The Devil's Ward - Chapter 1 - Ablubluh (2024)

Chapter Text

It's been a long, but productive, week. Raphael has been busy, wheeling and dealing, collecting his dues. He hasn't even had time to spend with Haarlep, such have been his commitments. But now he's home, in his beloved House of Hope, and he can finally relax.

Or that's his intent, until Korilla takes him aside to let him know that his offer of money for your firstborn was unexpectedly accepted. And there is a child - a child! - in a chamber that adjoins his private rooms. She hadn't wanted to let him roam free, for both his own sake and that of the other denizens of the House, so the little brat has apparently been locked into a room with a blanket and, occasionally, food. For several days.

At this news, Raphael sighs, pinching his nose as he settles into his human facade. At least it might make the boy more pliable, he thinks, trying to put a positive spin on things. Another moment to compose himself, and then he unlocks and opens the door to Enver Flymm's temporary jail, chin high and smirk firmly in place as he introduces himself.

“Good evening, dear boy. I... am Raphael, your new master. You will find me gracious and giving, so long as you play, as it were, by my rules. Do we understand each other?”

When the dwarven women had first come to their door, Enver thought nothing of it. Even a failing cobbler collects customers, and there wasn't anything out of the ordinary there. Then came the talk about debts, choices, the lot, and he assumed she was from the bank.

Or something.

Until, not even a few days later, that same woman returned. Enver's mother had walked to his room, stiffly, awkwardly, and told him to pack a bag. He was the answer to their little debt problem, and the deal was done. (Naturally, dragging him out included kicking, screaming and a few child-sized bite wounds.)

He didn't even have the luxury to explore the grand home the woman--Korilla-- had dropped him in. Enver was shut in a room that was far more drab than the lofty architecture that welcomed the two in, and there he sat. There he paced. There he fumed , only picking at the paltry meals Korilla slid him when he couldn't stand without. So when Raphael opens the door, he's greeted with a vicious glare that peeks through a tangled mess of black hair.

“Let me out of here.”

The bedraggled creature gives Raphael such an intense look that the cambion lets out a surprised bark of laughter, quickly muffled with the back of a hand.

Raphael's laugh does not go unheard. Enver's fists ball the rough sheets at his sides, white-knuckled and indignant. He's got the sense to know that asking this devil not to laugh at him makes him appear all the more pathetic, and teeth bite into lip to stop himself.

The devil’s eyebrows arch upwards, and he quickly reassesses a couple of key details.

This is not just a snot-nosed little brat. Almost grown, isn't he? For a human? How does one tell? Still, a softness to the cheeks that speaks to childhood, despite the commanding tone that tries to mimic an adult's depth.

A fire like that in the eyes, that's an anger that ties to ambition, and that's something interesting. Something he can use, perhaps, at some point.

“Now, now. That's not on the cards, I'm afraid. You belong to me... Enver, isn't it? Your parents,” he smiles, the very picture of patronising kindness, “they had debts, my boy - regular, everyday, mundane debts. Gold makes the world go round, so they say. And when they had a way out offered to them, for the low price of their first-born son, they couldn't leap on the deal quickly enough, it seems.”

He sighs, a theatrical breath accompanied by a sweeping gesture.

“I have to tell you, I didn't think they'd take it. I'm a devil, after all, my boy. All I wanted was to see a little delicious suffering, a little agonizing over an impossible choice. Give up a son, or lose the business and watch him starve anyway. Not so impossible after all, it seems! So your dear mummy and daddy can live in comfort without worrying about you . Isn't that nice? A happy ending for them.”

A pause.

“Not for you, of course.”

“I know about the debts,” the boy snaps. “It's not my fault they couldn't run their own stupid business.”

He shakes his head in a poor attempt to brush matted hair away from his face.

“They never cared, either. Probably jumping for joy at a chance to get rid of me.”

The fire dims ever-so-slightly at these words. It's a peek into the curtain, the eleven-year-old behind this shroud of anger. Enver adjusts himself in the bed, trying to subtly tuck his feet under himself, ready to spring up and bolt.

