Chapter Text
The Devil’s Fee smelled of must and old coins.
As you stood in the foyer, bartering with the diabolist, you wished someone would open a window just to circulate the stale air. A fresh breeze would be a godsend right now, especially because Helsik did not seem likely to aid you in your quest to open a portal right in the heart of Raphael’s home unless you emptied your entire coin purse and then some, and the conversation was becoming tiresome.
It was a suicidal plan, that was for certain. Astarion had said as much, then asked with a cheery smile when you could get started. You were still in two minds about it, but with the deal off the table you were looking at worryingly few options. Plus, Lae’zel was adamant that Orpheus be freed, and the Orphic Hammer was the only way to accomplish such a task. It was a daunting thought, breaking into the House of Hope, but one that you bore without too much hesitation given your recent dealings with the forsaken devil.
Speaking of, he had left you eerily alone since you fled the Devil’s Den a few nights ago. You had expected him to pursue further, manifest a way of winning you back on side, but apparently even the devil had lost hope in you, or perhaps you were not such an enticing potential client to begin with. Either way, the outcome was fine with you.
Or so you kept telling yourself.
Eventually you managed to barter Helsik down to 10,000 gold pieces with a promise to return with the gauntlets she desired, a promise you had no idea whether you could keep, but it was either that or go bankrupt, so really there was not much choice. Upstairs, you followed the instructions she had given you to the letter and laid out the items in their appropriate positions, stepping back as the floor melted away beneath you with a flash of hellfire, revealing a pit to the place you dreaded to go.
The Emperor offered a stern warning against your intended course of action, though that was hardly a surprise, and if anything it only made you more steadfast in your decision. With a look to your allies, Karlach in particular, you gave them a stiff nod and lead the way down to the first layer of the Hells, leaving the bustling vitality and spring sunshine of Baldur’s Gate behind you.
The heavy, blistering heat of Avernus rushed to greet you as you materialised on Raphael’s home plane, drawing moisture from your skin in slow droplets that crawled from your forehead down to your neck, disappearing somewhere beneath the collar of your undershirt. After checking in with Karlach and ensuring she was alright, you gazed around the entrance hall of the House of Hope. It was grand in and of itself, tall pillars ringing with the groans of thousands of desperate souls stood proud in the corners, huge, ornate doors before you beckoning you in.
There was another thing, you noticed, a pleasant surprise this time.
Silence.
For however long you remained here, your mind was your own, free from the whispering and chastising, instructing and vague threatening. That alone almost made the journey worth it.
With very warranted trepidation you approached the grand doors, unsure whether you should knock or just waltz in, when a small figure appeared before you in a puff of smoke, sending your heart racing in complete, abject fear.
“You came,” she spoke, bending into a low bow, “such a shame.” Her voice took on a panicked tone as she continued.
“CURIOSITY KILLED ALL THE CATS IT WON’T BE SO KIND TO YOU!”
The distant sound of metal on metal, of rattling chains, punctuated her words, sending her quivering in fear. You felt your own terror subside, realising the dwarf intended you no harm.
Despite her desire to flee you encouraged her to stay and talk as long as she could. She introduced herself as Hope, a prisoner of Raphael’s subjected to abhorrent tortures that you could not even comprehend, such debased torment that her mind had become addled with the seeds of madness, seeds that had definitely sprouted and taken root. Amidst her curious choice of words and hysteric tone, you were able to glean some information about the Orphic Hammer, and promised to do what you could to free her from her prison. In return, she fitted you with ragged disguises that would see you past the debtors safely, and allow you to roam the halls as if you were part of the furniture.
Then, with a rattle of chains and an expression of agony, Hope disappeared, and the doors to the house flew open before you.
Thankfully, it was a little cooler than the foyer as you crossed the bridge towards the feast hall warily, the paling hum of mournful, bartered souls resonating all around you. Where once a lavish feast lay, rotting delights spilled across the table, scattered over the floor. The stench was ripe and sharp, causing you to wince and wrinkle your nose as you turned away. The incessant buzz of flies rang in your ear as you side-stepped the table, the sudden appearance of the errant souls haunting the place giving you a fright each time, causing your heart to leap into your throat and palms to sweat. Swallowing down your fear you silently scolded your anxious disposition.
Get a grip of yourself, you’re only here to rob the devil. No big deal.
