Chapter Ten: Crimson Sand

Chapter ten - Crimson Sand

The bone-white fortress path snaked before her like a bleached serpent's spine, a stark ribbon cutting through the sickly twilight of Limbo, the first circle of the nine Hells. Each step on the cool, unnervingly smooth stone was a small victory wrested from the clinging memory of feverish sheets and phantom pains. Her limbs still trembled with weakness, but resolve hardened her gait. Beside her, Zariel moved with the silent, fluid grace, her ancient power a palpable aura that both intimidated and strangely steadied Benzosia.

"I never imagined… life like this… could take root in Hell," Benzosia murmured, her voice catching on a wonder that bordered on disbelief. Limbo was a realm of bone and blood, a place throbbing with grotesque vitality. It was a twisted garden where volcanic flora pulsed with shades of poisonous green and feverish orange light, illuminating obsidian rock formations that clawed towards the perpetually bruised sky. Bizarre, chitinous creatures rustled in the shadows cast by glowing fungi, their whispers like dry leaves skittering across bone. The air was thick, heavy as velvet, vibrating with a strange, discordant energy – a heady, almost nauseating mix of raw sulfur, unseen decay, and something darkly, unnervingly sweet. "Where are we going?"

"The Arena," Zariel replied, her voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated through Benzosia's very bones, unsettlingly intimate. "A distraction, perhaps." A distraction from the gaping wound in Benzosia's soul, the raw, aching void where a nascent life, a fragile hope, had been violently extinguished. Her husband's silence echoed loudest in that void, a deafening absence that amplified the phantom cramps and the bitterness of loss.

"Bloodsport isn't usually my preference," she confessed, a wry twist curving her lips. A bitter irony, considering the casual cruelty favored by so many she’d known, both above and below. Zariel chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent an unexpected shiver down Benzosia's spine. "We shall see, your highness. Hell has a way of revealing hidden appetites." Her tone held a playful challenge, but the knowing glint in her ancient eyes felt like both a warning and an invitation.

The Arena was a colossal maw carved into the living rock of Limbo, vast and echoing. The air thrummed, thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the electric anticipation of fresh violence. Below them stretched the infamous Crimson Sands, stained in patches to the colour of dried ink where the ichor of countless demons and fallen angels had soaked deep into the volcanic grit – a brutal testament to millennia of savage entertainment and settled scores.

And then she saw them: the Erinyes. Furies given form, demonesses of breathtaking, savage beauty. Their movements were a symphony of honed muscle and drifting shadow, skin gleaming under the eerie light, marked with scars and intricate, warlike tattoos. They soared through the twilight on powerful, leathery wings, obsidian blades glinting, segmented whips cracking like amplified thunder – a deadly ballet unfolding on the blood-soaked stage below.

Zariel guided Benzosia to a private balcony carved from polished obsidian, jutting like a predator's fang over the carnage. The air here throbbed, the very stones seeming to pulse with the reflected heat and dark energy radiating from the spectacle. Seats wrought from bone and draped in shadow-furs faced the sands, beside intricate viewing devices crafted from smoky crystal and dark metal. It felt less like a viewing box and more like a throne from which to witness the raw, untamed heart of Hell's power. A terrifying, exhilarating thought struck her: What would it feel like to command such a savage force?. To wield such power?.

The clash of steel against steel was a harsh, strangely exhilarating song, punctuated by the guttural cries and piercing shrieks of the Erinyes locked in combat. Benzosia's breath hitched, her gaze snagged and held by the whirlwind of lethal grace below. On this battlefield there were no languid courtesans scheming in a harem; there were warriors unleashed, their power a tangible force, their movements blurring speed and deadly precision. Sparks rained down like corrupted stars as blades met shields, illuminating fierce visages contorted in primal battle lust. A dark fascination seized Benzosia, coiling hot and low in her belly – a thrill utterly alien to the angel she once was, a terrifying echo of the darkness Hell bred, or perhaps, merely awakened within her.

