Chapter Four: grounded

Chapter four - Grounded

The fortress clawed at the sky, an ominous sculpture of black ice against bruised, ashen heavens. It stood desolate, a monument to despair sculpted by relentless, ice-laden winds that screamed across the plains. A profound silence suffocated the landscape, broken only by the low, tortured groan of shifting ice beneath Benzosia’s feet. The wind, a razor’s edge, sliced through her inadequate clothing, a brutal reminder of the warmth she had escaped. To escape Gadreel’s violations, even for a moment, she’d willingly endure this frozen Hellscape. 

Each step up the treacherous, ice-slicked staircase was an agony, sending splinters of pain through protesting muscles. Her body screamed rebellion, a symphony of exhaustion accompanying her ascent towards the unknown. The path itself felt alien, hostile, and the spectral groan of the massive double doors swinging inward, seemingly untouched by any hand but the wind's, tightened a knot of dread and morbid curiosity deep within her belly.

"Hello...?" Her voice was fragile, a threadbare sound instantly devoured by the howling gale and the oppressive emptiness.

A tremor, colder than the biting air, traced its way down her spine. The utter lack of life was more than unnerving; it was a physical weight, a silence thick with unspoken threats. It felt as though the very stones held their breath, waiting. Her hesitant footsteps echoed, unnaturally loud in the vast, skeletal hall, each tap a lonely beat against the overwhelming quiet. The air inside was stale, frigid, carrying the metallic tang of damp stone and something else… something ancient, deeply unsettling, like decay frozen in time. Shadows writhed in the periphery, twisting familiar shapes into grotesque mockeries in the dim, spectral light, feeding the unease coiling low in her gut. Every rustle, every distant creak of ice, seemed magnified, orchestrated to fray the nerves.

"Who goes there?" The voice, a deep baritone laced with command, shattered the silence like breaking ice. A figure emerged from the deepest shadows, coalescing into form, still and watchful. He paused, his eyes – startlingly intense – widening fractionally as they fixed upon her. "Benzosia?."

"Levistus." The name slipped past her lips, a hesitant whisper freighted with memory. His voice, rough-edged yet resonant, struck a deeper chord of familiarity than his physical presence, which seemed subtly altered, honed by this desolate realm.

“I hadn’t thought you would remember me–” His tone held a note of surprise, perhaps even something softer.

“You served on Lucifer’s council. I remember.” Benzosia made no effort to veil the accusation sharp in her voice. She recalled vividly his impassioned speeches, his fervent arguments urging her brother towards open rebellion, towards war, when peace might still have been grasped.

“I did.” He offered no defense, no apology, meeting her gaze with an unnerving, unapologetic half-smile. And in that smile, she saw a flicker of the fierce loyalty, the profound bond between her brothers and this enigmatic fallen angel – a bond still whispered about in hushed tones within Heaven’s hallowed, judgmental halls.

"I’ve come to see Azadiel," she stated, pushing past the weight of history.

"Come with me." He extended a hand.

She startled at the gesture but didn't pull away. He took her hand, and the contact was a shock – unexpected heat against the pervasive chill. A current arced through her, sharp and confusing, nothing to do with the freezing air. His hand was strong, calloused from combat or command, yet his grip was surprisingly gentle. This simple touch sparked a bewildering flutter beneath her ribs. She allowed him to lead her deeper into the palace’s frozen heart, through corridors and cavernous halls where surfaces shimmered with an eerie, trapped blue light. The silence returned, heavy now with unspoken questions and the electric awareness of their proximity. Levistus's features, sharp, almost severe angles cast in the pale glow, possessed a stark, arresting beauty she hadn't allowed herself to register before. His eyes, the colour of a storm-wracked sea just before breaking, held a depth that mirrored the palace's frozen sorrow, hinting at melancholy and something else… a fleeting flicker that looked disturbingly like longing.

“What is this place?” she asked, needing to break the spell.

“The fifth circle of Hell. Stygia – the frozen prison.”

Despite the crushing cold, a strange, melancholic grandeur permeated the palace. Ice sculpted into intricate, agonizing patterns seemed to weep tales of forgotten dreams and shattered hopes, echoing the unspoken tension crackling between them. The quiet stretched, becoming a tangible presence. Benzosia’s initial shock began to curdle into active concern. The silence, once merely eerie, now felt ominous. She noticed the subtle clench in Levistus’s jaw, the slight furrow deepening between his brows as he navigated the labyrinthine passages. The weight of his unvoiced thoughts pressed down, amplifying her rising panic. Her steps faltered.

