29
The cries from the outside battle echoed into the dark halls of the temple and grew closer by the minute. Torches lit up the frescoes and chiseled walls, revealing immortalized tales of damnation and the Fall from Grace. Lucifer’s defeat at the hands of Michael, the Garden of Eden consumed by flames, an angel in a brown cloak carrying a huge key on his shoulders.
Belphegor slumped over the stone bench, folds of fat and skin spilling out of his loose garbs. He glared at Abaddon, who looked bored leaning against one of the pillars. The angel of death hadn’t said a word since they entered the temple.
“You think you’re special, don’t you?” Belphegor said, drool dripping down his double chin.
Abaddon remained silent, only the shadows of his wings moving in the unsteady torchlight.
“You think you’re better than everyone else! I can see it.” The demon wheezed between his words. “They say that you could’ve been the King of Hell, but I know your kind. You act cool and rarely speak. But you’re just trying to hide that you’re an imbecile.”
The Archdemon of Sloth shuffled over to the end of the bench to get a bit closer to the fallen angel without having to get up.
“You’re just muscle. A glorified bodyguard! That’s what you are. And I’ve seen the way Marcellixis looks at you – like you’re just a piece to move around on his chessboard – forced to play house with his little pet human. It’s pathetic. I’ve never seen anyone so gullible. And to think that you were once an archangel!” Belphegor let out a hearty laugh. “They say that Lucifer fell the hardest, but I think you must’ve landed on your head.”
Abaddon casually pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and took a drag. Belphegor threw up his thick arms and spat on the ground. He pointed a clawed finger at the angel.
“Yeah, sure, keep acting as if nothing bothers you! All of Hell is laughing at you behind your back. There’s nothing more irritating than seeing your insipid face constantly floating next to the throne. You have no ambition! No aspirations! Are there even any thoughts inside your head?”
Seemingly untouched by the insults, Abaddon examined one of the carvings in the ceiling – the one depicting the Pearly Gates and Archangel Gabriel blowing a trumpet. Belphegor took a deep breath, feeling a new surge of anger boiling up inside him.
“I know you can hear me! Are you scared of talking, huh? Afraid you’ll say something stupid if you open that big mouth of yours? That’s probably for the best. I know I would laugh at your simpleton words – I’m sure that Marcellixis, and everyone else at that fancy council, would too!” the demon huffed, all out of breath.
Abaddon let the finished cigarette fall to the floor and strolled off toward the gate.
“How dare you walk away from me!” Belphegor hissed. “You come back, right now!”
The archdemon craned his neck, trying to see where the angel had run off to. Only the crackling of the torches filled the silence.
“You can’t just abandon your post! Abaddon, you coward! Running from the fight! I knew you were nothing but a–”
Suddenly, a loud grinding noise of rock scraping against rock filled the temple. Belphegor’s eyes shot open as the Gates of Hell started moving for the first time in millennia.
“Abaddon!” he cried out. “What in the nine hells? Are you seeing this?”
With a groan, Belphegor pushed himself off the bench and wobbled toward the massive doors. Light seeped through the ever-growing slit.
“This is…. how can this be?” he said. “Abaddon! You better get Marcell–”
The severed head of the demon tumbled to the floor. It rolled around, eyes wide and ichor leaking out, before finally coming to a halt at Abaddon’s feet.
The angel of death sighed and wiped his scythe on the arm of his brown cloak. “You talk too much.”