You look… beautiful? Scary? I don’t know what to say here.” Katherine knelt down in front of him, putting her hand gently on his shoulder. His chest felt tight with an emotion he couldn’t identify, this would likely be the last time she would ever hold him and he resisted the urge to embrace her tightly. He was a demon prince, for God’s sake. He needed to act like it. 

“Scary beautiful!” Nathan added, grinning. 

“Um, if everyone could please take their places, we’re about to begin!” Todd called from the stage, clearly peeved with the family standing in the aisle. 

“Well… I guess this is goodbye. Thanks for keeping the vents clean with your body,” she said, moving up to cup his cheek. The gesture alone was like lightning through his form, every human part of him screaming to throw off the crown and jump into her arms, to hold on and never let go. 

But she was human. 

She would die. 

And he would stay the same. 

Forever. 

So he swallowed his feelings and took a deep breath, reaching into his robe. “Thank you, Katherine. And um… here are all of your earrings.” He pulled out a heap of said jewelry— they were glittery and shiny and reminded him of her. When she left for town during the day he would swipe them to add to his nest in the vents, adding a piece of her to his forever pile. 

“Ohhh, that makes sense,” she said softly, taking them and pocketing them. 

Nathan also knelt down, putting a ghostly hand on his not-son’s shoulder. “This isn’t goodbye, just the start of a new chapter. Which for you, is going back to an old chapter. The point is— haunt you later, bud.” 

“Thank you, Nathan,” Abaddon replied, giving the man a lingering look as he stepped aside. 

“I’m really gonna miss you, Abaddon,” Ben started, before Abaddon interrupted the teen.

“And thank you, Cory.” 

“Ooookay,” he replied, clearly miffed.  

He snorts. “I kid.” He would also miss Ben, the first person he ever called Brother. No demon had ever come close to receiving such an honor. 

“Your first actual attempt at a joke and it’s now?” Ben asked incredulously, holding his hands in front of him in disbelief. “Seriously dude?”

“Esther told me that timing is everything, and I will remember you, Brother. You and Esther both. Speaking of… where is Esther?” Abaddon asked, eyebrows raising as he searched the room for the person he held most dear. 

“I don’t think she’s coming,” Katherine said softly, and a piece of Abaddon broke. 

Of course she wasn’t coming, what did he expect?! Was he stupid? After their fight last night he wouldn’t have come either if their roles were reversed. But he didn’t let himself quite admit that yet— he held onto his otherworldliness and pushed down his human emotions. No use crying over spilt milk, he had a ritual to complete.

“My king? It’s time,” Todd said, approaching the boy-demon, who nodded and turned to face the stage. 

“We are Stabber-Kadabber! We all died with our instruments, so the instruments became ghosts!” Stabby Paul declared, before the small band started a somber, reverent tune. 

“That was my question!” Ben laughed, as the three of them walked down to the end of the aisle and stood to watch. 

The music swelled, and Abaddon began his slow walk to the stage. It was almost uncomfortable to have so many eyes on him; three hundred years ago he would have reveled in such attention, but as the years passed he had grown comfortable with his anonymity. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as the crowd murmured and whispered about him, clearly excited for what is to come. 

Just as Abaddon made it about halfway down the aisle, the heavy door behind the Freeling family opened and Esther dashed in, holding a large bundle under her arm and breathing hard. “Wait! I’m here!” she cried breathlessly, running to him. “I still think you’re an idiot for leaving, and I’m gonna miss you like crazy, but if this is what you want… It's what I want too.” Her breathing was ragged, and unshed tears shone in her eyes. Abaddon never did enjoy upsetting her… but this needed to be done. He needed to go home. Esther held out the multicolored bundle to Abaddon, and he took it. “Anyway, I spent all night making you a real quilt of our adventures.”

He opened it up, chest squeezing and brand burning as he looked upon all the patches. The ring, the compass, Esther possessed by Anat, mothman, and… the bones. “You remembered I like bones.” He looked up at her, crystal blue eyes shining in the candle light. This touched the very core of him, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever received. Never in his ten thousand and three hundred years had he received an offering as breathtaking as this, he would cherish it forever. He wrapped it about his shoulders, before bowing to her deeply. “It is a worthy gift.” She bowed back and turned to join the family at the end of the aisle. 

Abaddon turned, heart strangely heavy as he looked towards the stage. This was it. He stepped up next to Todd, standing silently before everyone. 

“We, the Acolytes of Abaddon, are gathered here as servants of our demon god,” Todd began, lifting his arms. “With the sacred blade of Carini, and the second, less sacred blade from the kitchen, we shall bring Abaddon home— beginning the final prophecy!” The two attendants behind him showed off the blades, and the crowd ooohed and ahhhed. Abaddon’s eyes were on the Freelings, and Katherine looked perturbed at the word final, whispering something to Ben. 

“Tonight, we release our lord and cleanse the world with the fire of an apocalypse! He is the lock!” Todd cried, lifting his arms again to get the cultists to join him. 

“And we are the key!” they all cried in unison. 

Todd turned back to the one they called Lorraine, who held the sacred blade of Carini in her hands. “Do it.” 

Lorraine nodded, walking up behind him. She grabbed his throat roughly with her right hand and with her left, plunged the Italian stiletto blade deep into Todd’s chest, directly through his heart. The zealot gurgled, blood pouring out of his wound and his mouth as he slumped to the ground, dead in mere seconds. 

“Agh!” Nathan shrieked, recoiling. 

“Oh God!” Ben cried out, covering his eyes. 

“Oh that son of a bitch promised me!” Katherine growled, shaking her fist at the stage. 

As they all looked on, the pool of blood under Todd began to coalesce, rising from the ground like a serpent and twisting around Abaddon’s feet. Suddenly it lit up with a blue glow, and a surge of energy shot through Abaddon. He felt alight, as if someone had poured gasoline on his soul and tossed a match into his heart. It was pure, raw power, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since he was bound to this form. And it hurt. He let out an uncontrollable shriek of agony, light shining unbidden from his eyes and mouth as he floated up, the magic cracking the four seals of Heaven. There was a bright, blinding flash as it did so, the rumble felt throughout the entire world. 

He would go home now.

Just as soon as the visible power had entered him it faded, and he dropped back to his feet on the stage. Every nerve felt like it was buzzing, he was a live wire of raw energy once again. The room was silent, before Esther broke it. 

“Is that it?” she asked, confused. 

“Is that it?! A man died!” Katherine exclaimed, looking at her daughter in disbelief. 

“I think what Esther means to say is, tragedy aside, we were promised a ceremony to bring Abaddon home,” Nathan replied, looking to the stage with just as much confusion as his niece. 

Lorraine stepped up to stand beside Abaddon, eyes sparkling. “Yes, we will bring Abaddon home,” she began, before lifting her arms triumphantly, “by bringing about Hell on earth!” The candles at the altar behind them erupted into blue flame, the magic in the room palpable. “So we’re bringing his home to him!” 

No sooner had the words left the young blonde’s lips than the floor cracked open, the Hellmouth Abaddon created three hundred years ago rearing its head and unhinging its jaws like the wicked cobra he claimed to rule. The roof was ripped off the building by some unseen force, and the cultists began running away, screaming as the floor became unstable. Long, hellish arms with clawed hands shot out of the pit, grabbing as many acolytes as they could and yanking them down to Hell for eternity. 

“That is VERY misleading phrasing!” Katherine shouted, grabbing her kids. 

“I don’t care about getting the blue candle anymore,” Ben cried out, pulling Esther away from the edge. 

“RUN!” Katherine shrieked, pushing her children in front of her and dashing out of the ballroom. 

All Abaddon could do was stare. He stared at the ground, eyes flickering from a clear blue to a distraught, angry red as he peered into the abyss. The glowing Hellmouth seemed to laugh at him, spitting lava like lost teeth and calling fire from the heavens with a sharp, commanding tongue. His whole body felt like stone, frozen in place as if struck by Medusa herself. With a mighty effort he tipped his head up, watching as meteors rained down from a now dusky sky, purple with smoke. Any minute now the Son of Man should ride in on his white horse, and the Four Horsemen behind him bringing plague and famine, war and death. Where were the heavenly hosts? The armies of angels sent to battle the hordes of demons which now poured from the earth like locusts upon a field of wheat? Wasn’t he supposed to lead them?

Was this… wrong? 

Abaddon knew his role, from the moment he first opened his eyes, chained to the deepest pit of Hell. He screamed in blissful agony then, with what he assumed to be wings hanging off of him, torn and mangled, a broken ring of gold upon the ground before him. He didn’t know how he got there, but he knew what he was— Destroyer, Destruction, Desolation. It was the first and only thing he knew, bound to the deepest reaches of Sheol by some unseen hand. For the first thousand years of his conscious existence he had done nothing but roar his voice raw, breaking himself against the chains of his prison like a rabbit caught in a snare. He had continued this until Lucifer himself had deigned to visit him, calming the young demon with a steady hand and severing his bonds. He had picked up the broken golden thing and tucked it away, telling Abaddon his name and his job, giving him a home, instructing him to grow his power until the Day of Reckoning. And Abaddon had been so loyal. 

So loyal. 

So so loyal. 

Even through the setback of semi mortality he had been loyal, biding his time until the day he would be set free. Three hundred years didn’t make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, so he waited and watched. 

But then Mortoth hadn’t even recognized him; they tore down his castle, trashed everything Lucifer had given him and everything he worked for. No doubt they had given his job to someone else, someone unworthy of such a position. Was that how Lucifer repaid his most loyal? With oblivion, wiped from the ledger and left to rot?

His hands balled into fists. 

No. 

Not him. 

Not Abaddon. 

He would rule this melting rock and command the armies he was overdue to lead. 

The acolytes scrambled around in terror, dying in painful ways all around him— all except one. Leader Marissa sat by the edge of the chasm, silently staring into the fiery abyss where her husband had disappeared. “We did it, Todd,” she whispered, an odd sort of smile on her face. She looked up for a brief moment, catching Abaddon’s pensive expression. “Are you alright, my lord? You’ve been freed, you have your powers now,” she said to him, standing. 

He turned his gaze, eyes a sharp red and pupils constricted into slits. “You tricked me.” 

She looked puzzled. “Tricked? What do you mean?” 

“You were supposed to liberate me from this fleshbag, restore my body, and allow me to return to Hell, not end the world!” he snapped, shaking a child’s fist at her. 

She frowned. “My king… that is your body. Our spirit channeling confirmed it, your true form was destroyed. The only way to free you was to end the world.”

“So… I can’t go home, even if I tried.” 

“Only through Hell on earth,” she affirmed. “But your full power has been restored, my king! Go take the surface for yourself, as you were always meant to do.” He didn’t reply, watching as she closed her eyes and jumped into the Hellmouth with that same odd smile on her face. 

He had long suspected that returning to Hell was impossible for him, but hearing it confirmed was crushing. And not to mention, even if he could he’d be bound to this child’s body forever, an embarrassment to his kind. What would Lucifer say if he saw him now? Perhaps that’s what Rabisu had meant when Abaddon had been up that tree, that he was weak. He was weak. He didn’t even want the one thing he was made for. 

As he seethed quietly he heard screams that were unique to his ears above the din of the cultists— the Freelings. They were afraid— they were in danger. The fear in their voices snapped him out of his brooding, his magic surging through him as he shot into the air and out of the building. He looked around wildly for them before he spotted the four humans on the porch, Nathan trying to shield them from an incoming meteor. He swooped in at the nick of time, shooting a blast of energy at the flaming rock and breaking it apart before it could hit the family. He held his hand out in the spell position, ready for more meteors as his eyes glowed blue with the power coursing through his veins. 

The whole family looked up in disbelief. “Abaddon?!” Esther gasped, a smile breaking through her frightened expression. 

“I have powers now,” Abaddon called from where he was hovering, before quickly taking care of two meteors before they could injure anyone. 

“Atta demon-boy!” Nathan cheered, beaming up at him. Abaddon smiled back. 

“Don’t cheer for him, he let that cult start an apocalypse!” Katherine scolded, shaking a finger at her older brother. 

“I didn’t know this would happen, they tricked me! Like when Nathan steals my nose!” Abaddon protested, kicking another projectile away before turning to look at them, tone desperate and expression pleading. 

“How do we stop this?!” Esther asked. 

Abaddon sighed. “There is no stopping. It is the end of times, and it has begun!” A particularly large meteor was headed straight for them and he whirled around, swiftly roundhouse kicking it to bits. “You will have to adjust.”

“Run!” Katherine instructed as more rocks rained down, more than Abaddon could handle. He provided aerial cover for them, keeping the path clear of projectiles and ensuring they were as safe as he could keep them. He watched them start to climb a tree, and sighed in relief. They would be safe for a bit, he needed to scout out more permanent shelter. 

He zipped over the trees, looking for a quiet patch of the woods that was more stable than anything near the hotel. If he could just get them there… 

“Apollyon.” 

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Where had he heard that name before? He turned around, face to face with an incomprehensible being, a mass of shifting light and color, many large wings adorned with hundreds of eyes undulating gently in the breeze. The brightness seemed to pull into itself, leaving in its place pure light in the shape of a man, those giant wings still covering all he could see. An angel. 

“Apollyon,” the voice said again, more insistently this time. 

“What… that’s… I am Abaddon,” the demon insisted, hovering just above the ground. “Have you come to lead the armies of Heaven against the forces of Hell? If so, you are early. I have not yet called the hordes to me.” 

The angel shook his head. “No. I’ve come to simply remind you what you were made for.” 

And he’s gone. 

Abaddon scowled. Stupid angels and their stupid cryptic angel bullshit. He turned, intending on retrieving the Freeling family. He would deal with the angel later. 

As he approached the tree, however, all he saw was Esther, clinging to the branch. A meteor hurtled straight for her and without a second thought he zipped forward, blasting it to bits. “So, what’s your plan for the night?” he asked her, trying to lighten the mood a little. 

“Abaddon,” Esther began, voice weak as she wiped her tears on her sleeve, “if any part of you cares about me as much as I care about you, you’ll fix this. Find a way!” she pleaded, shaky and desperate. Her mom and uncle were gone, her brother dead. All she had left was Abaddon, who stared at her wordlessly. She took a deep breath, extending her hand to begin their handshake. “She-mon,” she said, voice a little stronger. 

He was silent for a moment, before bridging the gap between them and pressing their fingers together. “Demon.” He smiled gently. They would get through this. 

“Always—” Before they could finish the handshake, however, the Hellmouth stretched wider and swallowed the small island with the tree in one fell swoop. Esther hurtled towards the lava, screaming before being completely engulfed in molten rock and disappearing forever. 

The boy-demon hovered there in shock, fingers still extended, still waiting for her to finish the phrase. But it would never come. 

She was gone. 

He stared at the lava, the light of the flames dancing over his face. They were all gone. He was alone again. So much for his seventy years. 

He stared at his hand, the one he had just pressed to Esther’s, the beginnings of a wild plan beginning to percolate in his mind. It was crazy, yes, and even more stupid, but it just might work. “Always be schemin’,” he said to himself decisively, shooting back towards the ruined hotel as fast as he could. 

He began blasting holes in the rubble, trying to find what was left of his hideout under the sink. It had to be around here somewhere, he had to find it before the Archangel Michael summoned forth the first regiments of the Holy Armies. He dug desperately through piles of their broken belongings, tossing aside magic items and cursed books before he saw it, wedged under a pile of bricks and dirt. 

His face lit up and he dug at the dirt with his hands, using his powers to aid him in this endeavor as he slowly freed the stone disk he and Esther had dug up two days ago. He breathed a sigh of relief, picking it up and running his fingers along the edge to activate the runes. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

Oh you may think you’re alone if you hide from the shadows 

You can bury bones but not the souls 

The two red suns in the sky will be the light to build your pyre

They’re my blank and pitiless eyes 

Every death births a bird to this wretched flock 

Forever tethered to your life but only cursed to watch 

Catastrophe 

Repeat until 

You look at me. 

Chapter Text

You are as far from me as memory

With fixtures fracture varyingly

The juice of dark cherries cover my skin

Six years in, no baby. 

- Adrianne Lenker, ingydar 

Oblivion was… odd. Diving into the stone disk had been easy, but everything that came after was completely incomprehensible, even for an immortal demon. He floated in the vastness of everything and nothing all at once, having opened his eyes with the flash of light that started Everything. 

Did God ever intend for anyone but Himself to experience this infinity? Abaddon deeply doubted it. 

Time passed strangely; while with the Freelings time seemed like such a long, comfortable thing, he spent billions of years completely dissociated from anything and everything. He surmised, in his detached state, that this was likely a leftover mechanism of his borrowed humanity, employed solely to protect his mind from certain destruction. He was vaguely aware of the earth forming below him, drifting to the bottom of the prehistoric ocean to wait as long as it took for the world to come to life. Down there in the dark became everything he’d ever known, everything he ever was, everything forever and ever and ever. Who he was and why he was there became lost to him, he simply Was and nothing more. 

When the sun was no longer a deadly laser that would melt the skin off his bones, he crawled onto the first beaches with other lungfish, watching over millions of years as they grew and changed. Eventually they grew scales and fur and walked around on legs, laying eggs on land and rearing young. 

During the mid Permian the Boy found himself sitting with a small clutch of gorgonopsid pups, waiting for their mother to return so they could feed on the spoils of her conquest. He had hung around this mother for years before her first clutch, eating the scraps of her hunt and managing to stay out of the grasp of her large snapping jaws. 

The great beast returned, dragging the carcass of an unlucky herbivore behind her. The pups chirped and barked excitedly, clambering over each other and out of the shallow ditch that served as their nest to eat their breakfast. The Boy watched as the mother licked the blood from her pups’ faces after they were done eating, something oddly familiar with the gesture. 

When the gorgonopsids had finished eating and were sleeping in the nest as the sun went down the Boy crawled closer, ripping chunks from the carcass with his sharp nails and shoving the meat into his starving mouth. He had to be quiet, he could not risk the mother seeing him again lest she think he was stealing. 

A low rumble alerted him to the fact he had not been careful enough, however, and he turned his head to see the fearsome animal with her head lowered, making direct eye contact with him. 

He swallowed hard, staring at the shining teeth which grabbed the moonlight and praying to Something that he would not feel the iron of her jaws or steel of her bite again. It had taken him nearly a full moon to regrow that arm, and it still bore a horrid scar. 

She sniffed at the blood on his face and his heart hammered in his chest, fearing the worst… but instead of crushing jaws he felt the warm wet plop of a tongue on his face as she licked the blood from him like she had with her pups. He was stone still in disbelief at the display of maternal affection, letting the fearsome predator groom him like one of her clutch, rumbling peacefully in her throat. 

The sheer tenderness of it all conjured memories that were just out of reach, of light brown hair and gentle hands and an even more gentle voice. 

It was almost more than the Boy could bear. That night as he curled up with the pups, gratefully accepting the protection of the mother, he dreamed of that same memory. Kind eyes, warm arms, and a soft place to lay his head. 

