Last time, Crestia Bell's introduction interrupts Satan's first vivid memory -that of his parent's death, but it is quickly revisited when the purpose of the High Inquisitor becomes clear. While the Devil King is being questioned, Emilia and her friends discuss what will become of Ente Isla now that the demon army has no leader.

Albert knows that out of all the Hero's companions, he is the easiest one to dismiss. The case for why is arguable from many viewpoints. He hails from no legendary lineage like Emerada, who is seen as close to a holy being as humanity has. He hasn't climbed his way up the Church's perilous social ladder, foregoing amenities, and ambitions to serve the Lord. He is not a half-angel shouldering the responsibility of human survival. Not to say that Albert's own track record is subpar or lacking, but rather, his companions are extraordinary people, even amongst the gifted.

It is a role that suits him well.

Where Emerada is dodged, Olba mistrusted, and Emilia pandered to, Albert listens.

This is what he's gathered from the last week of living at Daisy's Keep since Emilia's fateful clash against the Great Demon General Lucifer.

The Church was not really planning on Emilia fighting her way towards the Devil King, but she would manage to lure him out of wherever his principal residence is. This plan, which banked on demons having a sense of responsibility for their colleagues, works.

Once the Church has the sealed version of the Devil King, they do not execute him or use him for a bargain, but rather, imprison him in a forgotten castle where he is questioned daily by the High Inquisitor of the Church. An enigmatic, baby-faced woman by the name of Crestia Bell. What information they're looking for and why… well.

Anything and everything is the deadpan answer the High Inquisitor offers from across the dinner table. (Albert takes note of how little she eats, eyes far away from the poultry and potatoes on her plate and curves his imagination lest he loses his appetite as well.)

Olba, who Albert trusts with his life, is in on whatever plan the Church is pushing. Probably has been from the beginning, a worrisome thought considering that after the passing of Emilia's father, Olba became her guardian. Why would a man so close to the Hero be remiss in informing the assault group looking for the Devil King of the Church's plan? Why make Emerada, Albert, and Emilia believe in the need for an arduous, long-term war campaign? Why assure that Emilia is the only one able to kill the Devil King when in the end, sealing magic is used?

The last one crucial inquiry is: despite the consistency of the visits, Crestia Bell has not managed to extract any sort of useful information from the Devil King – not the reason behind Ente Isla's invasion, the location of his stronghold, the increase of demonic magical power in the last few years. Nothing.

Albert hates to think about it, but either the High Inquisitor doesn't have it in her -which he's inclined to believe- or the Devil King is going to be just as much trouble bound and seal as he was before. Right now, humanity is wide open. A few days ago, the fight was about re-taking, and all their plans are based on layouts and information that was accurate under the Devil King's rule. What will the demons do now? Remembering their absolute chaos when Lucifer fell in battle gives him some hope. Ideally, the answer is that no one else will rally the demons, and they'll either be hunted down or retreat.

The mountain sage remembers Adramelech and the way he spoke of the Devil King, the being behind the honoring of Adramlech's promise: no human who surrenders shall come to harm. It's an old, faded memory that Albert has never shared, but it floats up to the forefront of his mind since Albert saw the Devil King -a dark, horned nightmare- burst onto the Western Planes. He also theorizes that things for humanity might be even worse without a tempering hand at the helm of the demons.

Looking out onto the barren fields of Daisy's Keep, once a bustling townhouse whose people were chased away by drought and famine, Albert wonders if maybe, the demons will come for their King. If they will march unhindered to their doorstep with neither flora nor fauna to detain them, and only 35 souls between them and their King.

What will they do then?

Crestia has not gouged out the Devil King's eyes, but sometimes she really wants to. The daily sessions of questioning are emotionally taxing in ways Crestia could have never foreseen. They stretch her patience to the edge and have her fisting tiny hands and grinding down on her teeth, both terrible habits. The ongoing commentary, plenty of it mocking her appearance or criticizing her technique, is all levels of annoying and adds a whole other layer to the feeling of wishing death upon the Devil King.

Truthfully, for all that the frustration and mocking are frustrating to the point of being comical, it does nothing to lighten the mood.