“And you hardly look like a devil. You look like some... some self-important jackass from the Upper City. Aren't devils supposed to be cool? You just look stupid.”

With that mean little sneer, his message is crystal clear-- he has no desire to 'play by Raphael's rules.' It's just enough to hide the pit of worry that the devil's words plant in his stomach, too. Not a happy ending for him... what did his ending look like? What the hells could a devil want him for?

It would be unbecoming to give into a full evil cackle for something so minor, but Raphael can't help the smirk that tugs at his lips. Even when it's just a child, there is a fiendish satisfaction to be had in making a person impotently furious. That particular anger that has nowhere to go, no outlet, just curling in on itself because its progenitor has no power whatsoever.

Delicious.

Fingertips reach out to flick at the tips of the boy's rough-hacked hair. Raphael pulls his hand back at the perfect time, narrowly missing Enver's attempt to slap it away.

The boy then takes his hand and runs it through his hair, trying to smooth down the mess... but it's wholly a failure, and the nest springs back into place.

“Don't touch my hai–”

“You need a haircut.”

Raphael’s voice is level, measured. He's not going to rush through his words, finishing his own thought before responding to the boy.

“This simply won't do. Any vassal of mine must be a little more well-presented. But yes, I suppose I should have done my research. Had I known they cared so little for you, I might have offered less, asked more. Ah well.”

A twist of his wrist as he pulls his hand back, and with a swirl of brimstone, there he is. Red-skinned and horned, teeth sharp and vicious as his smile stretches.

“Is this a little more what you'd expect? A self-important jackass from the hells, ahaha.”

Enver gapes as red flecks dance across the air, not dissimilar to the way Korilla's magic swarmed the two as she dragged Enver into the Hells. And Raphael is different. Wholly more intimidating, and the sight of those imposing wings stop him in his tracks.

It takes a moment for his voice to come crawling back up his throat, and when it does, it lacks the same bite as before. Bitter and hard-headed as he is, there's only so much spine a kid can muster against a genuine devil.

“Still a jackass. I'm not going to be your 'vassal', or whatever. I didn't agree to any of this! I've got stuff to do!”

“You don't need to have agreed. As a child, you are traditionally the property of your parents until you reach the age of majority. Which means, for the purposes of my contract with your mummy and daddy, boy, that I have the deed to you now.”

The devil shrugs, the horrible meaning of the words at odds with the pleasantness of his demeanour, even through pointed teeth that sit below gnarled horns.

“Whatever stuff an urchin of Baldur's Gate has to do is unimportant. You will... hm. You will act as page boy for me. Do you know how to do that? Easy enough work, all things considered. But I have no use for a boy who simply sits sullenly and tries to insult me.”

Enver is practically shaking with anger. With teeth grit so tight he hears something in his jaw groan, his gaze drops away from Raphael's. It fixes intently on the open door behind the devil, the gap between his wings and the shoddy furniture.

Then it's back to Raphael, and when Enver speaks, his tone is surprisingly measured.

“I don't know what a page boy is. Tell me.”

Pricks like Raphael love to hear themselves talk, right? That's when they're most distracted, wrapped up in the sound of their own voice...

And it's as the devil begins to respond, he springs off the bed, making a mad dash for the door.

It might have caught a lesser fiend off guard, but under Raphael's observation the boy is spectacularly bad at hiding his intentions. From the obvious glance to the door, to the way his whole body coils in preparation to run for it. It's laughable how simple it is to just reach and grab Enver's collar as he tries to break past him, claws digging into the grubby shirt and lifting the child off the ground.

“Tut tut, dear boy! That won't do at all.”

Still dangling Enver from his grip, Raphael ambles towards his own room. The occasional flap of leathery wings helps keep his balance against the inevitable wriggling of the child he holds in front of himself. He talks calmly, as though this is any other employee onboarding.

