Chapter Nine: Bitter Draught

Chapter nine- Bitter draught

The bathwater scalded, thick with the scent of lilac and slick with oils meant to soothe. As far as imprisonment went, the bathhouse of the harem was a cage of luxury and opulence, lacking only the two things she yearned for most: love and freedom.

"There has been talk, my queen." Panic jolted through her, cold and sharp despite the heat. Basileus waited until they were utterly alone, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that barely disturbed the steam.

"Talk?" Her voice was tight, thin. “I’m the queen, there is always talk.” The heat couldn’t penetrate the knot of ice forming deep in Benzosia’s gut. Could their plan for finding and restoring Lucifer have already been uncovered? Impossible.

"Among the harem," Basileus’s gaze flicked meaningfully towards her slightly protruding belly, a universe of insinuation in the glance. "Careless talk, questioning the heir's paternity. Whispers only, so far. But be wary. If the king hears..."

Fear gripped her, leaching the warmth from her bones. Asmodeus. His pride, his possessiveness, his unpredictable rage… he might kill her if he believed her love untrue. "Nonsense, if not his, then who..?" Oh sweet Heavens no. The sudden thought felt like swallowing bile and ground glass. Gadreel’s child? His seed forced upon her, a consequence of Asmodeus’s cruelty. Her stomach revolted, a spasm tightening her throat. The image of Gadreel’s sneer above her naked body flashed behind her eyes.

Yet now that the connection was made, she could not unthink the possibility. She’d fought him, knew she fought him, but the haze placed over her stole certainty. Had he truly spent his seed...? In those lost moments of violation...? The not knowing was as deep a violation as the act itself, corrupting the one thing she’d clung to in this Hell with untainted love. Her unborn child.

"Surely the king won't heed such foul gossip," she managed, the words fragile against the heavy air.

Basileus arched a perfect golden brow. “You ought to be wiser than this by now, my queen.” He gently forced her head around, his grip conveying urgency.

“Bas, you're hurting me…”

He instantly eased his grip, sighing. “Apologies. I just… don’t want anything else to happen to you.” His concern felt genuine, a small flickering light in the oppressive darkness of her reality.

She had no idea how to navigate the infernal court or dispel the malicious rumors. To manage either was to dance on a razor's edge; one misstep meant merciless ruin. Why not ask the advice of one who thrived in this snake pit?

“Basileus, what can I do? How can I disprove these rumors?” she whispered, desperate for a strategy, an ally.

His brow furrowed. "Discredit them," he began resolutely. "Prove they are lies spread by the herald and those who seek to displace you."

She nodded, aware of the reason, yet doubt clawed at her, tearing her apart. “And what if they’re not?” Tears welled, blurring his face.

He tenderly wiped them away. "You brazen it out," he advised, voice laced with genuine concern. "Maintain your dignity. And avoid being seen alone with Lord Herald outside your chambers at all costs."

Mercifully, Gadreel hadn't sought her out since that terrible day at court. Her examinations were now conducted by a far gentler healer.

Basileus’s voice held gentle command. “Come, my queen. Let me help you dress. Await your husband in your bed looking every inch the dutiful wife.” Though she loathed the command, she understood the implication. Project strength. Project devotion. Leave no room for gossip.

Again he dried her tears as he dried her body, easing her into her dressing gown. As he sat her down at the large vanity to braid her hair, she stared blankly at her reflection – pale face, haunted eyes.

"Beautiful," Basileus murmured, draping the silver braid over her shoulder, his tone grave. "Our king will be pleased." He paused, gathering towels. “Try to rest, my queen. I suspect you have another long night ahead. I shall bring you a cup of calming tea."

The door clicked shut, leaving Benzosia alone in heavy silence. Residual warmth, emotional strain, the sheer weight of existence pulled at her eyelids. Following his advice, she closed her eyes just for a moment, leaning her head back, consciousness blurring into a welcome, hazy gray…

A silken whisper of movement nearby, the subtle shift of air.

"Benzosia."

Gadreel's voice, smooth and sudden beside her, ripped her from the edge of sleep. Panic brought a metallic taste; nausea surged, relentless, doubling her over as she retched violently onto the priceless rug, expelling nothing but bile and fear. He moved swiftly, his proximity suffocating, his specific scent – sharp and cloying – an invasion.

"Easy now," his voice firm, gentle – a disturbing combination – his hand lingered too long supporting her back. He helped her lean back, dabbing her mouth with a cloth.

His gaze flickered to a small table where a steaming porcelain cup sat on a silver tray – the tea Basileus must have quietly delivered. "Drink this," Gadreel murmured, picking up the cup. Steam rose, carrying the scent of chamomile. "It will settle your stomach." He held it out.

“You need to leave,” she said, voice sharper than intended, a brittle shield.

“I will,” Gadreel replied, smooth, unsettlingly gentle. “As soon as you and I have had a… talk.” The word hung, laced with subtle menace.

