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The first time Abel sits at his new, marble-topped desk, he doesn’t feel much like the leader of an army.
Firstly, he really doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing. There’s a bunch of official-looking folders stacked on his desk, as well as a personalised welcome note from Sera herself, but he doesn’t really know what’s inside them. His eyes slide to a stack of blank papers, stamped with his father’s insignia at the bottom of the page. That symbol belonged to him now, which still doesn’t feel real.
He doesn’t like it very much. It seems a little…lewd, but he supposes that’s how Dad was, so it’s fitting. Tentatively, he reaches for a sheet and pulls it toward him, unsure of what he’s going to actually do with it now. At least he looks busy.
Writing might be a good start. There’s a golden quill resting on a fancy plate by the papers, and Abel picks it up, twirling it in his fingers. Was the feather one of Dad’s? It sure wasn’t his. If this is Sera’s doing, he appreciates the sentiment.
The door crashes open, and Abel doesn’t need to glance up to know who the intruder is. Her presence alone makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, not unlike an unexpected chill on a cold, winter’s morning. Except, with Lute, there is no promise of warming up with one of Peter’s famous, spiked hot cocoas. She just isn’t that way inclined.
Reluctantly, Abel drags his gaze over towards her. She’s unmasked; the horned helmet hanging from her belt, her hands clenching into tight fists as she stalks to her desk. He should acknowledge her. He should ask her how her day’s been, or if there’s anything pressing that she needs to discuss with him. That would be leader business, right?
But, he doesn’t. Despite his fleeting moment of bravery in Hell, her mere presence still intimidates him, making his blood run cold. Somehow, as if possessed, he finds the resolve to rise to his feet, turn his sheet of paper over and pointedly clears his throat.
“Good morning, Miss—uh, good morning, Lute,” he corrects himself. Dad never referred to her as ‘Miss’, he reminds himself. Mostly he’d addressed her by name. Once or twice, Abel had overheard him calling her ‘Lieutenant’, though he remembers feeling as if he’d been eavesdropping on an oddly private moment during those instances. Almost like it had been a gentle, fond nickname, rather than her formal military title.
As Abel expects Lute all but ignores him. He thinks he can see her left eye twitch, but he can’t be entirely sure. It might just be the special brand of stink-eye that she seems to reserve just for him, and him alone. In an attempt to disguise his shaky hands, he laces his fingers together behind his back and rocks on his heels.
“Do you, um, like the new office? Sera had the repairs fast-tracked so we could return to work as soon as possible.” He casts his eyes to the golden frames lining the walls, each displaying one of Dad’s beloved guitars. All of them, except for the one that Lute smashed when he’d caught her on the precipice of a spectacular fit of rage. Shame, really. That guitar was pretty neat.
She doesn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, she unhooks her helmet from her belt and sets it down on her desk with an almighty thud. Abel’s palms grow clammy, and he discretely wipes them on his cassock, hoping that Lute doesn’t notice. Instinct tells him that she’ll chew him out if she catches even a sniff of his fear.
“I-I don’t want to trouble you,” he continues, taking a cautious step towards her. Not too close, he reminds himself. She’s dangerous, after all. “But, um, I really hope that what happened between us in Hell doesn’t affect our professional relationship moving forward—”
“Professional relationship?” Lute snarls, furious and rabid. Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy meet his, and Abel is immediately hit with a pang of guilt. Maybe he’s come across too strong; he’s not very good at this kind of thing. Confrontation was more his dad and brother’s style. He prefers the role of a mediator; to keep the peace and avoid conflict.
“Well—”
“You think we—” Her golden prosthesis gestures between the two of them, “have anything resembling a professional relationship?” She throws her head back and cackles; an ugly, unhinged, screeching sound that reverberates off every stained-glass window and polished marble surface. “To me, you’re nothing but a shit-stain on your father’s legacy. An abomination that doesn’t deserve to carry his blessed name.”
Her cruel words should burn. They should strike Abel with the sting of a sharp slap across his face. But, they don’t, for when Lute simmers down and straightens up once more, fingers clutching at the edge of her desk, and chest heaving, he sees her a little differently than before.