… 

Billions of years turned to millions as time wore on, millennia running together like water as he watched mass extinction event after mass extinction event. The great lizards he remembered learning about in another lifetime rose up and gave way to great wooly things over the course of eons, all the while he remained unchanged. 

Well, most of him did. While he did not grow in size or stature his nails became vicious claws and his hair grew wild, reaching far below his waist like a long dark curtain. The garments that adorned him thousands of years ago rotted away, leaving him wild and nude like all the other creatures of the earth. The air grew cooler and then warmer and then cooler again, the wild Boy joining the primates of prehistory for protection and safety; he didn’t know why he was different than everything else on this rock, he just knew that he was. 

With time, though, came the animals like him. He had figured he was some sort of primate after meeting such creatures, but as infinity wore on they became taller, their posture more upright, their voices more melodious. And the Boy remembered he could speak the way they could, but not the same words. The first time he had tried around a group of these furry bipeds they had chased him with sticks, throwing rocks and howling like the great canines did when their prey ran up a tree. These animals were not worth it. 

The years wore on and the Boy went north, escaping the hot sun with the more mild temperatures of the mountains. It was after decades here that he finally found a place he might truly belong. 

He knelt to drink from a cool mountain spring, his makeshift wooden spear in one hand in case anything tried to get the drop on him. The plethora of silver scars on his moonlight skin bore testament to this, how often and how violently he fought for his life. As he sipped the cold water he was alerted to the rustle of leaves behind him, his slightly pointed ears tilting to better catch the sound. 

Footsteps. 

They broke into a run and as he whirled around he was lept upon, the two of them crashing into the stream before he could even get a good look at who was attacking him. He pushed this stranger off of him, picking his spear back up and standing barefoot in the freezing spring water. He now could finally get a good look at them, they were… just like him. No odd proportions or strange fur, they bore the same arrangement of features and the same flat teeth. They bared their teeth at him in a friendly greeting, but the Boy’s face remained guarded. 

This person was roughly his size, with long, wavy brown hair bronzed by the sun and glittering hazelnut eyes, skin tanned and adorned in furs and woven fabric. 

They reached out their hand and the Boy’s first instinct was to slap it away and run, but a hazy memory of two extended hands and a promise gnawed at the recesses of his mind. He held up his hand, forefinger, pinky, and thumb extended. The stranger looked at his hand and laughed, a joyful sound that surprised him with the sheer familiarity of it; where had he heard that laugh before? They said something he did not understand and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him along behind them as they chattered on the whole way. 

After what felt like an eternity (but what was likely only about five minutes) they came upon the primate encampment, the smell of cooking meat reaching the Boy’s nostrils. He inhaled deeply, stomach growling. 

The young person turned back to look at him and laughed again, before pulling him down the hill and into camp. Adult primates milled around doing various tasks, and more children ran about; based on their appearances the Boy concluded that the creature holding his arm was a girl child, a rather enthusiastic one at that. He got some odd looks as he was pulled past, his cold sky eyes and star white skin a stark contrast from their warm and earthy hues. 

The girl led him to a particular cooking fire, sitting him down on some woven cloth laid out on the ground. A woman peers out of the tent, looking very much like the girl. Her mother he surmises. The little girl chattered a bit and the woman responded, sounding concerned, before she walked over to where the Boy was sitting. She wrapped his shoulders with a woven blanket to cover his dirty and naked form, before taking his face into her hand and examining his features closely. 

The boy was bewildered, never in his working memory had anything like this happened. He’d been attacked by adults many times, beaten and chased off and stabbed and left for dead. Never had a primate mother looked at him with such concern and warmth. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out; he had all but forgotten them. He knew he used to be able to speak, he remembered the depth of his voice as he spoke with… something… or someone… else. Anything beyond the first flash of light was a blur of fire, smoke, and pain. 

“Ka’ro unë?” He had no idea what she just asked him, but he knew it was a question. 

He just blinked at her. 

The little girl shook her head at her mother. “Sò na-heru.” She then turned back to the boy, before pointing to her mouth and then rubbing her belly, turning her hand back to point at him. 

Oh. Yeah, he was hungry. He nodded, and the mother bared her teeth before ducking into the tent, returning with a basket of berries. She put it down in front of him and he set upon it like a cave bear preparing for hibernation, inhaling it faster than he should. He hadn’t had a proper meal for weeks, these sweet berries tasted like heaven. 

As he ate, the little girl pointed at her mother. “Ama,” she said, and the boy nodded. She then pointed at herself. “Ka’Ta.” 

“Ka…Ta…” he attempted, voice creaking after millennia of disuse. Her face lit up happily and she pointed at the Boy, a clear question on her face. He shook his head. He didn’t have a name. 

The little girl frowned, thinking. “Ka’Ba?” 

He shoved more berries into his mouth, looking up as she suggested the name. He didn’t have much of a preference, Ka’Ba would be fine, so he nodded before wiping his chin, the dark juice of the berries smearing on his bare arm. As it was drying it got stickier, and he ate another handful with all the gusto of a wild animal. 

Her face lit up with a smile so bright and familiar he thought for a brief moment he was looking at someone else. The Boy gave her a small one of his own. 

As the fire before them burned to embers Ama returned from where some adults had been conversing, smiling at the two children before looking to her daughter. “Ka’Ba sèn-komu unë.”

Ka’Ta made a face, shaking her head. “Na! Sò na-unë!” 

Ama just shook her head before turning to him. “La, Ka’Ba, ru-me sò sèn-komu temu.” She extended her hand to him, and the Boy looked in confusion between the mother and the girl. 

Ka’Ta frowned, sighing, before looking over at the Boy. “Se sere më…” 

He had no idea what was going on, so he decided to take Ama’s hand and follow where she wanted to go. This would soon turn out to be a mistake, because no sooner had he followed her to the edge of the camp did he find himself upended into a natural hot spring, Ama getting to work washing his hair with a pungent smelling paste. He kicked and thrashed, screeching at this horrid betrayal. How could she feed him sweet things and allow himself to warm by her fire, only to plunge him into such a wretched state?

His sharp nails caught on the skin of her forearm and she hissed in pain, holding his wrist still with the iron grip only a mother could possess. “Tes!” she barked, and he froze. “Me sò heli la!” 

While he didn’t understand what she was saying he understood being scolded, and a hot, embarrassed blush rose to his cheeks. He stopped struggling as much, pouting quietly as she scrubbed at his skin and hair, catching the soft sigh of relief Ama let out at his cooperation. 

Thankfully, the water torture did not last long; he soon was sitting in her lap on the bank of the spring, being dried with soft furs. She murmured gently to him, and he relaxed slightly at her touch. As she hummed softly to him he heard other footsteps, heavier than either Ama or Ka’Ta. He looked up to see a man with a smile identical to the girl, holding some furs and cloth. He made a questioning noise in the back of his throat, and the man crouched down beside him. “Fòku se temu la,” he said, showing him what appeared to be articles of clothing. 

The Boy took one of the wrappings in his hands, turning it over before looking up and nodding. 

The man smiled again. “Me Teruk,” he said, pointing at himself, before pointing at the boy. “Sò Ka’Ba.” Oh, it was his name. The Boy smiled in understanding and gave him another nod. 

Once he was dry, Ama helped him into the cozy shirt and soft suede pants, tying the leather around his waist to hold them up and slipping his feet into some hemp rope sandals. “Sò e. Sò sènë në më?”

He still couldn’t understand the tongue these people spoke, so he just blinked up at her with his big, crystal pale eyes. Ama smiled, scooping him up and carrying a now clean and dry Ba back to camp to feed him dinner and give him a warm place to sleep. 

Life with this tribe was quiet and simple, and Ba-ru (the full name given to him by the tribe once he survived a year) found himself at least a little happy. Ka’Ta, now Tallak, was fifteen suns and now quite the fearsome warrior, spending her days with another girl called Ruda. Ba’ru was content to pass time with Ama and Teruk, helping with their newest offspring, a small boy called Ka’Du. Their language was a bit repetitive and occasionally frustrating, but with enough time he could communicate effectively. 

When four suns had passed and Ba-ru had not shown signs of aging or growing like his companion he was taken to the shaman, a tiny, leathery woman with cloudy eyes and an impressive mane of white hair. She had given him a drink of something hot and pungent that made him feel floaty, lighting sweet smelling incense which made his head spin. She had sung over him and examined him, ultimately assuring the parents that he was fine, he simply did not belong Here. His spirit was different, she had told them. Different, but not wrong. 

Ba-ru waited for Tallak outside of their hut, tapping his foot impatiently as the teen gathered her hunting supplies. “Tallak, huru la! Toru-ro kus temu ru-me na!” Tallak, hurry up! The hunting party is going to leave without us!

“Se tiri ru-me na, me,” she said in response, emerging from the tanned hide door holding a spear. You mean without me. Her ruddy hair was tied back with a bit of twine, charcoal smeared under her tawny eyes to draw the sun during the hunt. 

“Na? No, me kus to,” he retorted, trailing after her. What? No, I’m coming too!

“Se tòne mini, Ba-ru.” You are far too small, Ba-ru. 

“Na fere, se nolo la!” he protested, glaring at her. That’s not fair and you know it!

“Na moru feru, la, sònu. Me na-temu nòru se.” She walked towards where her father and the other members of the hunting party would be, grip on her spear firm. It doesn’t change anything, though, friend. I don’t want you to get hurt. 

“Me na-temu nòru— se nolo me na-kemu! Me sere më, Tallak!” I won’t get hurt— you know I can’t! I’ll be fine, Tallak! 

She shook her head, gaze softening a little as she turned to look at him. “Më, Ba-ru… Ama o Ka’Du unë se toku, la?” Please, Ba-ru, Mama and child-Du need you here to protect them, okay?

He glared, really glared at her as his eyes flashed. It reminded her when he got like this that he was not the same as them, that he was a Spirit and did not understand her concerns the same way. “Me na-mëru ráku seru,” he spat, eyes like blood as he clenched his fists tightly. I’m not a fucking child.

She sighed. “Me nolo.” I know. To appease him Tallak lifted her hand with her pointer and pinky finger extended, the way Ba-ru had when they first met. “Sèru huru temu,” she offered, in the way they often did. Always be quick. He drooped yet met her hand with his own, not repeating the words but nodding in agreement. 

He watched her go to join her father and the other hunters, a white hot ball of envy coiling around in his stomach. He turned, walking back to the cooking fire in the middle of the camp to join Ama and Ka’Du. 

When Ama saw him her eyes lit up, smiling brightly. She waved, inviting him to join her and the toddler, who was sitting on a woven blanket and playing with a toy bird which Ba-ru had whittled from a fallen branch for him. “Ba-ru!” she said sweetly, happy. Her smile faded, however, when she saw his long face. “Na më, sònu, se sène në?” Oh no, sweetheart, what’s wrong?

“Tënu sènë me në?” he asked quietly, coming to sit beside her. Is there something wrong with me? 

She put a gentle hand on his shoulder, pulling him close for an embrace. “Tënu mëru se lenu me në?” she asked, slightly incredulous. What would make you think that? 

He stared glumly at the embers of the fire, rubbing the charcoal off from under his eyes now that he wasn’t joining the hunt. “Tallak soru me o temu daku,” he murmured. Tallak sent me away when I tried to join the hunt. 

Ama combed her fingers through his long dark hair, oddly straight in comparison to all the other people in their tribe, who all sported full heads of curly or wavy tresses. “Lu miru se,” she said gently, though she knew it would not assuage much. She worries about you. 

“Lu na-mëru unë.” She has no need to. 

“Me nolo, o na-penu sòru.” I know, but that does not stop any of us. 

“Me na-mëru se, o. Telu në?” he asked, turning to look at her. I’m not like you, though. Why even bother?

“O siru o na-siru, lu mëru sòru. O sòru miru,” Ama replied. Because, spirit or not, you matter to us. And we worry. 

“Me lenu se venu me mëru.” I just wish she would see me for who I am. 

Ama pulled him closer, smiling gently. “La-se venu, Ba-ru. Me raku venu la-se. Me eme la-sònu huru o sònu-seru, o lu la-se sònu. La-se venu keru me.” She does, Ba-ru. I promise she does. My daughter is a wild and wonderful creature, and you are her favorite person. She sees the heart of you.

He sat in silence then with Ama and Ka’Du, content enough with this reply to relent his frustration. Tallak was the only one who he felt truly understood him… and he was glad she simply worried for his safety rather than seeing him as a burden. He thought back to what the shaman had said, fingers fretting the hem of his tunic. Different, but not wrong. 

So as the years passed and he felt the ache in his chest watching these people grow and change he held onto that— different, but not wrong. Tallak grew and had a child, choosing to raise them with Ruda and not their sire. Ba-ru enjoyed watching them, often caring for them while Tallak and the others hunted. 

Time is a cruel mistress, however. Ama was the first to leave them; twelve suns after he was found she fell gravely ill with something none of them understood. Every day she faded more and more until she was gone, hands held by all who loved her. 

Teruk was next, though he was an old man when the end took him from the world, passing quietly in his sleep with Tallak by his side. 

Ruda followed in the suns after— gored to death by a great boar who caught her hunting party by surprise. Tallak and their child had mourned for a long time, and Ba-ru felt her loss. 

When Tallak faded away into the sunset she was old and grey, her child, now shaman, holding her hand to ease her transition to the spirit world. Ba-ru had left after that, too hollow to speak to anyone; he had slipped out of camp when the moon set and the forest grew darkest, leaving his name behind with the life he had. The child had searched for him tirelessly, until finally one day catching up to the small spirit boy. 

“Ba-ru,” the young shaman said, calling up to where the Boy perched in a tall tree. “Se kus ulu nò.” You should come home. 

The Boy’s face fell, looking sadly at the tree. “Sò na-ulu nòru.” This is no longer home.”

“Ha-ro lomu se më.” The elders miss you.

“Tolu ru,” let them was his only reply, before disappearing into the dusk. 

Everything eats and is eaten, time is fed.

Chapter Text

I’m a fish inside a birdcage 

My brother always sings me songs 

With his beak he tries to soothe me

He makes me feel that I belong. 

He has a wild imagination

And tells me things that must be true 

Like there’s a world where I can take flight 

Where I can freely move. 

So carry me from these walls

Brother of mine

Show me the world outside 

It has to be true 

I’m counting on you 

To be my wings and eyes. 

- Fish in a Birdcage, #4

Humans grew and changed, the Boy always living on the outskirts of normalcy; he observed as they learned to farm and befriended animals, building permanent settlements and forming larger communities. The rise of civilization was a slow, harsh thing to witness, so much war and bloodshed over farmlands and water routes. Great cities rose from the sand before returning to it once again in an endless cycle, language changing and evolving, the world slowly donning new skin. 

He trekked north to a place he recalled was named Europe, watching the people there build great marble temples to the gods who heard their prayers. The Boy traveled down the peninsula, watching the founding of this place called Rome and observing as the common folk lived comfortably. He lived alongside them as well, always on the fringes and never getting too close; it was a simple existence, albeit a long and tedious one. He still couldn’t understand why he was different, what had happened to make him this way. 

Different, but not wrong, he reminded himself. Different, but not wrong.

He sat under a fig tree one pleasant spring afternoon, enjoying some fruit in the shade and watching the villagers mill about in the field past the forest. After a bit of time a young Roman man whom the Boy recognized as one of the villagers— the son of the man who owned the vineyard— noticed him in the shade, trotting over to him. 

“Heus! Errāsne?” Hey! Are you lost? he asked, peering down at him with his hands on his knees. His rich curls framed his face like a halo as the sun shone through them, his forest eyes catching that light, sparkling in a slightly impish way. 

“Nōn, nōn errō,” the boy replied, after swallowing his bite of fig. No, I’m not lost. 

“Atqui ubi est māter tua?” Well, where’s your mom?

The Boy snorted. “Eam nōn habeō,” he said with a shrug, taking another bite of the sweet fruit in his hand. I don’t have one of those. 

“Pater?” Father?

“Nōn.” No. 

“Ita… sōlus esne?” His brows knit together in concern, crouching down in front of the Boy. So… you’re all alone? 

Irritated with this line of questioning, he held up a fig to the young man with his small child’s fist. “Vīsne fīcum?” Would you like a fig? 

He frowned, but sat down fully. “Ita vērō,” he replied, accepting the fruit and taking a bite. Sure. He and the boy ate in silence for a bit before he spoke up again. “Nōmen mihi est Dōnātus, cēterum.” My name is Donātus, by the way. 

The Boy just blinked. “Nōn rogāvī,” he replied bluntly, peering at him with his sky pale eyes. I didn’t ask. 

Donātus rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Prorsus impossibilis es,” he huffed, chewing his bite of fig slowly. You’re completely impossible. “Nōmen habēsne?” Do you have a name?

The Boy just shook his head. Sure, he’d had names in the past, but never anything he felt attached to. They were all just things other people called him, none of them ever felt like him. 

“Ergo… Fīcō tē vocābō.” So… I guess I’ll call you Fico (little fig). 

He snorted. “Nōn odiō.” I don’t hate it. 

His time in Rome was punctuated by Donātus’s presence from that point on, at least it was while the man was alive. He often insisted the Boy join him for meals, where it was at first just him and his parents, but with time grew to his wife, and then his children. If any of them wondered why the Boy didn’t grow they never asked him, content to let this strange, snow pale child with blank eyes like the moon be just as he was. He appreciated it, too, he hated when people asked him questions he didn’t have the answers to. 

While he used to spend most of his time in the forest, Donātus and his wife made the Boy a place to sleep in their house. He now spent most of his time there, hanging out with the kids and looking after the grounds while the adults ran errands and went to town.

“Domī sum!” Donātus called, walking in through the door. His son and daughters ran to him, beaming. I’m home!

“Papae, Papae!” they giggled, hugging his legs as he ruffled their hair and kissed their foreheads.

“Heus, līberī! Quōmodo diēs vester fuit?” he laughed, picking up his youngest daughter and tossing her up in the air. Hey kids! How was your day? He handed them all a piece of candy he got from the market on his way home. When he kissed his youngest daughter he tickled her with his mustache on purpose, making her giggle and squirm. 

“Bonus fuit!” his eldest son chirped, hugging his dad’s leg. It was good!

“Ohe, ubi est Fīcō? Est mihi etiam aliquid dūlcis ad eum,” he said, looking around. Oh, where is Fico? I have some candy for him too.

“In ātriō est!” Lucretia, his older daughter replied, taking his hand and walking towards the doorway that led to the atrium. He’s in the central courtyard! 

“Quid ibi facit?” What’s he doing out there?

“Nōn sciō,” she said with a shrug. I don’t know. 

“Dīxit aliquid dē avibus loquendīs,” his son said. He said something about talking to birds. 

“Tam mīrus est,” his youngest giggled, biting her lip impishly. He’s so weird. 