“A page boy is more or less another pair of hands for me. You will assist me in dressing, and in donning armour if the circ*mstances require. You will serve food to myself and any guests. You will take notes - can you write, Enver? I'll have you taught, if not - for my meetings. You will clean. And you will do anything else I ask of you. Understood?”

The wings are a wise decision. Enver fights like hell, thrashing and swearing. By the time the two have arrived at Raphael's room proper, he's begun to exhaust himself. He's akin to a wet cat as he dangles limply from the devils claws, eyes boring into the sleek floors. This is humiliating. And worst of all, it's frightening.

“I don't want to help you with dressing. Can't you just do that yourself? And put me down already--!” He wriggles weakly once more. “...A little. I can write a little.”

“You may not know much about quality clothing , boy, but there are ever so many fiddly little ties that go on much faster with a little assistance. Beauty is pain, or at least patience.”

There's a part of Enver that desperately desires to run again, but he's smart enough to know it's a useless endeavor. Raphael's hand twitches as Enver shifts his weight, and the boy scowls. He's not used to eyes being on him in any capacity, and he's soon discovering that he doesn't care for this sort of attention either.

Raphael sets Enver down on his feet, but is ready to grab him again if necessary. Something burrowed into Raphael's bedsheets stirs, yawns, and stretches.

“A new guest, sweet master?”

The bed stirs, and suddenly, Enver isn't sure what he's looking at. It's another Raphael, but perhaps... younger? More handsome? And definitely not dressed to the nines.

Raphael's pantomime smile twitches into mild annoyance for a moment. He'd forgotten the incubus was there, but every setback is an opportunity, so he gestures Haarlep over.

“Indeed. Perhaps you can assist in his training - not for your primary services, of course, but the young man is to act as page boy for me. You can show him the ropes, yes?” A pause. “Not those ropes. Only the metaphorical ones.”

The incubus grins as they crawl across the bed to stand barefoot on the stone floor, draping themself over Raphael with their arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder as they inspect the new addition to the household. Enver's nose wrinkles in disgust.

“Of course, love. I'd never do something so gauche as to shock the poor child. Not an innocent little thing like this.”

The purr in their voice is more humour than seduction, as they run their nose across the shell of the devil's ear.

“Quite. Now, Enver, Haarlep here will be helping you with your studies . You will practise your letters with them, and they will familiarise you with my wardrobe.”

“Why do you have a weirder version of yourself," Enver asks, nonplussed. "What the hells could they teach me about clothes? They're hardly wearing any!”

“Weirder-? ” Raphael is equal parts offended and bemused.

A look craned over his shoulder confirms that Haarlep looks the same as ever; the face that Raphael is convinced that he has, rather than the one that actually looks at him out of a mirror. Smoother, younger, finer-featured. The face of a leading man.

“You won't get far around here being rude , you know.” The devil says.

“Weirder.” Enver echoes quietly. The fact the two are just slightly different is off-putting, like a subtly warped mirror, or an artist who wasn't quite on the mark. Was this Raphael's cousin, or something..? No, ew. He pushes the thoughts out of his mind. There's a much more dire matter at hand.

Haarlep tuts, patting Raphael's chest before withdrawing their arms and sauntering over to the wardrobe. Their wings tuck down surprisingly neatly to their back as they sling an airy robe around their shoulders, loosely tying the waist. It covers very little more than their shoulders and rear, but it's a small concession to the boy's sensibilities. Then they fling the wardrobe wide open, with a fair imitation of Raphael's theatrics.

“Darling boy, I know everything about the flesh. How to best display it, to shape fabric that flatters or titillates... and don't get me started on the delicate art of knotwork.”

The cambion rolls his eyes, an indulgent smile softening the effect.

“You two are going to get on like a house on fire, I imagine.” He mutters a follow-up under his breath: “There may be no survivors.”

“And what happens if I don't do as I’m told?”

