KISS OF BETRAYAL

He feels little distinction from the Black Palace’s servants these days, with just how many hours in his day are spent cleaning the mess the remainder of the Conclave had allowed to be made in his absence. There has always been a reason, of course, why it is Judas that Infernum’s elite consortium turns their head towards in times of trial, why it’s his vote that tips the scales, why it’s he who’s sent to represent his people’s interests in other realms. God himself had ingrained in him how foolish a notion serendipity happened to be; it is no matter of luck that Infernum is deemed weak enough to attack when he is away, while countless others of the Conclave remain present and strong.

If not such a grave annoyance, it’d be a compliment.

After they’d both been raised from mere flesh and bone, pride came to be called the worst of all sins in the Old World. Holy Men, the inheritors of the faith they’d mortally blasphemed, waxed lyrical: haughty eyes and a proud heart, the lamp of the wicked, are Sin. Those men would turn in their graves now at the joy she takes in being the titled Vice of Pride  – not least because she could compel their ancient skeletons to do so.

It may be her title, but it is not she who is the most plumped with pride in Infernum. How can it be, when such small slights draw such rich irritation from the would-be King? How can it be, when Judas Iscariot wields so much pride that he wears it as an inordinate crown? One made of razor thorns, even if he has yet to realise it. –What else did those Holy Men used to say?

Beware, Pride goeth before a fall.

( Perhaps they were wise after all. )

And how very easy it is to cause delightful, irate reactions in him. This had required even less effort than usual - just a lazy stretch of her arm, a pointed rap on a cup. Judas is many things but he is no fool, he will know such a display is anything but accidental. The vexation in his words is unmasked. Such an effortless victory is somewhat disheartening, though the sound of his deep, deliberate ahem still brings an amused smile to wine-stained lips. My, my, it seems the self-perceived majesty of their realm awoke on the wrong side of his lonely bed. “You’d ask such formalities of your oldest companion?” is the answer to his request, accompanied by her best attempt at a wounded expression as she turns to lay light eyes upon dark. “My deepest apologies, Judas,” she utters, countenance emphasised by the thick honey of her voice, the performative earnestness in her voice surely more mocking than any open insult, “your arrival lacked it usual fanfare - I hadn’t sensed that I stood in the presence of greatness.”

‘I trust you’ll keep your grief from manifesting in any further disrespect’, he threatens in pretty words, as if such a thing were possible - as if any respect that lay between them had not bled-out long ago. As if Salome hasn’t spent the last centuries affording him far more respect than he deserves, the ungrateful bastard.  The smile on her face is more wolfish than earnest, fighting the cold line of his lips with dark warmth even as he fires his own irreverent questions. “Quite. You and I share a love of transgressions, do we not? But if you wish to dance with me, you need only say it.” Eyelashes flutter; webbed, golden wings stretch out behind her. “And I must ask, Judas”, she counters, eyes unflinching from his face, “Whatever has you so tense? Mortal deaths and wine a-plenty, does not that bring back sweet memories of your golden days?” Truly, she is curious. Perhaps a mortal hadn’t recognised him; perhaps he’d failed to pack an adequate amount of those crosses he adorns himself with – he really did wear his pride on his sleeve.

Fury festers louder within him as his lesser smiles towards him, bemused, daring to greet him as a friend. His oldest companion, she dares call herself. It’s an insult in a number of ways, the worst of all being that it is, in fact, true. Judas has always loathed any truths he did not write himself. Yes, he and Salome had walked parallel lines since before Hell’s leagues had swallowed them both — two human souls, having walked the same streets, stuck their toes in the same sand, both shedding the blood of a holy messenger and swiftly damned without a moment to interject.

Perhaps if Hell had not granted her wings first, their tale may have been woven in a different color. Perhaps they’d have fed off one another’s darkness as he built his throne in the darkness; perhaps she’d have even found herself standing by him, a member of Infernum’s inner circle. Instead, it’s wicked pride of Judas’s own that sets fire to any kinship he’d ever have allowed himself to feel for the one damned, unholy mortal who beat him to making infernal history. As if the fall of a mere human by her hand is considered greater than the fall of a god by his; once again, he must give reluctant praise to God’s sense of humor.

What she tries to pass as an apology, Judas deems an insult in a disguise so thin it may as well have worn nothing at all. Simply wait until the new kingdom comes, he hums in the back of his mind. When my crown is more than an unspoken understanding, more than a metaphor, you’ll be the first thrown to your knees. Ever patient, knowing full well the time has not yet come, that it may still be lifetimes away, he does as he always has — he mimics the steps in her dance and continues the farce, no matter how tired it may be. “Forgive me for leaving the full procession back home. We represent Infernum as guests in another realm, my old friend,” he echoes through gritted teeth, and even faux kindness towards her leaves a bitter aftertaste. “In such circumstance, I, for one, surely couldn’t imagine carrying myself with such pointed self-indulgence.” He pauses, glaring intently towards the empty wine glass she’d demanded be filled only moments before. “But, of course, I won’t speak on your behalf.”