Donātus frowned at this, setting her down. “Cornēlia, Fīcō nōn est mīrus. Paulum mīrus aut paulō alius esse nōn est malum. Et amīcus noster est. Nōlō tē eum iterum mīrum vocāre, rectē, puella?” Cornelia, Fico is not weird. Being a little strange or a little different isn’t a bad thing. And he’s our friend. I don’t want to hear you calling him weird again, okay young lady? His tone was stern and fatherly, but not overly harsh. Despite this, Cornelia still sniffled a little, clearly cowed by being gently scolded. She nodded, peering up at her dad with her big forest eyes just like his. He crouched down, kissing her forehead. “Quid sī cum frātre sorōrīque ante domum lūdās, et Mamma vōs and cēnam vocābit?” How about you go play with your brother and sister at the front of the house, and Mama will call you in for dinner? 

She nodded, still a little timid, before her older brother offered his hand. The three kids then ran off to play, quickly getting over being scolded. 

Donātus chuckled, stepping into the courtyard. His small ward sat on a wooden bench, back turned to him to face the sun and enjoy the warm afternoon light. His dark, silky straight hair was beginning to grow out again, which he knew would please the boy. He’d been upset when Donātus had his wife Julia cut his hair short, but he had explained to Fico that as the head of his household it would look very improper if the children in his care weren’t dressed properly. (He had also been low key panicking because his mother in law was visiting, and Livia was a very judgemental woman. Fico had hated the woman instantly and mostly kept to himself, much to their relief.) 

When Fico heard footsteps he turned his head, giving Donātus a small smile. “Heus, Dōnātus. Vēnistīne ad avēs mēcum spectandās?” Hey, Donātus. Have you come to look at birds with me? 

Donātus smiled back, joining him on the bench. “Ita vērō,” he replied. Sure. Fico remained silent, looking at a small sparrow who was hopping around on the ground. “Ille valdē parvus est,” he said to the boy, gesturing to it. That one is very small. 

He nodded. “Passerēs amō, valdē parvē sunt.” I like sparrows, they’re very small. He bent forward, peering at the little bird with a small smile. He offered a bit of seed from a pouch beside him to the tiny creature, which took it from him readily.  

“Idcircō eōs amas?” he asked, watching as the boy held out a finger to the sparrow, as if to suggest it should hop up. Is that why you like them?

“Hm?” Fico looked over at him. 

“Quia parvī sunt?” Because they’re small?

Fico frowned, contemplating this question for a good minute. The sparrow, unafraid of the boy, hopped up on his finger; his big blue eyes lit up, beaming at the tiny thing with the kind of wonder only a child could possess. At the same time, however, there was something ancient and terrifying just under the surface, something Donātus did not understand. He supposed he would never understand it; it had already been ten years since the boy had come into his life. Most would expect him to be a young man by now, a Roman citizen in his own right, but he still sat, small and largely frail, with the bulla Julia gifted him when he joined their household hung around his neck to signify his boyhood. 

Donātus had been eager to show Fico all the exciting parts of growing up, eager to help him go from boy to man as his father had done for him. He had so desperately wanted to hold a toga virilis ceremony upon his fifteenth year, to help him change the purple bordered toga praetexta of his childhood into the pure white garment of manhood, to help him leave the bulla with a lock of his hair on the family altar in order for the Lares to protect him. But when three years passed and the boy had not yet grown, Donātus grew concerned. He and Julia didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to either their ward or their household for fear of creating a pariah of the boy, so he ended up asking an old friend who was now a priest to come speak with him at his home. 

Octavius had chatted with Fico for a few hours and performed a small ritual over him, before reporting back to the two adults that while he was an omen, a prodigy, there was nothing wrong with him. He was odd, yes, but there was nothing to be concerned with. He would need care indefinitely if he didn’t age, Octavius had said, asking them if they were prepared to take on a lifetime ward, which they both very much were. Since then, Fico had been a permanent fixture of their lives, and he was surprisingly good with their children once they came along. 

“Nōn certus sum id omnīnō esse,” Fico replied, snapping Donātus out of his rambling thoughts. I’m not sure that’s entirely it. 

“Oh?” He tilted his head. 

“Putō… quod liberī sunt,” he elaborated, looking at the tiny bird in his hand with a quiet reverence. I think… it is because they are free. 

“Nōnne līber es?” Are you not free? 

“Nōn eō modō quō illī,” Fico explained, watching with a small smile as another bird flew down and joined the two of them at the bench. Not the way they are. “Ubi velint eunt et vītam quōmodo velint agunt. Ego… captus sum. Corpus meum parvum et īnfermum est; nōn possum crēscere magnus et validus ut tū. Avēs quoque nōn magnōs neque valdōs fiunt, sed tamen līberae sunt.” They can go where they please and live life however they like. I’m… trapped. My body is small and weak, I cannot grow big and strong like you. Birds don’t grow big and strong either, but they are still free.

“Num… putās mē tē cēpisse?” Donātus asked, suddenly worried that everything he had felt for the boy over the last decade had not been reciprocated, and that the poor, strange, pale child had felt confined to this village. Do… you think I have trapped you? 

“Minimē, certē nōn,” Fico replied quickly, and the mustached man sighed softly in relief. No, certainly not. 

“Cur igitur tē captum sentīs?” Then why do you feel trapped?

Fico didn’t answer right away, holding his hand out for a third bird, which flew down and landed on his shoulder. He looked over at Donātus, motioning for him to extend his hand; when he complied, Fico poured a bit of seed from the pouch into his palm. The sparrow on the boy’s hand watched inquisitively, and as he held his finger towards the man the bird hopped onto his index finger and began to eat the seed directly from his cupped palm. Donātus felt his breath catch in his throat; never in his life had he held a bird so closely and intimately. Sure he had wrangled chickens for his grandmother in his youth, but that was different. Chickens and ducks were livestock, domesticated and largely used to humans. This creature in his hand was wild, unbound by the artificial safety of man and unreliant on anything or anyone else. He supposed, for a moment, that Fico was more like this sparrow than the boy realized; Donātus was not keeping him here at his home. He would be sad if Fico left, but it was entirely up to him, ultimately, whether or not he stayed. 

He would always have a place in his home, the Aemilius family home, for as long as he drew breath. He did worry that Fico was immortal, perhaps a demigod even, and that he would outlive them all. He didn’t know what he’d do then, who would protect him? Who would care for him? Thoughts such as this plagued both his waking and sleeping mind. 

“Nōn certus sum captus esse verbum quod quaerēbam,” he said slowly and thoughtfully, watching the bird intently. I’m not sure trapped is the word I was looking for. He stroked the sparrow gently on the head, smiling with a tinge of melancholy that did not go unnoticed by Donātus. “Puto mē invidēre quod mūtārī possunt.” I think I envy them because they can change. 

He tilted his head, puzzled. “Hm?” 

Fico took a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing his eyes. “Incertus sum utrum hoc tibi dīxerim, Donāte, sed mīlia annōrum nātus sum. Numquam ūllā in rē mūtātus sum… neque mūtārī posse crēdō. Itaque avibus invideō.” I’m unsure if I’ve told you this, Donātus, but I am thousands of years old. Never once have I changed… I don’t think I can. So I envy the birds. 

This revelation left the poor man’s head reeling. Thousands of years old? Was that even possible? Fico had to be some sort of demigod, it was the only logical conclusion after he gave this information. Thousands of years stuck at a child of only nine… he couldn’t even imagine the hell that had to feel like. “…Ō. Vāh. Ego… ignōsce, quaesō.” …oh. Wow. I’m… I’m sorry. 

“Nōlī dolēre,” Fico said, shaking his head with a little smile. Don’t be upset. The sparrow in Donātus’s hand hopped to another finger, eating more seed. “Hic fēlix sum.” I’m happy here. 

Well… that was good at least. Wait, hadn’t he come out here to give the boy a piece of candy? 

Before he could slowly reach into his pocket to both grab the candy and avoid startling the sparrow, his wife Julia hung out of the door into the courtyard with Cornelia on her hip. “Esurītisne, puerī?” she called, and startled, the sparrows flew off. Are you two boys hungry?

Fico made an affirmative sound and hopped up, grabbing his bag of birdseed. Before he could dash off after Julia and follow her inside, however, Donātus slipped the piece of candy into his hand with a wink, earning him a radiant smile. Though the boy was different, Donātus thought, he was still just a kid. He felt his emotions strongly, he cared for all of creation’s little creatures. He may be a demigod, but he was a boy underneath it all. 

It was after Donātus passed away that the Boy left Rome, but first he visited the man’s grave. Once there, he ran into his late friend’s oldest son who according to custom bore the same name, sat on the grass in silence. The sun hung low in the sky, bathing the Roman countryside in an orangey gold that sparkled off of every leaf and blade of grass. 

“Heus, Fīcō,” the older man said after a stretch of comfortable silence. 

“…heus.”

“Quid tē hūc addūcit?” he asked without looking up. What brings you here?

“Iam… discēdō.” I’m… going now. It felt uncomfortable to say out loud, admitting to the son that he, a constant in his life, the same as his father, was also following the sun. 

The man turned, hazel eyes wide and pleading. “Quid?! Minimē! Nōn licit tibi!” What?! No! You’re not allowed!

“Donātus,” he said sharply. “Hoc nōn ad tē pertinet dēcernere.” Donātus. This is not for you to decide. 

“At puer es. Quōmodo vīvēs? Nōs tibi prōsūmus, uxor mea et ego! Pūeri tē dēsīderābunt!” He stood, putting his hands on the Boy’s shoulders. But you are a child. How will you survive? We can care for you, my wife and I! The children will miss you!

The Boy looked down, frowning. “Nōn possum… manēre. Bene mihi erit, certiōrem tē faciō.” I just… can’t stay. I will be fine, I assure you. Before Donātus the younger could protest, however, the Boy pulled away. “Valē, Dōnāte.” Goodbye, Donātus. 

He turned his back and walked into the woods, feeling like a piece of himself died with his friend. 

As I breathe into our silence

There’s a voice that comforts me 

It’s a voice of understanding 

It’s the voice of empathy. 

Chapter Text

I found you lost in space,

I tried to pull you out

It’s not my job, not my place

To give a damn about it 

But I saw them in the shadows,

I tried to warn you

I know it’s not my battle 

And I can’t help it. 

- Johanna Warren, Twisted

The Boy decided in the following decades to continue north, hiking past lush valleys and verdant hills, across and out of the Roman Empire for the foreseeable future. He watched as the landscape gave way from warm summers and mild winters to something much more brutal, blizzards ruling the colder months and the warm season not lasting nearly as long. 

On the outskirts of the small villages he hung around he heard hushed and frightened talks of these figures called Vikings, fearsome warriors who appeared from the winterlands in their great ships and with their formidable armies to raid and pillage and destroy. 

It was late fall, the end of the raiding season, they should have been safe. They should have been out of the woods at this point, this particular village had not suffered any raids this year; but it seemed Fate had other plans. Just as the winter rains that would give way to eventual snows were set to begin, the boy heard a dreadful sound which shocked him out of his dead sleep— the bellowing of Viking war trumpets. 

He jolted awake from where he lay curled in the alley, whole body trembling with pure adrenaline as he scrambled to his feet. The Boy opened his mouth to shout a warning, but it seemed the other villagers were already aware of their impending doom. He grabbed the small knife he kept on his person and darted onto the thatched roofs of the town, watching as the handful of buildings were almost instantly surrounded by a sea of warriors. They rushed the settlement, firing flaming arrows onto the tops of the structures and looting as much as they possibly could. 

The Boy watched as they took prisoners, having to jump to the ground as the roof he was on went up in flames. The air filled with smoke, rubbing his lungs raw like acrid sandpaper and stinging his eyes until they leaked, water streaking down his cheeks as he staggered blindly into the center of town. It was there he felt himself stumble into someone— a villager? But no, he couldn’t be that lucky. He felt the rough hand enclose over his wrist and he knew he was royally fucked, the Viking hoisting him fully upright. He shrieked, swinging his knife at the large man and catching him on the forearm. It didn’t do much, as the blade was small, but it still cut deep enough to cause the big man to yell and stumble back, blood running down his arm and dripping off his fingers. He shouted something at the Boy he didn’t quite catch, and before he could scramble away, the warrior ran him straight through with his sword. 

It hurt, but not enough to stop him. What stopped him, however, was looking down and seeing his intestines spilled out on the ground before him as his legs gave out. 

He let out a choked sound, lurching forward on his knees to catch himself with his hands, vision swimming as he lost blood. He knew he would not die, but that did not ease the suffering of the wound in his belly as his abdominal aorta gushed a fountain of blood from where it had been nicked by the sharp blade. The chill of blood loss settled into his bones as his breathing grew ragged, only vaguely aware of the battle raging on around him. As he settled into the dirt the bleeding finally subsided, his body’s rapid healing kicking in to seal off the large blood vessel in his abdomen first. It wouldn’t be enough to restore him straight away, but it was at least enough to keep the bitter cold of an almost death at bay. 

From his spot on the ground he was vaguely aware of a woman’s voice, yelling above the din of armor and swords and screams of pain. She sounded furious, and as the voice got louder he heard the man who had stabbed him reply in an almost pleading tone. Had he not been so delirious from blood loss he would have been able to make out what they were saying to each other, but at this point all he could discern was that this mystery woman was furious with the man who stabbed him. He heard a sharp crack as if someone had been harshly slapped, before he felt hands on his shoulders. 

His eyes fluttered open a bit in order to catch a glimpse of who peered down at him— a woman in her early thirties with hair like honey and eyes like amber stone jewelry cradled him gently. Her honey hair was braided elaborately, and she wore a bit of dark kohl smeared under her eyes to catch the sun. Was she going to finish him off?

He whined, trying in vain to struggle against her gentle grasp. “Þú ert öruggr nú, litli. Haltu lífi örlítið lengr; tími þinn er eigi komin enn,” she said in a gentle tone. You are safe now, little one. Hold onto life a little longer; it is not yet your time. 

He felt the ground fall away as she scooped him up, arranging his entrails in his lap and carrying him carefully away from the fray and towards what seemed to be the army’s healer. He drifted in and out of consciousness, shaking and shivering as he felt warm hands on his cold limbs, the chill of water to clean his innards and the sting of a bone needle to stitch him back up. This was all too much, and he sank into the dark once again. 

When he finally came to, he was vaguely aware of the rocking sensation of a boat, and he blinked his eyes open. His abdomen stung and looking down revealed why— his newly healed skin pulled at the stitches the war doctor gave him. He grunted in irritation, making short work of cutting the horsehair and tugging it out of his skin. The holes wept a bit of blood and he huffed, wiping them with the blanket he was laid upon. 

Groaning, he sat up, body sore and aching from the warrior running him through. “Ow…” he huffed, wincing. Taking in his surroundings revealed he was laying on a pile of furs and fleece, wrapped in a blanket in the middle of a Viking longship. He heard a gasp, and the steady sound of oars in the water faltered. A murmur ran through the warriors, and as he looked around he saw the same honey haired woman walking towards him. Behind her, the man who impaled him sat with his arms bound.

She approached him, crouching down. “Þú ert vaknaðr!” she breathed, cupping his cheek. You’re awake! She then noticed the pinprick holes on his chest around the strange scar burnt into his skin, still trickling the smallest amounts of blood. “Bíð… þú reifst saumana!” she gasped, thumb running down his torso. Wait… you tore your stitches! As she watched, the small holes bled less and less, closing up all together and leaving him uninjured. She meets his gaze, astonished. “Hvernig ert þú grœddr, ungi?” How are you healed, young one? 

He just shrugged, pulling the blanket up over him in embarrassment. He hated the eyes on him, the staring. There were too many warriors here for him to feel comfortable speaking, he couldn’t stand feeling like a specimen to be studied. 

“Fyrirgef mér, ungi. Ek meina eigi at gera þér of mikið. Þegar vér komum heim til bygðar várar, getum vér talað þá,” she said, stepping away and standing to her full height. Forgive me, young one. I do not mean to overwhelm you. When we return to our village, we can talk then.

He just nodded, remaining silent. The rest of the day was spent in the boat, and the whole time the Boy fought the urge to be sick over the side. Observing the warriors informed him that the woman’s name was Thóra, and she was in charge of this band of Vikings. If one thing was certain she was a force to be reckoned with, barking orders with the finality of strong authority and keeping a weather eye on all her men.

As night fell they arrived at the Norse village, the civilian karls and women and children running up to meet the boat. They helped the warriors down, a murmur of surprise rippling through them as Thóra carried the Boy down from the boat. One of her attendants hurried over to her, helping her and offering to take the child. She refused with a solid shake of her head. 

“Freyja Thóra, velkomin heim!” he said, smiling brightly. Lady Thóra, welcome home! When he saw the Boy’s face, he frowned. “Hverr er þessi? Þú tekr eigi vanalega þræla.” Who is this? You do not normally take thralls.

“Eiríkr þótti hyggilegt at leggja þenna vesæling með sverði sínu,” she said, walking past him. Erik thought it wise to run this poor wretch through with his blade. “Ek talða rétt at hann skyldi gjalda þess. Drengrinn verðr fóstri minn.” I saw fit he should face punishment. The boy will be my fosterling. 

The attendant jogged after her, the look of concern palpable on his face. “Fóstri? Ertu viss, frú mín?” A fosterling? Are you sure, my lady? 

“Já, þess er ek viss.” Yes, I am sure. 

“Hvat mun faðir þinn hugsa?” What will your father think? 

The Boy watched as Thóra’s lip curled, brows settling into a heavy scowl. “Ek hirði alls ekki um, hvat faðir minn hugsar, Irenmund. Vill hann blóðarvingja, þá þarf hann at finna mér mann, er í raun er mér hæfr.” I do not give a shit what my father thinks, Irenmund. If he wants a blood heir then he must find me a husband who is actually suitable for me. 

As the servant opened his mouth to protest Thóra turned her back, effectively cutting him off. The Boy set his head on her shoulder, and she looked down in surprise. 

“Ertu allr réttr, ástvinr?” she asked once they were inside the longhouse, and she was able to set him down on her bed. Are you alright, darling?

He was a little surprised at the familiarity of that statement and he nodded. “Ek er allr réttr…” I am alright… She crouched down in front of him, cupping his face with a touch so gentle and maternal that it nearly ripped the soul right out of him. It was so painfully familiar— the sound of her voice, the shape of her face, the touch of her hands; it took him back to a place he felt like he should remember, gnawing at his brain stem just out of reach. 

“Lát mik gera þér jurtadrykk,” Thóra said, brushing the Boy’s hair out of his face. Let me make you an herbal drink. He watched as she stood, walking to the hearth in the middle of the longhouse and stoking the fire. She poured some boiling water from the iron cauldron into a small pot, adding a handful of herbs and waiting for a few minutes. With a practiced hand she then poured the herbal mixture into a cup through a strainer, bringing the hot, fragrant smelling beverage over to the small boy. “Hér, njótt þess.” Here, enjoy it.