The question is, surprisingly enough, more curious than defiant. It's genuine, morbidly interested. Enver's not unfamiliar with what follows disobedience in most circ*mstances, but standing in a devil's lair, he knows the rules he's lived with are no longer in play.

“My warlock was collecting on a debt.” There’s annoyance in Raphael’s tone, now. Honestly, it’s not a difficult concept, is it? “Your dear parents could have tried to bargain, or squirrel you away somewhere. Instead they told you to pack a bag, and sent you away to me. I hardly even feel like the bad guy, here.”

He pouts, as though being less villainous than a pair of common cobblers gives him genuine grief.

“If you don't fall into line, I'll have no reason to keep you free range. I have plenty of dark little rooms, and plenty of harsh iron chains. It would be far easier for me, boy, to simply shuffle you away somewhere out of sight. It's up to you whether you give me a reason not to.”

“And not even let me die either, probably.”

This is partially muttered to himself, but Enver crosses his arms tightly. Little about his expression has changed to even hint at obedience, but his shoulders carry a weight they hadn't before. It's defeat.

He's seen the cruelty of people, witnessed how they created the rot that makes Baldur's Gate's underbelly. He's seen it over a few coins of gold, seen it in his own home. And Raphael could bring all that to shame. He's out of his league, really and truly, and survival wins over hatred.

“Fine.”

Enver spits the word out, hardly able to bear eye contact.

“I'll be your... your stupid page boy, or whatever. Can I at least bathe before starting lessons with them ?” A head nod towards Haarlep. “I was locked in that room for days. I've earned it.”

At the question, Raphael grimaces. The word bathe reminds him how much he was looking forward to doing that himself. He sighs, and jerks his head towards the enormous bath - more a pond, almost - and its accompanying towels, soaps, and fruits.

“Come on, then. We'll wash that awful rats' nest on your head while we're at it. First lesson first - Haarlep, help me off with these things, will you? Enver, attend.”

He sticks his arms up to the sides so that Haarlep can undo the laces at the sides of his doublet (showing Enver the trick of it as they go), standing patiently until the clothing can be lifted off him. Enver watches with dull eyes, chewing the inside of his cheek as Haarlep dutifully slides the doublet off Raphael. What a priss. That's something he could do with one hand, if he wore fancy clothes like that on the daily.

Once Raphael is stripped off, he settles quickly enough into the bath - as does Haarlep, though the latter removes only his robe, not the harness beneath.

“Come here, my dear little colleague.” Sinking into the steaming water, Haarlep sits on a step near the edge, gesturing for Enver to sit in front of them so they can wash his hair.

At Haarlep's beckon, Enver turns his attention to the bath. It's fit for a king. The boy had immediately assumed he'd be relegated to some dusty basin, and his awe is unmasked as he strips down and steps in. Awe enough to not shoot Raphael a hateful little look at the rats' nest comment. It's a pleasant warmth, and somehow, smells roselike? He didn't know that was possible.

Raphael watches with satisfaction as the boy's eyes widen at the realisation that he may avail himself of the amenities proper. Carrot and a stick, isn't it. Do well, and you get baths and kind words. Step out of line, and it's cells and chains. It usually works.

Though it's tempting to keep a wide berth from either devil, Enver eventually slinks over to the stair below Haarlep, and takes a seat.

“There's a good boy,” the incubus purrs.

Haarlep takes a shallow bowl, pouring warm water over the boy's head. Then comes the soap, worked into a scalp doubtless unaccustomed to anything but a very rare comb. The incubus is gentle, careful, fingertips massaging the skin under that coarse black hair. Rubbing strands between their palms, making sure every inch is cleansed and conditioned. Their knees press into either side of Enver's ribs, holding the boy in place, firm without digging in.

Enver can’t even muster the will to protest against Haarlep’s words. The feeling is otherworldly, a simple pleasure not once offered to the young boy. He’ll jot it down now—a grand bath is a must for when he gets this sort of power someday.

Raphael watches Haarlep's hands. He'll get his turn with them soon enough, and for now it's pleasant to watch them help wind this new fly into his trap.