❂ ⸺

“of course.” if judas is to sigh over nonexistent wounds, cassiel decides, she will turn her speech into rose-scented ointment and rub it across the expanse of worn muscle. she nods in a deliberately extravagant, flippant version of understanding, brows drawn together and red lip pouted outward, a game through which he can spot the similarities of their dishonesty and string threads between them. “oh, and how much more terrible that weight must feel,” sweet as a supplicant, she takes his hands into her own and squeezes, her smile gentle and lunar-curved (how every moon deceives: in the shadow of a crescent there must always lay unseen land). “to know you hoisted the moon to the sky with your own two hands.” in demonstration she turns over his hands and gasps in quick succession, eyes drawn wide as she looks up to judas and down once more as if she has found great treasure or terrible burden, thumbs stroking over the open palms. “there, see, the burn marks from the rope. your poor, poor, thing.” one set releases him only to raise upward, fingers tucking beneath his jaw so her thumb may brush over new skin — chin, lips edge — dripping with the enchantments of her performance. “i would never —” her thumb smudges over his cheek, the word dragging itself through powdered sugar. “have done such a thing to them… or you.” 

he takes leave from cassiel’s grip to observe her from all angles, and the angel does nothing to prevent his slow stalking, so very predatory in its circling pattern. how brave, how terribly vain, to allow history’s greatest betrayer a glimpse at her naked back simply so she can feel the sharp edge of his gaze drag along her. “do you like it?” the look deep-set in her eyes, the manner in which she raised her shoulders in half-measure to exploit the gentle pits of her collarbone, how her little hands grasped into the lustre of her skirts and raised slightly — it all might have been called coquettish, but as cassiel had long since surpassed the ones to invent such looks of dalliance and allurement, it could only be called reflexive of her nature. “i have outdone even myself, no?” 

she preens into judas’s black feathers, a giggle abandoning her pretty mouth to light the air between them. o, is this what becomes of honey left out in the night? the stars fallen in the pot, sunk deep into endless gold as the black sky joins, shedding grafts of its outermost skin and muddling the colour. everything about her was sweetness, glimmer, the touch of shadow, and as her eyes roll to his, they all burn together in clear rebuff: no. i fear not the darkness, nor what can be found there. but such answers are too straightforward, and therefore too short, and for that reason cassiel cannot give it — their contest had played throughout too many centuries to allow for candor and simplicity. if it had, all would have ended long ago. 

“shall we see?” at the close of a last glance, her eyelids shut, lashes coming to rest against gold cheek. “ah. i have joined the darkness.” perchance it seems a child’s game or a fool’s error to misinterpret a demon’s query with such lightheartedness, but cassiel knows judas too well to imagine he does not feel the hidden actuality: i am not the nestling, but the one who tames hazards into drinking sugar water from my palm. “do what you like, judas. see if i flinch.” 

Taut red lips pout towards him, and Judas accepts Cassiel’s disingenuous sympathy with a furrowed brow and a faux solemn nod. Silken fingers wrap themselves tightly around his hands, and in exaggerated concern, the angel frowns at the imagined marks etched into the flesh of his palms. There is an eternal intrigue in this folly of pretend they’ve played since time began, and now is not the moment Judas finds the wherewithal to call endgame. He graciously accepts his turn and puts on his best wince under her touch, as if its softness stings against invisible wounds, as if his hands burn raw. They do not, nor do they possess the rough callouses of a knight. In thousands of years, his wide palms have remained tender; his greatest victories were won not with blade in hand on a dusty battleground, but while seated against a backdrop of velvet, with a soft touch and a whisper. With love.

“To ever do such a thing to me, dear Cassiel,” he teases in return, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards as her finger glides across his cheek, “you’d have to have fallen from your pedestal. You see these rope burns, but truly, lifting the moon into the sky took little strain — how could it? Something so hollow is so very light. These hands have spent far longer tugging at the rope that ties you to the heavens.” She never budges. Instead, she descends every now and again to flaunt her magnificence, brush his cheek, and leave him with but the scent of her.

She takes to his gaze as any creature made to be adored would — naturally, with grace and pride and craving all at once. His eyes, it seems, aren’t affirmation enough, as she slips a honey-lacquered hook down his throat to pry the verbal compliments forth. “I adore it,” Judas declares, assured that any other answer would be wrong. “As always, you give beauty a new name.” He realizes, as he does each time their shadows meet, that unlike some angels, subtlety has no place in praises sung to Cassiel. No, he compares her to the night’s stars, a work of God’s hands, she does not pause for a moment to acknowledge the beauty of her Father’s celestial skies. Instead, she insists she’s outdone herself. Not God, herself — as if the pinnacle of beauty this earth has seen came not from His hand, but from her aura. Judas does not argue otherwise.

He elevates his chorus of admiration for her artistry one level further as she dares him to touch, to feel the masterpiece for himself. To do what he wishes. What greater honor could heaven’s crown jewel give, than to allow Hell’s shadowed hands unchaperoned reign of her every shimmering edge?

God’s favored beauty closes her eyes and surrenders herself to the darkness; she surrenders herself to him. They both know, the two are one and the same. “It welcomes you,” he greets with a voice bourbon-smooth, low as the light in the tavern that might serve it. Boldly, Judas accepts her dare. His steps guide him behind her, his jacketed chest pressed against Cassiel’s near-bare back. A hand begins at her fingertips, slowly up her arm, rounding the curve of her shoulder, crossing her pointed collarbone. It stops as his palm makes itself comfortable amongst the nooks of her neck, fingers wrapped around either side of her throat. It’s an image he’s envisioned throughout history — his hands around her heck, dragging her to Hell beside him.

