59 To Honor the Fallen

Lily

It felt odd to slip into the deep purple gown Carlton had provided.

It seemed more appropriate for a gala of some kind, but everything Lily had researched—and Bel had confirmed—had told her that color and elegance were not only appropriate, but respectful. Demonic funerals were colorful, yet somber, affairs.

She’d brought the dress from Paradise the day before, hanging it on her side of the closet in Bel’s house. His light ceremonial armor had starkly contrasted with his remaining set of combat armor, which loomed on its stand near the back of the closet. Beautiful and deadly, perfectly clean but lightly scuffed in places from use. She’d run her fingertips over one of the scuff marks, giving silent thanks to the armor for protecting him from whatever had made it, heart aching for those whose armor hadn’t been able to do the same.

He kissed her that morning as he rolled out of bed but had otherwise been silent as he went to take his shower and get ready. By the time she’d gotten up and headed to the bathroom for her own shower, he was brushing his teeth, a towel slung around his waist. He squeezed her hip when she kissed his shoulder on her way by but said nothing. When she reentered the bedroom, he and his armor were both gone, leaving her to dress alone and worry.

Lily smoothed her hands over the subtly shimmering fabric of her dress, studying herself in the full-length mirror. The high neck of her gown glimmered with ornate embroidery the same shade of silver as Bel’s eyes, as did the decorative sweep of fabric that draped over her upper arms, leaving her shoulders and the rest of her arms bare. The fabric skimmed over her body, fitted until it flared gently at her hips, cascading to brush over the floor. The dress was otherwise unadorned, but the elegantly placed seams and the shimmer of the fabric as she moved kept it from looking bland.

She tweaked a piece of her hair, wishing she’d been able to craft a sleeker chignon, and fiddled with one of her long earrings.

“Hey, Mom?” Sharkie lingered in the doorway of their bedroom, toying with a brush.

Lily had told her what she’d learned about the funerals but allowed her to make her own decision about what she wanted to wear. Lily’d assured her that if the now-iconic shark onesie was what would make her comfortable, then she was more than welcome to wear it, but Sharkie had just gone quiet for a moment, then asked if they could go shopping.

They’d found a long-sleeved, dark blue tunic in the demonic style and matching leggings that tucked into black ankle boots. Sharkie had worried that it was too plain, but the shopkeeper, a sweetly understanding man, had offered to stitch a design on it to make it better. The metallic teal thread curled and twined against the backdrop of dark blue, looking a bit like the surface of the sea. Intrinsically Sharkie, but with a Hellish twist.

“Hey, bug.” Lily smiled. “You look nice.”

“Thanks, you too. Can you braid my hair?” Sharkie held up the brush.

Lily guided her over to one of the chairs and stepped behind it, running the brush through Sharkie’s shoulder-length blond hair. “What kind of braid are you thinking?”

“Like the ones you gave Dad before he left, please.”

Lily stilled. “I didn’t braid his hair today, but if you describe it, I can give it a go.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him today. I meant like before he went to war. Dad said they were good luck, and I dunno if we need luck today, but you never know. Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Right,” Lily murmured, swallowing hard and willing the stinging in her eyes to subside. Bel had told her how much the braids had meant to him, and the fact that he’d shared the sentiment with Sharkie, as well as Sharkie’s logic for wanting them, was unexpectedly touching.

Her fingers only shook a little as she sectioned out Sharkie’s hair, modifying what she remembered doing for Bel to suit Sharkie’s shorter style.

“You’ve grown up so much, you know. I’ve always been proud of you, but I’m really, really proud of you for that.”

Sharkie waited for her to finish and secure the braid down one side of her head before twisting to grin up at her. “Thanks, Mom. Hariti thinks I’m still short though.”

“You’re a mortal soul, not a giant demon, so obviously you might be a bit shorter than them. Hopefully, you won’t have as rough a time going through puberty as I did.”

“Yeah, so I was reading about that, and it sounds sucky. Do you think it will actually be puberty, since I’m technically dead, or is being dead a cheat code to get the height and maturity without the grumpy-and-acne-and-awkward part?”

“That,” Lily said, finishing the braid on the other side of her head, “is a question for either the Front Desk or the librarians at the Universal Library.”

“Well, I know what I want the answer to be.”

“As someone who went through puberty, I don’t blame you.” Lily pressed a kiss to the top of Sharkie’s head, just like she’d done for Bel that awful day. “All done.”