"Has something happened?" The question trembled from her lips, betraying the fear she couldn't suppress. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the glacial stillness. She stopped, gently withdrawing her hand from his grasp, needing to see his face clearly, needing the truth. "Where is my brother?"

He turned fully towards her, the stark beauty of his face now etched with grimness. "He was ambushed."

The words struck her like a physical blow. She swayed, the world tilting, and might have fallen had his hand not shot out, steadying her arm on the treacherous ice-slicked stone. “How? How is that possible? He’s led armies, faced down legions… he was never bested.”

“He refuses to say who was responsible.” His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, which somehow made it worse.

They crossed a vast, empty throne room, the heart of this frozen domain. The throne itself, carved from a single, colossal block of glacial ice, dominated a dais overlooking a frozen lake that perfectly mirrored the chamber’s icy, desolate splendor. The walls were draped with frozen tapestries depicting scenes of exquisite despair and eternal suffering, their intricate details a chilling testament to the torment inflicted upon the damned souls trapped here.

“Benzosia…” He paused before an unremarkable, heavy door, his hand hovering over the iron handle. The weight of that pause, of his hesitance, amplified Benzosia's suffocating dread. “They took his wings.”

“What?” Horror, raw and visceral, surged through her. Her hand instinctively covered his on the handle, pushing it down as if compelled by a force outside herself. Her feet moved, carrying her forward as the door swung open. “Michae…” She stopped herself mid-syllable, the old name, the angelic name, dying on her tongue. Michael was gone.

The room beyond was surprisingly spacious, made almost welcoming by the flickering glow of three large fireplaces set against the far walls. Their warmth was a stark, almost painful contrast to the soul-deep chill pervading the rest of the palace.

In the center stood a large bed, canopied by shimmering, multifaceted crystals suspended from the ceiling by delicate, frozen chains. The crystals fractured the firelight, casting a shifting kaleidoscope of colours across the bed's surface – and across the broken form lying upon it. Her brother.

“Sweet mercy.” Benzosia swayed again, drawing on some hidden reservoir of strength she hadn’t known she possessed just to remain upright, though her knees threatened to buckle. “He's lost so much blood…” Her voice was a strangled whisper. Her gaze fixed on the dark, sickeningly sticky pools congealing on the stone floor beneath the bed, a horrifying testament to the butchery he had endured.

“He’ll be unconscious for a while yet.” Levistus gestured towards a side table cluttered with an empty potion vial and a nearly drained bottle of harsh liquor. “He attempted to drink himself into oblivion before the sleeping draught finally claimed him.”

Clinging to that small mercy, she forced herself closer, pushing aside the glittering crystal canopy to see the damage clearly. Bile, hot and acrid, surged up her throat as she realized the gruesome, raw canyons running the length of his back were not torn fabric stained crimson, but violated flesh.

“I need to know who did this.” Her hands clenched, the phantom weight of a sword settling into her grip. She was Queen of Hell, damn it. He was her brother. Surely that granted her some authority, some power to protect, some right to righteous vengeance.

“As do I,” Levistus’s tone was dangerously level, a stark contrast to the inferno of rage kindling within Benzosia. “However, he’s in no state to answer questions now.” His gaze softened slightly as it rested on Azadiel, a silent understanding passing between them. “The wounds require closing, dressing. I could use another pair of hands.”

“You tend to him… yourself?” The question slipped out, laced with surprise.

His sharp, hawk-like eyes widened slightly, almost owlishly. “This is Hell, Benzosia. Would you trust anyone else with his care?”

She bit back the instinctive retort: I don’t even trust you. But… her brother clearly did. Both of them had. Lucifer, enough to have made Levistus his advisor – and Azadiel, enough to… well, enough for this. She considered it, the image of strangers witnessing her proud brother in this broken state solidifying her decision. Slowly, she shook her head.