Rust-coloured bags line her tired eyes. White hair hangs limp and straggly around her face. Her cheeks are hollow and gaunt, and cracked lips give the illusion of being parched to the point of dehydration. He knows she misses Dad, of course—they were inseparable, one never seen without the other—but perhaps he was so consumed by his own insecurity that he’s been oblivious to the blindingly obvious this whole time.
She’s in pain; the kind that stems from a heartache so raw that it’s all-consuming. For the first time, Abel recognises the golden bangle around her left wrist. His heart contracts at the sight of Dad’s halo. Had she been wearing it this whole time? He can’t be sure, but the ache in his chest tells him he should have noticed much earlier. Maybe he could have handled things differently. Given her the grace that nobody else had. His mind rewinds, recalling Peter’s glee at her demotion during the court hearing. He wishes he’d told him to cut it out.
Abel swallows and digs deep, searching for that shred of courage that briefly overcame him in Hell. Maybe they need this for their relationship to grow. Maybe now’s the time to atone for not realising the depth of her grief sooner.
“You know,” he begins, “My dad, he, um, always spoke very highly of you.”
Lute doesn’t react, instead busying herself with some manila folders on her desk. In Abel’s opinion, that’s a good sign, so he presses on. “Yeah. I mean, he didn’t have very nice things to say about a lot of people. Emily, Saint Peter…” He resists the natural temptation to include himself in that list. This moment isn’t about him. “But, you, Lute? Holy cow, he was always telling me about all the amazing things you did. Like how you can whip over six hundred soldiers into line with one look, or, um, take out a sinner’s eye with minimal bloodshed.”
The vision causes a wave of nausea to wash over him. Bile rises in his throat, and he forces it back down. Vomiting on the brand-new floors wouldn’t be a great look, and knowing Lute, she’d rub his face in it or something equally as horrific. “Dad didn’t hold a lot of respect for others, but I think that’s because he reserved it all for you.”
It's subtle, but Abel notices the column of Lute’s throat work as she swallows. He’s unsure if she’s holding back another insult, or if his words have struck a nerve. Despite this small, hopeful development, he can’t stop now. Not if he has any hope of getting through to her.
“One time, he’d, um, had a little bit to drink and was getting real deep, rambling about Lilith and Mom. Something about Lilith being his first love, which was kinda doomed from the beginning, and Mom was his great love, considering they, y’know populated the Earth and stuff.” He pauses. Perhaps he’s imagining something that isn’t there, but he can almost see his father glaring disapprovingly at him from across the room, warning him to shut it.
Of course Dad isn’t there, he reminds himself. He’s dead.
“I don’t need to hear this,” Lute hisses, her jaw tightening. A vein in her neck bulges as she slips her hand into her pocket. “I don’t need to hear about Lucifer’s whore wife and your dumb slut of a—”
“B-but then,” Abel continues, raising his voice to be heard over her sharp tongue and venomous insults, “he said something else. Something about finding unconditional love when he least expected it, with somebody who liked him for him, warts and all. At the time I didn’t understand it, but I think—” He nods to himself, “I think I get it, now. And he—even if he wasn’t the most affectionate man, I like to think he’d have expressed that someday, when he eventually worked up the courage.”
Lute’s eyes dart around the room, manic, as if she’s seeing something that Abel can’t. The fingers in her pocket fumble, and he glimpses the end of a thin, golden string that looks vaguely familiar. He inhales. The guitar that she’d smashed. His eyes catch on a patch of dried, golden blood near her hip. It’d been just over a month since the last Extermination, and while Abel hadn’t been present, one of the Exorcists (he can’t remember which, perhaps he should ask Emily to help make up name tags for them all) let slip that Lute was by Dad’s side when he took his final breath. Of course. It’s probably his blood, possibly the last part of him that she can cling to. That and his halo. His shoulders droop. That’s…sad. Not in a pathetic way, no. It’s heartbreaking, really.
“Your—” It’s subtle, but the ghost of a tremble passes over Lute’s lower lip. She steps backwards, her flesh hand clutching desperately at her hair. Crud. Abel’s stomach twists unpleasantly; his intention wasn’t to upset her. He takes a step back, shoulders instantly rising again, readying himself for attack. “Your father possessed more courage in one fingernail than you’ll ever fucking have.”
