Hades’s Depths

For a kingdom as vast as the damned underworld, one may have anticipated a grander throne room.
After all, aesthetic has its time and place. A superficial reconstruction of the main hall is thus
undertaken. The former monarch dressed well but had no eye for interior design.

In the absence of an antechamber, you and the Cromwells idle hours in the bedroom—which is not to be
misconstrued. For as delightfully tempting as such carnality might seem, your traitorous libido refuses
to co-operate. The Cromwell sisters are convenient and admittedly attractive, but they don’t stir the
midlest of erotic fevers.

Nothing does. You almost swear your lechery was greater when human. Maybe all the sulphuric fumes
are messing with things.

You can only pray revelation comes in due course. Which is a naturally ironic statement. Prayer comes
from the depths of your own mutilated soul and expands no further than the crust of damnation.

Until then, you and Ann are sprawled across her bed. Your diligent Girl-King is serving as registrar, your
protests to do something interesting completely ignored as per usual. Her hours are dedicated to lists
and memos, detailing which souls have crossed which plains. Your duties aren’t half so tedious so you
loiter, reading tabloids and counting minutes.

Grayson, devoted Knight of Hell that she is, has been out of your company for two days. She’s purifying
the ranks, whatever that means. You and Ann leave her to her niche. In the end, she doesn’t interrupt
your jobs. Ann basically runs the joint, top to bottom, managing detail. Your assignment falls to the
upper realm with the passage of certain times. The scribes claim you frost the earth with wintry
promises of perdition. It’s a decent gig and you do it well.

So as close as your demonic sisters are, you leave each other to your personal responsibilities.

Responsibility is such a grey word, though. As is most of hell, to be honest. Torture is a crude,
unseemly business so most of that has been tucked away, leaving souls to their aimless suffering in pits
of abymsal nothingness. As a result, the colour coding has shifted drastically. Red splattered stone is
now perfect grey, a great deal of the underworld washed in depressing tones to match the gaping
ruthlessness of it all.

You really hope the construction update will finish soon. But contractors are pitifully unreliable – one
month is four and they’re never out by the holidays.

Maddened by the grey and black and ho-hum of Her Nearly Soulless Majesty Annelise Cromwell the
Great, you finally break for the surface.
“Hey, where’re you goin’?” Grayson asks, catching you at the mouth of hell. Two hellhounds wrestle at
her feet, rolling over each other while their master is distracted.

“Upstairs,” you answer, smoothing the skirt of your floral print dress (you always had a soft spot for
irony).

“Thought so.” She slaps a twenty to your palm. “Get me some burgers while you’re out, hey?”

You have to consider the general absurdity of hell’s sovereigns paying for burgers. But you grant
sometimes it just isn’t worht the hullaballoo to burn a place for their beef.

Money tucked away, you make for the surface with no clear destination (Grayson’s burgers aside).

After wandering for a bit, destroying some old trees and cursing the Eastern seaboard to an early winter,
you find yourself in a park. Parks are particularly enchanting come the bone chill of January, but in Mid-
May the sight leaves something to be desired. You walk the park trail, weaving between the flourish of
green trees, when you stumble upon an unexpected sight.

“No way,” you murmur, sliding behind a broad oak. You peek around it, staring at what is undoubtedly a
celestial. You can’t tell one angel from another, seraphim or cherubim or whatever, but you know
divinity when you see it.

The creature is scarcely contained by her vessel, though you notice how empty said vessel is. She is
alone inside there. The vessel has melded to her grace, eyes a remarkable blue and thick, short dark
hair tussled by wind and wandering fingers. She wears all black, shapely black slacks and a handsome
black shirt.

She wanders the woods like any inconspicuous creature, an androgynous wonder lost to her perusals,
yet still pausing to speak with a woman and her snotty girl child. When the woman turns her back, the
angel touches the girl’s head with two fingers. Immediately is she cleansed of her little illness, skipping
off pleasantly. The angel, satisfied, turns with a barely perceptible smile and carries on.

You’re halfway between nauesaus and excited. She’s sentimental considering her race is infamous for
cold rightouesness. Big heart isn’t exactly a turn-on by itself but the promise of corrupting such a
beautiful, pure creature of love…

You duck behind your tree.

For the first time in a long time, you feel almost alive.

