Chapter Thirty-four: A Melody of Crimson and Gold

Chapter thirty-four: A melody of crimson and gold

Ten years. A decade that felt less like time's gentle flow and more like a vast, cold expanse of maintained illusion, each moment lived inside a carefully constructed lie. Yet Benzosia persisted, queen and mother, clinging to the deception of her daughter's parentage—a flawless, absolute untruth that kept her anchored to hope, and to the phantom touch of a love she could never truly claim. She missed him, a deep ache in her soul. She knew the sensation; love was a siren’s seduction, one that had heralded her fall from the heavens. Because of love, she clung to the deception of her daughter's parentage—

She hadn't spoken his name since their separation. Levistus remained pointedly absent from court unless summoned, Asmodeus hardly ever did, and she would not. She knew he sought her brothers, and that he would succeed. Levistus would find Lucifer and Azadiel, and return them. What she didn't know was whether to be relieved or terrified by this knowledge. She loved them. And  could only fear for their safety the moment they returned to the Nessus..

Still, even in Hell all was not so terrible. Amidst the ceaseless current of fear, heartbreak, and loneliness, Benzosia found  and clung to precious moments of peace. As she brushed Glasya's glossy black hair, listening to her daughter animatedly retelling of court gossip and intrigue, a decade-old knot in Benzosia's chest began to loosen. She ought to have been offended that her daughter, a child on the cusp of womanhood, was exposed to the nefarious scandals of the Nessus court. Yet, this was Hell, and mercifully, her precious girl had not succumbed to corruption. Glasya was spoiled and vain, but never cruel. Even after Basileus had taken over her tutelage, twisting her promising roots and encouraging the growth of rotten fruit, Glasya showed no propensity for malice.

“Perhaps you should stay back from court until this all settles then, hm?” She held up Glasya’s hair and leaned around to meet her daughter’s immediate pout.

She was growing into a beautiful woman, and though Benzosia saw Levistus in her expressions constantly, she’d long suspected it was her own burdened conscience making her see what she believed.

"Forget that, Mother. Bas claims his daughter deserves punishment for disobeying her father. But Bitru is just a minor lord serving—" she spat the word as if it were venom, "—the Duke of the Second. His daughter has every right to give herself freely to an incubus, and honestly, with a face like that, she has no hope of a profitable marriage anyway."

Do not, Benzosia scolded herself, nearly biting through her tongue to hold the words back – do not ask your daughter if she’s ‘given herself’ to anyone.

“You are being harsh, my dearest.” She was reminded that these precious moments were merely glimmers in her reality when servants bustled in some moved silently, reverently placing Glasya’s chosen attire upon the bed. The other’s claiming her daughter’s attention with boxes of jewels to choose from. Benzosia clutched the brush,  regretfully surrendering her hair brushing duties.

“Hardly.” Glasya turned to her, still smiling brightly, “Oh Mother, I do hope you can attend tonight’s banquet. It’s been so long I fear you have no idea who I’m speaking of when I tell you these stories.”

“Yes, well.” She would not deny it. What had been a prison before was now her monastery, her gilded cage serving as her shelter. It had been too long since she’d set foot amongst the demonarchy of the infernal court. “If  it is your wish,  then I shall send a note to your father to inform him.”

Servants bustled in, some silently, reverently placing Glasya’s chosen attire upon the bed. Others claimed her daughter’s attention with boxes of jewels to choose from. Benzosia clutched the brush, regretfully surrendering her hair brushing duties.

“I have received your note.” 

 She’d just sat down before her own vanity, brushing out strands of her own pale hair, when her eyes met Asmodeus's reflection in the polished silver. He entered, preceded by the chilling echo of the celestial beauty he once possessed. To most, he looked every inch the mighty Seraphim he had once been, but in the mirror, she only saw the tyrant she had irrevocably bound herself to.

“Welcome, my king."

