the crown on my head,
the thorns at my feet

Part III. Dantalion
"Give me the ring back, Dantalion."

Dantalion whirls like the wind in monsoon, and twin arcs of energy burst from his palms to sink into the chests of the lesser demons attacking. Another swath of them falls. He feels a presence at his back and nearly swings before he recognizes it as Gilgamesh, the golden blade by his side, who extends an arm and cuts down another file of fiends.

Together, circling around back to back, they make short work of the foes. Battlelust fills Dantalion's veins and empties his soul.

He spends as much time as possible out on the field now that he's been crowned king, even though he has legions of demons to fight for him and his throne is supposed to be a governmental one. Well, damn that. He prefers to lead the old-fashioned way. Perhaps Baphomet would have protested, but Gilgamesh eagerly joins him on the field. And when it comes down to it, that suits him just fine.

"Another job done," Gilgamesh whistles as they walk back, one hand in his hair as he covertly tries to ruffle it into its usual rakish dishevelment. He slides on a smile. "I'll say that's a good day's work. I'm looking forward to dinner."

Gilgamesh can't cook worth a damn like Baphomet could, but they have a whole retinue of servants to do that now. When they arrive back at the palace, two rush forth to receive their bloodied uniforms, another two scrabble upstairs to prepare baths, and two disappear into the kitchens to cook their evening meal.

In the clarity underlit by three chalices of wine, Dantalion raises his eyes to his companion's face. Gilgamesh is everything a household member may and should be: advisor, friend, comrade-in-arms, lover. Well, he does lack in domestic ability. Yet Dantalion finds himself following him nonetheless—following, even though he ought to be the leader of the two.

So why, for example, is he following him into the back chambers yet again, as if magnetized? Why can't he tear his eyes away from the nape of Gilgamesh's neck, arched and exposed, vulnerable in all the ways Gilgamesh would never admit?

Why do they do this every night as if everything in his past could be simply negated—and why does he have the sense that he doesn't want it to be so?

"Come, Dantalion," Gilgamesh breathes, his mouth a slit, his eyes two malevolent poles, his kisses black magic as Dantalion straddles him on the bed. Not a quarter of an hour later, he does.

"So Solomon visits you?"

Camio lowers his teacup. "Occasionally, to report on his travels, or to converse on new knowledge."

Dantalion releases a guttural sigh. "And he comes to Sytry too?"

"Yes." His third-in-command's expression remains careful. Dantalion can taste the discretion he exudes. It hangs like a warning in the air, a question not to be broached.

But it is not in his power to remain discreet about that person. "Why doesn't he remember me?" he asks gruffly.

"I don't know," Camio sighs. His gloved fingertips twitch, and he closes his hands on the table. "Perhaps the trauma of your last meeting caused him to forget you without meaning it."

"Damn it, Camio! We're not talking about some emotionally fragile man-child who'd balk at painful memories. I was his best friend."

"In many ways he is still a child," Camio muses, ignoring Dantalion's outburst. "Even William understands matters of the heart more than he does sometimes."

Little else comes from the meeting. The moment he exits the parlor, Amon and Mammon unperch from the corners of the hallway and bat his head indignantly with their wings.

"Master! Returning to your desk, I hope?"

"You have important documents from the Four Kings to review before tomorrow's meeting, you know!"

He brushes them off, striding towards the palace exit. With Astaroth still sleeping and Lamia still growing into her role, there is no one to chastise him for skipping his paperwork except his familiars.

The moment he steps outside the opulent curlicues of the palace and breathes in Hell's familiar sulfuric aroma, he relaxes. Unseen by the demons around him, Dantalion teleports to a mansion on the other side of Hell.

He surfaces in a lounge. Its sole occupant lets out only an ambivalent hum at his unnanounced entrance, and continues snowing a spoonful of powdered sugar over his slice of strawberry shortcake.

Dantalion takes in a deep breath, studying the androgynous demon seated before him with his eyes so blue and wide.

"Sytry," he barks. "I need some information on Solomon."

As reported, the wise man is strolling about the ruins of Hell's outer circles. Dantalion can only guess at what he's looking for, overturning stones and bending down at marks in the sand. He shows no sign of noticing the demon tailing him, which irks Dantalion more than he'll admit. But if Solomon has forgotten his scent, that makes this all the easier.

Solomon peers at an enclave of fallen rock. Now. Dantalion leaps for him from behind and wrestles one arm behind his back, reaching for the ring on the other.

"Let go of me, demon, if you have any care for your life." Solomon's voice preserves its odd calm.

"You still don't remember me, hm?" Dantalion forces Solomon's caught hand further behind his back, cutting off the energy starting to bud around it. With his other, he inches towards the ring, which Solomon protects by clenching his hand into a fist. "That doesn't matter. I'm not here to talk to you this time. I want to speak with William. I know he's there."

Solomon sneers, a glow of energy lighting up his face. "Maybe, but he doesn't seem to want to say hello to you."