Sariel didn’t so much fall from grace as slide. She slipped right through heaven’s fingers, down into the
murky fogs of earth. She has been wandering for some time, seeking that which may give her purpose
again. She seeks truer purpose than what her garrison assigned, however. God did not administer
their orders. And so, assuming her answers lie therin, Sariel searches for her Father. Her only indicator
is a charmed necklace, one holding an enchanted idol that is said to burn hot in her presence.

So far, it remains clammy and cool.

It seems God does not wish to be found. She did not show face in the wars between Heaven and Hell,
nor the struggles of mankind, nor when Hell inflicted war upon itself, turning over leaf after leaf until
settling beneath an odd regime.

Few corners of the unvierse feel familiar ther days. Sariel thinks if she finds God then – well, she isn’t
sure what anymore. She only feels as though she is missing something. Or that something misses her.
Her story is incomplete.

She looks at the necklace, allows the charm to dangle from her fingers. With a breath, she crumples it
and tucks it in her pocket. These are things to consider later.

The woodland treck continues. Ther inconspicuous town is just another stop on her voyage. God is not
here so she means to retreat, sparing only moments to relish in the quiet forest.

At least until it is not so quiet. Curious, she ventures forward, parting the thick brush until she stumbles
on a human couple. For a moment, her surprise freezes her, an incredibly affectionate pair openly
indulging in one another’s bodies. Two women, tangled together. Sariel is more composed than most
and not so flushed, but affected nonetheless.

She means to turn away without spectacle when a hand slithers onto her shoulder. A shadow enters her
periphery.

“Tempting, isn’t it?” a teasing melody rings in her ear. Her grace flares in response, even before she
turns her head. She does so just as the voice continues, “Of course I can see the unsoiled purity of your
grace, holy one. It’s admittedly white hot, but it only burns with the potential to sin. Am I right?”

She sees your true face beneath your human body, a twisted replica of the skin holding it. All the same,
it was once human. It has a beauty that an angel like her cannot deny, however deeply buried. More
than that, there is no mistakening the strength of your soul. You aren’t a demon; you’re a devil. A
threat far greater.

Her soldiering instincts gear quickly – but perhaps not quick enough. You had the undoubted upper
hand in ther scenario. Not only was she spotted long before action, but her guard was startled by the
sight of the human couple. Just as Sariel summons a blade for defense, she finds her grace crippled.
The heaven-forged steel clatters to the ground and she follows, crashing onto her knees.

“Let me go,” she growls, eyes glowing bright blue.

You take a moment to gauge the display. Her grace is positively thundering, fighting the restraints you
cast over her. It won’t last forever, at least here on earth. Still, you can’t help but waste moments
admiring her tenacity.
“You didn’t ask very nicely for an angel,” you tease, grinning at her. You pick up the discarded blade, not
missing the anxious pulse which radiates from her core. You turn the silver blade over, cocking an
eyebrow. “What were you gonna with this pig-sticker?” you ask, touching the point to her shoulder.

She freezes, the glow of her eyes simmering to a nearly human glance. She looks at the blade on her
shoulder then looks at you, refusing to answer.

“Suddenly mute, eh?” you ask, swinging the blade back to you. “Well, I do like this,” you say, “so I think
I’ll keep it. First gift from pet to master, hmm?”

She responds to that, eyes glowing again, a rage of grace slamming against your binding spell.

“Let me go,” she demands again, snarling and glaring. You see her wings spread behind her, impossibly
wide and surprisingly dark in colour. A deep onyx begins at her shoulders and fans to a deep blue,
progressing to a pale grey at the very tip of her wings. As she is vessellbound, her true form looks more
like a mirage, thin and nearly translucent, but evident nonetheless.

“You know,” is all you say, twirling the blade, “you still aren’t asking very nicely.”

A pair of children chase each other past your little confrontation, disappearing into the woods. Sariel
blinks at them in confusion, evidently wondering why they did not stop to ogle the odd display.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” you taunt, “I took the precautions you didn’t. We’re perfectly invisible to
human eyes, so get as rambuncious as you like.”

She just looks at you out the corner of her eye, fury still obvious in her expression.

“I have nothing to give you,” she says, turning her face to you again. “You’re wasting your time.”

“You think you know what I want?”