Meandering through the hallway you observed the lavish furnishings, the ornate paintings, a masterful collection spanning the centuries. You could spend an entire day here and not have time to gaze upon half of them, a realisation you lamented. After all, you would never have the opportunity to see any of them again given what you were about to do. You wandered through this museum of suffering and punishment, collecting stories from the tormented debtors that stoked your growing fear of Raphael with every word, realising just how little of his true nature he had divulged to you, how evil he could really be.
Perhaps you had underestimated him thus far. His devilish charm had worked wonders at subduing and appeasing you, and you realised you were lucky to be alive given the stunt you had pulled at Sharess’ Carress. You still could not entirely explain what had overcome you that evening, why you had succumbed to that forbidden desire so suddenly and without much thought. All you knew was he had made you angry beyond belief, and you had enjoyed every second of that kiss more than should be possible. You tried not to dwell on it too much. Each time the thought surfaced it sent a pleasing thrill dancing through you, beckoned forth a small smile and an aching fondness that gave way to hollow despair upon your realisation such a thing would never happen again, and you had ensured that, if nothing else.
Inside the Chamber of Egress you regarded the glistening doorways with a childlike wonder. Gale reminisced fondly as he gazed upon a scene of Waterdeep, but you were only half listening as you stared into the blinding citadel of Mephistar. It was the only link to another plane of Hell, you noticed, a curious detail that felt important though you could not say why. The image shifted with each ripple on the surface of the portal, closed to you and anyone else except for Raphael. Despite this, you could feel the chill seeping through, wintry tendrils caressing your cheeks in tender strokes. Billowing clouds of vapour tumbled down the planes of Nargus, enshrouding the crown of the glacier in a malicious mist, dulling the dazzling shine of the ice. Perhaps it was just the bitter air, but staring at that daunting place sent a chill akin to fear down your spine, caused your jaw to tingle and stomach to drop as you contemplated a grisly, numbing death.
“Stare at it too long and your lovely face will freeze like that,” Astarion jested from beside you, an observation you half-heard, responding with a steady hum of acknowledgement. He looked at you curiously, confused by your fascination with the most depressing looking place in the whole room, apart from maybe Menzoberranzan, and gave you a gentle nudge. “You alright?”
That pulled you from your stupor, giving you the strength to take a step back from that beckoning abyss. A flurry of expressions crossed your features, your frost-nipped nose wrinkling with the threat of a sneeze as you felt the warm arms of Avernus hold you once again.
“Yeah, ‘m fine. Let’s get a move on.”
Your party departed the Chamber of Egress, eager to get this hopeless quest over and done with.
After convincing the Archivist you were Verillius Receptor, the high inquisitor he so desperately feared, you were free to peruse Raphael’s extensive and invaluable collection with your eyes, but not your hands. Trying not to arouse suspicions, you examined the object of your desires with feigned minor interest. The Orphic Hammer stood tall and proud in the centre of the collection, just begging to be grabbed, an infuriating tease protected by a powerful barrier that would open with only the correct command. How to obtain such information, you had no idea, and you could not hope to guess it. The Archivist watched you carefully with a mix of mild fear and perceptive interest as you idly asked about it, amongst other things concerning the rest of Raphael’s collection, his gaze steadily unravelling your conviction until you decided you could not stand to be held under it anymore. You started to thank him for his time before catching yourself, realising this high inquisitor would probably do no such thing, before escaping the Archive entirely.
“What’re we gonna do? How can we take the hammer when it’s locked in a force field?” Karlach asked in a hushed tone, looking around suspiciously for lingering debtors.
You shook your head slowly, lips pulled tight as you wracked your brain and came up with nothing.
“I have no idea,” you admitted with defeat, glancing back into the room where the hammer taunted you mercilessly.
“Perhaps this…Boudoir the staff seem to speak of might hold the answers?” Gale suggested, glancing down the corridor to the room you had walked past to the Archive. You looked down at the invitation held securely in your hand, nodding along as you thought.
“You might be right, Gale. I’m not sure what awaits us in there, but it can’t be good…” you mused, feeling uneasy as debtors shuffled past, mumbling incoherently to themselves. “Maybe we should look elsewhere before trying the Boudoir. I have a feeling this place has many more secrets to share with us first.”
Your companions nodded in eager agreement, eyes glinting in the flickering candlelight as you pressed on past the Archive in your search for…something. You were not sure what.
