Chapter Text
The room was small, dimly lit and incredibly warm...they were always warm. A gentle light flickered from the bedside lamp, its glow soft and fragile, casting long shadows across the neat space. The air was heavy with the scent of aged wood and linen, a smell that spoke of time passed slowly, quietly. The crisp white sheets stretched tautly over the thin mattress of the single bed that stood narrow and humble against the wall, flanked by a simple bedside table.
A chest of drawers positioned against the largest wall of the room was sturdy, made of dark oak, its surface meticulously clean except for three doilies. The first, a delicate lace one, sat beneath a small, ticking carriage clock, shortening the day with every second that passed. Beside that, a second doily cradled a book of prayers, its leather cover worn smooth, pages frayed from use. The third, the smallest, held a tiny grucifix, a glint of silver against the muted tones of the room. All of it - neatly arranged, almost too orderly - spoke of a life once filled with routine and devotion, now slipping away like sand through fingers.
On the bed, the old man lay still. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, each one seemingly weaker than the last. His face, thin and lined with age, was pale, almost translucent, as though the very colour had been drained from his skin. His hair, once dark, was now a pale, wispy white, clinging to his scalp in thin tufts. His eyes, barely open, seemed unfocused, lost in some faraway place.
In the armchair beside the bed, a young woman sat silently. Her presence was as quiet as the room itself, but she was impossible to ignore. Her figure was straight, poised, though there was something about her that seemed to pulse with an unspoken uncertainty, and her hands were folded neatly in her lap.
Her face seemed almost too young for the weight she carried in her stillness. Her long dark brown hair, almost black, hung in a straight line, framed around her face like a shadow. The short, blunt fringe that rested on her forehead softened her features and she wore tortoise shell thick framed cat eye glasses that every so often she pushed up the bridge of her nose, out of habit more than necessity. She didn’t speak; she hadn’t spoken since she appeared in the room. Her eyes, dark blue like sapphires, rested on the old man’s face, watching his every move with a kind of quiet patience that filled the room.
He didn’t notice her. Not yet. His breaths rasped in the silence, a low, steady rhythm that seemed to mimic the ticking of the clock on the chest of drawers, marking the time with a merciless precision. The young woman’s gaze never wavered, though there was a faint flicker of something in her eyes - anticipation.
The old man did not stir. He lay there, trapped between sleep and wakefulness, caught somewhere in the fading hours of his life.
So she waited.
The room held its breath with her.
A short time passed until the faintest sound escaped his lips - just a murmur, unintelligible. His eyes fluttered, and for a brief moment, they opened wider, as if drawn by something just beyond the veil of his fading consciousness. He didn’t look at her, but she knew he could feel her there. Could sense her.
The old man’s chest gave a weak rise and fall. There was a moment of stillness as his eyes adjusted and he gazed at the shadows dancing on the wall, the faint glow of the lamp casting odd shapes. He blinked slowly, his lips parting as though to speak. His voice was thin, fragile, like the breath he took.
“I thought I felt you,” he whispered, almost too softly to hear.
The young woman in the chair didn’t move, but her eyes, dark and steady, softened as if she understood. Her presence lingered like an old memory, a gentle weight in the room.
“I knew you would come eventually. You were always just around the corner, waiting.”
A small smile, barely there, tugged at the corners of his lips as if he had come to an understanding with something that had been with him his entire life.
“Death…” His voice cracked, but there was no fear in it. Only recognition.
“You’ve been a companion longer than I care to admit. A shadow in the back of my mind, lingering quietly. And yet... you feel like a friend now. So familiar.”
The young woman’s gaze never wavered, she smiled gently, reached out and placed her hand on top of his.
“I’m a busy girl you know and we’ve been doing this dance for a while now Marcus.”
The old man closed his eyes for a moment, his chest heaving with a shallow breath. He let out a soft, wheezing laugh, barely audible. His hand stayed still under hers and his head tilted slightly toward her.
“You’re patient. I’ll give you that. You didn’t rush. I had to be ready, didn’t I?”
She sat still, her kind eyes never leaving him. A long, quiet pause followed, and he exhaled slowly, as if releasing the last of his breath.