Might as well cooperate, Enver thinks, and fish for information while the other parties are relaxed.

“Who else works here? Aside from the girl.”

Raphael sees no reason to withhold information excessively. See, boy, how magnanimous he can be when you behave?

“I have a sparse crew of staff, here at the House of Hope. You will meet my Archivist, my prison warden Nubaldin... Haarlep will introduce you to the others. I don't recall all of their names. In addition, you will meet my Debtors. Reminders of what happens if my deals are reneged upon. Don't worry, they're of no danger to anybody in my employ.”

Bobbing his hands under and over the forming film of suds, the boy focuses on Raphael.

“Debtors..?” He faintly recalls the occasional sounds from outside his holding room. Agonized voices, pleas acknowledged by nobody… “Is anybody in that prison? An enemy devil, or something actually interesting?”

Haarlep wasn't lying when they said they're a master of the flesh. Even this intimacy, without the slightest hint of lust, is something that comes so naturally to them. Hands that move over any body as naturally as breathing lull Enver into complacency, at least for now.

“Eyes, child.”

Gently, but without brooking protest, they pour water from that basin again to rinse the foam from the boy's hair. The black strands beneath are still coarse, thick, inclined to point every which way, but at least they're clean. A haircut, Haarlep muses to themself, is very much in order.

Raphael, meanwhile, appears to be enjoying the sound of his own voice as it echoes through the bath chamber.

“Debtors, yes. You aren't hard of hearing, are you, boy? Those who owe a debt. Your parents, if they hadn't handed you over so easily.”

He sighs, sliding down into the water, arms draped over the edge of the bath to support himself as his head tilts back, eyes closed. It's a genuine relief to dunk himself into the warmth, but as much as that, it's a deliberate show. Not of nakedness, but of vulnerability. I can bare my throat, it says. I can close my eyes to you, and you still can't hurt me. Not in my House.

“The prisoner isn't your concern. She'll break soon enough, give me her heart so I don't need to keep her in that dreadful cage, and then you might have a little playmate. Wouldn't that be nice? A sweet nightingale and a sour little raven.”

Enver prickles, and his eyes snap open to hand Raphael a retort.

“I can hear perfectly fi—” Unfortunately, this disregards Haarlep’s warning, and now there’s soap in his eyes. “Ow! Damn it! Gods!”

Haarlep chuckles, an open palm striking the top of Enver's head, not hard enough to wound but enough to admonish. Enver flinches at the touch, but doesn't move a muscle beyond that as Haarlep rinses the rest of the soap from his hair.

“I warned you, silly.”

With the incubus’s hold strong enough to stop the worst of the wiggles, Enver can only sit and fume. The prisoner, though… that’s interesting. The fact that there’s a single other soul in this place who shares his newly-discovered hatred for the devil is an unexpected sliver of hope. ‘Not my concern’ his ass— what else can he learn?

“I’m too old for ‘playmates’. What’d she do to get locked up?”

Raphael snorts. The devil is not above taking the more simple evil pleasures, and schadenfreude is one of them. Watching the boy blink soap furiously out of his eyes, Raphael feels some of the stress of the week melt away. Delightful.

“She defied me. Nothing more complex than that. You see, Enver, this House isn't a puzzle to be solved. You aren't going to win, here. It is my domain, created by me, for me. I am the only one who gets what they want , here, and the sooner you remember that, the easier your tenure will be.”

Only when Haarlep’s hold on him lessens does Enver open his eyes again, and he fixes Raphael with a (belated) glare. How dare you laugh at me, it demands. Unfortunately, with sopping wet hair plastered down his face, his attempt to convey this is incredibly humorous.

“Or, nobody's solved it yet.”He crosses his arms, tilting his chin in defiance.“Maybe you just hadn't bought somebody smart enough to figure it out.”

The soggy young man with a quick and easy glare is, for now, providing terrific entertainment. Raphael's mouth settles into an indulgent smile, a click of his tongue accompanying the slow shake of his head.

