Chapter 103 The Eastern Garden
Belphegor had been sitting with Morpheus’s body for six hours when someone started pounding on his door.
He ignored it. He had been ignoring knocking for the past four hours, ever since Mammon had tried to convince him to attend their father’s pyre. The knocking would stop eventually. They always did.
“Belphegor, open this door right now or I am breaking it down.”
Asmodeus. Of course it was Asmodeus. The others would have given up by now, respected his need for solitude. But Asmodeus had never respected boundaries in his life and apparently was not starting today.
“Go away,” Belphegor said without moving from where he sat on the floor, Morpheus’s silk-wrapped form cradled in his lap.
“Not happening. You have ten seconds before I kick this door off its hinges.”
“I would like to see you try. This door is reinforced oak.”
“Then I will burn it down. Your choice.”
Belphegor considered his options. Let Asmodeus destroy the door, or open it and deal with whatever lecture was coming. Both options sounded exhausting.
The smell of smoke drifted under the door. Asmodeus was actually doing it. The absolute bastard was actually setting his door on fire.
Belphegor stood, still holding Morpheus, and opened the door before real damage could be done. Asmodeus stood in the corridor with one hand wreathed in purple flames, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“See? I knew you were reasonable.”
“I am not reasonable. I am preventing property damage.” Belphegor tried to close the door but Asmodeus had already pushed his way inside.
“Your chambers look like a tomb. Have you opened a window once since this morning?”
“No. I have been busy.”
“Busy sitting in the dark with a dead sprite.” Asmodeus moved to the windows and threw them open without asking permission. Fresh air flooded the room, along with the sound of the palace continuing to function despite everything. “That is not healthy.”
“I do not care about healthy right now.”
Asmodeus turned to look at him properly, his usual smirk fading when he saw Belphegor’s face. “You look terrible.”
“My father is dead. My sprite is dead. The woman I was falling in love with has been kidnapped by a traitor and taken to an enemy we cannot find. How exactly should I look?”
“Fair point.” Asmodeus crossed his arms. “But sitting in here alone is not helping any of those situations.”
“Neither is attending a pyre and listening to my brothers argue about politics before the fire has even finished burning.” Belphegor looked down at Morpheus’s still form. “I could hear them from here. Yelling about succession and strategy and what Father would have wanted. As if any of that matters when he is still burning.”
“They are processing grief differently than you are. That does not make their way wrong.”
“It makes it loud.”
Belphegor moved past Asmodeus toward the door.
“I need to bury him. I should have done it hours ago but I could not make myself move.”
“Where?”
“The eastern gardens. Where the night-blooming flowers grow. He liked it there.” Belphegor’s voice caught slightly. “He would sleep in the branches sometimes when I was working late. Completely peaceful.”
“I will help you.”
“I do not want help.”
“I know. I am helping anyway.” Asmodeus followed him into the corridor. “You can yell at me about it later if you want, but right now you are getting assistance whether you like it or not.”
Belphegor did not have the energy to argue. He just walked, holding Morpheus carefully, trying not to think about how light the sprite felt now that the life had gone out of him. How wrong it was to carry him like this, still and silent instead of chittering and fidgeting and demanding attention.
The eastern gardens were quiet this time of day. Most servants avoided this area because it was too close to the private family quarters. Belphegor was grateful for the solitude. He did not think he could handle sympathetic looks or carefully worded condolences right now.
He found the spot he wanted beneath a moonvine tree, where white flowers bloomed only at night and released a scent that Morpheus had loved. The ground was soft here, easy to dig.
Belphegor set Morpheus down carefully and started digging with his bare hands.
“There are tools,” Asmodeus said, gesturing to a shed nearby where gardeners kept equipment.
“I do not want tools. I want to do this myself.”
“Your hands are bleeding.”
“I do not care.”
Asmodeus watched for a moment, then sighed and dropped to his knees beside Belphegor. He started digging too, magic making the earth move faster than hands alone could manage.
“I said I did not want help.”
“And I said you were getting it anyway. Stop arguing and dig.”
They worked in silence. The hole grew deeper, wide enough and long enough for a sprite who would never need space again. Belphegor’s hands were filthy and bleeding but he kept going until the depth felt right.
He lifted Morpheus’s silk-wrapped body and lowered it gently into the earth. His hands were shaking. He had to try three times before he could make himself let go.
“Do you want to say something?” Asmodeus asked quietly.
“Like what? A prayer? Morpheus would have hated that. He was not religious.”
Belphegor sat back on his heels, staring down at the small bundle that contained everything left of his companion.
“He was just himself. Stubborn and loyal and completely fearless despite being small enough to fit in my pocket.”
“He attacked Malachi.”
“I know. Someone told me.” Belphegor’s throat was tight. “He saw what was happening and he attacked without hesitation. Tried to protect Father even though he had to know he could not win. That was Morpheus. Too brave for his own good.”
“Sera saw it happen.”
“I know that too.” Belphegor’s hands clenched in the dirt. “She watched Malachi kill him. Watched him die trying to help. And then Malachi took her anyway.”
“We will find her.”
“Will we? Every search has turned up nothing. Every tracking spell fails. We have no idea where Malachi went or how to follow him.” Belphegor looked at Asmodeus. “What if we never find her? What if she is just gone and we never know what happened?”
“That will not happen.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“No. But I can promise we will not stop looking.” Asmodeus started pushing dirt back into the hole, covering the silk bundle with careful movements. “She matters to you. That means she matters to all of us. We will tear apart every realm if we have to.”
Belphegor helped cover the grave, each handful of dirt feeling like goodbye. When it was done, when the earth was smooth and level again, he sat back and tried to think of what came next.
“I am going to find her,” he said quietly. “I do not care how long it takes or what I have to do. I am getting Sera back.”
“Good. Because she is going to need you when we do find her.” Asmodeus stood and offered Belphegor his hand. “Whatever Malachi did, whatever Armageddon is doing to her right now, she will need someone who cares about her to help her through it.”
Belphegor took the offered hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. His entire body ached from sitting in one position for hours and then digging a grave with his bare hands. But the ache was grounding, real, something he could focus on that was not grief.
“I should plant something here,” he said, looking at the bare earth. “Something that blooms at night like the moonvine. So when I visit, there will be flowers.”
“There is a nursery near the western wall. I will help you find something appropriate.”
“You do not have to do that.”
“I know, but you should not be alone right now, even if you think you want to be.” Asmodeus clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. We will find a plant, get you cleaned up, and then you can decide if you want to rejoin civilization or hide in your chambers for another six hours.”
“I think I will hide for another six hours.”
“Fair enough. But you are eating something first. You look like you have not had food since yesterday.”
“I have not.”
“That explains why you look like death. Food first, then hiding.”
Asmodeus started walking and after a moment Belphegor followed.
He looked back once at Morpheus’s grave. The earth was dark and freshly turned, obvious against the surrounding garden. By tomorrow it would be less noticeable. By next week the grass would start growing back. Eventually it would look like any other part of the garden.
Belphegor would always know what was buried there. Would always remember the sprite who had been too brave and too loyal and had died protecting people he cared about.