Bel’s deep voice rumbled through the room like thunder. “Time for one more?”

Lily snapped her head up, cautious relief soothing the worst of her worry. The sight of Bel in his ceremonial armor was a study in lethal beauty, of honed strength and power ready to be unleashed. Where his combat armor covered nearly every inch of him, the ceremonial armor consisted of a light breastplate, pauldrons, tassets, bracers, and greaves. The matte-black metal was embossed with symbols that had become familiar to her in her time with the partners of his warriors—the insignia of each of his legions. Beneath the sparse armor, his black pants were tailored immaculately to his powerful legs, and his shirt was a similar shade to her dress, but more complementary to his skin tone. He held an ornate box in his hands that Lily didn’t recognize. Something for the ceremony probably.

His eyes made her chest ache. Brighter than they’d been when he’d first woken up, but with a soul-deep grief that only time, love, and patience could soothe.

“Always time for you,” Lily said as Sharkie made to get up and move to a different chair.

Bel sat in front of her, settling his wings around the specially designed back and allowing his tail to rest against her skirts.

Lily ran her fingers through his already smooth hair, scraping her nails lightly over his scalp the way he liked. “What are you wanting?”

His tail brushed over the floor, finding its way under her skirt, tip coiling around her ankle. She tugged his hair lightly.

“Like what you did the first time but leave the bottom loose,” he said, head turning towards Sharkie as he spoke to her, voice warming. “I want us to match.”

Lily worked quickly, taking care to not leave a hair out of place, bringing the three braids together in the back and binding them off. She gave a final cursory swipe of the brush through the loose parts of his hair, ensuring there were no hidden tangles, before pressing a kiss to that same spot between his horns.

“Done,” she murmured, setting the brush down.

“Not quite,” Bel said roughly, then cleared his throat.

He twisted and set the box beside the brush, his clawed hand resting on the top. It was nearly the size of a placemat, and as tall as the width of his hand, inlaid with gunmetal gray in a lacelike pattern.

Whatever it was, it felt old . Like the deities and certain souls felt old.

Sharkie hopped off her chair, eyes bright with curiosity.

Everything inside Lily went still as he flipped the catch and slowly lifted the lid.

A crown rested on a bed of charcoal velvet, masculine in form but delicate in execution. The gunmetal gray strands twined together to create a series of five small spires, each studded with a gloriously vibrant black opal, and perfectly in line with the center spire, the band dipped into a shallow V that held its own larger stone. It wasn’t a massive, ostentatious piece, but a simple, powerfully elegant symbol befitting a prince of Hell.

“I was wondering,” Bel said quietly, lifting the crown off of its cushion, “if you would mind helping me put this on.”

Lily took it from him carefully, a slight hum tingling up her arms and a sense of occasion seeping into her bones.

“There’s a catch at the back, I think,” Bel continued, his voice carefully neutral, but his shoulders tight.

“You think ?” Sharkie asked, poking a finger into the plush velvet inside the case, then petting it like it was a cat.

“I’ve never worn it before.” Bel cleared his throat, and Lily squeezed his shoulder.

She knew what this meant for him. For so long, he had avoided any reminders that he was a prince of Hell, yet here he was, about to wear the crown, his crown, not only for himself, but for all to see. She didn’t know where he’d been or what had happened that morning for him to decide to claim his title, but she recognized that it was a huge step in facing an older, deeper grief and hurt.

She tucked her swell of emotion away. He’d share it with her when he was ready.

“Never?” Sharkie asked.

“Never. But I remember my dad always needed help closing the catch at the back when he wore it. Helps get it around the horns.”

Lily found the catch and opened it.

“Did your dad have horns like you?” Sharkie asked.

“His curled more, like ram horns,” Bel said, and Lily could hear the smile in his voice. “He always teased Lucifer about not having any.”

She lowered the crown around his horns and settled it carefully on his head, making sure not to snag any hair when she closed the catch.

It fit perfectly.

Lily smoothed her hands down his shoulders and across his chest, pressing a kiss just in front of his ear.

“How does it feel?” she asked.

Bel leaned his head back against her, covering one of her hands with his and taking a long, slow breath before nodding. “It feels…right.” He lifted his head and winked at Sharkie. “Helps that it looks good too.”