She turns on her heel and retreats, the door slamming loudly behind her as she exits the room. Abel wonders if he should follow, check that she’s alright.
No. They’re not there—not yet, and perhaps they never would be. Despite this, their exchange feels like a minor victory, and Abel finds himself back at his desk once more, paper turned back over and the feathered quill in hand.
Dear Dad,
It’s me. Abel.
I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you since you left. Life’s been pretty busy, and I haven’t really known what to say. Turns out I’ve inherited your position as head of the army. Sera and Emily approached me a couple of weeks ago about it. Honestly, I didn’t think it was going to be a big deal.
Upon reflection, that was kinda silly of me, now that I think about it.
See, Lute didn’t take too lightly to it. She got blindsided by the news during a court hearing (by the way, did you know redemption actually works? How cool is that!) and I guess you could say she flew off the handle. Hoo boy. Your office was a real mess by the time she was done with it. I’d tell you about your favourite guitar, but I don’t think you’ll like that news very much.
Would you believe that this isn’t even the craziest thing that’s happened? Yeah, Hell was gonna try and invade us. They got pretty close, too. Sera even asked us to prepare the troops in the event that Emily couldn’t convince them that what they were doing was wrong. I think that was the first and only time I’d seen Lute smile since you’ve been gone.
I gotta admit, I was so scared. I’m not brave like you or Cain, Dad. You know I don’t much like confrontation, and even though it’s Hell’s fault you’re no longer with us, I don’t think I have it in me to kill anyone. Not like you guys. But, what else could I do? I couldn’t exactly back down and risk damaging your reputation any more than I probably already have.
But, Dad, something happened in Hell. Something really unexpected. Lute and I had to go down there and bring Emily back home, and she wanted to go rogue and start killing demons. It wasn’t part of our plan, and we were all trying to talk her out of it. And then, everyone started turning to me. ME! I had no idea what I was supposed to do, but something inside of me kinda snapped, and I told Lute to fall back (I think I called her a b*tch as well, which probably wasn’t very nice of me). And she listened! She actually listened!
The good news is, after all that, Hell didn’t invade us after all. Yay! That sure was a close one.
Since then, she hasn’t been paying very much attention to me. We’ve all been busy trying to repair Heaven from Hell’s initial attack, and she mostly lurks in the shadows, muttering to herself. I want to help, but I’m not sure how. It’s moments like these I wish I could talk to you, Dad, and get your advice on what to do. You knew her better than anyone. More than I think you let on, except for that one time you insisted on father-son bonding time and made me match you beer-for-beer. I guess now’s probably too late to tell you that I don’t really like beer very much, huh?
(For reference, I mostly like drinking fun, premixed vodka. Especially the ones that taste like lemonade, or raspberry!)
Anyway, I’m not expecting to hear anything back from you. But this feels…good to get off my chest. However, if you feel like sending me a sign that I’m doing okay, I wouldn’t be opposed to it. You don’t have to appear in the clouds to me or anything dramatic like that, but just a little, ‘Hey Abel, you’re doing great, kid’ would really be appreciated.
Wherever you are, Dad, I hope you’re okay. I love and miss you. And, wherever you are, if you happen to see Mom, tell her I love and miss her, too.
Love,
Your son, Abel
He places his quill down, folds the piece of paper and slips it into his pocket. He’s not entirely sure what he’s going to do with it. Maybe he’ll burn it or bury it in a garden somewhere. Maybe he’ll hold onto it, place it at the bottom of a random drawer.
Or maybe, he’ll do nothing at all.
Once more, Abel gets to his feet, this time making his way to the door. All this reflecting has him positively parched. Asking Emily for a recommendation from one of her tea collections sounds like a perfect way to reset and refocus after—
Thud!
His stomach hits the floor first, thankfully cushioning his fall and preventing any kind of injury. How odd. He must have tripped over his own feet. Abel’s eyes scope the room, hoping Lute hadn’t slunk back in unnoticed to berate him further.
Nobody’s there. Yet, he can’t help but shake the feeling that somewhere, somehow somebody’s watching him, doubled over in laughter at his little whoopsie. If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear an echo of his father’s infectious, raucous laugh.
Smiling to himself, he glances up to the glass ceiling and softly whispers, “Thanks, Dad.”