The inhabitants of the house paid you no mind as you wandered along, studying the paintings and magnificent statues decorating the corridor. It was just what you had imagined Raphael’s home to look like, adorned with effigies of the devilish and demonic, evidence of elaborate and lavish tastes, flooded in opulent reds and fiendish blacks, not dissimilar to the décor back at the Devil’s Den. Though, the House of Hope lacked that welcome, warm sunlight that flooded in through the open windows, casting soft shadows and carving the planes of Raphael’s face so perfectly, illuminating his eyes with an amber-tinted glow. The lighting of your little mortal world suited him, you decided.
Lost amongst your thoughts, you almost crashed in to the back of Astarion as he came to a stop just before you in a narrow corridor branching off from the main hallway, hidden from prying eyes and wandering souls.
“Hmm, that’s curious…” he mused, turning his gaze to the stone wall on your left. You could feel it too, an almost undetectable drop in the surrounding air temperature, the hint of a breeze whispering through the cracks in the brickwork. There was a concealed passageway behind, you were certain of it. All you needed to do was find the key.
It took some looking before you found it. One of the statues in the alcoves was almost imperceptibly off centre, gaze turned ever so slightly to the east compared to its counterparts. Experimentally you wrapped your hand around the figurine, feeling centuries of dust beneath your fingertips as you turned it a quarter anti-clockwise. With a low rumble, the concealed door slid open, revealing a set of long disused steps that descended into the ominous darkness below.
As you stood in front of the entrance, you felt the lifeless air rising from the depths, sending pebbles of dread dropping one by one into your stomach. An aura of ancient pain lurked down there in the shadows, and you were not sure whether you wanted to meet it.
“I feel it too,” Gale spoke up quietly from beside you, noticing your hesitation. “Whatever’s down there hasn’t been disturbed for a long, long time. Might be best to leave it that way.”
You nodded slowly, inclined to agree. You did not like this one bit. There was a subtle smell of death on the air, but not the acrid, fresh kind you had become accustomed to the last few months. This was an old sort of death, not dissimilar to that of the crypt you had found Withers in at the start of your journey. There was a sense of something sacred in the atmosphere, and you understood you were on the precipice of intruding on one of Raphael’s darkest secrets yet.
That thought thrilled you a little more than it should. You could not leave your curiosity unsatisfied.
Curiosity killed all the cats…
“Let’s just take a little look. Quick as mice,” you suggested with poorly concealed eagerness. Gale gave you a wary look but did not voice any dissent, merely offering a hesitant nod.
You lifted your foot to take a step, and the whole house seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. Even Hope watched silently from beside you, voicing no warning or encouragement, merely waiting to follow. Whatever you were about to discover down there, it had been left forgotten for centuries. You were about to awaken something lost and ancient, and you felt your body shudder.
Unhurried footsteps echoed in the hallway as you descended, the warm glow of the candles fading behind you, giving way to the embrace of the shadows. Your eyes strained against the darkness, footing slightly unsure as you tried not to slip and add anymore bruises to the growing collection littering your skin. You were just about to try and source some light, magic or otherwise, when two sconces either side of you suddenly sprung alight with cobalt flames, igniting the hall and revealing an ornate archway decorated with intricate stone carvings just ahead of you. As you approached, you inspected the stone panels closer. They were incredibly detailed, and were almost mirrored either side. On the left at the bottom was a depiction of a young devil sat alone, surrounded by flames. On the right, a lone angel seemed to be sulking amidst a kingdom of light. Following the scenes up one at a time, you traced the story through its stages, the left column showing the tale through the devil’s eyes and the right through that of his counterpart, reaching a crescendo at the top where the angel lay lifeless in his arms. Your lips parted in surprise as the scenes fleshed themselves out before you. You knew this story, very well.
“This is ‘The Dove and The Devil’, is it not?” Gale asked from beside you, eyes raking over the carvings one by one.
“Yes…” you murmured, stepping closer to press your hand against the cool tile depicting the two beings entwined together beneath a starry sky, fingers caressing the relief of the devil like a lost lover.
“Not the most accurate retelling, if memory serves. Seems a little indulgent in favour of the devil.” You felt yourself frown, head shaking from side to side, but you did not say anything.