He took it readily, inhaling the earthy smell of the herbs before sipping it slowly, careful not to burn his tongue. “Þakka þér.” Thank you. 

She poured herself a cup as well, pulling a stool over to the bedside so she could sit next to him. “Hvernig gat þú grœzzt af sverðsverkinu á einni nótt, kæri ungi? Flest börn á þínum aldri myndu þjást um vikur,” she asked, blowing on her cup. How is it you healed from the sword wound in only a day, dear child? Most younglings your age would be suffering for weeks. 

He frowned into his cup, quiet for a long moment. Here was that question again, the question he didn’t quite know the answer to, the one he didn’t know how to explain. “Ek veit eigi. Svá hefi ek ætíð verit.” I’m unsure. I’ve always been this way. 

“Gæti verit at goðin hafi sérstakt forlög fyrir þik— sá er svá grœr mun verða inn mikli vígamaðr,” she offered with a gentle smile. Perhaps the gods have a special fate for you— someone who heals like that will make a mighty warrior. 

This didn’t seem to make him feel any better and he frowned again, head hung low. 

“Viltu eigi verða vígamaðr?” Do you not want to be a warrior? 

He paused, before shaking his head. “Þat er eigi þat. Ek hefi verit vígamaðr. En í endilokin er allt hið sama— allir deyja.” It’s not that. I have been a warrior. But in the end it’s all the same— everyone dies. 

Now that was a loaded statement. She opted simply to place her hand gently on his head instead of saying anything, and he subconsciously leaned into her touch. “Þú þarft ekki at vera nokkut, er þú vilt eigi vera,” she said gently, stroking his hair. You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. All he could respond with was a nod. 

Thóra knew what it was like to feel shoehorned into a box, to have someone force their world on you and expect you to be grateful. Her father, Leif, had desperately wanted sons to carry on his legacy, to become warriors and conquerors and take his place as jarl; instead he had only one daughter. Thóra was raised as a boy, taught to hunt and fish and fight, raised to be jarl in place of the son Leif Hæmingson never had. Sure, she embraced it, but she often wondered what her life would be like had she been allowed to grow up soft like the other women her age. 

Speaking of her father, it took only forty five minutes for the large man to re-enter the longhouse from his daily duties as jarl. The Boy looked up when he walked through the door, his six foot five frame towering over Thóra. He had a dark beard and salt and pepper hair, body adorned in a rich red cloak with a fur trim and an ornate tunic. When he saw the Boy his amber eyes narrowed, looking to his daughter. “Thóra? Hvat er þetta?” Thóra? What is this?

“Ek veit eigi, hvat þú talar um, Faðir,” she replied coolly, not turning her head to look at him. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Father. 

“Ek mun eigi þola slíka óvirðing.” I will not tolerate such disrespect.

The Boy looked back at the big man, who was now glowering at his daughter, before looking back to Thóra. The woman seemed unimpressed by her father’s irate tone, and huffed. “Eiríkr lagði þetta barn á vígvelli, þó at ek hafða orðit mönnum mínum at láta börn í friði,” she said, voice hard and eyes cold. Erik stabbed this child on the battlefield when I specifically told my men to leave children be. She finally looked up at her father, the two of them waging a silent war through eye contact alone. “Barn þetta er nú fóstri minn, ek hygg, at hann hafi verit götudrengr, þvíat hann hefr eigi enn spurt eftir móður sinni.” This child is my fosterling now, I assume he was a street urchin because he has not yet asked for his mother.

Leif grunted and stomped his muddy boots on the entry mat, pulling his cloak off with the air of a man who was used to arguing with his daughter. He walked over to the table and poured himself a cup of the drink as well, sipping it quietly before speaking. “Svo, fóstri? Hvat— á hann at verða arftaki? Er þetta leið þín til at forðast enn annan bónorðsmann?” So, a fosterling? What— is he supposed to be an heir? Is this your way of shirking yet another suitor?

“Finn mér mann, er mér er hæfr, ok kann vera at ek hafna honum ekki,” Thóra snapped, her calm facade finally breaking. Find me someone suitable and maybe I won’t reject him. 

“Gunnarr var fullkomliga góðr ungr maðr!” Gunnar was a perfectly fine young man! 

She slammed down her cup. “Hann sagði mér at ek skylda gefast upp at fara í víking ok verða húsfreyja! Ek mun aldri verða húsfreyja, ek em ætluð til at verða jarl!” He told me that I would have to give up going on Viking raids and become a housewife! I will never become a housewife, I am meant to be jarl!”

“Þú ert kona, Thóra.” You are a woman, Thora. He sounded exasperated, as if they’d had this conversation many times. 

“En samt ólstu mik upp sem son. Ættir þú eigi at vænta þess, at ek taki við eftir þik sem sonr myndi gera?” And yet you raised me as a son. Do you not expect me to succeed you as a son would?

He opened his mouth and closed it again, seemingly having no response for this. Leif grunted, sipping from his cup and letting the silence stretch on for several minutes. Finally, he spoke, looking to his daughter expectantly. “Jæja, hefir hann nafn?” Well, does he have a name?

She turned to the Boy. “Hvert er nafn þitt, ástkæri?” What’s your name, sweetheart? 

The Boy paused. He’d had so many of those… but never one he’d chosen. “Ek hefi ekki nafn,” he finally replied, looking into his cup. I don’t have a name. 

“Gaf móðir þín þér eigi nafn?” Thóra asked gently, placing her hand on his shoulder. Did your mother not give you one? 

“Ek man enga móður,” he said in response, looking at her hand. I have no mother I can remember. 

Even Leif was moved by this, and he turned to the Boy in concern. “Enga móður alls?” No mother at all? The Boy shook his head in affirmation, and Leif’s gaze hardened with a stubborn determination common amongst the people of the north. “Þú ert nú Thórason, sveinn, hvárt sem þú ert fundlingr eða eigi.” You are a Thórason now, boy, foundling or not. 

And that was that. 

The following weeks were spent learning how Thóra conducted business around the village as well as her daily routine in the longhouse. Initially he tried to be her shadow, following her every move and observing how she spoke to people, but Leif found it bothersome that a ‘son’ in his home was not spending his time ‘learning the way a man ought to.’ The Boy protested he was learning, he was learning from Thóra! Leif brushed him off, however, a heavy hand on his shoulder guiding the forever nine year old to shadow a young man named Viggo, a cousin ten years Thóra’s junior. He was tall and slender with long red hair he wore tied back in various plaits, grey eyes bright and cheerful and a perpetual spring in his step. 

Thankfully, the Boy did not find Viggo’s company disagreeable. He showed him their way of life, and while it was not much different than the village he lived in previously, he was no longer a street urchin. Now he had reasons to learn skills like farming, survival, and weaponry, though he surprised the young man with his already extensive knowledge of wilderness living. 

“Hverr kenndi þér at gera eld, sveinn?” Viggo asked, eyebrows raised close to his hairline in surprise. He paused his task of sharpening his axe to look over at the Boy quizzically. Who taught you to start a fire, boy?

The Boy frowned. “Ek lærði þat sjálfr… svá gerðist þat,” he replied, staring into the flickering flames he had just conjured with his flint and knife. It’s… just something I picked up. 

“Hversu gamall ertu enn?” he asked the child, tilting his head. How old are you again?

“Skiptir… þat máli?” His tone was guarded, and he looked at Viggo with apprehension. Does… that matter?

“Ek segi at þat gerir, já.” The twenty five year old man met the Boy’s gaze, a silent challenge. I say it does, yes.

The Boy held his gaze silently, holding it for a moment before relenting with a sigh. “Mh. Ek em níu vetra gamall.” Mh. I am nine winters old. Of course it wasn’t his real age. How do you tell a Norse man that you’re billions of years old? Older than the sun that lights his day or the stars that decorate his night? You can’t. So he picked an age suitable for his appearance. 

This information seemed to surprise Viggo, and the redhead added another small log to the fire they warmed themselves in front of. “Aðeins níu vetr? Þú mátt hafa átt hart líf til at kunna þessi kynni svá ungr.” Only nine winters? You must have had a hard life to know these skills this young.

The Boy shrugged, neither confirming nor denying the man’s statement. “Já, vel. Ek á enga móður né föður. Ek hefi aðeins sjálfan mik haft.” Yes, well, I have no mother or father. I have only ever had myself.

“En nú hefir þú Frú Þóru ok jarlinn,” he replied, leaning forward a little. But now you have Lady Thóra, and the jarl.

That’s right, he wasn’t completely alone anymore. His fingers ghosted over his chest, where he’d been run through with a sword not three weeks ago. “Já… þú hefir rétt. Ek hefi þau.” Yes, you’re right. I do have them. 

The air was silent between them for a while, the Boy content to let the silence linger. But Viggo it seemed had other plans. “Þú virðist enn… hugsjúkr.” You still seem… pensive. 

“Þat eru aðeins þrjár vikur liðnar,” he replied, a hint of irritation in his voice. It has only been three weeks. 

“Þú hefir rétt,” he conceded. You’re right. He’s quiet again for a good long moment, grey eyes reflecting the warm amber of the fire as it makes the light dance across their skin. “Ek hatar at kalla þik Drengr. Hefir þú eigi nafn?” I hate calling you Boy. Do you not have a name? 

“Nei… Freyja Thóru hefir eigi enn veitt mik eitt.” No… Lady Thóra has not yet granted me one. 

“Ek mun sjá til þess at hon gerir. Þú ert níu vetra gamall, þú átt skilið nafn.” He says it with the sort of finality that makes the Boy feel warm in his chest, and he gives the man a small smile. I will see to it that she does. You are nine winters old, you deserve a name. 

He didn’t need to say thank you, Viggo already knew. So he just nodded, the faintest bit of pink ghosting his cheeks. 

The day passed as usual, and by the time the Boy returned home from his lessons with Viggo, Thóra and the other women of the longhouse were serving up dinner. While she did not have to help as she was a high born woman, she always insisted on doing her part. 

“Heill, Thóra,” the Boy said cheerfully as he entered the house, his oddly deep voice a welcome sound to her ears. 

“Heil, elska,” she said, turning to smile at him. “Hvé vóru fróðleikarnir með Vigga?” Hello, darling. How were lessons with Viggo? 

“Þat var gott,” he replied, coming up to stand beside her. He held onto the edge of her house coat, watching her stir the pot of what smelled like stew. It was good. 

“Ek em fegin at heyra þat! Viltu smakka matinn, er Sigríð hefir soðit?” I’m glad to hear it! Do you want to taste the dinner that Sigrid has cooked? She took a small spoon and dipped it in the stew, offering it to the boy with a smile. 

His eyes lit up. “Já, þat vilda ek!” Yes, I would! He sipped the thick broth from the utensil offered to him and his face broke out into a smile. Sigrid was the best cook of all the servant women, he always looked forward to the days she prepared meals. 

“Svá… Viggi segir mér at þú viljir fá nafn.” Thóra’s voice cut through his hungry thoughts, and he looked up at her with a faint blush at her words.  So… Viggo tells me you wish to have a name.

“Ek hygg at ek myndi þat. En hann var heldr ergðr yfir at þurfa at kalla mik ‘Drengr.’” I suppose I would. But he was more frustrated with having to call me ‘Boy.’ Did she not want to give him a name? He hoped to appease her, to not step on any toes or risk his place in this household. 

“Viltu eigi nafn?” Do you not want a name?

“Ek… vil.” I… do. Admitting it out loud was harder than he anticipated, his throat tight and his eyes downcast. 

“Gott þá. Ek hefi hugsað nokkut um nafn, er bezt mundi henda þér,” she said, and he looked up in surprise. Good then. I have done some thinking on a name that would suit you best. The Boy blinked, coming to tug on her sleeve curiously. “Þú ert slœgr sem refr; ek hefi sét þik auðliga yfirvinna hina börnin. Ok þú ert launigr; ek tek eftir því, er þú stelr reykjarlauf föður.” You are cunning like a fox, I have seen you outsmart the other children quite readily. And you are sneaky, I notice when you steal Father’s smoking leaf. 

He chuckled sheepishly, looking down. “Svárr…” Sorry…

She shook the spoon playfully. “Haf eigi ótta, ek em eigi reið. En ek hygg at þú sér of ungr til at taka þátt í slíku.” Don’t worry, I’m not mad. I do think you are too young to partake in it, however.

He probably was, and he nodded shyly. Despite being too young, he really did enjoy smoking the pungent plant. 

“Því at taka allt þetta saman, hugða ek at þar sem þú hefir guðleg lækning af goðunum sjálfum, ok ert bæði slœgr ok slœppr… þá væri Loki bezt nafn fyrir þik, elska.” Taking all of this into account, I figured since you have divine healing from the gods themselves, combined with your tricky nature… that Loki would be the best name for you, darling.

“Loki? Sem ássinn?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Loki? Like the god?

She frowned a little. “Líkar þér eigi þat?” Do you not like it?

He shook his head quickly.“Ek… geri. Mér líkar þat!” I… I do. I like it!

“Gott. Þá skaltu héðan í frá heita Loki Thórason, framtíðarjarl ok, umfram allt, minn elskaði fóstrson.” Good. Then from now on you shall be Loki Thorasson, future jarl and most of all, my beloved fosterling. She put her hand on his head, ruffling his hair affectionately. 

“…þökk.” …thank you. He blushed, reaching up to hold her hand. 

Thóra leaned down, kissing the top of his head. “Þú ert vel viljaðr, kæri sveinn.” You are so very wanted, dear child.” 

“Ek em feginn.” I am glad. 

Three years passed and the Boy had not changed. Thóra really noticed it one day when helping him get dressed for the colder weather, brushing and plaiting his hair back. “Loki, má ek spyrja þik eins?” she asked, combing his bangs. Loki, may I ask you something?

He turned his head to look up at her, from where he was seated in her lap. “Hvat er þat?” What is it?

“Tíminn ferr fram, en þó, minn drengr, hefir þú eigi breytzk. Hví er svá?” Time moves forward, but still, my boy, you have not changed. Why is that? She tied off his braid with a bit of red ribbon, brushing her fingers against his pale cheek. 

Loki looked down at the ground, drooping. “Ek efast um at þú myndir trúa mér.” I doubt you would believe me. 

“Barn mitt, ek sá sár þín gróa á fáum stundum eftir at þau váru veitt. Ek hefi heyrt þik mæla tungur, er ek hefi aldri heyrt fyrr, þegar þú hyggr at engi hlýði. Ek veit at þú ert annarr,” she reassured him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. My child, I watched your wounds knit themselves back together within hours of them being inflicted. I’ve heard you speak languages I’ve never heard before when you think no one is listening. I know you are different.

His face fell, clutching the woolen tunic that Thóra had embroidered for him last year. “Er þat… illt?” Is that… bad? 

“Nei, nei, auðvitað eigi,” she replied quickly, kissing his cheek. No, no, of course not. 

Different, but not wrong. 

Different, but not wrong.

Different. Not wrong. 

He took a deep breath. 

“Ek veit eigi hvat ek em,” he confessed. I don’t know what I am. “En– en ek hefi verit lifandi… mjök langa stund. Ok ek hefi aldri breytzk. Ek hefi aldri verit yngri né eldri. Ek óttumk at ek sé illr arfi fyrir þik, Freyja Thóra.” B-but I’ve been alive… a very long time. And I’ve never changed. I’ve never been younger and I’ve never been older. I fear I make a terrible heir for you, Lady Thóra.

This information was not completely unexpected, but still surprised the future jarl. She turned Loki in her lap, holding his chin lovingly. “Viltu eigi vera arfrimi minn?” Do you not want to be my heir?

He looked down. “Þat er eigi at ek vilji þat eigi, heldr at ek má eigi… Ek má eigi vaxa. Ek má eigi fremja erfingja. Ek má eigi vera jarl… hverr mun virða níu vetra jarl?” It’s not that I don’t want to be, it’s that I can’t… I can’t grow up. I can’t produce an heir. I can’t be jarl… who will respect a nine year old jarl?

Thóra hugged her foster son tightly. “Vér munum ráða við þetta,” she promised, rocking him back and forth soothingly. We will manage this.

And manage it they did. In the coming years Thóra fell pregnant, though she would not disclose by whom. Initially Leif was angry his only daughter dared carry an illegitimate child, bringing dishonor to his name, but as soon as the infant girl was born all hostility melted away. He was smitten with the brown haired child, who bore the same amber eyes as her mother.

Initially, Loki was jealous; wasn’t he her heir? Wasn’t he the eldest? How dare this squirming thing take all her attention away! But no, he remembered his conversation years prior with his guardian, he couldn’t be jarl anyway. 

And besides, the baby, Astrid, was the cutest damn baby in the world. 

Her childhood flew by in the blink of an eye, growing from a plump tot to a lanky child, then a surly teen. In her sixteenth winter Leif passed on, surrounded by his family and given a proper funeral. It was Thóra, now jarl, who shot the first flaming arrow, tears shining in the firelight as she drew back the bowstring. Loki watched, holding the hem of her tunic in a tight fist, chest heavy and shoulders tense. 

At twenty four Astrid married a young man named Erik, a friendly sort who was not much of a warrior. Originally Thóra had disapproved, she wanted her daughter to marry a Viking and not a civilian karl, but when she saw how happy her beloved daughter was she relented. Erik treated her well, after all. 

When Astrid was twenty eight, she returned from Viking raiding with a tear stained face, clutching a bloodied sword. Loki recognized it instantly— Thóra’s beloved blade. The one she’d taught him to spar with, the one she’d been wearing on her hip when she found him. 

“Hon er nú í Valhǫllu,” Astrid had rasped, voice ragged as she pulled him into her arms, openly weeping for her mother. She is in Valhalla now. 

This funeral was different. As he stood next to the woman he helped raise, the one with her mother’s eyes and fearsome temper, she drew the bow back. Her hand, however, faltered, and she let out a ragged sob. “Ek má eigi gera þat,” she wept, before turning to him and holding out the bow. I cannot do it. “Vinsamligast, Loki, veittu henni þann heiðr, er hon verðr.” Please Loki, please give her the honor she deserves. 

As Astrid’s grief filled his ears the boy took the bow with a solemn nod, relighting the arrow on the fire in front of them, drawing the string back and releasing the breath he’d been unaware he was holding. 

As the arrow flew into the sky and lit the floating pyre he squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a sharp sound of grief. No tears fell, but his eyes stung. He couldn’t do this again. 

He couldn’t do this ever again. 

Never ever. 

He turned as the boat’s embers flew up towards the heavens, pulling his hood up as he pushed past the other mourners. Astrid barely registered he had disappeared, too consumed in her own sadness to see past the flames and tears. 

He stopped by their longhouse, hand clutching the wooden doorframe, before entering the structure. There on Thóra’s bed he caught a glimpse of gleaming metal— her Yggdrasil pendant. He took it, holding it in his hand, jaw clenched tight to keep his mouth from wobbling, before slipping it on and turning to leave the longhouse. 

He looked at the structure one last time, hands balled into fists. 