“Are you ready to take me then?” he asked, his voice still gentle, accepting.
The woman stood up from the chair, her movements fluid but deliberate. She moved to his side with the grace of someone who had walked this path many times before, and she knelt beside him.
“Ready?” she repeated softly, her voice a whisper that seemed to fill the room. “I’ve always been ready, but it was you who needed to find the courage.”
The old man nodded slowly, the weight of his years pressing on his body, his spirit finally unburdening itself.
“I think... I think I’m ready now, old friend,” he murmured, his eyes flickering toward her, as though seeing her for the first time. “You’ve waited long enough.”
She reached out, her hand gently brushing his.
“You’ve lived well and you have served your Lord so diligently so let me take you to him,” she said, her voice calm.
The old man closed his eyes, his breath steadying, the faintest of smiles crossing his lips as he let go.
“This is the end then,” he whispered, his voice fading into the silence of the room. “It was a long road, but I think I’m ready to walk my final journey with you.”
As the old man’s breath grew fainter his eyes finally fluttered open one last time, a spark of exhilaration igniting within them. His lips parted, whispering words meant only for the darkness that waited beyond.
"At last," he murmured, a gleam of eager anticipation crossing his pale face.
The young woman beside him extended her hand, not with coldness, but with the promise of something greater. He welcomed the touch with open arms, his heart quickening with the thrill of what was to come. For he had not feared death, for it was not the end but a beginning, a passage to the gates of Hell, where he would find his true calling. A follower of Lucifer, he had long renounced the false comforts of heaven and now, with no hesitation, he embraced his fate. He was not lost or forsaken; he was a pilgrim, and at long last, he was heading home, to a place where fire would cleanse him, and where loyalty to the Dark Lord would be his eternal reward. His soul, like a flame rekindled, surged toward the waiting abyss, excited for the journey that was only just beginning.
The path to Hell was not lined with fire and brimstone, but of shadow and silence, a winding trail through an ethereal void. The ground beneath their feet was not earth, but a strange, darkened mist that swirled and shifted with each step, as though it were alive, whispering ancient secrets in a language long forgotten. A distant light flickered at the end of the path. Far above, the sky was filled swirling black clouds, cracked open by sudden flashes of pale light and ahead, faint and beckoning, the gates of Hell loomed. It was actually more of a door than a gate and stood imposingly, a massive slab of weathered wood, darkened with age and time. Its surface was rough and textured, marked by the deep grooves of years gone by, yet it held a quiet strength, it had withstood countless storms and trials.
The door was arch-shaped, its top curving gently, the edges softened by centuries of wear. Two heavy, ringed handles, crafted from iron, adorned either side. The metal gleamed dully, a stark contrast to the rough wood, and their weight suggested that opening the door would require effort, even for the strongest. In the centre of the door, just below the arch, hung a large iron knocker—bent and weathered by years of use. The knocker seemed to pulse with an unspoken invitation, waiting for the touch of a hand to summon the echoing sound that would announce a visitor’s arrival, a sound that could reverberate through the very bones of the pits. The door, with its ornate yet functional design, was ancient - both a guardian and a gatekeeper to whatever lay beyond.
As the old man and his companion approached the door the woman let go of his hand and stepped towards the entrance to Hell. Reaching out she grasped the heavy iron knocker and with an effortless strength she brought it down with a thunderous boom to summon the Gatekeeper. The heavy door groaned as it opened, slowly and from behind it shadows slithered forth, twisting and writhing like living things. The old man, Marcus, stood motionless. He had walked the long road to this place, step by step, and now, as the heavy door groaned open before him, he simply watched. The young woman stepped back and waited for the Gatekeeper to appear. She had done this many times before and would do it again and again, as was her existence, to accompany those on their journey to the afterlife, their fate, their forever home. What she was not expecting, however, was the sight of a familiar face appearing from the shadows. A man, tall and well built. His chiselled features - sharp jaw line, piercing dark eyes, and playful smirk - embodied both the menace and magnetism of the fallen angel.
“Lucifer!?”
“Hello Mallon!”