The prison, four walls of holy black iron that emanate tranquility as soon as Crestia steps into its chambers, reverberates daily with the Devil King's agonizing screams, soaking in Crestia's increasing guilt. Not even the annoyance, the pain, the memories, or honor make the garish work any more comfortable. Crestia has never been trained in questioning, much less torture, but when needed, causing pain was always enough.

Human beings do anything to avoid pain or permanent damage; Crestia had naively believed they could share such a basic instinct with demons as well.

Alas, she slices along thin, pale flesh and whips rivers of blood upon a bare back. Burns paths of sigils down thick forearms and learns to waterboard specifically because nothing else works. The Devil King screams and panics and curses at her, but then gathers himself and smirks her way. Weakened and hungry and bound, but every bit just as infuriating and unapologetic as when he got there. Crestia wanted him to suffer, she did, but she didn't think it would take days. (She comes to terms with the realization that she does want the Devil King to suffer, just not by her own hand. It sinks in very quickly that blood dripping onto concrete and a throat rubbed raw from screaming do very little to fill in the empty grief inside her but very much for her unavoidable nightmares.)

(Crestia hates herself for her weakness as a corner of her heart sighs in relief. What would she have done if she'd fancy this?)

The problem is, now that her anger and bloodthirst have dulled, the pressure to deliver is only getting higher, and if her rudimentary methods do not work, Crestia has to up her ante. She chops three fingers, maybe in much too quick succession to accomplish the necessary psychological horror. She nails another three to the wall behind the Devil King's head. (This one results in holding the shoulder joint in an impossible angle. Crafty, the Devil King intoned, impressed. When did the workings of the church appeal to the evil they were trying to fight?) She burns, pokes, cuts, scrapes down his legs and his torso, his clothes an ever-shrinking rag.

She looks at the blacked, flaked skin of his thighs, the almost artistic care of the butterfly knife swoops in out of his knees and calves. The shaggy black hair is matted and bloodied, but she focuses on this area because it's easier for her than his bare skin.

"You know," the Devil King intones, voice low and gravely. His ribs are bruised, and since yesterday, whenever he breathes, a wheeze escapes his lips. The last week might just kill him, and Crestia has never yearned for such a thing more. With each passing day, she worries that he will outlast her, that the Devil King's inhumane tolerance for her increasingly depraved and creative tactics will survive much longer than Crestia's shaky grasp on her sanity and self-hatred. "Is this your audition for my army?"

How dare he?

A million thoughts run through her mind, one at the core of them all.

Crestia is not like him.

She's not.

She's not, she's not, she's not, she's not.

Her face has fallen in shadow, eyes wide open and unfocused upon hooved feet. Her shaky fingers reach almost blindly to the flask available on the table, flashing silver even on the flickering torch-light of the prison chambers. She bares her teeth, a cornered beast with too little food, sleep and will to live, and pours the holy water on the open wounds.

(She's never brought herself to do so before, and the steam that rises as it burns upon impact is nauseating.)

"I'm nothing like you," she hisses.

The Devil King screams, a sound inimitable by Crestia's human throat but felt deep within her heart. After a few minutes, the holy water has dissipated enough to leave only the soft buzzing of its last drops left, a similar sound to hydrogen peroxide on a human wound. The Devil King is panting desperately, writhing uncomfortably, desperate to not accidentally pull on his trapped fingers, still bleeding lazily in their place as wall décor.

Crestia stands there, more frozen than impassive, and has the passing, faraway thought that she must've done something wrong for this to be her life. (She's done plenty.)

Finally, the Devil King stills and raises his head slowly. Dirty, sweaty hair sticks to his forehead, leaving visible a single red eye. Even now, bloodied and dirty, looking nothing like the King who appeared right into the Church's trap, his gaze mocks her.

"I never said you were."

It happens on the seventh day. Emilia, sitting at the same cornerstone table as every other day, watches the High Inquisitor hurry off the Devil King's prison a whole hour earlier than usual. The evening visitors, casters working to reinforce the Devil King's bonds, won't arrive until after lunch. The moment is now or never. If Emilia wishes to speak to the creature responsible for the derailing of her entire life. It's now.

Emilia watches Satan's bloodied form and tries to remember that she has the moral high ground. That a couple of hours of questioning is nothing compared to what Ente Isla has been through. She tries very hard.

Thanks to everyone who's given this a follow, we're such a small fandom it warms my heart to know there's people interested in this capricho of mine.

take care,

dee