“Far vel, Mamma,” he whispered, before disappearing into the woods once more. 

Goodbye, Mama.

And I can't help it

Can’t you see how much I adore you?

I know I could never save you

But I was born to 

You could never handle 

Half of all that I feel 

On the daily the shit I show up for 

Is fucking real. 

Chapter Text

Again and again 

And again and again 

Do it again

Do it again

Again and again. 

- the bird and the bee, Again & Again

When trade was beginning to be established to the east, the Boy, formerly Loki, traveled with a caravan, learning new languages and completing tasks for the merchants in exchange for food. 

At the present moment he found himself a part of a caravan headed by a young Venetian man named Marco Polo, headed to the east to make the trade routes safer. They had found the Boy along the road, tired and hungry, and while Polo’s uncle Maffeo was very against bringing in another mouth to feed, both Marco and his father were adamant the boy come along for safety. It was along the way that the two priests with them decided the Boy was not to be trusted, muttering soft prayers under their breath every time they walked by. 

It had just happened again not thirty minutes ago, and the Boy sat hugging his knees, deep in thought. These people… they too would die. He was such a damn fool for finding more ordinary people to attach himself to. What was wrong with him? Why was he so different?

“Ti sì bastante pensoso incò,” the caravan leader said to him in Venetian, as the Boy sat silent at his feet. You're rather contemplative today. 

“Forse,” he replied, hands folded quietly as he stared at the slowly moving landscape. Maybe. It had taken him a little while to pick up their language, as he previously understood only a little Venetian and had spent time mostly in areas of the world that spoke northern tongues. 

“Chi,” the caravan leader said, handing him a small piece of candy, “par farte alegar.” Here, to cheer you up. The Boy ate it absentmindedly with a nodded thank you, face still troubled. “Va ben… ciò no l’à funzionà come suol. Perché no me dìi cossa che te xe mal?” Okay… that didn’t work the way it normally does. Why don’t you tell me what is wrong?

“No gh’è niente de mal,” he retorted quickly, frowning defensively. Nothing is wrong. 

“No t’ê mìga el mejo mentitor, fioł.” You're not the best liar, kiddo. 

“Credo che sto su sol a pensar al passato,” he finally relented. I suppose I am just thinking about the past. 

The caravan leader frowned a little. “Roba perigosa,” a dangerous thing he tried to joke, but it missed the mark. “Che del passato te fa vegnir cusì pensoso?” What about the past has you so pensive? 

“El conceto uman de fameja,” the human concept of family he replied, recalling the ancient people who had taken him in thousands of years past, and even before that, before anything he could remember, kind eyes, cheerful smiles, and outstretched hands. 

“Ti sì un fioł ben strano, Ciapin.” You're one strange child, little Rascal.

“Cussì me lo dì ti.” So you tell me.

“Vôi dir, gh’è pur na raxon che lo Pare Gio te schiva, no è cusì?” The question was posed innocently enough, but it still made the hair on the back of the Boy’s neck stand on end. I mean, there is a reason Father Gio avoids you, is there not?

“Forse el odia i fioł,” was his response, hissed through tightly clenched teeth, eyes flashing in a way that often frightened adults. Perhaps he hates children. 

“Creo forse che el odia quele,” he replied as the Boy’s eyes flashed from their normal crystal color to something dark like blood. I think perhaps he moreso hates that.

“Odialo, Sior?” Do you hate it, Sir?

The caravan leader just chuckled. “Miga per gnente. Ti sì diverso, ma no xe roba mal. El mondo xe pien de persone diverse.” Not in the slightest. You’re different, but that’s not a bad thing. The world is full of different people. 

That’s why the Boy liked Marco. The young man was full of smiles and laughter, quick to joke and quicker to lend aid to whoever needed it. He was smart, friendly, and easygoing, the perfect candidate for ambassador. His father Niccolò was smart and kind, albeit much sterner than his son and much more severe. Maffeo was a skeptical sort, slow to act and even slower to trust. While it took the two elder Polos a while to warm up to the Boy Marco took to him instantly, helping him with the language and making sure he had a safe place to sleep. 

“Perché te sì cusì bon con mi?” the Boy asked Marco, after a long moment of silence. Why are you so nice to me?

“Perché dovarìa esser crudele con ti? No gh’ha senso esser crudele coi fioł. No fà gnente che meriti, almanco no la maggior parte del tempo,” he replied with a shrug. Why would I be mean to you? It doesn’t make sense to be mean to children. They don’t do anything to deserve it, at least not most of the time. 

He stood, climbing up onto the wooden bench next to Marco and sitting down. “Quande partimo?” When are we departing?

“Presto,” soon, the young man replied, offering for the boy to share his cloak. As they traveled north it was growing colder, and as the afternoon gave way to evening the air grew crisp with the chill of late autumn. The Boy gladly accepted, scooting closer to Marco and allowing the cloak to fall over his shoulders. “Speto che lo Pare e lo zio Maffeo torni da la tera con più provixion; no dovarìa far longi.” I’m waiting for Father and Uncle Maffeo to return from the town with more provisions, they shouldn’t be long.

“Se capisse. A che ora i xe partìi?” he asked, watching the sun grow more orange as it sank towards the hills in the distance. That makes sense. What time did they leave?

“Stamatina, quando el sol jera qualche dedo sora l’orizonte. I ghe bisognava formento par i cavài e i camèli, cussì i gà menà robe da baratar.” This morning, when the sun was a few fingers over the horizon. They needed feed for the horses and camels, so they brought items to trade.

The Boy just nodded again, quiet for a long while. It was nice to sit with the older boy, a man of barely eighteen. He was by far the youngest member of their party (though everyone thought it to be the Boy) but didn’t let that hamper his spirit. He had never met such an upbeat person, his positivity was infectious and his laugh lit up a gathering like glass wind chimes (not the wooden ones, they were too scary). Not even the long gone Donātus could keep his positivity up for as long as Marco could, his gap tooth smile ever present, cinnamon curls like a crown and constellations of freckles on his cheeks. 

The Boy stifled a yawn, eyelids drooping. “Te sì stanco, fradelìn?” Marco asked, looking down at the child at his side. Are you tired, little brother?

He scowled, shaking his head in an attempt to fight off the weight of exhaustion. “No, no, so desto,” he insisted, rubbing his eyes. No, no, I’m awake. 

“Quel sbadìo dirìa ben el contrario,” he chuckled, ruffling the Boy’s hair. That yawn would suggest otherwise. 

Flustered, he bat Marco’s hands away from his head. “No so mìa stanco!” I’m not tired!

“Va ben, va ben,” he conceded with a half-cocked smile. “Staremo sol a vardar el tramonto, eh?” Alright, alright. Let’s just watch the sunset, then?

“Va ben.” Okay. 

It didn’t take long for the Boy’s eyes to droop shut, and within ten minutes he was snoring quietly, slumped against Marco’s side. After about ten minutes the older boy heard the telltale sound of his father and uncle’s horses returning and he waved, careful not to wake the sleeping child beside him. 

“Oh, el dormi? Che carìn,” his father Niccolò cooed, bending over to get a better view of where the small boy was snuggled against his son. Aww, he’s asleep? How cute. 

“Sì. Creo che l’à avùo ancora ’na bruta incontro con un dei preti; no s’è staccào da mi per tuto el dopo pranzo,” Marco replied, gently combing his fingers through the child’s silky dark hair. Yeah. I think he had a troubling encounter with one of the priests again, he didn’t leave my side all afternoon.

His uncle Maffeo rolled his eyes, folding his arms. “No ghe dó colpa.” I don’t blame him.

Marco looked up sharply, staring at his father’s older brother. “Come?” Pardon?

“Go dito che no ghe dó colpa,” Maffeo huffed. I said I don’t blame him. “El putelo l’è ben strano, da far tremar l’animia; no xe miràbio che el spaventa i missionari e i preti.” The kid is really strange, enough to make the soul tremble; it’s no wonder he frightens the missionaries and priests.

“Zio Maffeo,” Marco said with a warning tone, putting his hand on the child’s shoulder protectively. Uncle Maffeo. 

“Fradèl, ciò l’è un poco duro.” Niccolò said, turning to him. Brother, that is a bit harsh. 

“No l’è per gnente duro, al putelo ghe vien rossi i oci quando el s’aflige! Podarìa anca dir senza esaxerar che ’l fioł par un demonio,” he protested, voice raising a little as he gestured with his hands. It is not harsh at all, the kid’s eyes turn red when he is upset! I could even go so far as to say the child is a demon.

“Va ben, Maffeo, ciò l’è proprio massa,” he replied accusatorily. “L’è un putelo zovene. Forse l’è un poco strano, ma no xe raxon de aver paura de lu.” Okay, Maffeo, that really is too far. He is a young child. Perhaps he is a little strange, but that’s no reason to fear him.

Maffeo opened his mouth to argue with his younger brother, before his nephew cut him off. “Par piasser, no vegnì a far barufa, l’è appena indormenzà.” Please don’t start fighting, he just fell asleep.

His uncle just huffed, rolling his eyes and walking away to go check on the other members of their caravan. Niccolò sat down on the other side of Marco, wrapping his arm around his son. “No stà ’ndarghé drio, fioło mio. Me fradèl l’è un omo testardo e pien de superstizion.” Don’t listen to him, my son. My brother is a stubborn, superstitious man.

He scowled. “No dà raxon de esser crudèl con un putelo. El Ciapin el g’à solo nove ani.” It doesn’t warrant being cruel to a child. The Rascal is only nine years old.

“Lo so,” I know, he sighed softly, before looking over at his son with a tender smile. Marco really was a perfect blend between Niccolò and his wife— while he had Niccolò’s face shape and nose, that smile, those freckles, and those glittering amber eyes were all hers. He deeply regretted missing out on the first fourteen years of his son’s life; he hadn’t even been sure Nicole Anna was pregnant when he left. He was devastated upon his return, when his dear mother in law held his hands and informed him his beloved wife had passed away. He had held her and sobbed, how could he not have been there? How could he leave her behind? But then the kind woman had taken him into her home and he first laid eyes on Marco. There was not a doubt in his mind that the boy was his, his beloved Nicole Anna would never be unfaithful. When the young teen had turned to look at him, Niccolò had been struck with such an intense feeling of parental love. His wife lived on in the boy, and every day that passed just proved it more and more. He was intelligent, wise beyond his years, steadfast, and most of all, kind. He loved his son more than anything else in the world. “Anca ti prova a riposarte un poco, va ben? Doman sarà ’na lunga zornada de viagio.” You try to get some rest too, okay? Tomorrow will be a long day of traveling.

“Va ben,” okay, Marco agreed, returning his father’s embrace before the older man got up to do his nightly rounds before bed. He sat there for a while longer, but as the night air grew cooler he carefully scooped up the boy so as to not wake him, and made his way back to the tent he shared with his father and uncle. 

The Boy stirred, making a little noise in his sleep, and Marco paused in concern. Did he wake him? But he just nestled back into his arms, mumbling something in his sleep in a language Marco had never heard before, and the older boy let out a sigh of relief. 

His uncle was already fast asleep, and Niccolò was reading a map by lamplight, clearly tired. He smiled at his son as Marco entered, the young man making his way over to his bedroll. He laid the Boy down on the soft pad and climbed in next to him, pulling the woolen blanket over them both. It didn’t take long for sleep to claim him, the night quiet and the tent warm. 

The Boy felt his lungs constrict as the dusty air infiltrated his airways, opening his eyes to great vultures circling overhead. Their lazy loops occasionally blocked out the blinding sun, and he brought a trembling arm up to block the light before struggling to sit upright. 

The second he managed to sit he felt his stomach flip and he promptly vomited blood, at least having the wherewithal to turn his head and not puke on himself. When his head finally cleared and his vision stopped swimming he struggled to his feet, coughing clouds of dust as he surveyed the destruction all around him. 

The Slavic merchants he had been traveling with were all slain, their wagons destroyed and their goods and wares plundered. Most of the horses had been stolen, but a few lay dead, corpses bloated by the sun. 

The Boy felt his heart sink, stomach hollow at the sight of the long dried blood that stained the dirt under the broken and dismembered bodies of the people he was traveling with. His whole body ached… was it really worth it to keep moving forward? How long had he been unconscious? He sank to his knees, clutching his head as he tried to recall. 

Loud memories echoed through his mind of them being ambushed by bandits in the night, the screams of Stańczyk, the leader of the caravan, waking the Boy from a deep sleep. “Zbójcy na nas! ZBÓJCY!” (We’re being attacked by bandits! BANDITS!) 

The Boy sat bolt upright on his bedroll as the encampment erupted into chaos, grabbing the knife Thóra had given him centuries ago and running out of the tent, still in his undershirt. Violence rang out all around him, the child watching in horror as a bandit with a wicked looking blade beheaded Bieńka, the wife of one of the merchants. Her head fell to the ground with a sickening thud, her eyes welling up with tears and fluttering rapidly for a split second before falling still and glassy. 

The bandit looked up at the Boy, lifting his blade and lunging for the child after dropping the kind woman’s body. He ran, but he was not fast enough; the man lept upon him, stabbing him with the same curved blade. The Boy yelped, remembering his own knife and plunging it into his attacker’s shoulder, coughing blood. 

The now injured man roared, throwing the boy to the ground. The last thing he remembered aside from the screaming was that gleaming blade coming down on his throat. 

He rubbed his neck, shuddering. There was nothing left for him here… and so he began the slow march south. 

The Boy awoke with a rough shout, sitting bolt upright and clutching at his neck. From the sword it bore a faint silvery scar all the way around, which he knew would fade with the years like all the other ones. His chest heaved, the boy panting and trembling as he tried to gather himself. 

Beside him, Marco stirred. “Mmgh… Ciapin? Te sì a posto?” he asked, voice heavy with sleep. Rascal? Are you alright? The Boy couldn’t answer right away, unable to form a coherent sentence. His hands trembled as his breath rattled in his chest, and he opened and closed his mouth uselessly as Marco sat up with him. “Ostia… t’ê avùo un mal sogno?” Oh shit, did you have a bad dream? All the Boy could muster was a nod, still shaken, and the young man embraced him. “Chi ti sì al sicuro,” he said softly. You are safe here. 

After a long pause, he finally spoke. “Go sentìo, iér sera,” I heard, last night, he said, and when Marco tilted his head quizzically he elaborated. “Quande to zio m’à ciamà demonio.” When your uncle called me a demon. 

Marco’s face fell. “Magara no l’avessi sentìo.” I wish you hadn’t. 

“Sò mi un demonio?” he asked, eyes flashing from sky to blood. Not out of anger this time, no, out of pain. Am I a demon?

Marco’s eyebrows raised. “Naturalmente no, fioło.” Of course not, kiddo. 

“Ma mi so inmortal. Go scampà a la decapitazion,” he replied, pointing out the silvery scar on his back. But I am immortal. I survived beheading. “E i santi omeni g’ha paura de mi.” And the holy men fear me. 

The young man’s eyes softened, and he pulled the Boy close. “Lassa che i te vegna paura,” let them fear you, he said, choosing not to unpack the immortal statement. It didn’t matter right now. “No g’è gnente de cui vergognarte— no par quel che ti sì.” There is nothing for you to be ashamed of— not for being who you are. 

Different, but not wrong. 

How Marco sounded like Thóra, Donātus before her, Tallak before him. The Boy wondered if this was some sort of karmic torture, if he was forever forced to grow close to other humans only to have it ripped away every single time. If he had to have a sister, a father, a mother, a brother, and watch them all fade into dust. After he had left the great north he had gone back to Rome to visit Donātus’s grave, only to find the cemetery destroyed and his old village in ruins, abandoned for hundreds of years. Tallak’s bones had to be atomized by now, thousands of years gone from this world. 

Time was savage and cruel. 

Time would always take everything from him. 

It’s a shame 

It’s a shame

It’s a perfect shame. 

Chapter Text

They’ll put an apple in your hand but don’t you dare bite it

A match and a wick but don’t you dare light it 

They say temptation be a sin, don’t look anymore behind it 

That’s just how it is, don’t you dare fight it. 

They’ll put an apple in your hand but don’t you dare bite it 

A match and a wick but don’t you dare light it 

Life’s only meant to live, don’t fill it with excitement 

Abstain, restrain, forgive, yeah, that’s how he likes it. 

- Rabbitology, CANDLEBURN (Dorm Demo)

After Marco returned from his lifetime of travel abroad, the Boy settled with him in the city of Venice with his new wife. He helped them raise their children, and mourned them when they passed on. When he tried to travel elsewhere he was regarded with suspicion and fear, chased out of town by village priests and shunned for his odd nature; the beginning of the plague really marked the worst of it, as he did not contract the disease. Whole villages would slip away in mere weeks, and when the doctors came through they would blame him. The brand on his chest didn’t help, he’d come to learn it was a religious symbol that most people grew to both fear and revere. They revered it upon their great churches and woven into the tapestries that adorned abbeys, but when they saw it burned into his flesh that honor seemed to twist into pure horror; it was just as well, he supposed. He’d seen crucifixions back in Rome, he’d seen how gruesome dying in that way was; if there were ever a wise thing to fear, it would be that. 

Rural people had a fear of witches and witchcraft, the Boy finding himself accused of it often. If he lost his temper at the market and someone saw his eyes flash, he’d be dragged and stoned. If he screamed with the voices of multiple men, he’d be hanged. If someone saw him sustain an injury which miraculously healed, well… 

He’d been burned alive more times than he could count now. 

The centuries raged on, four hundred years slipping through his fingers like water as he moved west. It was at the beginning of the 1700’s when something very different happened, however. 

He couldn’t pinpoint it, the sensation in his body felt like fire— like he was being ripped apart. One day he was fine, walking towards a mountain town, and the next he was on his hands and knees in the dirt, head pounding and vision swimming as if someone had taken a tent stake to his brain stem. His mind fuzzed and his body went numb, falling into a black expanse— a void like at the dawn of time. Everything he was and everything he used to be unraveled, it was pure agony. He didn’t know how long he was suspended like this, between Being and Unbeing, stuck in an unfeeling prison. 

Was this it?

Was this the end?

What was even the point of all that?!

…

Abaddon opened his eyes, pulling himself out of the hellmouth his arrival had split into the earth, the glowing maw sealing itself like a healing wound as his last tail flicked free of its smoky depths. The world around him was colorless, grey and cold in a way that was so alien to the darkness of his beloved Sunless City. 

He was in a dense forest, just on the edge of a small colonial town, the light from the torches on the houses barely reaching the copse of trees. He was here to wreak havoc upon mankind, to bring forth the apocalypse and lay ruin to the mortal plane. It was his ten thousandth year, the year demons were marked from princedom to kinghood if they passed their trial. Abaddon had a very important trial as well— not many of his ilk could proclaim that they were the father of the apocalypse to come. He couldn't disappoint Lucifer, he’d come this far. 

In order to do so, however, he would require a vessel. 

