Chapter 123: Broken Wings
The chains hung empty above him, swaying slightly with the memory of his weight. Dante knelt on the cold, slick stone, the impact still vibrating through his shattered wing joint and the raw, gaping ruin between his legs. Blood pooled beneath him, warm against his knees, mingling with the remnants of holy water and his own spent release. Smoke curled faintly from the obscene wound Azrathiel had carved and cauterized-not-cauterized. Every breath was a wet, ragged scrape, tasting of copper and ozone. He couldn't lift his head. Couldn't move. Only tremble, a fine, constant vibration that felt like his bones were rattling loose.
The rustle of immense wings unfurling filled the chamber, a sound like dry silk dragged over stone. Dante flinched, a full-body spasm that ripped a choked sob from his ruined throat. He forced his head up a fraction, vision swimming. Azrathiel stood bathed in his own cold, silver light, wings fully extended, magnificent and terrifying. He wasn't looking at Dante. He was looking down at him. His expression wasn't satisfied. It was… contemplative. Calculating. Like a sculptor assessing a flawed block of marble.
"Endurance," Azrathiel murmured, the word echoing softly. "A curious trait in something so fundamentally flawed." He took a step forward, the soft scrape of his sandal unnervingly loud. Dante flinched again, trying instinctively to curl in on himself, but his body screamed in protest. Broken ribs grated. The torn flesh of his asshole pulsed with fresh agony. He remained kneeling, exposed.
Azrathiel stopped directly before him. Dante stared at the pristine hem of the angel's robe, inches from his face. The scent of ozone and cold metal washed over him, momentarily overriding the stench of his own suffering. A cold fingertip touched beneath Dante’s chin, forcing his head up further. Dante’s vision swam; Azrathiel’s angular face was a blur of silver light and impassive judgment.
"Look at me, Morningstar." The command was soft, yet absolute.
Dante’s eye, the one not swollen shut, focused reluctantly. Hatred burned there, a feeble spark amidst the ash of his spirit. Azrathiel met his gaze. His silver eyes held no pity, no anger. Only profound, chilling disinterest. He traced a line down Dante’s neck with that cold fingertip, over the pulse hammering wildly against bruised skin, down the center of his chest, slick with blood and sweat. He stopped just above Dante’s sternum.
"Your father crafted rebellion," Azrathiel stated, his voice devoid of inflection. "He forged pride from starlight and defiance from cosmic dust. But you…" His fingertip pressed down, hard, onto Dante’s pectoral muscle. Dante gasped. "...you are merely flesh. Weak. Corruptible. Designed for degradation." His hand shifted. From within the folds of his robe, he drew a blade.
It wasn't ornate. It wasn't ceremonial. It was brutally functional. Serrated steel, about eight inches long, wicked-sharp teeth glinting in the low light. Dante’s breath hitched. His gaze locked onto the blade. Terror, cold and absolute, washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the constant agony.
"Azrathiel…" Dante rasped, the name a plea and a curse wrapped in blood. "Don't…"
The angel ignored him. He pressed the flat, cold steel against Dante’s chest, just below the collarbone. Dante flinched violently. "Oh, don't pretend," Azrathiel murmured, a ghost of something cruel touching his lips. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy this." He tilted the blade, positioning the serrated edge against Dante’s skin. "After all," he added, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper, "you practically invented torture, Prince."
With a sudden, vicious downward drag, Azrathiel pulled the blade.
It wasn't a clean cut. The serrated teeth caught, tore. Dante screamed, a raw, animal sound that ripped through the chamber. The blade peeled through skin, fat, and muscle fiber like a blunt plow through wet earth. Agony, bright and blinding, exploded across Dante’s chest. He felt the layers separate, the wet rip of tissue giving way. Blood, thick and dark, welled instantly, cascading down his ribs and belly.
"FUCK! FUCK YOU!" Dante roared, thrashing instinctively, but Azrathiel’s free hand clamped onto his shoulder, pinning him in place with inhuman strength. The chains were gone, but the angel’s grip was a new, unbreakable restraint. Dante’s head slammed back against the damp stone wall behind him. Stars burst behind his eyelids.
Azrathiel dragged the blade lower, slowly, methodically. Each serrated tooth caught and ripped anew. Dante could feel the grating vibration through his bones. The pain was beyond description – a white-hot cleaver splitting him open. Sweat poured down his face, mingling with tears of pure, unadulterated agony. He gnashed his teeth, tasting blood where he’d bitten his tongue.
"See?" Azrathiel breathed, leaning close. His silver eyes were fixed on the widening gash. "The architecture of sin. Beneath the bravado… just meat." He angled the blade deeper. Dante felt muscle fibers snap like overstretched rubber bands. A wet, tearing sound filled the air, louder than Dante’s choked screams. The blade reached his sternum, scraping bone for a horrifying second before Azrathiel angled it sideways, peeling the flap of skin and muscle wider, exposing the structures beneath.
Dante’s vision swam violently. He gagged, bile rising in his throat. Through the haze of pain, he glimpsed it: beneath the ripped pectoral muscle, pulsing veins glowed with an unnatural, molten light. Sulfurous yellow and hellish crimson, like rivers of lava trapped beneath flesh. His infernal heritage laid bare.
"Molten veins," Azrathiel observed, almost clinically fascinated. He traced the edge of the blade along one pulsing, luminous vessel. The touch sent fresh waves of agony radiating through Dante’s torso, different from the tearing pain – deeper, hotter, a violation of his very essence. "The fire of rebellion… cooled to sludge in your corrupted heart." He pressed the blade tip against the glowing vein. Dante felt the heat intensify, a burning pressure threatening to burst.