He’d heard the rumors. Of course. In this court, secrets festered; gossip was the lifeblood. She took a slow sip, its sweetness suddenly sickly. Fixing her eyes on the fire, she watched flames writhe, mirroring her inner chaos. Gadreel refilled her cup without a word, taking a seat beside her.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she hissed, low, venomous. Even to her own ears, the denial sounded fragile, her words oddly slurred.

“I have plenty to say about-- Benzosia?... Benzosia!..”

Her eyes popped open later when a deep, agonizing cramp ripped through her lower back, tearing her from sleep. Sick again? No. Fiercer. Pain, not cramping now, but rending. Like invisible claws tearing through belly and spine. Stealing breath, vision, thought. White-hot agony. Another wave crashed. Labor. Too soon. Terribly wrong. Panic seized her. She reached out, finding Gadreel asleep by her chair. Her husband: absent.

Another shock of agony. She rose unsteadily, needing help, but not his.

Asmodeus. No. Never see her like this – weak, bleeding, failing. Azadiel. Yes, Azadiel would help without judgment... Her fingers scrabbled at the nearest mirror, tapping, pounding, frantic Morse code against the uncaring glass until the obsidian rippled. An imp peeled free, leathery face forming wordless inquiry.

Vision swam. "Stygia," she rasped, sweat cold. "Levistus's palace... Please!" Her voice broke. The imp’s face mirrored her distress. "Please!"

The world fractured. Tumbling through icy, tearing chaos, the imp's shriek swallowed by wind before she slammed onto stone. Impact stole her breath. Stygian cold bit unforgivingly through her thin gown, the air sharp with ancient ice and the metallic tang of frozen blood. Room spun. Fire crackled, casting grotesque shadows on ice-slick walls. Levistus. Pacing, turning sharply. He moved with shocking speed, glacial control shattered by raw urgency.

“Sozia..” He knelt beside her. The imp, still shimmering nearby, squeaked excitedly, words lost in the rush as Levistus waved a dismissive hand, causing it to dissolve into greasy smoke.

"You're covered in blood," Levistus said, voice tight, strained.

She looked down. Dark stains bloomed like morbid flowers between her thighs, stark against the pale silk. Then at him. "As are you." The thought distant, clinical. His hands gripped hers, strangely, fiercely warm, radiating an energy that belied Stygia's chill.

Weakness drained her like an opened vein. She didn't resist as he lifted her easily into his arms. "I need… Azadiel," she whispered, head swimming, the icy room tilting.

"Benzosia," he commanded sharply, his grip grounding her slightly. "Stay awake. Stay with me."

"Aza?"

"No. You need a healer. I am taking you to Zariel."

"Lucifer liked her," she mumbled disconnectedly through a wave of dizziness. "Killed so many…"

"Sozia, please…" He held her close, moving with long, rapid strides through echoing, ice-clad corridors. Sounds muffled, distant, submerged. “Stay with me.”

"Should just… rest," she murmured, eyelids leaden weights, the darkness tempting.

He shifted her weight, kicking open a heavy, iron-bound door. The room beyond was stark, colder still, smelling sharply of strange herbs and something sterile, metallic. A figure looked up from a workbench cluttered with arcane instruments and glowing vials – a woman with eyes as ancient and sharp as obsidian shards. Zariel.

Levistus laid Benzosia carefully onto a narrow cot covered in dark furs. "Zariel, help her!" he urged, his voice raw with uncharacteristic desperation. "Now! I think she’s losing the baby."

Zariel’s sharp eyes flickered over Benzosia’s blood-soaked gown, her pale face, then up to Levistus’s frantic expression. A flicker of… something – surprise? Annoyance? – crossed her features before settling back into practiced neutrality, tinged with cynicism. "Asmodeus's spawn?" she asked, her voice like fractured ice.

"It’s Benzosia's child," Levistus growled, stepping defensively closer to the cot.

“Uh-huh,” Zariel tittered dryly. "And how would we manage without another Morningstar brat?"

"Zariel," Levistus snarled, the air crackling with palpable cold, "leave your issues with Lucifer out of this. She needs your help."

Zariel snorted, turning her attention fully to Benzosia, yet her words were aimed like darts at Levistus. "My issues? He abandoned us to rot while he went off to sulk. As if Father didn’t scar us all! But no, always poor Morningstar—" She cut herself off, the old bitterness thick in the air, before sighing with grudging resignation. "Zariel, she's bleeding," Levistus pleaded, the sound profoundly unsettling coming from him.

“Oh, alright…” Zariel finally conceded, waving a dismissive hand towards Levistus. "Get the fuck out. Pacing won't help her." She turned fully to Benzosia as Levistus hesitated then reluctantly withdrew. "Sorry, your majesty, no time for delicacy," Zariel's voice was suddenly closer, pragmatic, jarringly calm. Cool, clinical hands efficiently lifted Benzosia's skirt. A brief, probing touch – startlingly invasive, assessing the damage. Zariel's sharp gasp cut the air. "Damn it to Hells. Drink this... now."