The next few days and nights were spent scoping out the town for easy targets, and he had several contenders. There was a young man who worked as a butcher— he could do wonderful things with those knives, he thought. The midwife could be an easy target, people trusted her and he could use that to his advantage. All of that went out the window, however, when he saw the boy. 

His skin was alabaster white, eyes pale like crystal and hair dark like a starling’s feathers; he had the most innocent countenance Abaddon had ever seen. He often played at the edge of the forest, skipping rope or playing hopscotch by himself. He had few friends, the other children of the village choosing rather to pick on him for being different than them. 

Abaddon sensed anger in the boy at this, he sensed his frustration. He could use this. He could twist it into something dark and sinister, something that would ensure his hold over him would be strong. 

Time to play the long game, now. He would be patient. 

Isaac wiped his cheek, sniffing a little from the bruise beginning to form on the side of his face. The other children could be so cruel, he didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to play with them. He even brought his own skipping rope! But it wasn’t enough. It never was. 

Every time he’d sustain a beating from Zachary or Perseverance his mother would wipe his tears and clean his wounds, holding him close and reassuring him that there was nothing wrong with him. He wasn’t different, the other children were just mean. But he was nine now, and his father had told his mother she was to stop coddling him. It was time Isaac learned to be a man. 

He didn’t really know what being a man meant, he was still small and still afraid. Did it mean he had to swallow his feelings like Father, or yell and hit like his uncle? He surely hoped it was not the latter, his uncle scared him. He supposed that he would start by handling his own injuries, despite how badly he wished to run to his beloved mother for comfort. 

“Thou art to be a man,” he chided himself, hugging his knees where he sat on the ground. “Thou hast no time to cry.” He sat there for a while, before he picked up his jumping rope and stood to play by himself. Isaac soon fell into a comfortable rhythm, able to let his mind wander as he jumped rope. He enjoyed simple, repetitive motions, tasks that he could fall into like a trance. It was soothing, a gentle balm on the abrasive chaos of normal life. 

As he skipped over the rope, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He squeaked as he lost his rhythm, the rope tangling around his ankle and sending him to the ground. “Ow!” he yelped, kicking the rope away and picking himself back up. It was as he stood he realized something he hadn’t previously noticed— the forest had fallen completely silent. It was incredibly unsettling, not even the bugs chirped in the trees; he felt eyes on him, the sensation of being watched settling under his skin and hollowing out his stomach. “Is… anybody there?” he tried to call, voice coming out in a choked whisper. 

“Yes,” came a reply from within the treeline, voice low and oddly soothing. It didn’t stop him from feeling unsettled, however, eyes darting furtively around in an attempt to find the owner of said voice. 

“Where be you?! Who be you?! What do you seek of me?!” He demanded, clutching the wooden handles of his jumping rope. His father warned him about bandits and poachers, men who made their money off of the hard work of other people. He knew he should run to find an adult, but something inexplicable kept him rooted to the spot; he couldn’t move if he tried. 

A deep, melodic chuckle met him from the darkness of the forest. “Slow down, boy. One question at a time.”

He took a deep breath, hands trembling. “A-aye. Where be you?”

“Within the trees, before thee,” the voice replied. “Thou canst not see me, though.” 

He grew a little bolder, trying to draw his face into what he thought was something of a commanding expression. “Why can I not see thee?! What be thy name?”

“First, I am unseen,” it replied, voice now much closer, as if standing right next to the boy. “Second, I have many names; which wouldst thou have of me?”

A shiver ran through Isaac again and he jumped away from where the voice sounded from. “W-witchcraft!” he squeaked, pale blue eyes wide with fear. 

“Nay,” was the simple response. “Not witchcraft. I am no witch.” 

“Thou art of the devil!” 

“Close, boy,” it said, and then the darkness from the forest seemed to solidify. It was almost impossible to tell what he was looking at at first, before Isaac realized that the entity he was speaking with was tall. Looking up revealed a shadowy figure which stood at twenty feet, chest broad, with ragged wings and many arms adorning its torso. It had unguligrade legs and cloven hooves like a goat, three long whiplike tails swaying gently above the ground behind it. The being’s neck was long and almost snakelike, though it bore an inky mane of hair and a man’s face. At first… Isaac thought it was a man’s face. The nose wasn’t quite human and the visage seemed almost mask-like, eyes a gleaming red and skin a polished porcelain. Almost instantly he realized what felt off about it— the thing leaned down and smiled to reveal that what he thought was its face was a farse, it had jaws like a snake and wicked gleaming fangs beneath its false chin. “I am the Cobra King. I am the Angel of the Abyss. I am Abaddon, I am the Destroyer,” he hissed, face close to the child’s ear. 

Isaac felt his blood run cold. “Thou art a demon,” he breathed, heart hammering in his small chest. He felt frozen, unable to move, unable to scream. “Thou art evil.” 

“Nay,” he breathed. “I am deliverance.”

“From what?” he asked, trying to sound brave, though his voice came out a squeak. 

“From the cruelty of other children, from thine uncle’s fist, from thy father’s condemning eye. Yield unto me, and I shall be thy deliverance,” came the reply, the creature dropping to all fours with one set of his arms. One of his other hands came up, almost ghosting over Isaac’s cheek in a tender and friendly gesture that the child did not expect. “Allow me this goodwill, Isaac.” 

His eyes welled up with tears, thinking of the beatings from the other village children, his uncle’s drunken rage, and his father’s cold disappointment. He’d endured for so long… how could he endure more? But… no. Why was he even considering this? How could he abandon what he’d been taught so readily? “Nay, I cannot,” he rasped, trying to find his voice. “The Lord alone is my deliverance, the blood of Christ covers me.” 

“Very well,” Abaddon replied, shocking Isaac as he withdrew— did demons always give up this readily? “But my offer remains.” 

And just like that, he was gone. 

Isaac ran. He ran like he’d never run before, tearing away from the treeline and frantically back to the small home he shared with his parents and uncle, trembling. It wasn’t until he’d burst in the door and threw himself into his mother's arms, sobbing, that he realized he had left his jumping rope back at the forest’s edge. 

“Mercy, Isaac— dear boy!” his mother Sarah gasped, bundling her son up in her arms and holding him close as he wept. “What hath befallen thee?!”

“A horrid specter, Mama,” he sobbed, clinging to the rough linen of her apron, “I hath seen a dreadful specter by the forest’s edge!”

“Surely it was only thine fancy, dear son. Thou hast ever had a lively mind.” She picked him up, propping the nine year old up on her hip like she used to when he was younger. 

“Nay, Mother,” he insisted, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her clean and earthy scent. “I know what I saw.” 

She stroked his hair. “I cannot deny it soundeth frightful,” she affirmed, kissing his temple, “yet mayhap it was but a bear thou didst see— perchance a sickly one.” 

She wouldn’t believe him, he realized. He knew what he saw was not of God, he knew what he saw was dark and twisted. Yet if he admitted out loud he had come into contact with something of the Devil he would surely be suspected of communing with spirits. 

“Aye… mayhap that be it…” he conceded timidly. He sat on her hip for a while longer as she started the fire for the oven and scored the risen bread. 

“Come, Isaac, wilt thou help me prepare the supper?” she asked him, and he nodded. She gave him potatoes and the peeling knife, and her small son got to work. He had deft hands, always skilled with a pocket blade. He made many carvings, the home full of little wooden birds and mice. It always made her heart sing, when he brought home a new piece of art for her to admire; he truly was a gift from on high. 

While her beloved son was peeling the potatoes, she heard the telltale sound of heavy male footsteps upon the doorstep. She prayed it would be her husband Abraham, and not his younger brother Jacob. The man had come to live with them after the death of his young wife, and while it was hard on him, Sarah did not appreciate her brother-in-law's drinking. Too many times had he raised his hand against her husband, herself, and most dreadfully her dear boy. 

When he had struck her child for the first time she had been tempted to fly into a rage, her countenance heavy with fury and her hands trembling. But her husband had put his commanding hand on her shoulder— she was not to touch his brother. Good Christian women were quiet, good Christian women were meek. They did not react in anger, they did not succumb to their emotions. 

The door swung open and she sighed in audible relief, it was just her husband returning from his daily tasks at the church. “Good evening, dear husband,” she said with a warm smile. “How went thy duties at the chapel?”

“As easy as ever, my dear. And how went thy day?” he asked in reply, removing his coat and hat and hanging them at the designated spot by the door. 

“Much the same as ever,” she answered, chopping cold weather vegetables. The winter was approaching rapidly, soon all they would have left was the potatoes. “Our boy saith he saw a horrid specter in the forest, yet I suspect it was but his imagination. Still, it did give him a great fright, so I pray thee be gentle with him, Abraham.” 

Her husband listened before giving a singular nod and a chaste kiss upon her cheek. She blushed— it was rare to receive affection outside of their marital bed. She welcomed it, however, as long as it were within the confines of their own home. 

Abraham walked over to his son where he was sat upon the floor, peeling potatoes with his small knife. “Good evening, son.” 

Isaac paused, looking up. “Hello, Father,” he replied with a respectful nod. 

“Thy mother telleth me thou hadst a fright today,” he said, looking down to meet his child’s gaze. 

“Aye,” Isaac replied, instantly cowed by his father’s stern tone. “Bu-but Mother is right. It were a bear, or mayhaps a sickly moose. I know now I had naught to fear.” He hated lying to his father, but it was better Abraham did not know it were a demon who haunted his mind. He would surely be accused of witchcraft for even sighting the cursed devil, and though he was a boy of only nine, he feared hanging just as much as the rest of his order. 

Abraham studied his face shrewdly. “Dost thou lie, Isaac?” 

“Nay,” Isaac insisted, shaking his head quickly. “I am truthful.” 

“Good lad,” he replied, patting his son’s head of thick dark hair, before going to set the table for supper. 

The rest of the evening passed rather uneventfully, Isaac eating quietly with his parents and helping his mother clean up after the meal. After he was in his nightclothes he read his nightly scripture with his father, and was sent to bed upstairs to do his prayers. Now that he was almost ten he did them by himself, as Father told him real men knew how to speak to God alone. 

He climbed under his quilt after speaking with the Lord, trying to put aside the disquiet in his mind after the events of the day and drift to sleep. Something in the back of his consciousness had other ideas, however, and he soon realized why. 

As the chill of late autumn crept over the village and he heard his parents’ voices lower, Isaac thought for a fleeting moment he saw the awful glint of those red eyes in his second story window. He gripped the blanket about him tighter, eyes snapping fully open and heart hammering in his chest at the notion the beast was back. 

“Art thou afraid?” Abaddon said, his melodic voice dripping with honey and and what seemed like malice as his visage solidified behind the window. The horrid creature was tall enough to peer into his room while standing, the idea sending shivers down Isaac’s spine. 

“Nay,” Isaac lied, voice wobbling. 

“Lying is a sin,” he crooned, the porcelain mask of his false face mocking him from behind the glass. 

“Thou art a demon, speak not to me of sin,” he retorted, feeling a strange sense of bravery. 

All this did, however, was make Abaddon chuckle. “Aye, and by that reckoning I am to be the expert, am I not?” came the amused response. There was a faint scratching sound, the boy watching in terror as Abaddon scraped at the window to find the latch. The creature noticed Isaac’s trepidation. “Trouble thyself no further, Isaac,” he reassured, finally getting the mechanism open and snaking his horrid head into the room. “I have no care to hurt thee, and thou art safe in my keeping.” 

“Thou speaketh falsely,” Isaac insisted, voice shaking. “All devils are liars.” 

“Nay, not I,” Abaddon insisted, body contorting and transforming in shape to pull himself through the window and into the boy’s bedroom, where he began to shake himself off a bit despite remaining smaller. “Deception of the tongue is rudimentary, displeasing. Were I truly to lie thou wouldst not discern it, and believe me outright.” The demon stretched on four limbs, circling a bit before lying down on Isaac’s wooden floor much like the old barn cat he used to sneak upstairs. The boy frowned a little, sad at the memory of the creature— when his uncle, who often grew ill around cats and dogs, had found Isaac taking Tibbs upstairs with him he had flown into a rage, whisking the creature away. Come morning Isaac found his body on the back stoop, broken and bloody from a beating. 

He hadn’t looked Jacob in the eye since. 

“Thy uncle is a wicked man,” Abaddon confirmed, and Isaac looked at him in plain shock. “Aye, I know what lieth in thy mind’s eye. It is my office to know the hearts and minds of man.” 

“Uncle Jacob is sick,” Isaac protested, “not wicked. He mourns his lost wife.” 

“He slew thine cat.” 

Isaac’s lip wobbled. He couldn’t deny it, his uncle Jacob was cruel and mean. He didn’t understand why his father let him stay with them, not with the way they were treated. “He is my blood.” 

Abaddon scoffed, head snaking up to rest at the foot of his bed. He tilted his jaw so he was looking sideways at Isaac, expression shrewd. “And yet the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Hast thou given credence to mine offer?” 

Isaac shook his head firmly. “Nay!” If he was going to say anything else, however, it was lost when the both of them heard the heavy, uneven and drunken footsteps of boots upon the landing outside. “Uncle Jacob,” he whispered, drawing the blanket around him tighter. 

“The Devil cometh forth,” Abaddon quipped, pulling his full weight onto Isaac’s little wooden bed and curling up like a cat. “Whatever shalt thou do?” 

“Quiet, beast,” Isaac whimpered. Both boy and demon watched the doorway, the faint glow of lantern light shining under the door. 

About ten minutes prior he had heard his father leave the home, no doubt to fetch firewood for the hearth. Isaac himself had forgotten to do so after supper, he would surely receive a verbal lashing come morning. However… this meant his mother was alone downstairs, and Uncle Jacob had come home drunk again. 

He heard her voice, soft and gentle, but could not discern what she was saying. Uncle Jacob’s response was slurred and angry, no doubt bitter in his alcohol induced fog. As they conversed the younger man’s voice grew louder, his mother Sarah’s growing more imploring and frantic. Isaac stiffened, knuckles turning white from how tightly he clutched the blanket. He heard his mother pleading and then— a harsh slapping sound and her cry of pain. 

“Mother!” he gasped, all but falling out of bed as he scrambled across the floor. He heard blow after blow, but found the latch to his door was stuck. “MOTHER! UNCLE JACOB! STOP!” He threw himself at the wooden barrier, to no avail, before whipping around and fixing Abaddon with an intense stare. “Help her!” 

“Nay.” 

“What dost thou mean, nay?!” cried the boy, still shaking the door with all his might. “I beseech thee to aid her!”

“I cannot,” replied the demon, slithering off the bed, “for I am without flesh. Yet, with a body, I could do much for her.” 

Isaac instantly understood what Abaddon was asking. To say yes would surely damn him to Hell, but living with the fact he sat idly by while his uncle beat his mother was not something he could bear to live with. He looked up, leveling his gaze with the demon’s. “Alright.” 

“Then it is done, our deal?” came the syrupy reply, the glint in his eye not going unnoticed by the boy. 

“It is done.” 

The world fell out from under him. 

Abstain, restrain, forgive,

Or something like that. 

Chapter Text

You were born bluer than a butterfly

Beautiful and so deprived of oxygen. 

Colder than your father’s eyes

He never learns to sympathize with anyone. 

I don’t blame you

But I can’t change you

Don’t hate you 

But we can’t save you 

— Billie Eilish, Blue

Sarah fell against the floor with a thud, weeping as the blows did not stop. “Jacob, Jacob, please! Thou art sick, cease this!” But Jacob did not listen, and her husband was too far away to hear her screams. He had come home from the tavern sicker than a dog, more drunk than a sailor and angrier than a cat with a thorn in its paw. She had tried to offer him some tea to settle his stomach, but he flew into a rage at being spoken to. 

She braced herself for the next punch, both eyes bruised and lip bleeding from the onslaught. It glanced off her shoulder and she choked back a sob, unable to stop the much larger man. This was the angriest he had been in a while, and this was the worst beating she’d sustained. Surely he would kill her, if this continued. Then he would move onto Isaac. 

Isaac. 

Her boy. 

Her baby.

No matter what, she would never let Jacob hurt her baby boy ever again, she was so relieved she had the foresight to lock the door to his room when she heard Jacob outside. She kicked angrily at her brother-in-law, trying in vain to defend herself. “Jacob! Come back to thyself!” 

But he did not. 

“STOP!” came a commanding tone in a melodious voice she did not recognize, and both victim and aggressor looked up to find its source. Isaac was standing at the top of the stairs, eyes red and wild and expression fierce. 

Jacob just laughed. “What wilt thou do, boy?” he mocked. “Stand fast, while I teach the bitch obedience.” 

She shrank back, flinching away from a blow that never came. Instead Sarah heard a scream and a feral snarl, and she looked up to see her son set upon his uncle with the most crazed expression she had ever seen. There was blood, but she wasn’t sure who it belonged to, and Jacob struggled against the nine year old in a panicked manner. “SARAH! CONTROL THY WHELP!” 

“Isaac, Isaac stop!” she cried out, but it was no use. Her son wasn’t listening. 

Of course Abaddon wasn’t listening. He was tasting blood for the first time, real human mortal blood, and it was intoxicating. Not to mention the rage that flowed through him from the boy, rage that had been simmering under the surface for over a year now. The demon was letting it boil over. 

He tore at the young man, trading blows as the two of them tumbled about the downstairs. As Jacob tried to get away he sank his teeth into the young man’s shoulder, blood spraying into his mouth from the wound. He sank his nails into the soft flesh of the drunkard’s arms, clawing and scratching new lines of blood which dripped to the floor. His victim screamed, begging for his life, for Isaac to stop, to let him go, he was sorry, he was sorry, he was so so sorry— Abaddon didn’t care. Isaac wanted him gone and the demon would oblige. 

He felt the crack of ribs under his hands, relishing in the horrid crunch they made beneath his weight; Jacob let out a disgusting gurgling sound, blood bubbling from his chest as one of his crushed ribs tore his lung. He sank his teeth into the young man’s throat with a snarl, Isaac’s canines now unnaturally sharp and jaw unnaturally strong. He jerked his head back, yanking Jacob’s head down to break his neck as he tore out his throat. 

He didn't stop as the body grew limp, didn’t stop as Sarah wept behind him, he only stopped when the door flung open and Abraham stood in the doorway with a musket, eyes bearing a terrified look. “What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded, before letting out a horrified gasp when he saw his brother’s mangled body on the floor. He rushed to him, shoving Isaac away and to the ground and checking Jacob’s pulse. It was futile, however, because in order to have a pulse one must have a throat; his little brother’s was torn open and his spine crushed, the bones of his neck poking up through the front of the wound. 

Sarah grabbed a blood-soaked Isaac with trembling hands and pulled him close, letting out a ragged sob as she clung to him. “Oh my boy, my dear boy,” she wept. He looked up at her, and she watched his eyes change from a stark unnatural red to their familiar baby blues. As soon as they did he looked around in fear, and clutched at her arm tightly. 