Pouring stinging alcohol from the open bottle over her trembling hands, she set to work, falling back on the grim muscle memory honed by countless wartime field dressings, the battles between angels were no less brutal than this. Her fingers, numb with cold despite the room's warmth, gently probed the edge of the nearest wound. She winced involuntarily as it wept fresh blood. They had hacked through sinew, bone, artery – savage, brutal work. “This section is too ravaged for stitches; it needs a poultice to draw out any corruption.”

“I’ll prepare it.”

Azadiel shifted restlessly under their ministrations, groaning softly, but didn't wake. As Benzosia drew the needle rhythmically through resistant flesh, her mind raced, grappling with her brother's diminished future in this merciless realm. They worked in a heavy, focused silence for what felt like an age. While her heart fractured for her younger brother, a strange solace seeped into her from Levistus’s quiet competence, his wordless, unwavering dedication.

"He was never injured like this," she murmured, her voice hushed with reverence and horror. "Not even during the Great War," she added, the words thick with sorrow and regret as she recalled the war Lucifer had started; a war that had pitted the Morningstar not only against their heavenly father, but against Azadiel and herself as well. Benzosia had chosen to tend to the wounded rather than take up arms against her family, vowing never to raise a weapon against her brother.

"This wasn’t an act of war," Levistus replied, his voice grim, his hands busy grinding herbs. "This was retaliation. Punishment."

She carefully carried the steaming bowl back to the bedside, gently dabbing the prepared poultice along the edges of the raw bandages, afraid to disturb the mutilated flesh beneath.

"He will never fly again." The finality of it settled like ice in her veins. Whoever had done this had intended absolute grounding, slicing the magnificent wings off clean at the shoulder joints, leaving nothing but mangled stumps, extinguishing any hope of regrowth. A fresh wave of fury surged through her, mingled with a profound, aching sadness. Angels were meant for the sky, even the fallen.

"This will not break him," Levistus stated, his voice quiet but imbued with a conviction that felt like a balm against her despair. Perhaps it was a lie spun from loyalty, but it was a comforting one. Neither of them could truly comprehend the depth of the loss her brother now faced, the severing of such an intrinsic part of his being, but she wouldn't diminish Azadiel's resilience, his stubborn, fiery spirit. “He is a warrior born. He will find another way to soar.”

He took the cooling bowl from her cramping fingers, a liberty she hadn't offered but found herself unwilling to deny. His fingertips, as cold as her own, brushed against her skin, yet the contact felt strangely warm – a silent offering of support she couldn’t bring herself to refuse in that moment.

“There is a heated washroom down the hall,” he said, his gaze practical but not unkind. “Returning to your husband… stained like this… will undoubtedly invite questions you may not wish to answer.”

Unease coiled in her stomach at the thought of facing Asmodeus now. Would he see Azadiel’s vulnerability as a reflection of her family’s weakness? Lucifer’s betrayal already cast a long, suffocating shadow; she couldn’t bear adding her younger brother’s brokenness to that burden.

"Thank you, Levistus," she managed, surprised by the flicker of genuine gratitude amidst the turmoil.

The water swirled in sickening pink and brown clouds around her hands as she scrubbed furiously, the crimson stains of her brother's ordeal clinging stubbornly to her skin and the delicate lace of her gown. The metallic, cloying scent of blood filled the small, steam-heated chamber, a haunting perfume of Azadiel’s suffering. Her skin felt raw, chafed, but she scrubbed until the last traces receded. Heart heavy, limbs trembling with reaction, she eventually made her way back to Azadiel's chamber. The palace corridors seemed colder now, stretching endlessly, each footstep echoing her profound isolation. The very walls felt accusatory, whispering judgments of inadequacy.

She found Levistus kneeling before one of the hearths, silently feeding bloodied linens and remnants of clothing into the hungry flames. His impossibly deep gaze was fixed on the consuming fire, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking rhythmically.

“You care for him deeply,” Benzosia observed softly, a touch of wistfulness coloring her tone.

Surprise flickered across his stoic features, quickly followed by a hesitant, almost rueful smile touching his lips. "Perhaps more than I realized," he admitted, his voice low. "And certainly more than is wise."

Benzosia felt an answering warmth spread through her chest, mirroring his expression despite the grim circumstances. "Both Lucifer and Azadiel always had that effect," she said quietly. Her brothers, for all their flaws and ambitions, possessed a charisma, a core of strength, that inspired fierce loyalty, even devotion.