“Very optimistic. I wonder how long that will last? Have you really so little ambition that you'd throw away an opportunity like this just to throw yourself against a brick wall? A page boy has opportunities of advancement , dear boy, should you be a quick study. Should you prove to be useful. I'm not one to waste resources, after all, and I'd much rather you be a resource than another dim soul wasting away in chains. Wouldn't you? I'd think that the clever option. But you may be more stupid than you look.”

Now there’s a proper dilemma for Enver.

Raphael hadn’t mentioned advancement before. Annoying as he is, there’s still probably much Enver could learn from a devil— and not to mention the amenities the House provides. (If the bath is of any comparison to the rest, it’s a hell of a deal.)

But the idea of laying down and accepting this fate makes a part of him scream. Enver always heard his parents describe him as a hateful little thing— and perhaps they were right. Hatred towards his new master boils in his chest. Hate towards his spineless parents. Hate towards every circle in the nine Hells. There’s not a soul in the world who deserves his obedience, who’s earned his underbelly.

(It’s been a while, he notes, since he’s felt anything else.)

But he can’t fight, let alone win, if he’s shackled and forgotten.

“I already told you, I’m not stupid. People called me brilliant back in Baldur’s Gate, you know. …I can be a quick study.”

An admission that he’ll try. It’s clearly painful for him to say this, as he turns to Haarlep immediately after.

“Which soap do I use for my skin? There’s so many. Why do you need so many..?”

There's a deliciously sour aura emanating from the boy. It's something with which Raphael is intimately familiar, both from the inside and the outside. He allows himself a moment wondering whether his own features betrayed his resentment so clearly when he was a child, frustrated by his father's short-sighted dealings.

Ah, memories.

Enver's concession to his new role earns him a pseudo-avuncular smile from the cambion, and Raphael considers the conversation satisfactorily completed. His eyes close again, and he relaxes further into the water, wings splaying out across its surface.

Haarlep, meanwhile, clicks their tongue, letting the boy free from the grip of their knees. A hand on Enver's shoulder guides him around to look at the arrayed soaps, and the incubus begins listing the different scents and benefits of each.

Enver stares, dumbfounded, at the array. He can't discern any of the words Haarlep is saying on any of the bottles. Is that even Common? Landing on the decidedly non-infernal Neverwinter Lavender (it seemed leagues safer than Styx Dew or Chain Devil Musk) he retreats to his own corner of the bath. And despite quite enjoying the luxury of it all, he's had quite enough of Raphael.

After a quick scrub, he snatches a towel from the neatly-folded pile tucked behind the faucets, and perches himself at the edge of the bath. Enver opens his mouth to speak, pauses, and closes it. He stares at the tile floor, sheepish.

“I don't know why I'm asking this. But if I'm going to be your... stupid pageboy, and you're going to be stuck here with me,” purposefully, it's Raphael described as stuck, “is there a single thing you want to know? About me? I'm not nothing.”

After the boy cleans himself and clambers out, Haarlep glides through the water to their master. A soap of peppercorn and juniper gets lathered between their hands, and is soon finding its way over Raphael's red skin.

The cambion sighs happily, relaxing into the touch. Now, he really feels home.

Annoyingly, the boy seems to still have questions. Raphael growls something wordless under his breath, cracking an eye open to glare at his new ward.

“Ah, you're still here? No, not especially. Not unless you've any exciting skills or talents you're yet to volunteer.”

“Oh, ew.” Enver has the sense to keep this little comment under his breath.

But there's a new feeling that rises to the surface, one wholly pathetic in nature. A hope that Raphael had said yes. But the devil has shed his facsimile of politeness, and Enver feels wholly defeated. How stupid. How completely stupid. With a final, scornful look at the two, he turns to the entrance of the boudoir.

“I don't want to see this. I'll go... find some clothing. Enjoy your bath.”

Enver walks out of the room with sopping, stiff steps. From one hell to another, each as inescapable as the last.