“I am pleased to have you join me this evening.” Asmodeus's hands descended, a possessive weight on her shoulders, and her body went rigid, a bowstring drawn taut, awaiting the inevitable snap. Years had passed since his intimate touch, a calculated deprivation that now promised a brutal reclamation. She choked back the bitterness, a metallic tang of resentment and fear, knowing with sickening certainty he would one day demand more heirs. "We've received an official declaration for Glasya's hand in marriage."

“Marriage?” she spoke before thinking, outrage a fiery serpent coiling within her, eclipsing self-preservation. “She’s barely seventeen, not even fully matured! Surely…”

Asmodeus’s grip on her shoulders tightened, almost imperceptibly, a silent, immediate command to obedience that promised pain if defied. Her mouth clicked shut.

"I didn't say I was going to accept. Perhaps she is still too young, but she won't always be, and I have agreed to hear the terms."

"You agreed," once again, anger overtook her common sense, the words coming out through clenched teeth. "Without consulting me? She's my daughter too—"

"She's my heir, the princess of Hell, and she will go where I have most use of her," Asmodeus said silkily, temper bright in his midnight eyes. "Her marriage will be one of political importance." He stopped talking, gazing distantly out the window before turning back to her with a sharpened gaze. 

"You are to attend this night's banquet as my Queen, and as Glasya's mother. Make certain you do not embarrass us." With that, he turned and strolled out.

"As you command." 

Rage boiled within her, yet she maintained a quiet composure, her blood hot beneath an icy facade. She had the servants dress her with exacting measure, transforming into the aloof, frigid queen befitting Asmodeus’s deadly intent. Her hair, a perfect golden updo, was adorned with a ruby-dripping crown that gleamed like blood, complemented by a matching necklace. Her dress, a near-transparent, gauzy frivolity in a gold she likened to the dawn of heavenly skies, served as nothing more than a flashy sidepiece to Asmodeus’s hellish crown.

"I’d almost forgotten how radiant you are, my light."

The endearment sent shivers of revulsion down her spine. “I am glad it pleases you.”

Asmodeus took her arm, leading her into the banquet hall. A sudden hush fell over the assembled nobility, who bowed deeply, almost comically for their king until a dismissive wave of his hand allowed the revelry to resume. The air, heavy and thick, reeked of sulfurous wine and cloying, expensive perfumes. She hadn't missed this: being a spectacle, the constant fear of someone seeing through her fragile facade, and the terrifying possibility of encountering Levistus. She drained her glass of wine, seeking a relentless spark of hope—a desperate, liquid prayer.

It was only a few moments later that she caught the sight of him, leaning against a pillar. His shoulders were haggard, his face etched with a decade of frazzled, failed searching, but he stared at her. It was more than shock; it was a decade of suppressed desperation, a sudden flash of freezing sapphire fire that saw her, truly saw her. Her muscles coiled, a low, desperate readiness to flee, but she didn’t move. Their connection was a thick rope that would eternally bind them together, even when forced to remain apart. 

“Your Majesties…”

With a grand ceremony and much fanfare, the Archduke had come to make his bid for Glasya's hand before the assembled court. He stood beside the table, a picture of nervous anticipation. He was not the powerful figure his words suggested, but a desperate creature, his title outweighing his actual power, hoping to secure his house's future by linking it to the crown. He cleared his throat loudly, visibly summoning his courage.

“Before I delve into the terms, I offer a gift befitting the Princess of the Nine Hells.” The Archduke gestured, and a footman gingerly carried a velvet-draped object forward. With a flourish, the cloth was pulled away to reveal a golden violin, gleaming under the smoky torchlight. It wasn't just gold; it was wrought from celestial metals, and its elegant scroll was carved with tiny, fallen stars.

“Sweet Heavens.” Benzosia's breath hitched, the wine turning sour in her stomach. She knew that instrument. She had seen Lucifer play it countless times in the libraries of the High Heavens, a symbol of his bright, terrible, and creative arrogance. A wave of visceral cold hit her. 