“What happened here?!” demanded Abraham once more, fixing his wife and son with a distraught expression. 

“Jacob was overtaken with drink again,” Sarah explained with a shaky voice, “and he laid his hands upon me.”

He looked between the destroyed corpse of his brother and his small family, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “And what befell my brother?” he asked, ignoring the heavy bruises already forming on his wife’s face. 

Sarah pulled Isaac even closer. “He is but a boy, he knew not what was happening,” she said, voice shaking. “He meant only my protection.”

His eyes widened as he stared at his son, whose front was soaked with blood from his mouth to his navel. “This was done by thine hand?” he asked, voice a horrified whisper. 

“I know not,” Isaac replied, trembling. Two hot tear tracts carved themselves through the blood on his face, revealing his pale skin underneath. 

Yes, Abaddon replied in his head, where only the child could hear. I was protecting her as per our deal. 

“Demon,” Abraham choked out, staring at him. “Thou art a demon!”

“Nay!” Sarah gasped, grabbing Isaac tightly. “He is our son!” 

“Thou hast birthed a thing of wickedness,” he snapped at Sarah, backhanding her as she tried to shield Isaac from his father’s rage. She fell back and gasped, eyes welling up with tears— Abraham had never struck her before. “My own flesh and my own blood be spilt upon the floor by a demon of thy womb, and yet thou wouldst stand in his defense?!” 

“He is but a child!” Sarah insisted, making a rare move by standing up to her fairly authoritative husband. “That flesh and blood thou mournest so readily surely would have slain me, Abraham. And dost thou now say that the life of thy wife, the life of thy son— thy legacy— is worth less than that of a drunkard steeped in sin?!” She pulled herself to her knees, putting her body in between her son and her husband. 

“You dare speak of my brother this way?” he hissed. “I married thee because thou wert kind and gentle— where is that kindness and gentleness now, my Sarah? Dost thou reserve it for a creature of Hell?! A murderer?!”

“He is but a BOY!” 

“Could a boy have done all this?!” 

Sarah and Abraham stood, exchanging heated words. Our deal still stands, Abaddon said to Isaac, who clutched at the wool of his doublet in terror as he also rose to his feet. 

I’m scared, the boy whimpered, wanting to curl up into a ball and cry until it all went away. He just wanted to go back to normal— before Jacob moved in with them, before his aunt died, before Isaac’s father cared more for his little brother than his own wife and son. 

I promised I would protect her. Dost thou trust me, Isaac? 

Not in the slightest, he wept, the boy physically sinking to his knees, unable to stand for more than a few minutes from sheer exhaustion and fear. 

I would not hurt thee, child. I am here only to protect thy mother, the voice of Abaddon whispered in his mind. And now she is safe. 

Thou didst kill him! he retorted, hands shaking. 

Yes, Abaddon replied. I did. For if I had not, she would surely be in a grave state. 

Tears streamed down Isaac’s face as he sat in the pool of blood growing from under his uncle’s corpse. His parents argued above him, yet he was barely paying attention. How had it come to this? When had everything gone so wrong? Sobbing, he began to pray. “Lord… Lord God, please— please hear me,” he hiccuped in a halting whisper, tasting the salt of his tears and the iron tang of foreign blood. “I am scared— I don’t— I don’t want to be scared. I don’t know what to do. Thou hast said that Thou art a refuge for the weak, and I am so very weak. Please keep my mother safe— cast away the evil. I am sorry for my sins, Lord, even the ones I know not I have done. Please cover us with the blood of Thy son Jesus Christ, like Father always says, so no evil can touch us. I trust Thee, Lord, for Thou art good and I have no one else.” 

Abraham paused, eyes flashing with rage as he turned away from Sarah. “BLASPHEMER!” he shouted, grabbing Isaac by the collar, which only made the poor child cry harder. “Thou makest a mockery of the Lord with thy voice, foul demon!”

“Nay, nay Father!” Isaac sobbed, struggling against the iron grip. “I am thy son! I am no demon!” 

“Deceiver,” he hissed. “Murderer!” He drew back his free hand and slapped Isaac across the face with an audible crack. 

“Abraham, stop!” yelled Sarah, rushing over to the two and grabbing his arm, trying to pull him off of Isaac. “I pray thee do not hurt him!” 

“Silence, witch!” he raged, pushing her away. She fell to the ground with a cry of pain, instantly clutching at a twisted wrist. 

Isaac’s eyes flashed red as Abaddon came to the surface, and his crying and flailing turned to snarling and thrashing. “UNHAND ME, PRIEST!” he snapped, scratching Isaac’s father until he let him go. Once free Abaddon skittered across the floor to where Sarah lay weeping, standing before her protectively. “Thou art not to lay a finger on this woman, she is in my keeping,” he spat in a voice that was not Isaac’s. 

“See?” Abraham rasped, clutching at his scratched arm as he tried not to tremble. “See, Sarah? That is no son of mine. That be a demon.” 

The woman sat up, grabbing her son. “Do not harm him,” she replied, with the strongest voice she could muster. “The Lord can yet save him from this!” 

“Speak not of the Lord, witch. I see thee now hath conspired with the great enemy— thou art a practitioner of witchcraft, and thou didst invite this wretched demon to corrupt our boy!” 

“Nay! Nay, Abraham, I am no witch!” she sobbed, eyes filled with fear, but it was too late. 

“Thou wilt hang for this,” Abraham replied, voice stony cold. “Thee both shall see justice.” He grabbed the wrists of both of them, dragging a pleading Sarah and a snarling Abaddon from their home and onto the street. “Mine own wife… a witch,” he whispered in despair. 

Some of the townspeople heard the commotion and came to investigate, worried for their minister. “Father Friedling, what is amiss?” asked David Brown, the young butcher. “What hath happened here?!” When he saw Mrs. Friedling and their son Isaac struggling weakly against Abraham’s grip, both covered in blood, his eyes widened in fear and he took a step back. 

“Grab her,” Abraham commanded, and the burly young man grabbed Sarah. 

“I am sorry, goodwife Friedling,” David said, restraining her. He wasn’t sure what all this was about, but he trusted Abraham. 

“Worry not, Mr. Brown,” Sarah murmured. “This is not thy doing.” 

Abraham picked up Isaac, who started kicking and shrieking in that same deep voice. “These two are to be tried for witchcraft come morning, and the boy is to be tried for murder,” he growled, holding his son far too tightly. 

“W-witchcraft?!” David gasped. A murmur rippled through the crowd that had formed around them, and the cobbler went inside the Friedling’s home before returning, white as a sheet. 

“It is true,” the man said, eyes wide. “The youngman Friedling hath been slain!” The rest of the crowd gasped, and once they’d all seen the horrible state of the body, the anger that rose was palpable. 

David was pushed and shoved towards the jail, as he was the one holding onto Abraham’s wife. “Witch!” cried one woman, and Sarah let out a choked sob. Someone else from the crowd threw a rock, and before long both she and David were being pelted as the crowd leered. 

“Hang her!”

“Stone her!”

“Burn her!” 

David shielded the woman with his body, taking the brunt of the small rocks against his back. “You need not protect me, Mr. Brown,” Sarah managed, head hung as they approached the stone building that housed the court and jail. 

“I know,” he replied simply. He had always liked Mrs. Friedling, she was kind to him; he could not reconcile the fact she practiced witchcraft, that the Friedling son was truly a demon. 

Abraham yanked a still struggling Isaac along, pushing the door to the jail open and quickly descending the cold stone stairs. He tossed the boy into the cell at the end of the hall, and directed David to do the same with his wife. The young butcher was much more delicate, however, and Sarah went in willingly. 

“Come, Isaac,” she said softly, and the snarling boy fixed her with his burning red eyes. 

“Yes, Mother,” he replied in that oddly deep voice, sitting down on the floor beside her. 

Abraham glared. “Thee and thy familiar shall face the wrath of God come morning. I shall pray for thy immortal souls,” he spat, before turning and stomping out of the jail. 

David lingered, however. “Is it true?” he asked hoarsely. “Art thou a witch?”

Sarah shook her head. “The Devil hath taken the boy,” she said quietly, pulling her son close, “and my child did only seek to protect me.” 

“Protect thee?” 

“Twas my husband’s brother,” she replied. “He came home in drink and laid his hands upon me.” 

“Then allow me to free thee,” he said, gripping the bars. “Flee this night to the Dutch town an hour south and take my horse— better than what awaits thee here.” 

“Nay, David,” she said softly. “Thou art a good man, but nay. I will submit myself to what must come. If I escape, my husband will not make my flight long.”

“Dost thou thinketh he would pursue thee?”

“Aye. There be nothing my husband doth despise more than a witch.”

He hung his head. “Very well, Mrs. Friedling. May the Lord be with thee and always have thee in His keeping.” 

“Thank thee,” she replied, voice barely above a whisper. David gave a respectful bow of his head, before turning to leave. Her son sat motionless, staring out the ground level window at the top of their cell, his eyes still that strange red. “Isaac? Art thou well?” 

He turned his head, unnaturally still. “Aye,” he replied in a voice that was not his. 

“Thou art not Isaac, art thou?” she asked softly, feeling the growing pit of fear in her stomach spreading through her veins. 

“Nay.” 

“Thou art truly a demon.” 

“Aye.” 

She let out a ragged sob, pulling the shell of her son close and weeping into his starling feather hair. “My son, oh, my son,” she cried, holding him with trembling arms. After a moment, the boy in her arms began to shake, and a blissfully familiar voice sobbed in return. 

“Mama,” he wept, blue eyes squeezed shut as he clung to her apron. “I am so sorry! Oh— I am truly sorry! All of this evil, it is my making!” 

“Nay,” she replied, trying to comfort him. “It was mine. I should not have suffered Jacob to dwell with us, and borne the consequences for telling Abraham no.” 

“What is to come?” Isaac asked fearfully, clinging to her sleeve. “Are we to be hanged come morning?”

“Yes,” Sarah said somberly. “We are.”

“I am afraid,” he whimpered in a tiny voice after a moment of silence, burying his face into her embrace. 

“I am as well,” she replied. “But the Lord shall keep us, whatever befall our earthly bodies,” Sarah reassured, stroking his back in a comforting manner. Isaac wept much longer than that, but soon wore himself out, his hiccuping sobs giving way to even sleepy breathing. 

She looked out the window at the top of her cell, catching a glimpse of the moon. Tomorrow her husband would hang her after a trial that would surely find her guilty, an accusation of witchcraft never went unpunished in their village. She only hoped that Abraham would spare their boy, and find a way to cast out the demon that dwelled within him. 

Despite her most desperate and unrealistic prayers, the morning still came. The pisspoor light of dawn washed over the village, streaming weakly through the cell’s small window and illuminating Sarah’s beloved son’s face. 

She had not slept a wink, holding her boy close and dreading the morning, back sore from leaning against the stone and legs aching. Footsteps sounded against the stone floor, signifying that Sarah’s execution was drawing near. She knew she would have a trial, yes, but with the events of last night and the state of Jacob’s body she knew the verdict that would come. 

Sarah looked up to see a group of women from the village, all of whom wore somber faces or sharp scowls. As soon as the lead woman’s hand touched the iron of the cell bars her son, who had previously been sleeping soundly, sprang to life, throwing himself against the barrier and snarling at them with glowing red eyes. 

Mary Olsen shrieked, jumping away from the door and clutching her sister, Elizabeth Reynolds, tightly. The thing that was not Isaac gripped the bars firmly, growling. “Restrain thy familiar, witch,” Mrs. Olsen said, still trembling against her sister. 

Sarah was over this. She had spent the whole night on a cold stone floor, with not even hay to lay upon. She had watched her son rip out her brother-in-law’s throat, and before that she’d been beaten black and blue by that very man. She knew they were here to examine her for witch marks, to prick her and poke her and look for signs of the devil; that was not something she wanted to endure on top of everything that had transpired over the last ten hours, and if this evil that took her son was bent on protecting her from groping hands so be it. 

“No,” she replied, meeting Mary’s gaze. 

“Thou shalt repent for this,” spat Patience Fowler, another one of the five women gathered before her and the wife of the judge. “Thou shalt pay dearly before the Lord!” 

“Nay,” she replied again, turning to fix Patience with her unwavering gaze. “I know where I stand with the Lord. I have not sinned this day.” 

“Liar!” Mary declared, reaching for the key before Isaac snapped at her fingers again. 

“Thou shalt not lay a hand upon Isaac’s mother. She is under my protection until my work be done,” the thing inside him growled. 

“A demon,” Elizabeth choked in shock. “So it is true.”

“Didst thou have any doubt, sister?” Patience demanded, gesturing to the two of them. “They are both stained with their kinsman’s blood, and are without repentance!”

“I never said I was without repentance,” Sarah interrupted, angry with how her reputation was being destroyed amongst her peers. Oh, how she longed for the days gone by when she was but a gentle preacher’s wife, a good woman of God. 

“Thou didst murder Jacob!” 

“He laid his hands upon me!” 

“ENOUGH!” Patience had her fill of the arguing, yanking the door open and backhanding Isaac hard before he had the chance to jump upon her. He fell against the floor roughly, eyes fading to blue as he began to cry. 

“Mama,” he sobbed, reaching for her as the women gathered around Sarah, ripping her clothes off and examining her for signs of witchcraft. 

“It will all be well, Isaac,” Sarah reassured, fighting tears of her own. She felt so exposed, so violated, like a harlot with no agency laid bare on the ground. “Thy father will cast out the demon. Thou wilt be well in the end, I swear it.” 

“Cease speaking with the beast,” Mary ordered, grabbing one of Sarah’s arms and pulling it up roughly to examine it. 

Sarah just closed her eyes, waiting for this hell to end. 

“But Mama,” he sobbed, reaching for her again before Elizabeth grabbed him, binding his arms behind his back. “Thou wilt not be safe! They will hurt thee!” 

“Be strong, Isaac,” was all she said in reply. Once she had been examined properly they tossed her clothes back to her, and Sarah hurriedly got dressed again. 

“Quickly now. We shan’t keep the judge waiting,” Patience snapped, yanking up one of Sarah’s stockings when the woman did not move fast enough for her liking. 

When she was dressed they bound her wrists and ankles with iron shackles, the two women who had not yet said a word— the twins Felicity and Chastity Brower— grabbed Isaac by his bindings and dragged him out of the cell before Sarah was allowed to exit with the others. She walked ahead, the twins leading her poor son behind like a hapless dog with no master as they made their way up the stairs to the courtroom above the jail. 

The double doors swung open, and Sarah looked around to see just about every villager in all of their little settlement crowded into the relatively small room, watching her with wide eyes and pinched mouths. Her heart sank from her ribs to the bottom of her stomach, veins filling with ice for what was to come. Patience pulled her forward towards the judicial bench where Judge Fowler sat, a grave expression on his face. 

The court was full of muttering and murmuring from the townsfolk, cold eyes roving over the woman and the small boy beside her. “Order,” Fowler said, and when the crowd did not listen he tapped his gavel on its wood stand. “Order in the court!” The murmuring died down and he sighed. “That is favorable,” he said to himself. 

Sarah swallowed hard, looking around. The prosecutor sat on the bench, her once loving husband by his side. On the other side sat the jury, twelve men from the town sat with the sole purpose of deciding her fate. Her head swam and she prayed, she prayed harder and more fervently than she ever had in her life. 

“Mrs. Friedling,” began Judge Fowler, staring her down, “thou hast been called forth this morn upon accusation of witchcraft. What sayeth thou in thy defense?” 

“I did it not,” she replied in a trembling voice, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. “I know nothing of witchcraft, I am but a humble preacher’s wife. I am not guilty!” 

He turns his head to look at Abraham and the prosecutor. “What sayeth thou to the accused, Father?” 

“The witch lies before God and this court!” the man who once swore to protect her shouted. “She called upon her familiar to take over my son, and set him upon my brother’s life!” 

“Be this the truth, Mrs. Friedling?”

“NAY!” she cried, terrified. “It is not true! Abraham, I pray thee, it is I— thy beloved wife Sarah! I would never betray thee, nor give myself unto the Devil! Please!” 

“Shall I believe thee, after that loathsome beast did tear Jacob’s throat from his body?!” Abraham demanded, slamming his fist upon the table, which drew a choked sob from his wife. 

“Father, control thyself!” Judge Fowler snapped, slamming his gavel loudly. “Give not thyself to thy emotions!” Abraham closed his mouth, glowering at Sarah. His gaze was like poison, it made her feel sick and weak. “There. That is better,” the judge followed. “Be it true, Mrs. Friedling? Were it thy familiar who took the life of the young Jacob Friedling?” 

She shook her head again. “Nay,” she wept, sinking to her knees, it was impossible to stay strong. Behind her she heard her son begin to speak only for one of the women minding him to strike him back to silence. “It is not true. I have no familiar.” 

“Spoken like a true witch,” Abraham snapped. “Thou knoweth honesty not.” 

“I didst not permit thee to speak, Father Friedling,” Judge Fowler said sharply with a glare. He then turned to his wife. “Mrs. Fowler, did the woman bear any witch’s marks?” 

She shook her head. “Nay, your honor. But marks dost not the witch maketh.” 

“Mh,” he hummed noncommittally, folding his hands. “I shall send the jury to deliberate.”

Sarah looked to her son Isaac, who stared back with his baleful blues. “They are to hang thee, aren’t they,” he whispered hoarsely, dark bangs falling into his eyes. 

“Yes… it is likely they shall,” she replied, voice trembling, and they both began to weep quietly. 

After only thirty minutes, the jury returned from deliberation and Judge Fowler called court back into session. Sarah trembled beneath their collective gazes, eyes wide with the impending doom of her fate. 

“Gentlemen of the jury, what be thy verdict?” he asked, and the answer made her ears ring and head reel like a spindle making thread. 

“We the jury find the defendant, Sarah Friedling, guilty.” 

You were born reaching for your mother’s hands 

Victim of your father’s plans to rule the world 

Too afraid to step outside 

Paranoid and petrified of what you’ve heard.

I don't blame you

But I can’t change you 

Don’t hate you 

But we can’t save you. 

Chapter Text

When I was a child I heard voices 

Some would sing and some would scream 

You soon learn you have few choices 

I learned the voices died with me. 

When I was a child I’d sit for hours 

Staring into open flame 

Something in it had a power

Could barely tear my eyes away. 

All you have is your fire 

And the place you need to reach 

Don’t you ever tame your demons 

But always keep them on a leash. 

- Hozier, Arsonist’s Lullaby

All Isaac could do was scream. His mother… his mother… guilty of witchcraft. One of those mean ladies who used to be his mother’s friends grabbed him, shoving cloth into his mouth to shut him up. 

He cried silently, voice muffled by the rough fabric. Thou didst promise, he sobbed to Abaddon, eyes squeezed shut. Thou didst promise to keep her safe! 

I can only do so much in a mortal vessel, child, he replied. If my work were complete I could keep her in true safety… but it is not so.

Thine work? Isaac questioned. Thou hast not yet told me the nature of thy job. 