One Erinyes emerged momentarily victorious from the fray, planting a booted foot on her dispatched opponent. Ram-like horns curled back from her brow, gleaming wickedly. Dark, sweat-slicked hair flew around a face that was a roadmap of old battles. Her scarred and tattooed skin seemed to ripple with power as enormous, bat-like wings unfurled, casting a vast shadow that seemed to momentarily devour the ambient light.

"My Queen," her voice, deep and resonant as a war drum, echoed across the arena, carrying clearly to the balcony, "we fight! We bleed! For your glory!"

Benzosia's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of disbelief and burgeoning, heady excitement. She instinctively looked to Zariel, expecting the deference to be aimed at the established figure of power beside her. But Zariel merely offered a small, knowing smile, a quiet understanding passing through her ancient eyes. With a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards Benzosia, Zariel validated the warrior's declaration. In that stunning moment, witnessed by the denizens of the First Circle, the Erinyes acknowledged Benzosia as their Queen. A shiver of raw power, intoxicating and terrifying in its intensity, coursed through her veins, chasing away the chill of grief, replacing it with something potent and demanding. A latent hunger for power.

The battles raged on, a maelstrom of flashing steel, cracking whips, and raw, untamed power. The air grew thick with the coppery scent of fresh blood mingling with the sharp ozone tang of spent infernal energy. The promise of violence hung heavy, almost sweet. Zariel leaned closer, her lips curved into a small, triumphant smirk, her earlier playful tone replaced by something akin to approval. "It seems bloodsport is very much your thing, after all," she quipped, but Benzosia saw something else flicker in those ancient eyes – acceptance. Or perhaps, calculation.

Benzosia watched, utterly captivated. This raw, brutal honesty of power felt strangely cleaner than the poisoned whispers and veiled threats of Asmodeus's court. This resonated, stirring something deep and primal within her, a fierceness she hadn't known she possessed, hungry and demanding to be fed.

As the perpetual twilight deepened to a bruised velvet, Azadiel appeared at the back of the balcony, a wraith flickering at the edge of her heightened senses. He held a bouquet of softly glowing ghost-orchids, their ethereal light a stark contrast to the arena's infernal glow. His expression was a mask of worry strained over barely contained anger, his eyes darting nervously around as if expecting an attack from the opulent shadows. "Benzosia," he said softly, his voice laced with urgent concern, "you shouldn't be here. You are not yet healed."

He was one to talk. Defiance, newly forged in the arena's fire, flared within her. "I want to be here, Azadiel." To hide in her chambers felt like accepting defeat, like denying this strange, burgeoning strength blooming within the ruins of her loss. She needed this charge, this brutal vitality, needed to feel something other than the crushing weight of grief.

He presented the flowers, their faint, cool light illuminating the worry lines etched around his eyes, along with a small, intricately carved box of Stygian ice-wood. "Levistus," he said, his voice tight, "sent these. He insists they will aid your recovery." Inside the box lay pearlescent unguents, shimmering balms, and a rolled parchment sealed with Levistus's sigil: For the Queen's swift return to strength. She accepted the flowers, their ghostly beauty a strange comfort, and a complex wave of gratitude washed over her for Levistus – her steadfast, enigmatic ally. His methods were cold, but his support felt… tangible.

"He is... concerned," Azadiel added, his frown deepening. “And I am also concerned. You should come back with me to the Stygia, Benny” 

"Our queen is well past the need for convalescence and will soon grace which court she chooses with her presence," Basileus stated suddenly, his voice cutting through the air, sharp and resolute as always. He had joined them unnoticed, a silent, devoted shadow.

"Sister?" Azadiel's tone sharpened, turning on Basileus with barely veiled suspicion. "Does this... attendant... speak for you now?"

"Basileus stood by my side when no one else could," she stated firmly, her voice thick with remembered loyalty, silencing Azadiel's implied slight. "And he's right. I plan to return to the Nessus as soon as I am able."

Azadiel reached out, his hand hovering over hers, desperate. "We can find a way. We can hide you, Benzosia. You don't have to face him." 

The idea of hiding, of running back into the shadows, ignited a flicker of anger. "No," she declared, her voice gaining strength, her chin lifting. "I will not hide."