"And how fares your chosen king, Benzosia?"

The question, sharp and unexpected, landed like a thrown dagger. It sliced through the fragile moment of connection, catching her utterly off guard. A confusing maelstrom of emotions – love, duty, disappointment, a shame she rarely acknowledged – churned within her, rendering her speechless. "I..." she stammered, her voice failing her.

“Forgive me,” he said, though his tone lacked true apology. “There is no need to answer. Truthfully, your opinion of him matters little to me; mine was forged long ago.” Instead of taking the seat opposite her on the small sofa near the fire, Levistus settled his considerable frame beside her, stretching out long legs and leaning back with a weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.

“You sound as if you dislike my husband.” The barely veiled animosity in his gaze left little room for doubt.

“I do.” The bluntness was startling, almost insolent. A spark, dangerous and volatile, ignited in the space between them as he lowered his head slightly, locking his bottomless gaze onto hers. Benzosia found herself struggling for breath, the air suddenly thick with unspoken history and present tension.

“He is your king now, as well,” she reminded him, her voice tight.

To this, he merely offered a dismissive shrug, a gesture more insulting than words.

“I find his love… confusing,” she admitted finally, the words pulled from a deep, hidden place. She was neither willing nor able to elaborate further.

“His love?” Levistus remarked, the dryness in his tone like scraping stone. “You truly believe him capable of such a thing?” Only when he reached across the small space separating them, gently prying open her clenched fist, did she realize she’d been digging her nails into her palm hard enough to draw blood.

“I love him,” she insisted, the words tasting like ash but also like a desperate truth. She had loved Asmodeus, for aeons. She loved the memory of the brilliant seraph who had pledged his heart to her amidst the light of Heaven, and she had followed that memory, that promise, down into the deepest abyss of Hell.

“Yours must be a formidable love indeed,” Levistus murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over the crescent marks on her palm, “to overlook so very much.”

She hadn't known, back then, that overlooking would be the price of admission.

“Benny? Is that really you?” Azadiel’s strained voice cut through the charged atmosphere, startling them both.

"Brother..." she breathed, rushing to his side. The old, familiar endearment slipped out before she could catch it, a relic of a shared past under a different sky. A sharp pang of sorrow pierced her, swiftly followed by a fierce, protective surge. She reached his bedside only to find him thrashing weakly against unseen bonds, his eyes wild.

"Stay still!" Levistus's voice boomed, instantly shifting from quiet confidante to concerned guardian. "Your sister worked tirelessly to mend you. What in the hells do you think you’re doing?"

"I'll you all flayed… ripped apart piece by fucking piece—" Azadiel's voice, thick with pain and rage, choked off on a sharp gasp. His fever-bright eyes, glazed with agony, stared past them, haunted by enemies only he could see. “I can’t go back now… not like this…”

"My darling... who did this to you?" Benzosia's voice trembled, her heart constricting at the raw torment in his eyes. She reached for him instinctively, a need to soothe overriding everything else, but Levistus intercepted her gently but firmly, guiding her slightly aside. With practiced, economical movements, he restrained Azadiel, preventing him from tearing his freshly stitched wounds in his agitated state.

“Brother, listen to me. It’s me, Benzosia.”

"Benny..." Azadiel's icy fingers fumbled, searching, until they found her hand. She grasped it tightly, pouring silent reassurance into the contact. "I failed you," he murmured, the words slurred, heavy with a self-reproach that cut her to the quick. His delirious pronouncements made little sense, born of fever and agony, but the depth of his anguish was unmistakable.

“Never. You have never failed me.”

“I did.” Azadiel’s voice was gaining a disturbing clarity, a ragged edge of coherence cutting through the delirium. “Should have told you… the truth.  I swear if he ever…” He groaned, attempting to sit up, his face contorting in agony as Levistus gently pressed him back down. 

“For Hell’s sake, stay put!”

“Gods… what happened to me?”

"They took your wings, Azadiel," she heard herself say, the words falling like stones into the sudden quiet. He stared at her, his expression shifting from pain to bewildered disbelief. "What… what are you talking about?" he rasped, his voice hoarse and weak.