Foul sludge, ash and despair forced down her throat before Benzosia could fully register or resist. Vision swam violently. Spinning haze. Oblivion claimed her.

Fury brought her back. Air vibrating, pressing like thunder. Asmodeus's roar shook foundations. Squinting through slitted lids, she remained utterly still. Prey freezing before the predator.

"Notified immediately!" Whip crack voice. Vibrations in her bones. "You have no right—"

"Who tends to your wife?" Zariel's sharp sarcasm cut through. "A succubus whore? Benzosia is not your plaything, Asmodeus. She is one of us!"

Infernal fire flickered in his eyes. "Watch your tone, I am your king."

"You could be our almighty father for all I care, it still does not change the facts," Zariel retorted, unmoved. "I watched her bleed out while you were absent. Where were you?"

"Present, had I been informed! When I find that imp…" Growled promises of torment.

"You will thank that imp," Zariel cut back. "It saved your queen's life."

Asmodeus’s brow furrowed, a rare fissure in his absolute certainty. “She is an Archangel. How could this possibly endanger her?”

"Weakened by blood loss! Power ebbs! There are plenty in your court who would claim her head had they found her compromised like this."

"Gadreel was there-"

"And he was worse than useless," Zariel interrupted flatly. "Asleep by her side while she nearly died. He could have been harmed as well. You'd lose Queen, Herald, Heir – your foundation all in one swoop! When the infernal Lords perceive weakness. They rise, and I do not relish another pointless war."

“Pointless?” Asmodeus faltered. "No one would dare—" Doubt, a chilling dissonance in his voice.

“Of course they would. Only Lucifer could ever...” Zariel started, then seemed to reconsider.

“I suggest you refrain from saying anything further, princess,” Asmodeus warned, his voice dangerously low.

Footsteps approached. Benzosia stiffened, eyes shut tight, breath shallow. Not ready.

Felt his gaze like a physical weight. Heard the rasp of his tunic. Smelled brimstone and power – cage bars, not comfort.

"You're awake?" Surprise, and… relief? Concern? Impossible to read beneath the layers of ownership. “Prepare her for travel, I am taking her back to the Malsheem, where she belongs.”

Return to the gilded cage? Weak, hollowed, tainted by failure?. Her empty stomach churned.

"Wouldn't advise it," Zariel stepped back into view. "Allow me to care for her... my king." Distaste sharp as a shard of ice.

"Entrust my queen to you? Lucifer's pet?" Asmodeus sneered, old rivalries surfacing.

"Rather the vipers in your harem?" Zariel shot back. "They'd relish seeing the position... opened up."

Silence stretched, thick with unspoken threats. Waiting for his judgment.

He stood over her, shadow engulfing. Gaze flickered from her still face to discarded linens, then back. Jaw clenched, tendons stark, knuckles white where hands clasped behind his back. Warring pride, calculation, something else fiercely masked. He took a slow, deliberate breath.

"She will stay in your care," he declared finally, voice a low rumble, rage banked. Unexpected surrender, driven by logic. "Until she recovers."

"However," his voice hardened instantly, turning back to Zariel, "if she comes to any further harm, or if one whisper reaches beyond the Nessus, you will be made an example of. Slow. Memorable."

"I'll send Basileus to you, my sweet," he bent, kissing her forehead. The touch burned like ice, hollow, perfunctory. She remained still, a statue carved from fear.

"Good riddance," Zariel muttered as the door clicked shut. Turning back, she offered a small, wry smile that didn't reach her ancient eyes. "So you’re the new Morningstar queen. You do resemble Lucifer."

"I was always told I resemble Michael," Benzosia rasped, abandoning the pretense. Words sluggish, thick with potion and pain.

"My baby?" she asked, words tearing free, though the aching emptiness in her womb screamed the answer. Gone.

"There will be other children, but even that was a close call," Zariel offered, practical comfort from one long past sentimentality. Grief sank into Benzosia, a physical weight, a gaping wound. Loss. Yet, shamefully, horribly, beneath it… air. A ragged breath held too long. No Gadreel’s child. No heir of Hell. The thought felt treacherous, vile. She choked on the toxic relief as much as the suffocating grief.

"Can you sit up?" Zariel asked practically. "Cleaned up before your attendant arrives."

“I… think so…” Movement: agony. Limbs heavy lead. Soft groan. "What... happened to me?"

Zariel watched her struggle, expression unreadable. She tilted Benzosia’s chin, peered intently at her eyes, and touched a cool finger to her wrist. Her lips thinned into a grim line. Leaning closer, her voice dropped to a low, chilling whisper that promised more darkness to come. "You should know the truth, however hard. This wasn’t a natural failing, Queen Benzosia. The signs... unmistakable. You were poisoned."