At the same time, in the Throne Room of Hell, Beelzebub was talking to his lord, Lucifer. They were both seated beside the great lion-footed desk set below the stairs leading up to the throne, and whose top was drowning in documents as usual at this time of the day. Currently, the Hunter of Hell was once again glancing through the edicts that had been issued by their Lord over the past hour.

“You've written out twelve orders. The demons won't be too pleased,” he warned honestly, so Lucifer frosted him with his eyes.

“Maybe. But I won't allow myself to be treated like a puppet. I've decided to myself this morning that they will be afraid of me again” he chuckled a little too lightly. As usual, anyway. Beelzebub even suspected that this might be a common characteristic of all the gods of war, but none of the other gods he had met so far. So he only raised his eyebrows higher by moving another of the documents.

“Then let them fight each other, or start performing public executions in person. They're demons, I don't know how else you're going to get anything done," he murmured, making a suitable footnote to one of the edicts.

“If so, I'll ask Tiramis what his advice is when he finally shows up. He should be sitting here a long time ago”

“He's got his own issues. Quite specific as far as I know. If he has time he will come,” Beelzebub replied.

“In fact, you can go now. It's late enough. It will be useful for you to go to bed early.’’

The hunter stood up, bowed his head a little and turned back to the side door at the Hall, behind which was his small, so far quite simply furnished apartment. Before, he hadn't had much in it beyond piles of books, a few bottles of expensive wine, a wardrobe stuffed with suits appropriate to the position he held and compliant with the infernal regulations, and a few mementos of what he knew well would never return, but since he had allowed Ispis to move in, nothing was the same.

The fabrics had changed to much more elaborate ones, the simple furniture to carved and heavy, one wardrobe to two. And at the entrance of the only room, against all he wanted to just be there, he was greeted by a narrow crystal mirror, in which he could see himself perfectly whenever he came back there.

He was still looking young on his face, if he had asked a stranger they would not have given him twenty-something years, like most of the old demons anyway. They were not, after all, born like later generations, but created, exactly as Yahweh needed for that time. And he, too, matched in detail his fantasy of the time: he was quite slim, and had long vibrant brown hair that listened to no one, not even the Almighty himself. Nonetheless, he combed it and tied it at the nape of his neck into a ponytail, from which it came out sticking up in every possible direction. Currently, a single lock of hair was pressing into his big hazel eyes.

It had been years since he had been what Yahweh had lumped together, but he wasn't one of the demons either - and he could see that perfectly in that mirror too. That different, more sinister gleam in his eyes. Lucifer, in secret from everyone, had given him something that the skilled eye could not fail to see - divinity. The last element separating the archangels and old demons from standing on an equal footing with those they served. He was given a share of loyalty and he osa a God of it.

He corrected the teasing lock of hair and looked at Ispis. The red-haired, long-legged beauty sat on a bed among the spell books from which she had learned the same as the boys at the Academy. Before he had taken her, she was not allowed, no woman in Hell was. But she could do anything beside him.

“I am here” he muttered quietly, so she lifted her gaze to him.

“I see. I have a favor to ask...” she hissed standing up.

“What is it?” He asked, pouring himself some wine and taking his jacket off his shoulders to throw it on a small couch. The girl stopped her gaze at the large portrait hung just above the bed.

“Can we take it down? He's freaking me out.”

“Gabriel?” He asked, putting his glass down immediately.

“Yes.”

“No.” He replied coolly looking away from her and the portrait.

“Let's sit down”, before he could protest she pulled him towards the sofa and as soon as they were seated she took his hand in hers. “Listen... this portrait can't hang here forever, it's spooky. After all, you believe you're going to bring him back here, right?”

“Yes,” he wanted to glance towards the portrait, but she immediately grasped his cheek and turned his head towards herself.

“So stop acting like he's going to stay dead forever.”

“If I had been there then, he would still be alive. It's my fault.”

“Did you go to him when he was on duty?” The girl asked right away.

“No... But I should have...”

“If you didn't go before, what made you think you had to go this time? You didn't know what was going to happen, it was over a century ago. Enough is enough.”

“I should have...”

“No,” she stood up, climbed onto the bed, then climbed up on her toes and took down the portrait of the chubby boy, with curly hair as red as her own. “Let him rest in peace for now.”

“Come out for a while, I'll at least say goodbye to....”

“That's silly,” she interrupted him by shaking her head gracefully. “I will hide him under the bed. It will be there all the time”

She smiled serenely and he said nothing to stop her. Outside the door of this room she didn't have many more rights than a mutt running across town on the second floor, but here he was letting her do whatever she wanted. She was finally there for him, and he needed it badly.