WITH EVERY WORD, HE CASTS a spell she cannot resist. This song is a part of her, the sweet hum of legends plucked from the earth and placed among the stars. It is warm honey pouring over her supple skin and a sticky mess of want caught in her throat. It is all that Arianne thinks of; it is all that she fears. She stands at the top of a hill, dappled with sunlight and coveted by all. What is to follow: transcending until she rivals the sun, or falling to the depths below? The name Arianne Altier does not carry the black, fathomless bottoms of the seas as Judas. It does not inspire fear, nor does it summon a blanket of silence over the crowd as Arianne tests the taste of it. Judas.

Yes, the sight of her makes the Holy Land sigh. Every hand reaches out to touch the lightning upon her skin, and soothe any heartache from her brow. Her smile makes them stutter. Her voice lulls them to peace. Even worship such as this grows tiresome. Even open awe and the warmth of a heart cannot fill the expanse of Arianne’s greed.

She wants to be remembered. She wants to be more than a mere silhouette. She has already risen, but she intends to devour the sky raw.

As if her desire ties a noose around Judas’ neck and draws him close, he steps forward. A drop of anticipation — not unlike thrill or exhilaration — starts under her skin and spreads throughout her body. Arianne smiles at Judas sweetly, but her eyes are sharp and obsidian. She knows he sees the way he alone has opened the chasm inside her belly, how the edges are shifting now to be nearer to him. No one is safe from it, not even Judas — but for now, she will dance for him. She will be the fish on his hook and play at surrender for the bait, if only to see how close he can reel her in.

“You speak as the immortal do, Judas. Of stories and myths that do not have faces, merely shapes. But I daresay that us mortals,” Arianne meets the eyes of those surrounding them both, “find true inspiration in the details. The memory of their laughter as their first child is born. Their shouts of triumph in the chaos of war. Cador was a great man, and a true leader.” And a fan of truly unriveting stories toward the end of his life, she thinks clippedly. “We celebrate his legacy, but in truth, I find inspiration in the details. I expect that the next leader who takes his place will find strength in them, as well.”

The thought has already settled over Arianne in the waking moments after the news, but Judas entices it into place. It settles in her bones and wiggles its way between her cracked soul. That leader may be me. It will be me.

“No matter how many fall and no matter who else may rise, the Holy Land will always be the home of those who look to the horizon. Who embrace the promise of the future and are not bound to the ways of the past. Where immortals and mortals find harmony in their differences.” 

“Take a walk with me, Judas.”  It is her turn to take those steady footsteps forward. She extends a hand, palm turned to the heavens, for him to take. “I should like to hear more from your immortal wisdom.”

She smiles at him, saccharine, with a polar darkness in her eyes, and she coaxes him closer, letting him slip past the translucent veil that separates her word from her intention. She invites him, and him alone, in. Judas knows the look she gives him; it’s the same look he’s relished in the faces of angels before they fell to his familiar lows — a look that is cast only as one lays their naive, hungry eyes on true power for the first time and realizes they’ve been starved all their life. Oh, the fruits he could show her. She need only desire them with enough strength. As he studies her, his own smile dripping in promise, Judas can see desire spilling from her seams. Arianne Altier holds a shining in her eyes, brighter than the lightning in her veins — one that lusts for bone and brilliance. He recognizes it. He even dares to test it.

“I, too, once walked this world as a mortal,” Judas appeals, once again donning his shed humanity as sheepskin clothing amongst the gathered flock of listeners. “There are some details that will always inspire and haunt, but, for reasons other than what you suggest.” He eyes the lambs that surround them, growing in numbers as their philosophical duel advances. This is what this Globe was built for. “The sounds, the sights — they’re what we all believe will endure, and for a time they do.. but by design, they are fleeting. Ephemeral. There comes a day where you close your eyes and, in the blackness, you can no longer recreate that sound or scent that once reverberated in you. What never fades, is the feeling that detail evoked in the pit of you, the reason a sensory moment imprints itself. Perhaps all present will remember the echo of a triumphant war cry, but it’s remembered far differently from each side of the battlefield, whether by victor or mourner. Their memory of the sound in their ears will be the same, but once that fades, the feeling that remains won’t be.” 

Judas can recall all too vividly his own lived rendition of this archetypical tale — the most delicious taste of bread his lips had ever known. It was made not from the region’s finest milled flours, nor by the bakers with the most esteem; it was bread broken at a meal that would etch him into history. He’d swear for millennia that he could still taste it melting on his tongue, but in truth, what warmth he remembers reveling in that night was not bread, but what it felt like to sigh Christ’s death certificate — to be the one to damn it as the last supper, and to have been the only one who savored it knowing so.

Other than Jesus, he supposes. Fucking know-it-all.

“Remember the details as best as you can. Hold onto them. Cherish them. But, never allow yourself to forget,” he pauses, to look unflinchingly into her eyes, “what is it they rouse in you?”

To the crowd, she echoes the standing lines of the Holy Land’s promise for the future, and he bites down on his tongue to stifle a chuckle. Whether or not Arianne herself believes the script remains to be seen, but Judas knows well, there are many who do. Mortals really could be silly sometimes, with their beliefs that the greatest stories have yet to be told — and that they will be the protagonists, that they’re somehow different than the rest. How cute. “The days ahead have always shone so brightly in the Holy Land, even amongst the dark. It’s exactly the spirit I admire in this place — looking ever forwards, never back. It’s.. illuminating.” And, it keeps the past hidden in the shadows. It’s the same future-minded mentality that has somehow allowed a known twice-betrayer the power he holds now, having convinced his constituents that tomorrow is another day and a third treason is surely out of the question. Again, how cute.