“With the gift of the lightbringer’s violin, I am offering my son to wed your daughter. Their union will ensure that my armies will be yours to command as needed, and the Princess Glasya will have her own title through my son–”

The archduke droned on, unaware of his  glaring mistake, his words a dull hum against Benzosia’s taut nerves. Her gaze was fixed on Asmodeus, searching for the tell-tale signs of his rage. He revealed nothing. Next she focused on Glasya, whose gaze, a wicked dance of merry mischief, was alarmingly out of place. A sudden, sharp pang pierced Benzosia—she had expected Glasya to be furious at the mention of marriage, yet her daughter was..smiling.

“Why would I marry your son for armies and titles when they all belong to my father?” Glasya stood, leaning forward with her hands on the table, addressing the now sputtering archduke. “Right, father? If I wanted a title you’d give me one?” her expression turned into an overblown pout as she faced Asmodeus, who merely nodded and held out his hand, nearly making Benzosia choke on her wine. The wine tasted like ash on her tongue. “I can make the Malbolge sing for me and I won’t need a husband… or you.” she waved her bejeweled hand towards the archduke who collapsed into himself.

The archduke droned on, oblivious to his glaring mistake, his words a dull hum against Benzosia’s taut nerves. Her gaze was fixed on Asmodeus, searching for the tell-tale signs of his rage. He revealed nothing. Next, she focused on Glasya, whose gaze, a wicked dance of merry mischief, was alarmingly out of place. A sudden, sharp pang pierced Benzosia—she had expected Glasya to be furious at the mention of marriage, yet her daughter was… smiling.

 “Why would I accept, when we have no use for you?” She waved her bejeweled hand towards the archduke, who collapsed into himself.

“My armies...”

“All belong to my father” Glasya stood, leaning forward with her hands on the table, addressing the now sputtering archduke. “I am your princess, what title could you give me that is greater?” Her expression turned into an overblown pout as she faced Asmodeus. “Daddy, you can’t be serious.”

“What if I were?" The challenge in his voice was a spark, igniting a wicked gleam in Glasya's eyes—a fire Benzosia had never before witnessed in her daughter’s gaze until now.

“Well, I do rather like the gift…” she curled a finger, a silent, predatory invitation, towards the archduke. He dropped to his knees before Glasya’s feet, his hands, trembling ever so slightly, offering the golden violin up to her. “Play me a melody.” 

At her command, a tendon of celestial metal, alive and hungry, coiled around the Archduke’s arm, then burrowed deep into his flesh, a black, living vine lancing golden metal to muscle and bone… The Archduke didn't just hold the instrument; he was becoming its anchor, its conduit, his essence. It was a dark magic that coaxed Lucifer’s violin to life, corrupt.

“Glasya, please stop…”

“Stay out of this, Benzosia.” Asmodeus’s warning was low, dangerous, meant only for her ears, and warned her that the unfolding terror was one by her husband’s own design. 

“Your only value is that of entertainment, so entertain me – or I’ll have to entertain myself.” Glasya giggled, and Benzosia heard the unhinged chime to it now.

The archduke pulled a shaking bow across the bridge, and the note that rang out was one of agonizing purity, a sound too perfect for Hell. As the music soared, a crescent slice of gold appeared on his chest, perfectly replicating the bow’s path, shedding blood like water. The archduke’s shouts of pain grew hoarse as the music became crisper, sharper, each note costing a piece of his flesh and an answering one from himself. Glasya clapped, her delight a high, crystalline sound. Asmodeus watched, a sliver of cold, remote pride curling the corner of his mouth. He wasn't glaring at the Archduke; he was approving his heir’s exquisite command of pain. Where she had sought to protect her daughter, he conducted her fall, offering her soul to the same consuming power that had seen him transformed from an angel to a demon.