Captivated again by the Erinyes’ feral grace, she lingered until a new champion emerged, bloodied but victorious. The victor, clad in crimson armor that shimmered purple in the blue firelight, roared her triumph to the shadowed tiers before being welcomed into the legions. At Zariel's subtle prompting before she departed, Benzosia herself bestowed the ceremonial golden blade upon the warrior, her cheeks flushed with vicarious triumph, her heart pounding with that strange, addictive excitement.

The roar of the unseen crowd faded slightly as the victor claimed her prize. The raw energy of the arena still thrummed in Benzosia's veins, a stark contrast to the sudden wave of profound exhaustion that washed over her now the spectacle had peaked. She swayed slightly, gripping the obsidian railing for support. That's when Basileus murmured beside her, his brow furrowed with concern, mistaking the adrenaline's aftermath for fever. "A few hours of sleep will chase away the lingering fever, my Queen." As if summoned by his worry, the dull ache in her abdomen throbbed, a sharp counterpoint of loss amidst the thrill. "Very well," she conceded, the fight suddenly draining from her.

Azadiel stepped forward again, his voice laced with a weary resignation that mirrored the shadows under his eyes. His own recent anguish had stolen some of his celestial radiance, and Benzosia felt a pang of sympathy. He carried his burdens as silently as she carried hers. "Allow me to escort you to your chamber, Benzosia."

"There is no need, brother," she replied, her voice softening slightly at his visible pain. "I would much rather you join the Erinyes in their celebration below. Perhaps their... exuberance... will prove infectious." She managed a small smile. "Perhaps one might even succeed in cracking a smile from you." She needed solitude now, needed to wrestle with the storm raging within her – vengeance and grief, power and loss – threatening to tear her apart.

Back in her assigned chamber, Benzosia clutched the wilting ghost-orchids, their fading glow mirroring the ache in her heart. The room smelled of Zariel's healing balms and calming incense, potent scents barely keeping the harsh scent of brimstone at bay. The fortress lacked the Malsheem's splendor, but felt… safer? More honest? The spacious bed was hers alone. Basileus's silent presence as he prepared her rooms was a stark reminder of her solitude, but also of his unwavering, intense loyalty.

"When you return," Basileus's voice finally cut through the silence as he stood near the door, his tone low, a chilling menace woven through the quiet words, "will you make Gadreel pay for what he's done?"

Benzosia's grip tightened on the flowers, petals bruising, her knuckles white. Basileus, during her fevered recovery, had revealed the details – the poison traced to the tea Gadreel had made her drink, tea Baselius confessed having served, and left unattended when discovering her asleep. Asmodeus’s initial wrath had apparently cooled, or been redirected. Gadreel remained untouched, unpunished. Herald of Hell. Favored pet. The injustice burned within her, a white-hot fury that eclipsed even her grief.

"I've imagined countless ways," Benzosia's voice dripped venom, each word a bitter sting of impotence. Sleepless nights breeding vivid scenes of retribution. Dawn always brought the cold reality: none were feasible. 

Basileus moved closer, reaching for her hand, his touch a surprising, focused warmth against her anger. "I would do anything for you, my Queen. Anything to see justice done. To see you safe."

His unwavering loyalty was a dangerous balm. "Patience, Basileus," she forced out the word, tasting its bitterness. "We must wait." Zariel and Levistus’s support was crucial, fortifying her position, paving the way for Lucifer’s return. But would they support a queen who failed to produce an heir? The unspoken question hung heavy.

"Patience gives them time to strike again, my Queen," Basileus countered, his voice firm, laced with fierce desperation. "Those who wish you harm will not stop until they see you dead. News travels fast, especially whispers of weakness."

Benzosia's gaze fell upon the view from her window – a landscape of hellfire, brimstone and bone under a perpetually twilight sky. "They already believe me powerless, harmless" she whispered, the words heavy with loss, bitterness threatening to drown her. “My unborn child was the true hindrance to any eyeing the throne.”

"You asked my opinion once, I believe our only option is to remove the immediate threat.” Basileus's voice cracked, desperation burning in his eyes. “Kill him. Claim Gadreel’s residual power, and his position in court."

Benzosia flinched, then chuckled nervously, strained and brittle. "That’s a dangerous jest, Bas."