It was just as Raphael had told you during your dinner with him. There was no subversive seduction, no hidden intentions, no insidious attempts to corrupt. Just a love that was vast enough to span the Heavens and the Hells. A love that, for all of its vitality, had doomed them from the start. It was beautiful, and you felt your eyes sting mournfully as you studied it, transfixed.
You were not sure how long you stood there gazing at the panels, tears beginning to slip from your eyes and splashing against the flagstones beneath you with quiet drops. You could not say why you were crying. It was not until Astarion placed a hand on your shoulder that you remembered where you were, what you were here to do. Startled, you turned to look at him, surprised to see an expression of concern adorning his usually artful face.
“Everything alright, dear?” You choked back a sorrowful sort of sound and nodded a little too vigorously, wiping any remaining tears from your eyes in embarrassment.
“Y-Yeah, ‘m fine,” you answered for the second time that day. “Let’s go in.”
You did not linger to witness the concerned looks your companions shared with one another before following, but were thankful they did not voice these concerns, or question your tearful reaction to the carvings. You would not know what to say if they did.
Filing through an even more narrow passageway two at a time, you surfaced into a hexagonal room flooded with a brilliant light. High above, a portal to the mortal realm hung in place of a ceiling, allowing natural sunlight to spill into this forsaken plane where the sun had never shone before. The tops of trees, retreating from one another in crown shyness, danced in a spring breeze, casting shifting, dappled shadows on the bright stone floor beneath you. A pair of smitten sparrows, apparently not bound by the laws of Raphael’s supposedly locked portals, broke the surface and flew hurriedly around the room, filling the air with their chirpy duet, before returning to their world again. You could hear the distant trill off trickling water, echoing in the forgotten space.
Before you, in the centre of the room and bathed in a radiant glow, stood an impressive statue several feet taller than yourself. Lovingly carved wings were held closely, almost embracing the body of the angel they sprouted from, conveying a feeling of peace and tranquillity, but also of distant melancholy. Upon closer inspection, the eyes of the angel were shut, lips barely parted, hair framing a delicate, bygone face. If it were not stood upright, it might seem as if the angel were merely sleeping soundly. You could imagine it was a work of unparalleled beauty at the time of its construction, but years of neglect had allowed hairline fractures to split the cheeks like the dry bed of a salt lake, nose chipped to resemble a newborn mountain. The once dazzling white of the marble had been obscured by moss and dust, and shone no longer. Hands bearing missing fingers rested clasped upon the hilt of a gilded great sword, lacklustre gems glinting weakly in the light, gold blade long oxidised and mottled with rust. You examined the weapon closely, appraising it with a keen eye. It was no doubt once a fine blade, not a common thing by any means, and would have sliced through enemies as easily as a scythe through wheat. But now, in this state, it was hardly worth its own weight, so you did not consider taking it with you.
As you stared up at that face before you, entirely entranced with the harrowing familiarity of it, you felt the beginnings of a headache begin to dawn, and tore yourself away. Your companions milled about the rest of the room, filing through long-forgotten possessions and disturbing ancient clouds of dust along the way. The room gave the impression that it had once been very sacred, but now loose papers, books, trinkets, oil paintings, and all sorts of things cluttered the space. Walking slowly across the floor, footsteps reverberating softly, you noticed almost illegible plaques spaced equally apart. The first three were entirely lost to time, surfaces worn flat beneath careless feet, but the last two you could just about make out some of the inscription. Kneeling down, you blew softly across the surface of the tile, coughing at the plume of dust that billowed in response, swatting it away with a grimace. With a perceptive gaze you raked your eyes over the words, a perturbed frown making its way on to your features as you discerned the words ‘Il dajulq pyparh’.
In loving memory.
You were kneeling on a grave.
A shiver danced across the back of your neck as you gazed across the other plaques lined up in an orderly fashion, bearing similar sentiments to the one beneath you. This hidden chamber you had stumbled upon, so brazenly entered, disturbing the dust and the dead; it was a tomb.
Unease flooded your nerves as you lifted yourself to your feet, counting five marked graves embedded into the floor, tactically arranged to leave space for more.
What is this place…?
“How curious to lock these away down here…they seem like exactly the sort of thing our devil would want on display,” Astarion remarked, pulling out a selection of discarded paintings that had yellowed slightly without the proper care.