Death had always seemed to trail Arael like a shadow trailed her steps. Her destiny as a star was to burn and burn out, and she had accepted her fate with a peace that she hadn’t felt since. She had witnessed death on Earth many times during her servitude to god, and she had become numb to the sight of a soul leaving one’s body. The only time death had impacted her as more than just a hindrance was Uriel’s death. That was the only time she felt the mortal feeling of grief penetrate her angelic visage. That grief still rests inside her chest. It was Uriel’s and Uriel’s alone— no space belonged to the fallen Cador or any future souls prepared to suffer the same fate.

Her eyes searched the crowd for something that lingered at the edge of her mind. The mortals mourn the loss of one of their own, but their grief didn’t appear like hers. She felt her heart shatter at the sight of her fallen angel. She let her gaze be blinded by the redness of her anger— an anger that still made a home within her sight. She felt the melancholy wrap itself back around her. Her emotions were intense at the blow death dealt her, yet the mortals seemed more alive at the knowledge that the Stars was dead. She didn’t know what she searched for within the hungry crowd around her, whether it be an answer to her quest or a reasoning as to why death made a mockery of her, but the itching never disappeared as she felt a presence appear next to her.

Her eyes narrowed at the hand firmly clasped on her shoulder before she jerked away from the demon’s touch. “Betrayer.” She said curtly, examining the demon that spoke to her as if they were old friends. At the mention of Abaddon’s cells, Arael’s eyes narrowed even further. Her visits were between her and the keeper. She had no desire to reveal her revenge quest to every prodding being,  especially when they weren’t likely to have any information to help her narrow down her suspects. “I wouldn’t know.” It was a hum that slipped her lips, though it wasn’t hard to see the angel wasn’t entertained with the conversation. “I prefer my own realm. Much more—” She paused, as if trying to find the right word. “Comfortable.”

From his father, as a man, he’d been given two names — and like all before him, it was in forging a legacy that he was able to shed a surname, no longer finding purpose for old Iscariot, for his legend was now told in the utterance of one name alone. There has lived another Judas, and there will again — but in every land, amongst every people, it’s his tale the sound evokes. It’s he who commands the name. What’s sweeter than that? To command a word — to have imprinted his own being on this world’s lexicon with enough force to become synonymous with an arranging of letters that belongs to all. Betrayer, she greets him. He wears the moniker with the same dignity Gabriel might wear Sun, or Michael, King. It rolls off Arael’s tongue in an instant, as if it were his name, and that alone gives Judas pride enough to stand taller before her. His smile widens just a centimeter, and his eyes rest upon her. How many words does she command?

She shares none of his interest in making as if the two were old friends, and as she jerks herself away from his touch, Judas offers a retreat backwards, both hands raised in surrender. I mean no harm, his body suggests, but his white flag is only physical. A devil-kissed smirk suggests the taunts have only just begun, and it only widens with her stiff insistence that she simply can’t attest to the Cells’ condition as of late. Delightful. Judas can name but few sweetnesses he savors more than the taste of a celestial dripping in sin, and he knows, Arael lies. “You wouldn’t know?” he echoes, voice drenched in doubt, daring her to commit to the lie, to dance with her creator’s ideal of morality and dally closer towards the dark. Either she affirms herself a liar, or, confesses to her visit and admits herself a sinner. Judas would find a small victory in either. “So, you deny it?” he pries, and the anger in her is palpable, fueling his smile. She barks, because he’s touched a wound — something she seeks to keep guarded, safe. He’s found something worthwhile, and it puts a part of him at ease. For a moment, he’d allowed himself to fear it had been Abaddon conducting business in secret with Arael; how foolish to think she’d be so dim as to do so on her own ground, if at all. It was Arael creeping in the shadows, in a realm that is not her own; it is Arael with the secret.

Judas has always loved secrets. Nowadays, he knows they’re worth far more than thirty pieces of silver.

Imagine a place where the beasts that teem within you lift their wearied heads and begin to scratch at the inside of your skull, claws raking away at the wall of bone. Imagine that, as you draw closer to this place, they begin to stir and grow restless, teeth gnashing, scales scraping against their imprisonment of bone that was held together purely through determination and desperation. This is how Romilda felt as whenever their presence in Infernum was needed - an endless font of anxiety, desperation, and paranoia settling upon them even before they set foot upon the infernal soil. How many stories had Arthur told them of the horrors that crept within this hellish landscape? How many demons had they dreamt of slaying upon its poisonous soil? They had become an expert at masking their unease, though, smothering the infernally induced notions by focusing on the task at hand - namely, ensuring the safety of their traveling allies.

Even if these allies in question seemed sycophantic.

Still, though, his voice harkens to them so sweetly - so much so that Romilda thinks they might feel a toothache set in. They pause for a moment as they listen to him, hand curling into Heimdal’s mane thoughtfully, rubbing the coarse hairs of his mane between their fingers thoughtfully. It was easy to see how so many had fallen under his thrall, why they had allowed themselves to become victims of his peculiarly infamous kiss. Romilda studied the curve of his cheek, the arch of his brow, the artful line of his nose. They couldn’t help but wonder if he had grown into the cursed immortality that had been granted unto him, or whether it had settled upon him as naturally as devotion came to those who stood beside him. Their gaze met his. The more that he spoke, the more it became unflinchingly clear: they would never be counted among them.