"I took the liberty of making some inquiries while you were… indisposed," Levistus interjected smoothly, his voice calm and steadying. He offered Azadiel a glass of water, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "It is my understanding you went to see her again, correct?"

A flicker of pained recognition sparked in Azadiel's feverish eyes, a brief, terrible moment of lucidity piercing the haze. His jaw clenched violently, a muscle twitching uncontrollably in his cheek. "That... fucking warlock," he spat, the word thick with venom. “I… damn me thrice to Oblivion. He cursed me. Some kind of binding spell… don't remember clearly… head’s spinning like a top…”

"Damn it all to hell.” Levistus's voice rose, tight with controlled fury. "This means your access, our ties to Asurim… they are severed," he stated flatly, the implications hanging heavy in the air.

“Forgive me, Levistus," Azadiel murmured, his words slurring again, exhaustion and remorse warring within him. “Can never return there now…”

“We will find another way—” Levistus began, his hand gripping Azadiel's shoulder in a gesture of fierce reassurance. Then, as if remembering Benzosia's presence, he turned to her, his tone shifting abruptly, becoming formal, distant. “My queen,” he said, inclining his head, “you should return to Nessus. Before our king notes your absence and sends out search parties.”

The unexpected dismissal stung, erasing the fragile intimacy of the past hours. "Oh," she said, feeling suddenly cold again. "Yes. Of course." She paused, gathering herself. "I expect to be kept informed. On his recovery."

Azadiel managed a weak squeeze of her hand. "I'll manage, Benny. Just… promise me you'll stay out of trouble."

A humorless smile touched her lips. "That's rich, coming from you." She leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to his burning forehead. Turning back to Levistus, she felt awkward, uncertain. "I... I suppose I should thank you. For your help."

Levistus offered another of those rare, gentle smiles that did unsettling things to her composure. "Never."

He extended his hand again, not to take hers this time, but in a gesture of farewell. His fingertips brushed against hers in a fleeting contact that sent an electric shiver down her spine. “Until we meet again, my queen.”

A blush she couldn't control warmed her cheeks. “Until then,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. The ghost of his touch lingered, a startling contrast to the icy chill returning to her bones. As she turned to leave, an odd, unfamiliar yearning tugged at her heart, a nonsensical desire to stay within the fragile sanctuary of this room, despite the horrors it contained.

Anxious and suddenly unsure how to navigate the frozen labyrinth back to the entrance, she moved towards the nearest large, ornate mirror hanging on the wall. Its silvery surface reflected her pale, worried expression. Hesitantly, she reached out, tapping a finger against the cold glass, willing it to become a gateway, a passage back to Nessus, back to her life.

“Come home, Benzosia.” A voice, deep and resonant, slithered from the mirror’s depths. Silver bled to black beneath her touch. She shivered with instinctive revulsion – she recognized that voice more easily, more intimately, than her own husband's. Stepping through the swirling abyss, the portal deposited her abruptly back into the oppressive luxury of her private chamber in the Malsheen palace.

“You were gone quite some time, my queen.” Her husband’s herald materialized from the shadows near the door, watching her with the same coolly assessing, proprietary expression he always wore. Dread, cold and heavy, settled in her stomach. “Gadreel.”

“The king grows concerned. You left Nessus unattended. Without his protection.”

“My brother is injured—”

Gadreel held up a silencing hand, his movement sharp, dismissive. “Your brother’s condition does not take precedence over the needs, or the commands, of your king. He requires a queen who comes swiftly to his side when summoned.”

A sharp jolt of anticipation, of hope, surged through her, momentarily displacing the dread. He summoned me. Surely now, Asmodeus would listen, would understand, would act. Surely her husband would make right all that felt so terribly wrong. Surely her life—her love—would be vindicated. "He summoned me," she replied, lifting her chin, emboldened by the certainty that he would finally hear her pleas, her fears. "Take me to him."

She stood tall and proud, a queen demanding audience, but Gadreel moved with startling speed. His hand shot out, not in deference, but in violence, grabbing her chin, fingers digging painfully into her jaw. His other hand twisted brutally into her hair near the scalp, yanking her head back until her already sore eyes watered with fresh pain. His face loomed far too close, his breath hot against her skin.

"Listen to me well, woman," he snarled, the title an insult, venom dripping from every syllable. "You will learn your place, and you will understand your purpose, before this night is through."