Dantalion swallows. Don't be ridiculous, he tells himself. Don't listen. Before Solomon can force him away with a blast of power again, he channels energy into his arm and sweeps it down Solomon's. The shock forces Solomon to release his hand, and in that moment Dantalion snatches the ring clear off.

Solomon's body goes slack. Before he can regain consciousness, Dantalion calls up an illusion, and yellow walls close up the filthy air of Hell. He hurries and rests the body in a sitting position on one of the couches, at the same time tucking the ring of wisdom into his pocket.

"Where are we?" The voice that stirs from the boy's body is not Solomon's. Dantalion sucks in his breath.

"The common room," he says.

William sits up. It's like looking at a ghost, if ghosts could have eyes like that. The entire way he holds his body—the body—changes, falling into a more relaxed pose, as befits the naivety of a schoolchild with mussed hair.

"Dantalion…" William tenses, drawing a hairbreadth back, into his prefect pose. Dantalion has watched him assume it many times before, in the times when William's feeling nervous as much as when he wants to convey a lick-my-boots type of authority. "Why am I awake? What did you do to him?"

Dantalion says nothing. The words stop in his throat, watching the boy stir back into his own skin.

"I know we're in Hell."

"Damn it, William." His voice catches. "Must we speak of that right now? I haven't seen you in months."

"I know how long it's been." William looks down at his cape as if he expected to be in his school uniform. "I can see through Solomon's eyes if I want. Did you make this illusion just for me? How thoughtful."

"William. Why have you been avoiding me? Why has Solomon forgotten me?"

"You should know the answer to both."

"I don't." Dantalion leans forward, holds William around the shoulders. He moves, instinctively, to press his forehead against the other boy's. William pulls back.

"Do you remember how I chose you?"

Dantalion nods. William had rushed into this same room of which he has made a facsimile, his mantle disheveled and his eyes wild. He had pronounced his verdict with unexpected conviction.

"Do you know why I elected you, Dantalion?"

The question echoes off empty space, sending the lace doilies on the tables to shivering.

"Gilgamesh forced my hand. I couldn't bear to choose, even though he showed me you slaughtering… those demons…"

William's lips tremble. Dantalion has to remember that the Elector is only human, after all, and that it's his fault the gap between that and nephilim has grown into such the abyss.

"...In the end, he threatened me with Sytry and Camio. That he would kill them if I didn't elect you. I saw the blade in his hand. They didn't know it, but it was at their throats."

His shoulders fall, suddenly bereft of tension, and Dantalion can feel the fragility of William's bones in his hands, like a secret he's been entrusted with and cannot keep.

Something at the core of him heats into fire. The walls of the parlor throb like the heartbeat neither of them has. "The snake...!" he hisses. All their violence that to Gilgamesh was mere foreplay. A sick pit opens in his stomach as he thinks of their divided kills and shared pleasure. Their hot skin, reeking of sin.

"It's done." William's face smooths back into simplicity. He extends his hand, palm up.

"I... I'm sorry, William. I had no idea. I'll stab the fiend myself," he growls, ignoring William's hand and trying to push aside the blackness clawing at his consciousness. Later. "But you don't have to avoid me anymore because of that."

"Give me the ring back, Dantalion."

"Sytry and Camio are still here, and they're important to me. And I'm not doing a poor job at the helm; I wouldn't have disgraced your choice. Even the skeptics are beginning to support me."

"Hn. That just means they've forgotten you used to be human—and that maybe you have too." He flexes his open hand.

"All right, William." He bows his head. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you back then. I'll earn your confidence back properly this time. Just please stay here." A rattling shakes the air, from the table at their feet.

"Do you think I could bear to be in Hell, even if you did?" The apples of William's cheeks flush pink. "Don't show me this illusion of Stratford you've made and make me think of the days we used to have." William shudders, drawing his head down. The heat in Dantalion's chest sublimates to ice. "I don't want to see you, and Sytry, and Camio murdering, and know that I can't see Isaac or Mycroft or even Mathers anymore. Better Solomon see it all!"

He slumps into Dantalion's arms, and the air lights as if a match has been struck.

"Dantalion, give the ring back to me."

"William—"

The walls crumble down into so many crumbs and flakes.

The polished tables shatter back into crags of obsidian.

All that is left is the familiar sulfur smell, and the waste that is Dantalion's birthright.

"I don't—" William's voice breaks, and he tries again. He has to clear his throat twice to get it right. "I don't want to see this. Or you. You asked why Solomon forgot."

And Dantalion knows: why would he want to remember?

The past floods him, a river overspilling its banks. Dantalion closes his eyes against it. He knows he should have found some other way, all those millennia ago, rather than let his best friend die at his own hands. The shell of that friend now would have wanted it.

When he opens his eyes, William is still gazing at him, though there are tears in his too. And Hell burns as brightly as ever behind.

"Please give me the ring back."

A/N: Sorry this took forever, I jumped fandoms and had to drag myself back here to finish this. That said, I hope you enjoyed this trio of oneshots, and please let me know your thoughts.