Basileus's gaze didn't waver. It was chillingly resolute. "Who said I was joking?" His voice was cold steel, devoid of humor.

Her laughter died. "We can’t kill him! The Herald of Asmodeus? We can't!" Fear coiled around her heart, but beneath it, something else slithered – darkness. Wrath. A cold alignment with Basileus's brutal logic.

“We can, and we must.” Basileus's voice was sharp, cutting. "He drew first blood, my queen. Leaving you vulnerable. Anything less than removing the threat makes you look weak, makes you a target. Retaliation is survival here."

His words were cold, certain. He, better than she, understood this brutal world. Still... murder? "No," she insisted weakly, "there has to be another way." She searched his face, finding only unwavering, ruthless loyalty reflected back. They stood in silence, the only sound the frantic hammering of her heart.

“Was I too naive before my fall... when I believed love was worth all sins?”

Later, Basileus sat her before the vanity mirror, gently brushing her hair, his touch feather-light, almost reverent. The silence was thick, heavy with the weight of their conversation. Benzosia's mind raced. Treason for Lucifer, now... murder for survival? For power? The thought twisted her stomach, a cruel echo of the guardian angel she once was. That innocent girl felt like a ghost, buried beneath disillusionment and rage.

Her nails drummed softly against the vanity's polished wood. "Theoretically," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, feeling a perverse, dark thrill at voicing the question, "how could one... dispose of the Herald of the Hells?"

Basileus paused mid-stroke, meeting her eyes in the mirror, his own narrowing slightly. "Decapitation is traditional," he offered, a flicker of dark humor in his tone. "Swift. Declarative."

She shuddered. "The clean-up would be dreadful," she quipped, the attempted levity falling flat.

"Or the infernal pits," Basileus suggested with a shrug, turning back to her hair, nonchalant. "Hell-fire consumes all trace, devouring body and soul. Tidy."

Perfect. Just convince Gadreel to jump in. Him, or me…

Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the intricate carvings on the ornate box Levistus had sent. A haunting reminder. She lifted the lid, admiring the contents – unguents, balms, potent tinctures. Each vial held the promise of healing, and now, a silent, terrible threat.

"Basileus," she began, her voice quivering as she held up a small vial of clear liquid, identical to the one Zariel had used to stabilize her recovery, "Do you know what makes the difference between a healing potion and a deadly poison?"

He furrowed his brow, confused. "The ingredients?"

“No.” A sad, knowing smile touched her lips. "It's the dosage." The irony was a bitter pill – the knowledge gained from Zariel, the tools potentially provided unwittingly by Levistus, now repurposed. Guilt washed over her, followed by a chilling resolve.

She stared at the vial, the liquid shimmering, a dark promise. The weight of the decision pressed down, suffocating. Could she do it? Become a queen who dealt in death?

"Are you certain, my Queen?" Basileus asked softly, watching her closely, searching her face.

Benzosia took a deep breath, her hand tightening around the vial. The future stretched before her, dark and uncertain. But she would not be a victim. She would not be powerless. She would take control, even if the path was paved with blood and souls. So much knowledge of healing... twisted now to harm. A ghostly echo of Michael's stern, disappointed face flashed before her eyes – the celestial guardian she once was recoiled. But it was swiftly banished by the memory of Gadreel’s violation, the memory of the lost child, the sting of injustice. Too much would be obvious; too little, ineffective. The dosage had to be precise. Perfect. After a long moment, steadying her trembling hands, Benzosia held the vial steady. Sweet Heavens, forgive me. The line had been crossed. She had stepped fully into the darkness.

“Yes,” she said, her voice firm, resolute, though inside, a storm raged. “I’m certain.” The vial felt cold against her palm. As she met Basileus’s gaze in the mirror, she saw a flicker of something dark and approving – respect.

She uncorked the vial, the scent faintly metallic beneath the herbal notes. The dosage. She carefully measured a precise amount into a smaller, nondescript phial suitable for concealment.

“Get this into Gadreel’s cup,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, but heavy with lethal intent, “and make sure he drinks it all.”

Basileus took the phial, his gaze unwavering, his loyalty absolute and terrifying. “It will be done, my Queen.”