Lily ran her thumb against his palm, whispering only for him to hear. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

* * *

Bel kept a firm hold of their hands from the moment they walked out the door. He guided them not to the elevators, but the stairs, where they joined the seemingly endless crowds of demons in bright finery walking downward to the Hearth.

Thousands and thousands of people moved in one direction. No one spoke. The only sounds were the rustling of clothes, the scuff of feet, and the occasional sniffle or sob followed by a quiet murmur of comfort.

Down.

Down.

Down.

They gathered more with every level until the stairs ended, opening out into a massive expanse similar to the other levels of Hell, but with an entirely different feel to it. The air was quieter. Peaceful.

A place of rest.

The ceiling of the giant cavern was still incredibly high, but not nearly as distant as everywhere else. The pulsing veins of magma and golden light were far denser above them, like lace rather than latticework, and trickled down the walls, peeking out from a lush growth of bioluminescent plant life that climbed the walls into the distance.

They’d emerged onto a massive expanse of open, bare ground, the black soil packed down so tightly that at first, Lily thought it was stone. A huge crowd had already formed—a beautiful kaleidoscope of every color of fabric and skin, a sea of horns in all shapes and sizes.

Bel led them through the crowd, people stepping aside to let them pass. Lily squeezed his hand once, and he gripped hers a little tighter, tension stealing into the lines of his body as they approached the open space beyond the crowd. When they reached the edge of it, Lily understood why.

It took a moment to process exactly what she was seeing. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of raised stone structures reminiscent of waist-high plateaus in varying sizes. All of them far too large, and all of them covered in rows of lumps wrapped in shrouds, a banner hanging from the end of each structure with a different symbol on each—

Oh.

Tears sprang to her eyes, mind spinning and stomach plummeting at the sheer number of warriors wrapped lovingly in shrouds by their family and friends.

Strong. Be strong. Think strong. Don’t fucking cry. Don’t you dare fucking cry.

Lily reined in her whirling emotions. For Bel. For the fallen. For their families. For their friends.

At the front of the crowd, she barely recognized Lucifer without his black clothing. He stood in regal, deep teal finery that offset his skin and eyes, a larger and more ornate crown made of red-gold light resting on his head. Beside him stood four of the six princes, each wearing their own crowns and accompanied by their families. Lev was the one she knew best, and he nodded a greeting. The other two she could recognize from brief interactions in Bel’s office were Mammon and Zee—Beelzebub—each of whom raised their eyebrows at Bel, glancing at the crown on his head. Zee’s eyes moved immediately to Lily, then to Sharkie, a ghost of a smile playing over his stern mouth before he nodded and returned his gaze to the pyres, grief written all over his face. The fourth must be Tanael, who Lily had never met, but she knew his name from passing mentions.

Lucifer stared out at the fallen, a sense of age pouring off of him. More than when she’d cornered him in his office, she saw the weight of his responsibility bearing down on him. While he seemed to be managing it, the toll of that burden was carved into his bones. Bel positioned them so that Sharkie stood next to Lucifer, and she immediately let go of Bel to hug him. It took a beat for Lucifer to blink back into the present, but when he did, he wrapped an arm around her, some of the pain leaving his expression.

More demons came, and folk from other realms too.

Someone came to stand on Lily’s other side, and she turned her head to greet them. It was Asmodeus, in ceremonial armor similar to Bel’s, with a shirt several shades darker than his skin tone, and a silver crown with five gleaming sapphires resting on his brow. Sariah, on his other side, cradled Osmodai, secure in his swaddle of blankets. Lily touched Asmodeus’s arm, and he nodded to her, glancing at Bel before turning to look at the pyres.

Asmodeus did a hard double take, whipping his head to look at his cousin so fast that Lily half expected to hear his neck crack. He stared at Bel, who was lost in gazing at the bodies of his warriors, eyes darting from the crown to Bel’s profile and back again. To Lily’s absolute shock, tears welled up in his eyes. He clamped his mouth shut, turning to face the pyres, blinking rapidly. His hand fumbled to pat at her arm, and she caught his wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze. He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed forward, relaxing by degrees.

On her left, Bel held her hand tighter.

Bel

He’d always expected the crown to crush him, to weigh his head down until he was bowed beneath the weight of the responsibility and the memories it carried.