It was apparent the moment that he lied to them. Your name carries impressive weight here. What he meant to say was the Altier name, the name of the Trinity - he had likely been hoping for Arianne, the enchantress of the Holy Land, or Revna, the Great Weaver of Illusion. Romilda was nothing more than Romilda,  the Knight, and they very much preferred that it remain that until they earned a title that was greater, as great as the legacy of their sisters. “I’m glad to serve, Judas.” They assured him quietly, head canting as they smiled. “In any small capacity that I can.”

“But I do wonder who has been touting my name about,” Romilda mused aloud, gaze sliding  over to glance at Judas. “If you would be so kind as to enlighten me…” They looked at him expectantly. What did a knight know of politics? Wielding their battle axes was far more preferable than parrying conflicting agendas with duplicitous words.

It’s immortal dignitaries Judas often channels his diplomatic efforts towards, leaving relations with the mortal Round Table delegated to Azazel — and it only makes sense, doesn’t it? In all eventuality, they’ll one day wither and die and be cycled through like human bodies do, while relationships with the divine will always endure. Thus, Romilda’s inner workings remain much a mystery, but it’s not long into their ride that he begins to see her, Judas believes. Modesty. Its rarity is beyond measure in Infernum — and, from what Judas’s diplomatic travels have shown him of Caelum, the same can be said of the celestials’ equal hubris. It’s a trait, Judas realizes as he watches Romilda nod in silent assurance, that even amongst the virtuous heavens, remains distinctly human. They possess it in leagues, and Judas notes this about them. A political dignitary by title, she looks him in the eye, a fellow diplomat — one whose rank eclipses hers, but a fellow diplomat all the same — and she claims to serve. She makes herself small, in a way few of his kind ever do. 

Empty sung praises will not permeate this one’s armor. She will be a different kind of challenge. 

Delicious.

Many would simply accept the blind adoration, and as she doesn’t, Judas tries to decipher what lives at the heart of their question — baiting for further compliments, a genuine clueless curiosity, or an attempt to dissect him? He thinks back, reflecting on the whispers about the Round Table he’d made sure to hear prior to this journey — the things about Romilda that had led him to think them the best suited for his mission. They’re smart — with survival instincts sharper than that of a Luca, who he’s sure would lean more towards genuine cluelessness. And, unlike the way their famed sister would assuredly pry for more praise, Romilda is humble. They are a knight, Judas must remember. They think in strategy. As does he. A battle of the minds is a battle like any other.

He sees her move; he respects it. “Legacy comes in many forms,” Judas muses in calm return. “Not all names of regard are shouted in the forums, or chiseled into building entryways. Perhaps the highest form of regard one can find is amongst their people, and in the Holy Land, it is clear — Romilda Altier is a name that carries respect.” His eyes dare to meet hers, as he offers a nod of his own respect. Had their praises truly made it long and far across borders and villages, down to his ears in the Black Palace? Absolutely not. But, had Judas made it his affair to study the Holy Land’s political system and its players well enough to speak about Romilda as if they had? Decidedly so. “Tales of your victories in the forests, the monsters you’ve slain, have travelled.. and how, still, you shine like the sun. For honor to walk without corruption is so rare a beauty, it’s no surprise your people commend you. Even I must.”

WHEN: Infernum WHO:  @ofjudea​

Mammon knew Judas - knew well of their existence prior to their new founded demonicness. And well, as the humans would have put it some eons ago - “cool story bro” was the best sentiment that they could ever share. It wasn’t like they were ever particularly interested. But Mammon had inevitably crossed paths with him seeing as they seemed to be ever so present in Abaddon’s existence. 

Unlike Mammon who saw little appeal in doing anything - it appeared that Judas still held ambition close to their heart. 

And while Mammon knew they attempted to influence, it was hard to change the ways of a stubborn demon’s routine. They glanced at the other, their eyes glossed over as per usual. Whatever they had said - it had completely went over their head. “So what was your point? Didn’t hear it,” their finger went into their ear as they picked at whatever nastiness had infested it this time. 

† —

The Star of the Holy Land is dead, and the news sends Judas not into mourning, but strategy, making preparations amongst Infernum’s highest ranking for the journey ahead. Responsibility for wrangling the Vices towards Sanctus Terra falls naturally to Damien, and Judas thanks the order he’d established long ago for making it so. It frees him to travel alongside the one demon he’ll dare acknowledge as a near equal. In the days before departing, he visits Abaddon to plan their trip accordingly.

For everything the fallen angel is that makes Judas revere her so, Abaddon’s ability to mold a soul through both love and terror in equal measure shines paramount. What a shame, then, that the lump of clay that sticks closest to her side is one who refuses to take shape. Mammon. Judas regards them on his way out of Abaddon’s chambers, and once again, feels a familiarly futile urge to try his hand at sculpting. Throughout history’s ebb and flow, he’s tried and failed to shape Mammon, to build them up with enough vague intention and direction to give their abyss a silhouette of some sort. Each time, he thinks he’s succeeded, and each time, that pile of clay sinks back into a mass with no aim — empty, shapeless, longing. Had he been on mortal time, Judas would no longer be trying. That fool of a God, though, had cursed him with an eternity, and he knew well how the wickedest masterpieces are most often crafted over eons. A reward may still lay at the center of the void that is Mammon, Judas reasons — for a sculptor patient enough.