“Yes,” she practically spits. “Information on the Host of Heaven. I’m telling you, I have nothing to give
you. I was cast out of heaven. My brethren—they want nothing to do with me. Let me go, let me out
of here and find someone who—”

You interrupt her with a laugh. It clearly infuriates her as she breathes out, chest heaving.

“Why are you laughing?” she demands with another growl. The voice which slips through her vessel is
rough, low, containing all that righteous sound.

“Just laughing at how little you know about me,” you say. “You should do your research, angel. I
haven’t the slightest interest in your brothers and sisters. My fascination rests solely with you.”

You tuck the blade into an invisible pocket, allowing it to slip to the underworld’s realm. You approach
the kneeling angel, reaching towards her. She instinctively recoils so you pause. Only when she is still
do you move that last inch, gently stroking your fingers through her hair. She is tense, as if she expects
you to suddenly pierce her eyes, but you don’t. Your touch remains gentle and teasing.
“Has no one ever told you how beautiful you are?” you ask, voice delving to a softer murmur.

If you didn’t know any better, you would swear that comment made the angel blush. She blinks her
gaze down, staring at the ground. She breathes in as your fingers run behind her ear, tracing down her
neck then curving beneath her jaw. You touch her chin and tip her head back, lifting her gaze to yours
again.

“They haven’t, have they?” you ask with theatrical misery, pouting. “Poor, pretty thing. You’re so
wasted here. Your brethren clearly didn’t appreciate you, otherwise they wouldn’t have cast you out—”

“They didn’t,” she snaps. “I left.”

“And they let you. And refused your return,” you say. You take her face in your hands and she swallows,
eyes closing before opening to yours.

She responds like a human to your touch, which is partially due to the restrictions of the binding spell.
The sensations are delightful – apparently to her too. You can feel it in the gentle burn of her grace,
beating beneath her skin, hesitent and on guard but softening.

“I wouldn’t cast you out,” you say, running your thumb over her bottom lip. “I would take such care of
my angel.”

“I’m not yours,” she says roughly, ever resolute. You expect it from a celestial. They rarely go peacefully.

“You could be,” you say. “I could give you so much—”

Now she laughs—a short, dry, disbelieving snort. She glares up at you.

“Who do you think you are speaking with?” she asks, staunch and stubborn as ever.

“A fallen angel,” you say, hands sliding down to grip the open collar of her shirt. Another button tears
open at your touch. “Who clearly has a penchant for rebellion. And an eye for all things sinful.” She
furrows her brow at that, evidently confused. You smile with saccharine sweetness. “Forgot so soon?”

She stumbles as you hoist her to her feet, dragging her back to the brush she parted before. She drops
onto her knees when you release her, her eyes falling to the humans still wrapped around each other.
She flushes indubitably, looking away like the polite creature she is. You grip her chin and return her
gaze, bending behind her to speak in her ear.

“You know, a sight like this disgusts some angels,” you say. “The rest are perfectly indifferent. But you,
you sinful, curious thing—” You slide your hand down her chest, beneath her shirt and over soft bare
skin. Her breath hitches like any human as you cup her breast, then press your palm to her heart. You
find it racing. “Your beautiful, unsullied grace is begging to be corrupted by something, isn’t it?”

“When I am freed from ther curse,” she says lowly, turning her face to yours, “I am going to kill you.”
With audacious sharpness, she adds, “girl” – wrapped in haughty confidence.
“I don’t think you are, angel,” you return. “Because you are going to be too busy praying to your new
god.”

You grip the back of her head, fisting dark locks of hair, and roughly turn her attention to the couple.
One woman lays on her back with the other's face between her thighs, bringing her levels of such
pleasure that you feel the thought ripple through the angel’s grace. Her breath catches again. You pull
her away from the sight, ensuring her eyes fall only to you.

“Ther is how ther is going to work,” you say, kneeling in front of her. You hold her face steady, smiling
wolfishly. “I’m going to take you home with me. You’re going to be mine. No devil or demon in all of
hell will dare touch you, not when I lay claim to your grace.”

She somewhat starts at that, a bit half-heartedly. She stares down at you heatedly.

“You’re going to want me,” you say. “You’re going to choose me. Because you’re looking for something
to worship, aren’t you? And deep down, I think you want it to be something like me.”

She doesn’t say anything, just sets her jaw and stares off to the side.