Chapter Text
One hundred and six thousand, two hundred and four days.
It had been one hundred and six thousand, two hundred and four days since Abaddon had taken possession of young Abel Millard, beloved choirboy and youngest son of the town’s finest priest. “Little angel”, the townsfolk had called him.
Furthermore, it had been one hundred and six thousand, one hundred and ninety-seven days since Abaddon was bound for eternity to his vessel, doomed to wander Earth forever, stripped of all his powers, save for immortality.
Only a week after he’d possessed the boy.
That’s how quickly his deception had been uncovered. Was it foolishness on his part, or simply an unlucky fluke that he so happened to choose a priest’s kin as his vessel?
Likely the former, but he preferred to blame the latter.
Abaddon sighed, picking up another pebble before casting it aside, disinterested in the painfully simplistic rock formations. He was bored. He’d been bored for the past three hundred years. Terrorising the local village when night fell gave him brief respite, but every time the sun arose again he returned to his small hole in the forest. He was bored. Bored. Bored.
But Hell would come for him soon.
They had to. Abaddon was a gatekeeper, an essential part of Hell’s running. What had they done without their prized gatekeeper for the past three hundred years? How many souls had been unfairly granted salvation without a gatekeeper to make the final call?
Or had they already found a replacement for him? Given his job to some rookie who can’t even tell the seven sins apart the second Abaddon got trapped on Earth?
Abaddon scoffed, kicking at the sandy dirt. That’d be right, wouldn’t it? Ten thousand years of loyalty disregarded because of one simple mistake. Yes, it was a huge, potentially irreversible mistake, but still…
“Hey, bud!”
Abaddon nearly jumped out of his skin. Above him, just outside his ditch, a tall, moustachioed human stood. His face was kind. Fatherly, one might say.
Abaddon had seen the man before. He had somehow got his hands on the local hotel, Hell knows how. Abaddon had steered clear of the place when he could -- it was positively riddled with ghosts -- but he’d seen the man on the grounds, tending to the wildlife and maintaining as much order as one could on such cursed ground. The Woodsman, Abaddon had donned him.
The Woodsman outstretched his arm towards Abaddon. Not to hit, or grab, or chide, but for Abaddon to take at his own discretion.
Abaddon considered the offer in front of him. Really, he should stay in the ditch and continue waiting for Hell. But on the other hand, a new soul to terrorise would be a great delight, especially one so clearly pure of heart.
Abaddon took the Woodsman’s hand, the most innocent smile he could muster on his face.
Just to alleviate the boredom.
The Woodsman helped Abaddon out of the hole and onto solid land again. He knelt down next to the demon, giving him a discreet once-over for any signs of pain or injury.
“What are you doing all the way out here?” He asked, tone gentle and steady. “Do you have parents?”
Abaddon shook his head. “I’ve been banished to this fetid bog of a planet by my own kind. I was hoping their loyalty would remain and they’d claim me back, but alas.”
He briefly remembered his original plan to trick this Woodsman into believing he was a lone orphan child, but he couldn’t help but vent his grievances to a listening ear. Even if he planned to later torture said ear. There’d been many a time he’d complained about Rebisu’s mockery to his victims back in Hell.
The Woodsman blinked. “Your, uh… voice is a lot deeper than I expected, bud. Do you have a condition of some kind?”
“My condition is the never-ending boredom and restlessness that comes with being trapped in this stupid place. I wish to return home.” Abaddon growled.
“I’d like you to get home, too!” The Woodsman agreed, returning to his feet. “Come with me. I’ll take you inside and we’ll call someone to come help you. Where is your home, little guy?”
“Hell.”
“Let me guess, Arizona?” The Woodsman laughed. His joke didn’t land. “I kid, I kid. Could you give me a state? Or a town name, maybe?”
Abaddon furrowed his brow. “I already told you, my home is in Hell.”
The Woodsman looked conflicted, a mental battle taking place behind his eyes. His gaze wandered up to the hotel, roof just visible between the thick trees.
“Okay, for now, could you just tell me your name?”
“Abaddon.”
The Woodsman smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Pleasure to meet you, Abaddon. I’m Nathan. Mind if I call you Donny for short?”
“Call me that, and I’ll see to it that all your fingernails are removed with rusty tweezers.”
“Okay, note taken.”
The rest of the walk back to the hotel was silent on Abaddon’s behalf. The Woodsman -- or Nathan, as he identified himself -- attempted to start up conversation, but Abaddon had lost the interest to engage. This was proving to be much less exciting than he anticipated. He wished to return to the hole and resume the painstaking wait for Hell, but the man had a firm grip on his shoulder. He’d have to wait to make his escape.
When they arrived at the door, Abaddon felt uneasy. He’d been taken here before by former owners who’d become tired of his antics in the village -- all complaints of a small, pilgrim boy wreaking havoc had made their way back to the decrepit haunted hotel on the outskirts of Midwich. He remembered being dragged, kicking and screaming, to the attic to be chained in a feeble attempt to restrain him. It never worked, despite the cuffs being forged from iron and silver. He always managed to escape and resume his nightly terrors.
That being said, it’s not as if he enjoyed the brief stripping of his autonomy.
This Nathan man didn’t seem the type to do such a thing, but you learn to never trust anyone in Hell. Even your closest companions could stab you in the back if it meant a bigger castle.
Nathan opened the door, and Abaddon reluctantly followed suit, already planning his escape.