JUDAS  /  @ofjudea​

❝  — in the SECOND WEEK OF THE NEW MOON in the hours of the MEMORIAM OF SUNSET, fair-faced cassiel crosses paths with THE GREAT BETRAYER.  ❞

irony, it should be said, is a favoured affair of the immortal, who love nothing more than to sit back and observe while the world contradicts itself. and cassiel, who knows so well how to recline in a way both advantageous to her own eye and pretty to the view of others, is delighted by the one she spots handsome-faced and stood apart from the revelry, wearing a look of vexation. how profane, how wonderful, that he who had earned divinity in the death of a holy-touched mortal man would dare to wear even a snag of aggravation at the funeral of another. how opportune. she takes from the merriment in silence to pursue her find, eyes upon her retreating loveliness the only disruption she makes in the crowd. “ — dearest judas,” she rounds on him, the crest of her wing stroking under his chin as a feline slinks under a stagnant palm, creating a caress out of an otherwise open expanse of skin. her feathers drag heavily against the sinew of judas’s chest, moving jointly with one silken hand, which pauses over the empty cavity of his ribs. “how deeply you have taken cador’s death to your heart, to wear such a look of consternation upon your brow.” let us play three shells and a pea, she is saying, making a game of tapping exaggeratedly the conches she knows are hollow. is this why you grit your teeth? is that why you set your jaw? no? cassiel smiles. it is a reckoning. “allow me to replace it with something sweeter.” from upon her own brow she lifts a woven crown of windflowers, fresh as blood from a god who has been gored for the very first time, and replaces it on his dark nest of curls. an act of charity completed, next she takes the underside of the his jaw into one set of slender fingers, observing the look of his darkened face by flickering glow of the fire. her gaze climbs judas’s features, and when she holds his eyes with her own, the curve of her mouth becomes the hilt of a blade — a gilt thing who needn’t flash the sharpness below because one knows it is there all the same. i can sense what lays under the third shell, sweetling. “does it so yield?”

† —

A diplomat, Judas has always reasoned, is as much an actor as anything else, donning whichever mask serves his stage best — the smiling, comedic sock, or the tragic buskin. It’s with particular intention that evening that he opts for the latter, wearing a scowl of suspicion and disappointment to a memoriam of joy and celebration, hardening the edges of his frown twofold each time Azazel sways past in the crowd. She will know what he means by it. Beneath his chin, the brush of a wing against bare, shaven skin tickles in a way the evening winds do not. The quick laugh he omits as a smile cracks is involuntary, and his scowl returns, deeper now. He doesn’t recognize the wing-tip as belonging to one of to his own, and so it must be celestial. He’s missing the patience to be ired by their kind for sport tonight. The angel greets him, dearest Judas, with words he often hears in insincerity, and with his breath drawn, he prepares for confrontation. When she rounds him and presents herself for view, the phantom caress of her wing drifting from jaw down to chest, he perceives her. “Cassiel.” Instinct responds, and he exhales in calm. She teases him, and she knows that even her taunts are beautiful. In all the eternities he’s known her, she’s always been both things — beautiful, and taunting.

Mortal eyes, ones that had not danced adagio alongside the Great Betrayer over eras and eons, might have looked upon the coldness he wore and mistaken his soured look for grief. Cassiel knows better. The passing of the stars bears little, if any, weight on his chest; as an immortal, he knows better than to feel sullen in something as mortal as death. What haunts him is a deeper discontentedness — a perceived betrayal of trust by Azazel, an offense taken personally, souring him on a sweetness he’d once favored. Cassiel, he knows well, looks upon the Moon and has only ever tasted bitterness. He stands in good company. “I mourn for the people of the Holy Land, just as you do,” Judas muses. “Here they stand, nightfall upon them, knowing that once again, the Stars will not rise to alleviate the dark. Frightening, I’m sure. If only the Moon shone bright enough to light the way alone, but night after night, I watch it flicker. I can only pray, for the people’s sake, it’s not to burn out as well. Who would be to light the way then?” 

In every life, he’s learned the weight of a crown. From Lucifer’s head he razed one, and broke it into pieces. He wears an invisible one now, forged of whispers, fears, and allegiances unspoken. Cassiel moves to change that. She plucks one from her own head, and as she places it atop his, she regards him in silence as King. There is sometimes a vile beauty in God’s immaculate plan, and Judas laughs as he pictures what the celestials had drawn out in the stars time and time ago — a crown of thorns for the Christ child, bloodying his brow, and for his betrayer? One of honey-kissed flowers. How, then, was it holiness that was meant to be sweet?

WHO: Open starter ! WHERE: The Holy Land, Cador’s pyre. WHEN: New Moon, second week, fourth day.

There was such beauty in death. The mortals acted as if they too could perceive it. Salome had watched as they had ceaselessly laboured, building a pyre - now adorned with the body of a once Star - as if it were something more than just wood itself. As if that body was still him, Cador, their wrinkled but wise leader. She has watched all morning as mortals and non-mortals alike flocked towards it, paying their final respects before the night’s festivities and fire engulfed all solemnity. Really, the whole affair was something of an amusement. Can they not see it for what it truly is? A shell, empty and bloated. Its hollowness is palpable; the strings that had held spirit and body together have been sharply cut, and she can feel the invitation in their frayed ends.