“Wow,” you commented, gazing at a particularly huge, dramatic scene that had been hidden behind a dust cloth. The Heavens and the Hells collided in a glorious display of vibrancy, the brilliant light of the angel at the helm of a holy army descending from above, a youthful and familiar devil braced by a battalion of fiends ready to strike back. The inscription in the frame simply read ‘The Harrowing Begins’. Amongst the other paintings were more intimate depictions of the angel and other faces unbeknownst but somehow familiar to you, so obviously painted by a lover, every facet treated with the utmost care. Sketches on loose leaves fell from the stack, tender impressions of a younger Raphael in both his human and cambion form, a delicate cursive script dating some of them to some two-thousand years ago.
So, Raphael was the devil in his tale after all?
A feeling of pity rose in your chest at the realisation, a feeling you quickly swallowed down. You could not afford to lose your conviction now, not when you had already intruded on his house, his home, his secrets. No, the job needed to be finished, demanded to be finished, if you wanted to escape here with your heart still beating.
Rifling through forgotten possessions, gently leafing through lost diaries, you scanned Raphael’s familiar penmanship that detailed his thoughts, capturing his anguishing battle with his own feelings over the centuries. Many of the pages were torn and threatening to turn to dust, his accounts fragmented and disjointed, but you were able to piece together some of the specifics. The last entry was clearer, if only just, and made your heart twinge in sorrow at the pain his words held.
It has been three hundred years.
I am sure her soul has finally forgotten me by now. Perhaps it is time I did the same.
Why does this heartache still pain me so? I feel as if I am every age I have ever been, buckling beneath the weight of these memories that will not cease to haunt me . I am cursed to remember, and remembering is like an open wound . I cannot carry on like this. Hell is not kind to those that feel so deeply.
Enough, then. I choose not to torment myself any longer. I will not look for her anymore. Wherever her spirit wanders, I hope it has found peace.
Hope! What a wretched thing.
Farewell, little bird.
You cast an eye on the numerous portraits again, the graves embedded into the floor, before looking back to the statue of the angel. Their love had spanned lifetimes, undefeated even by death, twin flames reunited in the next life, and the next, and the next, until they were not. For some reason, they had eventually lost each other, that connection likely weakening with every reincarnation until it was too tenuous to hold. You felt the weight of this grief as if it were your own, the memories held within this shrine to a forgotten love pressing at the fringes of your consciousness, threatening to invade, as understanding and a sense of compassion for the poor devil began to surface amidst the chaos.
Snapping the book shut you steeled yourself against this feeling. Whoever Raphael had been in his past bore no importance on the present. Perhaps there was something amiable within him once, evil nature softened by the love of a divine creature, but it was clear he had renounced all of that the last time he left this chamber for good, probably over a thousand years ago. Even for a devil, it is a long time. He was not the same person the angel had loved, that was for certain, and that assuaging passion no longer tempered his nature. It had not for some time.
“I don’t think we’ll find anything down here,” you concluded, returning the diary to its resting place with a sigh. “Let’s get going.”
The others scrambled to follow you as you turned quickly on your heel and ascended the stone steps, footfalls ringing in the corridor and betraying your rising frustrations. You were not sure what you had expected to find down here, a terrible secret, a chance of blackmail, something you could use to give yourself even a minor advantage when the inevitable happened, but all this endeavour had succeeded in doing was to make you a little miserable.
At least, if nothing else, you had learned something of the truth. This place was more than it seemed, not just a prison for Hope, but a house with a tomb at its heart. Perhaps, should fate look kindly on you during the unavoidable confrontation with the master of the house, you could use this knowledge to appeal to any sliver of tenderness that remained in his cold, immortal heart. You dared to hope, in the one place hope is abandoned, that a splinter of the Raphael that an angel had loved so entirely had managed to persist across the centuries, that somewhere in his heart there was room for forgiveness. It might be a foolish hope, but you were willing to hold on to it as long as there was a chance to avoid bloodshed, whether it be your own or his.
Regardless, there was still a task that remained before that eventuality. The reason you had gone to the effort of making this trip at all, the one thing you were here for: you still had to learn the password and steal the Orphic Hammer.
As you summited the stairs with your party and the wall sealed itself behind you, shutting away Raphael’s secret once again, you reluctantly turned to face the last option you had, feeling apprehension snake cold hands around your internal organs in a sickening chokehold.
Finally, the Boudoir beckoned.