Abaddon huffed, avoiding the subject. This night shall be long. Let me bear the burden of thine eyes, that thou mayest sleep.

But—

I asked politely, he insisted, in a way that told Isaac this was not in fact a request— it was an order. 

Isaac closed his eyes again, tears leaking across his cheeks. Alright. And his mind went dark. 

When Isaac gained awareness once more he was still bound by rope, but it was late into the day, sun hanging low. He was in front of the gallows, still minded by one of those awful twins; the roughly woven hemp of his bindings bit into his flesh, wrists rubbed raw by the friction. It hurt to move them so he didn’t, perfectly still as he watched the worst day of his life unfold. Thankfully that awful rag was no longer in his mouth, but he remained silent, knowing he would be beaten if he spoke out of turn. 

They are to hang her, Abaddon said to him. 

Why wouldst thou bring me back now? Isaac demanded, lip quivering. Why dost thou make me behold this? 

So that this truth may never leave thee: God did not save her, the demon replied cruelly. 

Isaac sighed, shaking his head. For a spiritual creature, thou knowest little of God. 

I beg thy finest pardon? He sounded insulted, and Isaac could feel him glaring inside his head. 

The Lord did not promise to spare our earthly bodies. He promised His Son, that our sins be forgiven and our souls receive everlasting life, he replied. 

Some protector He is, then. Is it not thy earthly bodies which matter to thee? Abaddon asked, but Isaac simply stared ahead, watching his mother mount the gallows. Mankind. I do not understand thee— nor do I think I ever shall, he huffed, looking through Isaac’s eyes at the scene before him as well. 

Sarah looked down at him, crystal eyes brimming with gleaming tears. Isaac met her gaze, forcing Abaddon to as well, and mouthed the words I love thee to her. 

She nodded. I love thee dearly. 

Isaac let out a ragged sob, and one of the twins kicked him. “Silence, Devil. The Lord triumphs this day.” 

He wanted to scream and claw at her, he wanted to unleash Abaddon and free his mother, but his father was a pious and dangerous man. Were he to rescue Sarah, Abraham would hunt them down to the ends of the earth. So Isaac did the next best thing he could think of— he prayed. 

“Lord,” he began, but another swift kick, this time to his mouth, made sure his prayer was silent. Please take her. Please do not let her be afraid. 

He watched in horror as the noose was lowered, the executioner giving it a tug to ensure it would break her neck cleanly. 

She is good. Thou knowest she is good. 

Sarah lifted her face, tears rolling down her cheeks as the noose was pressed to her skin, the executioner looping it around her neck and under her chin. 

I cannot hold her hand, but Thou canst. 

He tightened the noose, and Sarah’s hands visibly trembled. 

Please remember her when she comes to Thee. 

“Any final words, Mrs. Friedling?” the executioner asked, as was custom. 

Please… remember me as well. 

“Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they are doing,” she rasped hoarsely, and a gasp ripped through the quiet onlookers. 

I am trying to be good. 

“Blasphemer,” Abraham snarled, but his wife didn’t reply, her only action was to meet his gaze, eyes cold and sorrowful. He looked away. 

I trust in Thee, Lord Jesus, Christ my King. 

The executioner put his hand on the lever. 

I trust in Thee. 

He pulled. 

I do. 

Sarah jerked as the floor disappeared from under her, neck snapping in an instant with an audible crack. Her hands fluttered and twitched for a moment, eyes rolling in her head, before all went still. 

I do. 

Isaac’s resolve crumbled and he collapsed fully against the ground, sobbing like he never had before. He wailed, gnashing his teeth like a wild animal caught by a trap. “MAMA!” he keened, tears mixing with the dirt, “MAMAAAAAAA!”

Abraham walked over stiffly, not looking at the corpse of his wife strung up at the gallows. “That was not thy mother, foul demon,” he snapped, grabbing Isaac by the hair and pulling him away from the scene. The crowd looked on, unsure of what to do now. “Be silent.” 

But Isaac would not be silent. His mother was dead, the one person he loved most in the world was dead. The most important person in his life, his best friend, his protector. She was gone, and she was never coming back. He kicked and screamed and struggled, eyes wild and flickering rapidly between blue and red. “THOU SHALT PAY!” he shrieked, Abaddon’s voice bleeding into Isaac’s in a disturbing echo. “THOU WILT BURN IN HELL!” 

Abraham glared, turning to the blacksmith, who shrunk back at the intensity of such an expression. “I have a project for thee. Ready thyself.” He then dragged Isaac away before the man could answer, the possessed child putting up a fight the whole walk from the town square to the jail under the courthouse. The jailer hurried after them, rushing to open the door for Abraham as he pulled his son down the stone steps by his hair. “Tonight, we kill a demon.”

The boy shrieked in pain as the man who was his father tossed him into the dingiest cell yet again, the door shutting with the loud clang of iron as the two men left. 

He was alone now. 

Isaac continued to cry, writhing against the ground. He was so angry, so devastated, so grief stricken, he could barely even think. But there— stirring in the back of his mind— the culprit. 

The demon. 

“All of this is thy doing!” he cried out loud, face pressed against the ground. “I hate thee! I hate thee!” 

There is still yet work to be done, child. 

“I will not help thee! Thou hast broken thy word!” 

Nay, I did not. 

“Thou sworest to keep her safe— thou gavest thine oath!”

Child— 

“OATHBREAKER!” Isaac roared, all his rage pouring out as tears. “Thou didst promise. Thou didst!” 

Abaddon remained silent, unable to stop Isaac from pouring his pain into the world around him. 

When someone came down the jail steps to retrieve the boy once again, night was almost completely upon them. Isaac pried himself off the ground, wiping his dirty face on his sleeve. “Hast thou come to kill me?” he asked, looking up to see who approached his cell. 

Alas, it wasn’t his father— it was the jailer instead. “Quiet, boy,” the man replied. “It is time for thee to face the Lord.” 

Isaac didn’t reply to this as the door to his cell was opened and he was led out, still bound. All he could do was glower at the man leading him to his doom, blue eyes filled with pure poison. His feet scraped over the cobblestone and he grunted as he struggled to keep up with the jailer, ultimately giving up and letting himself be dragged to the gathering of people on the cliffside. 

All of the villagers were there, even the children his age; they held torches and pitchforks and sticks, their jeering and angry voices filling the air with a toxic din. At the end of the mob he could see his father, standing on the grass at the edge of the cliff. He was wearing his long dark coat, his crucifix glinting at his neck as he held his large, heavy Bible. Near him stood the blacksmith, tending to a large bucket which looked to be full of hot coals. He struggled against the jailer, whining softly as his eyes filled with tears. “No, no, please,” he whimpered, but the man paid him no mind. 

Isaac, Abaddon said, piping up, let me do this. 

“Nay,” he replied aloud, shaking his head. “Father will save me! He will cast thee out and I shall be free!” 

I would have it that thee should survive this, he replied, bristling. If thou fightest, thou wilt perish with me. 

“Be quiet! Be quiet!” 

Abaddon made a noise of irritation in Isaac’s mind, falling silent but still watching through those blue eyes as the boy was tossed to the ground before the preacher. If Isaac wanted to do this together, then they would do this together. 

“Come forth, foul demon, in the name of the Lord!” Abraham commanded, squaring his shoulders. 

“Father, no,” Isaac said, voice high and nervous. “It is I, Isaac, it is thy son!” 

“Use not my son’s voice, devil,” he snarled in reply, cold eyes flashing. “Thou canst not beguile me.” 

“I do not lie!” he retorted frantically, trying to crawl towards Abraham before getting kicked sharply. “It is not Abaddon, it is I! It is I,” Isaac sobbed, air forced from his lungs with a wheeze as he hit the ground. 

“The power of Christ compels thee!” Abraham ordered again, and Isaac felt Abaddon be forcibly pulled from the background despite his struggling. 

Abaddon groaned, soul stinging as he was forced to take over the body by the magic of the priest. It seems he knew a little bit about exorcisms. “What dost thou want, oh man of God?” Abaddon spat, struggling to push Isaac’s body up to his knees. 

“I knew thou wert in there,” Abraham replied, and Abaddon looked up, tossing Isaac’s dark bangs from his forehead. 

“Aye, I am here. I did what thou couldst not— I saved thy wife from the evil thou didst call brother.” He met Abraham’s gaze, a challenge. 

“Speak not of the witch,” the preacher hissed, glaring. “She was weighed and found wanting.” 

The demon inside his son scoffed. “Sarah Friedling was innocent of witchcraft, the sole evil that dwelt in thy house was the bondage of drink.”

Abraham took a step forward. “Liar.”

“I have spoken no falsehood,” he replied, eyes burning a stark red. 

“Thou art a devil, lies are all thou knowest.”

Abaddon shook his head. “Nay, not I. Not on a matter so grave. I would never lie concerning the soul.” 

“Hold thy tongue! Thou hast taken my child from me!” the preacher snapped, glaring at him. 

“I took nothing. He fled unto me, broken, that I might do for him what thou couldst not,” the demon said, almost sounding smug. 

Abraham was taken aback, scandalized at what the monster was suggesting. “What wouldst thou claim I could not give mine own child?”

“What doth the Scripture command of thee, Abraham, in Timothy— to care for thy household?” Abaddon asked, tilting his head quizzically. “Thou hast failed to keep him safe.”

At this, the preacher’s blood boiled in his veins. “Speak not scripture to me, demon! Thy evil tongue doth corrupt the Word of God!” 

“I know His Word. More intimately than thou canst claim to know it,” Abaddon spat, eyes burning in his sockets like blood. 

“I hath heard enough from thee, beast,” he snapped, opening his Bible. “I will finish this.” 

“Good luck,” Abaddon jeered, splitting his son’s face into an uncanny smile. “Thou shalt need it.” 

Abraham placed his hand on the small leatherbound Bible, straightening his posture. “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whose holy power all spirits are subject, I command thee, foul spirit, depart from this child and this household!”

Abaddon smirked. Who did this priest think he was? There was no way a small town man of the cloth could have the power to cast a demon as powerful as himself out, even if he were knowledgeable on exorcisms. To exorcise Abaddon would take experience and skill that he was sure he did not have. Therein, thou art mistaken, said Isaac, cutting through Abaddon’s thoughts. 

Spare me thy boasts, he hath no such experience, he snorted in reply. 

Abraham held up his hand. “By the Word of God, which is Truth, I bind thee! By the blood of the Lamb, I command thee, leave this soul unscathed!”  The crowd around them watched in silence, like the town itself was holding its breath. Abraham bent lower, forcing Abaddon to make eye contact with him as he grabbed his chin. “I rebuke thee, thou enemy of God, thou liar, thou deceiver! Thou shalt trouble no more this house nor this child!” 

“Unhand me,” Abaddon snarled, trying to yank his face from the man’s grasp unsuccessfully. 

“Depart I say, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost! Thou hast no dominion here, neither in flesh nor in spirit!” 

“I said unhand me!” Abaddon repeated, voice growing more shrill. He didn’t like this, he didn’t like the feeling in his chest. “I will not go, I will not! My work is not finished!” He thrashed, but Abraham’s grip turned from firm to painful. 

“By the power of God Almighty, by His Word, by His angels, I command thee— leave now, and tempt no more! Be gone from this boy, and trouble him no longer!” Abaddon started growling in response, teeth snapping at the arm in front of him. This foolishness had gone on far too long. Abraham turned to the blacksmith, nodding to the bucket of coals. “It is time.” The blacksmith nodded as well, grabbing a long iron from inside the receptacle to reveal a large crucifix shaped brand.  

When Abaddon saw the brand he paled, trying to scramble backwards and away from Abraham. “No, no no no no,” he whispered, soul clenching in an uncomfortable manner. This was bad. He truly had underestimated this priest, this man of the cloth was clearly a trained exorcist. 

Whatever is the matter? Isaac asked, a smugness to his voice that the demon had not yet heard. Art thou frightened? 

Thou damned brat, knowest thou not what thou beholdest!? Abaddon replied, thoughts as frantic as his words. 

“The Lord rebuke thee, oh adversary. Let His will be done, and His child be free,” Abraham said, voice dropping to a register only he and Abaddon could hear. The blacksmith handed the preacher the brand, and he leveled it towards the demon. 

Wait, what meaneth he to do with that brand? Isaac said, an edge of worry to his voice. 

Abaddon swallowed hard. He had never wanted ultimately to harm Isaac— he took no pleasure in the suffering of children, he never had. He had only ever been a gatekeeper, given the job of dictating torture rather than doling it out. While he was supposed to enjoy the punishment of sinners, but this boy… he was no sinner. Now thou dost see. 

No— no, I do not see, I do not! Isaac’s frustration grew, his soul trembling. 

Abaddon kept a level head as best he could— this was only a boy. He was only a boy. He meaneth to brand us, to bind us, and to cast us out.

What!?

He is to kill us. 

Nay! Thou art the one to be cast out— he shall save me! Isaac cried, frantic as they both watched the blacksmith approach at the priest’s direction. The man moved their bindings and ripped the woolen doublet they wore open, so Abraham might brand the skin of the boy more easily. 

The demon swallowed hard. No, he will not. He… he will not. This day death cometh for us both, Isaac. 

But— my father— my father doth love me! He would never harm me! He would not! he wailed hysterically, tears welling up in their shared eyes and streaming down their face. 

It seems… Abaddon hung his head. It seems he hateth me more than he loveth thee. 

No! Thou liest! Thou art wrong! Thou art in error! Isaac sobbed, his bright and sparkling soul throwing itself futilely against Abaddon’s dark essence. 

He looked up at Abraham, Isaac’s tears streaming down their face. “Please, no,” he whispered hoarsely. “Thou wilt kill him.”

“And also thee,” Abraham snarled coldly, and pushed the brand into the pale skin of his son’s chest. 

Agony. 

It was agony. 

Abaddon had never felt pain like this before in his ten thousand years of living. This wasn’t the kind of pain he was used to in Hell, it wasn't the blessed torment of his beloved home. Demons welcome pain, they relish in it, but Abaddon could not relish in this; it cut to the very soul of him, binding him in white hot chains. He was vaguely aware of screaming— was it him? Was it Isaac? Was it both of them? 

He couldn’t tell. 

Tears tore down his face, evaporating into steam before they could fall to the ground. He collapsed, writhing as he felt Isaac’s sharp and sparkling soul slowly fuse to his own inky depths. This would damn Isaac forever. Did this man truly mean to sacrifice his own son for this? Was this what he thought was righteous?! 

MAMA! I WANT MY MAMA! Isaac screamed, sobbing. HELP ME! 

With the last of his ebbing power, Abaddon granted Isaac’s dying wish. Alright. 

His essence shuddered, severing their connection. Where they had begun to fuse sank into Abaddon, the remainder of Isaac beginning to disintegrate. 

Wait, wait, I— I don’t want to die! Isaac sobbed. 

Abaddon held his hands. Greet thy mother for me. Tell her I did not desire for this outcome. 

And Isaac was gone. 

He let out a broken sound, slumping forward into the rough dirt. Every bone ached, every muscle fiber burned, every nerve sparkled with the agony of a fused soul remnant and a broken essence. Turning to his side, he looked up at the sky. 

Demons didn't pray. 

But Abaddon was desperate. 

“I am sorry,” he said hoarsely, too quiet for anyone but himself to hear, as his fist trembled against the dirt. “Lord… I… I am not of You. My voice… my voice meaneth nothing, but— please— he is only a boy. Keep him.”

“Speak up, monster,” Abraham said, prodding him with his hard-soled shoe. “What dost thou utter?” 

“Isaac is gone,” Abaddon replied, looking up at the man with the kind of hatred only born from true pain. 

“And soon, thou shalt be as well.” The preacher lifted his hand, where Abaddon saw a crucifix glittering in his palm. He was already bound, what more would this evil man have of him? “IN NOMINE DEI OMNIPOTENTIS TE IN ABYSSUM MITTO,” he began, and Abaddon’s blood ran cold. 

“No,” he rasped, struggling to his knees. “No!”

“ET PER SACRUM CHRISTI SAC—” Before Abraham could finish the incantation that would destroy his essence, Abaddon used the very last of his strength. He lept upon the man, knocking him to the ground as he sank his teeth into his shoulder. Abraham shrieked, struggling to get the demon off of him, but they were too close to the edge of the cliff. The man lost his balance and the two of them went careening over the edge, drawing horrified gasps from the crowd of villagers. 

He was vaguely aware of falling and the sound of Abraham’s screams, but they were quickly silenced by a sickening crunch that was cut off by an intense ringing in Abaddon’s new ears. 

…

Abaddon opened his eyes, gaining clarity for the first time in four billion years. He stared up at the periwinkle dawn sky, the previous eons flooding back into his mind with a horrifying immediacy that made him sick. 

He wanted to throw up, he had to throw up, but he couldn’t move. His bones were broken, his arm shattered, his leg twisted. He was certain some of his ribs were broken as well, and suspected due to his laborious breathing that a bone shard had ripped his lung. 

All those people, all those people he cared for and he lost— was that all it was? Was that his life? To live all those different lives, all to be torn apart and shoved into different bodies, his true form and this boy, to endure a failed binding and fusion and exorcism— it was almost more than he could take. 

Almost. 

When he could finally move again the sun was peaking up over the horizon, and he managed to pull himself upright into a sitting position. With a heavy grunt he twisted his leg back into place, wincing at the popping sound it made. “Ugh,” he huffed, peeling off rocks that were stuck to his skin by dried blood. He was covered in it, clumping in his hair and sticking his clothes to his body. He took stock of his injuries— a healing broken leg, healing broken ribs, a concussion, dislocated shoulder… when his hand passed over his chest he shrieked, falling back to the gravel beneath him in agony. White hot pain coursed through his body, radiating out from that cursed crucifix seared into his chest as he writhed on the ground. The memories of the previous night echoed in his mind like a hollow bell toll, distant but ever present, ever haunting; he lay upon the ground until the pain subsided. When he finally got his breathing under control and the pain ebbed, he took in his surroundings. 

All around him lay a thick blanket of milky fog, being slowly peeled back bit by bit by the rising golden sun. It, however, was not quite bright enough to give the air any sort of warmth, and the damp mist made the bitter chill bite into his skin even more severely. Still, he thought, warmer than Northern Europe ever was. In front of him lay the broken body of the priest who damned him, a large spire of rock protruding from his chest; more blood coated the rock and the man’s body in a dark, inky veneer that the next rain would wash away. 

When he could finally stand he wobbled his way to the riverbank, sitting down into the icy water and washing the blood from his clothes and body. He buttoned his teal doublet, remembering vaguely that these were the clothes he wore in an echo of a memory he couldn't quite grasp. Abaddon did not know why he was here now, what the purpose of any of that was, and it was deeply frustrating; all he supposed now, was that he had to move forward. 

When I was a man I thought it ended 

When I knew love’s perfect ache 

But my peace has always depended 

On all the ashes in my wake.