After he’d walked with his father to the Void, he’d returned home feeling like his entire being was a paper-thin shell waiting to crack and found the box with the crown set on his bed. He’d left it there for days, knowing his father had put it there himself, needing to keep that one little piece of his father’s presence around just a little while longer. Eventually, he’d taken the letter, set it on the box, and put both on the highest shelf in his office, stacking books he’d never read in front of them. He didn’t look at it again.

Until that morning.

He’d slept badly, and woken up long before Lily, but lay there listening to her breathing, feeling her skin against his, marveling in the awe of who she was. This mortal soul who had been through so much, who had walked straight into Hell on a whim and found her place in it, not because of the pain in her life, but because of the heart she had for others. She’d taken Sharkie in as her own, opening her home and her heart to a child who needed her, despite her fears that she wasn’t good enough for the job. Lily faced her fears with a bravery that astounded him. And…inspired him.

So, he’d kissed her and gotten up, leaving her to shower and get ready while he put on his armor and headed to his office, locking the door and reaching for the highest shelf. Of course, Lecti, his housekeeper, had kept even a speck of dust from gathering on it without ever saying a word about her knowledge of its whereabouts.

The box felt smaller in his hands than it had before, lighter. He’d set it on the desk and picked up the thick envelope with his name scrawled in handwriting both familiar and long forgotten. He’d never forget seeing that envelope in hands broader and meatier than his, the gray skin scarred and starting to show signs of age.

Bel had paced to the window, staring out at the garden, soaking in the beauty of the morning light starting to dim the glow of the plants before he sliced the letter open with a claw, just like how his father used to, and pulled out the pages.

My beloved son…

He’d had to stop, tears blurring his eyes so that he couldn’t read. He could hear him, his voice as deep as Bel’s but with a slightly different tone and an older pattern of speech. Memories long repressed swam to the surface, sparked by those three words.

My beloved son. Spoken through laughter because Bel had successfully pranked him.

My beloved son. Spoken with exasperation after he’d been told Bel flew through the tower window.

My beloved son. Spoken with such pride whenever Bel mastered a new maneuver or was promoted.

My beloved son. Spoken quietly and softly as he’d tucked Bel into bed.

Bel had braced his hand against the window frame, knees threatening to buckle, but after a moment, he wiped his eyes and kept reading his father’s bold handwriting, a hard copy of his voice.

My beloved son,

Never doubt that you are, have always been, and always will be, my beloved son. I know that the decision I have made has caused you unspeakable pain, and I ask not for your forgiveness. How could I ask that of you? However, I will ask you for one thing. I ask that you keep your courage. Not for me, but for yourself.

There are many things in this world both terrible and beautiful, and all of them require courage. The courage to stand on a battlefield, to command soldiers, to come home from that battlefield and dare to carry on is a powerful thing. The courage to love, to let others see you at your most vulnerable, to allow joy in is just as powerful, but, for me at least, has always proven the most difficult.

I want better for you.

You are the best and bravest parts of your mother and I, and better than us both. Do not be afraid of error. Make mistakes, and many of them. You learn much about yourself through them, often more than you learn from your triumphs.

And, oh, my son, you have so many triumphs. I have been proud of you since the day you were born and nearly split our eardrums announcing your own arrival...

The rest of the letter had blurred, words of encouragement and apology, of hope, a reminder to stretch more, and always, pride in his son.

Bel only managed to read it once in its entirety.

He’d forgotten what his father had sounded like. He’d forgotten that he was a beloved son, was his father’s beloved son. The pain of being the child Samael had left behind had overwhelmed the joy of being his child in the first place.

His grief had obscured that love. Buried in pain and anger and doubt and fear. And he’d let himself forget.

He’d been enough. He had always been enough. His father had loved him as fiercely as any parent loved their child. When he’d gone to his final battles, protecting the entire Universe had been too heavy of a burden for his wearying soul. His motivation to fight had been to ensure the safety of his son.

His father’s decision had nothing to do with some kind of inadequacy or failure on Bel’s part but had everything to do with his father’s own limitations, his own pain and exhaustion. His father had been ancient and weary and had lost the tethers tying him to life and living. But he’d stayed longer than he would have, longer than he could have otherwise borne, for Bel alone.

Reading his father’s words on the page, hearing his voice echo in his head once more, had shattered the incorrect beliefs he’d been holding on to.