So let it be known that she’d behaved immaculately despite such temptations, passing the time only by watching and sipping the richest wine she could find. Perhaps too much wine (if there was such a quantity), for she could not seem to move her eyes from the body, from the specific tinge that clung to its skin. She only half-noticed the presence of another arrive at her side, and she absently held out her cup towards them on natural impulse, tapping it with a pointed nail. Really, it was a most curious, faint tinge – There were a few beats of silence; only then did her graze break from the body, eyes landing on the glass which has noticeably not been replenished. Ah, she had forgotten her tedious whereabouts. “Forgive me. To mistake a mourner for a menial..” There was a nonchalance to her honeyed voice; a tone that toed the line between earnest and mocking. She did not even turn to look upon the other, merely returning to gaze across the crowd as she drank the dregs in her cup with a wry smile. “- why, the grief truly has clouded my head.”

There exist some voices, in both this world and others, who would dare accuse the Great Betrayer of living in a perpetual state of dishonesty, ready at the drop of a hat to turn on his own. They’d be half-right. Those voices would only be amplified should they ever come to learn of a particular quirk Judas’s many lives have instilled — the notion that any party-going ensemble remains incomplete without a vial of some sort of poison tucked neatly beside a pocket seam, for emergency preparedness. Though he’s not used it even once, it’s a comfortable safeguard, but one he opted to forego on the eve of a funeral. Surely, for an evening, there would be no kings to kill or witnesses to silence.

It had been since his years walking mortal steps beside the Lamb of God that Judas had considered himself a man of faithfulness. Perhaps, though, here in the Holy Land, there did live some truth to the peoples’ faith in a Hundred-Eyed God. Surely, that God must have gazed down upon Salome that night, with a favor Judas did not understand, for had that old vial of poison happened to sit in his pocket as she tapped the tip of a sharpened claw to her glass, she’d be dead. How easy it would be, too, to taint her cup and slip by unseen — and how sweet it would be, to watch the vice of Pride undone by her own vanity’s refusal to even glance towards those who serve her. 

How strange — that a creature whose existence is burdened and marred by strife would find such a thing as comfort in the presence of the one creature who revels in it. 

But there is no mistaking the tranquility that envelopes her as Abaddon flies beside Judas, pearlescent-marbled wings gleaming softly against the sun, unfettered by the dark set of his own — their differences complimentary rather than conflicting, as if they have sliced the midnight sky to share; velvet blackness against a silvery moon. Perhaps it’s foolish, whimsical — too much like growing accustomed to the scenery as one is dangling off a cliff — but it is in moments like these when she is able to feel some semblance of peace. 

The warmth is gone too soon, and Abaddon immediately halts as Judas’s sword is before her, cool air stinging with the remnants of the arrow’s puncture. She doesn’t immediately answer his question, casting a dry look in his direction, the silence itself speaking her suspicions. Even between the clouds, their wings are recognizable — no hunter would dare steal from Inferum’s crown, and it is with a grim set of her jaw that she motions for them to continue, charting an erratic flight path against the sky. It is the thinnest line of defense, but their only option. To land would be to become an even bigger target, though to continue isn’t much better. 

It is another moment before she speaks. “Not much here to steal.” Her tone is light, almost casual in contrast to the way her muscles tense with every movement that ripples through the canopy of green below. Abaddon glances over to him, a corner of her mouth lifting. “Though I suppose your head would fetch a pretty price. In any realm.”

There is only the faintest of tells — a rustle in the leaves, a shift in the air as the earth protests against the slaughter of her peace by manmade metal — before dozens of arrows slice through the air, tips sharpened and chanting for blood. 

Perhaps it’s a fault of their pride, not planning for an attack, but Abaddon curses her disdain towards carrying a sword, plucking a dagger from her side and fending off whatever arrows she can, metal against metal ringing throughout the sky. There are no shields, no clouds to hide within — no sunbeams to refract light and shift perception for them to make an escape. 

This is not a battle. This is an execution.

It is a mere slip of defense; an arm swung a beat too late, a breath taken between slashes of the dagger. But is enough, and an arrow sings true, piercing the delicate flesh where back meets wing, and Abaddon finds herself thrown off balance, body careening towards the forest below. Another arrow hits and she’s all flailing limbs, struggling to regain equilibrium. 

She had fallen before, centuries ago, arms reaching for the gentle caress of her maker, acceptance upon her brow. Yearning. 

There is none of that now. The acceptance of fate has vanished, replaced by a sort of grim determination; a fight with sullen grace. There is no maker, no God — only Judas, who had minutes ago flown alongside her in picturesque tranquility. But they had always been too much like dangling off a cliff, hadn’t they? She supposes it’s inevitable that she falls. 

There is a moment where he catches her gaze, and in that moment, Abaddon’s eyes reveal in magnitudes the suspicion she holds towards her kind. Her instinct to first vilify them, the angels, is one of the things about her Judas has admittedly grown fondest for. He shares it in equal measure. His distrust for the angels is bred from a rotting grudge against their God. Abaddon’s, though? Judas must smile, because her bitterness towards the celestials comes from a place so much more beautiful than his own. She knows the depths of what cruelty they are capable of, because her hands and heart, sewn from the same angelic fibers, are capable of the same horrors. Worse, perhaps.