The grief for his father and the years he’d expected to share with him would linger, as grief always did, but it would no longer be emblematic of his perceived failure. Because it hadn’t ever been true. It had been a result of confusion and sorrow and fear that he’d let grow and fester, but not anymore.

A chapter had ended. A new one had begun, and it was starting with hope and understanding.

It had taken several minutes for Bel to compose himself, but there was a noticeable weight that had lifted. His father’s letter had loomed over him for more than two centuries, heavy with the fear of what was in it, along with the weight of his own disgust at that fear. But finally, he had faced it, knowing that no matter what was in the letter, it wouldn’t crush him, because he wouldn’t let it.

He’d gone to Lily then, box in hand, wanting her to crown him that first time. When Lily had placed the crown on his head, he hadn’t expected the memory it sparked as it settled onto his brow.

He remembered being a little boy, laughing hysterically with his father when he’d tried to put it on his head and it had slipped down to rest on his shoulders instead, digging in uncomfortably.

“Not yet, my beloved son,” his father said with a laugh, gently lifting the crown over his head and cradling it in his hands. “But one day. And I will be just as proud of you then as I am now.”

Keep your courage.

The memory did not crush him.

Just as the crown would not.

* * *

Bel watched the healers sweep forward to stand amongst the pyres, focusing on breathing through his nose and not crushing Lily’s hand.

Several of his legions had made it through with no fatalities, but all of them had had soldiers with grievous injuries. Out of the two hundred and sixty-eight pyres, seventy-nine were for his soldiers. Nearly twelve thousand lost from his army alone. So many. Too many.

The worst war Lucifer had seen in millennia.

The healers began to hum in unison. Goose bumps rippled up his arms, just as they did every time he heard the beginning of the chants. The humming swelled into a wordless undulation of song, the healers swaying like trees in the wind, voices raised in lyrical grief. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, as if it wanted to make itself known, reassure him that it was still there. That he was still there.

He pressed his arm against Lily’s, and she leaned into him.

Some of the healers continued their wordless song, while the rest began the gentle, heartbreakingly beautiful song of the fallen. Sung in no language commonly spoken, but understood nonetheless, the funeral chants were both an expression of purest grief and of peace, sung as much for the living as for the dead.

His throat grew tight, and he cleared it roughly. Not now. I won’t be able to sing if I cry now. Lily sniffed next to him, but he didn’t dare look at her, no matter how much he wanted to as the healers’ song faded.

Silence fell. It was time.

He squeezed Lily’s hand twice, the signal they’d agreed on, and with a soft squeeze back, she let go.

As one, Bel, Asmodeus, the other generals, and the surviving commanding officers stepped forward out of the crowd, striding across the black soil until they stood equidistant between the crowd and the fallen. Beside him, Asmodeus’s breathing was ragged; all seventy-two of his legions were represented on the pyres. They sank to one knee in a line, a second line forming behind them. Bel clasped his cousin on the shoulder, and Asmodeus looked at him, eyes glassy but resolved. Asmodeus gripped Bel’s shoulder in return, and something settled in him.

Not alone.

Bel glanced at the officer next to him and clasped him on the shoulder as well. The idea rippled down the line, hands on shoulders, some holding hands. Grief was intensely personal, but in their grief, they would not be alone.

Like the healers, their song started slowly, an upswell of sound, wordless, contemplative, seeking. Like the first moments after learning of a loss, building to a more resonant and emotive tone the longer the loss set in. When words finally came, they were not of battlefield glory. They were not there to sing of myths. None of them loved battle, they were there for something far bigger than that. They loved what battle protected.

Flames crackled to life uniformly over the pyres, lit by the inherent power of the funeral grounds, of the Universe they called home. There was no smell, no sound other than their song and the crackling of the flames. The Rising began. Embers far larger than those from a normal fire floated upwards slowly, a few at first, then more and more until there was a shower of embers raining upwards. The souls of the fallen returned to the fabric of the Universe—of Hell—becoming a part of all of it.

So many.

Bel closed his eyes, anchored by the hands of his fellow warriors on his shoulders and the crown placed on his head by the woman he loved, and sang his grief. Sang honor to the fallen for giving their lives to protect all that was good and wonderful in their world. Sang peace for them, for their loved ones.

He didn’t notice until Asmodeus’s hand tightened on his shoulder that their voices had been joined by the crowd behind them.

Then he let the tears fall.