He thinks that’s breathtaking. What’s more beautiful than calculated cruelty, and what’s more cruel than God’s messengers?

He keeps his sword readied by his side, and the air remains still and quiet. When Abaddon resumes flight, Judas follows, keeping a wing’s length away from her as he zags through crisp skies. In the chill, he feels his muscles tense, wings held defensively close to his body, his movements increasingly deliberate. When she cuts the silence with a quip, claiming they hold nothing worth a thief’s effort, he laughs as he always would; he makes no mention of the priceless, stolen angelic artifact that he holds in a satchel tucked on his side, reserved as a customary hello gift for Azazel. It would make a pretty prize for any bandit that might’ve thought to target them — or, perhaps, a shiny enough distraction with which to evade their hunters. Judas says nothing of it, merely laughs along with her. “Don’t tell me this is the day you finally decided to sell this pretty head?” he jabs, challenging her with a smirk. “Delivering me to my end, Abaddon?” He teases her; it’s written in the play of his lips, the toying of his brow, the dance of his eyes. Still, one day or another, he wouldn’t put it past her. He knows better than to ever truly call her incapable of betrayal. She’s fallen farther than most.

Again, he thinks that’s beautiful.

What moment of fleeting closeness they’d found in laughter disappears as dozens of arrows rain upwards from the treetops. Instinct quickly ushers his blade upwards in defense. The longsword he’d brought for the journey is far from an ideal instrument, but its surface area outmatches that of Abaddon’s dagger tenfold. He turns his movements towards her now, flying closer to her side. With a parry of his sword, he deflects what arrows he can from before the both of them, metal tips clamoring against the steel of his blade, limbs and wings narrowly dodging those he misses. Hidden safe beneath the cover of the forest, whoever it was that sought to spill Infernum’s most sacred blood had arrived in preparedness, armed with tact and strategy in addition to an apparent abundance of arrows. The question was not, can we outlast them? It was, for how long?

While, yes, it remains true that it was he who had chosen not to heed warnings, turned down a Holy Land escort, and boldly thought to journey unaccompanied, Judas doesn’t dare dwell for a moment on his own responsibility for the predicament they find themselves in. There simply isn’t the time.

It’s an unmistakeable sound that he hears next —  the pierce of an arrowhead through soft flesh, and soon after, a sharpened gasp cuts the air. “Abaddon!” he calls, and though he can only pull his eyes from the wall of oncoming arrows for a moment, his peripherals can make out her shape. Movements angled towards her now, he lunges forwards. In his right hand, his sword acts as a makeshift shield; it does so poorly, and though Judas is able to avoid major injury, he feels a sting in his arms where flying arrowheads narrowly miss, shot close enough to leave a scratch. His left hand extends before him, reaching for her. A second arrow finds her before he does, and as she slips, he watches her fall. It’s now the second time he’s witnessed it — but this time, he watches from above her. From this view, as he reaches for her hand, she does not fall towards his silken palm, but away from it, her shadow shrinking smaller beneath him until the thick of the forest has swallowed her whole.

Judas parses his options as quickly as the archers’ arrows continue to fly towards him. 

One — he can leave. There is no telling what danger lurks below. Abaddon has already fallen at their hand; how can following her down to meet his own demise help their kingdom? He’d be better off to run, to save his skin, tell their story, and send a search party once safe in the Holy Land. Perhaps she’s wounded below; perhaps they’ll find and retrieve her; perhaps she’ll even find her own way back. Judas wonders for a stark moment if her injuries could be fatal. She’d be mourned, and he’d be among those bereaved, but are there not still many angels left that could fall in her place? There exists only one Great Betrayer. 

Two — he can follow her down, and, presuming she still breathes, finish her. Why, though? What end would it further, what purpose would it serve? As he considers it, he doesn’t examine either consequence. The chance presents itself, and so of course he entertains it, if only for a moment. He could get away with it, he notes, confidently. There are no witnesses.

Three — he can follow her down, and, presuming she still breathes, help her. It’s the thought that occurs last, but the one he reasons in favor of. Should he arrive in the Holy Land without Abaddon, it will matter not what cognac-smooth story his lips spin. His legacy precedes him; whether he abandon her or kill her, he’ll be painted a traitor regardless. He must try. There is no other option.

If he is to survive the journey, and to be welcomed, believed, and corroborated on the other side as he boldly reports an attack in a time of peace, he needs her. Judas acknowledges it for a moment, his need for Abaddon — a need he’d never yet looked in the eye, never spoken aloud. A need he only confronts as he might now lose her. Wanting isn’t absent, though. He has no reason to will her dead — in fact, many to will her alive. In all the millennia since her fall, she’s yet to prove herself disloyal, yet to grind against his nerves like most do in time. He wants to help her, decides, as much as he needs to.

With a burst of demonic speed, he propels himself downwards and ducks under the treetops’ cover. In the thick of the branches, he’s out of sight — safe from the arrows’ barrage. He remains nimble in the spaces amongst the trees, zipping through brush, until he finds her. On one foot and one knee, he lands before her on the forest floor, and sturdy black wings form a shield that envelops the both of them. He looks at her, sees her hurting, and for a moment, with clenched jaw and wide eyes, he chooses to show concern. It’s surprisingly quite easy to do, while dancing with what it might be like to lose her by any choice but his own — as if he hadn’t toyed with taking her life for the game of it all just moments before.