"Stop… please… motherfucker… stop!" Dante begged, his voice shredded, barely audible over his own ragged gasps. He was trembling violently, every muscle locked in agony. The shame of begging warred with the overwhelming need for the pain to cease.
Azrathiel tilted his head. "Begging suits you, Prince of Hell." He applied more pressure. The serrated tip dimpled the molten vein. Dante felt a searing pop deep within his chest cavity. "But it changes nothing." With a swift, brutal motion, Azrathiel jerked the blade sideways, away from the sternum, and shoved it upwards, between Dante’s ribs.
The sound was wet and grinding. Dante’s scream died instantly, choked off into a horrible, wet gurgle. The blade slid deep, scraping against bone, tearing through pleura, finding the spongy tissue of his lung. Agony detonated, a supernova centered in his chest. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. Could only convulse, pinned by Azrathiel’s iron grip and the blade buried in his torso.
Azrathiel twisted the blade. Slowly. Deliberately. Dante felt the serrated teeth grind against his ribs, tear through lung tissue. Hot, coppery blood flooded his mouth. He choked, spattering crimson onto Azrathiel’s pristine robe. The angel didn't flinch. He leaned closer, his breath chilling Dante’s sweat-soaked temple.
"Breathe it in, Morningstar," Azrathiel whispered, his voice devoid of mercy. "Taste your own corruption." He twisted the blade again, a vicious corkscrew motion. Dante felt something vital tear deep inside. Sulfurous blood, thick and burning, flooded his lung cavity. It wasn't just blood; it carried the acrid tang of Hell itself. He tried to cough, to expel it, but only managed a wet, bubbling rasp. The sulfurous fluid filled his airway, drowning him from the inside. His vision tunneled. Darkness pulsed at the edges. He was choking on his own damned essence.
Azrathiel watched him drown, his expression impassive. Dante’s struggles weakened. His thrashing became feeble twitches. His remaining eye rolled back, showing white. The gurgling sounds grew fainter. Just as consciousness threatened to slip away completely, Azrathiel withdrew the blade with a sickening, sucking sound.
Air rushed into Dante’s tortured lung, a searing agony that momentarily eclipsed the drowning sensation. He gasped, a raw, scraping inhale, followed by a violent coughing fit that sprayed sulfurous blood and phlegm onto the stones. Each cough felt like knives twisting in his chest wound. He sagged forward, held up only by Azrathiel’s grip on his shoulder and the wall at his back. Blood poured freely from the gaping wound on his chest and the puncture between his ribs.
Azrathiel stepped back, examining the blood-slicked serrated blade. He flicked it once, sending droplets of Dante’s molten blood spattering against the damp wall where they hissed and smoked. He looked down at Dante, who was slumped, trembling, gasping wetly, drowning even as he breathed.
"The lesson continues," Azrathiel stated, his voice echoing faintly in the chamber now filled with the sounds of Dante’s desperate, wet struggle for air. The angel turned, his immense wings folding with a soft, ominous rustle. He walked towards the shimmering, shifting wall of the prison, not looking back. "Rest, Prince. Gather your strength." He paused at the boundary, the ethereal wall parting like mist before him. "The cleansing is far from complete."
He stepped through. The wall sealed behind him, leaving Dante alone in the suffocating silence, broken only by his own wet, choking gasps and the relentless drip, drip, drip of his blood hitting the stone floor. The gaping wound on his chest wept molten ichor. The hole between his ribs sucked air with every agonizing breath. The ruin between his legs throbbed with a dull, deep ache. He was a broken doll, propped against a wall, drowning in his own fluids, utterly alone. The silence pressed in, heavier than the chains had ever been. Azrathiel’s final words echoed in the hollow space where his defiance used to reside: The cleansing is far from complete. Dante closed his eye. There was no escape. Only the waiting, and the certainty of more pain.
Time lost meaning in the dripping dark. Only pain remained, a constant thrumming through Dante’s shredded body. Three days? Three centuries? He didn’t know. He lay prone on the cold, unforgiving stone, a broken sculpture of agony. His shattered wing jutted at a sickening angle. The gaping wound on his chest, crude stitches of infernal energy barely holding molten veins beneath angry, puckered flesh, pulsed with every shallow, wet breath. The obscene ruin Azrathiel had carved between his legs radiated a deep, sick ache, a constant reminder of the violation and the holy fire still simmering within. Blood, old and new, crusted his skin, mingling with the ever-present damp. Consciousness was a thin, frayed thread.
The shimmering wall dissolved without sound. Azrathiel stepped through, pristine, radiating cold light that burned Dante’s sensitive eyes. The angel’s steps were measured, echoing faintly in the tomb-like silence. He stopped beside Dante’s crumpled form, looking down with detached scrutiny. The scent of ozone cut through the stench of infection and decay. Dante didn’t stir. Couldn’t. Barely registered the presence beyond a fresh spike of primal dread coiling in his gut.
Azrathiel knelt smoothly, robes pooling around him like liquid silver. He was close enough for Dante to see the perfect lines of his face, the impassive silver eyes. “So, Prince,” Azrathiel’s voice was a low, clear chime in the stillness. “You ready for more?”
Dante didn’t answer. Couldn’t muster the breath or the will. His single open eye, bloodshot and dull, remained fixed on a crack in the stone inches from his face. His lips, cracked and bleeding, stayed sealed. He just breathed, a ragged, bubbling sound deep in his chest, each inhale scraping against the half-healed puncture wound where the serrated blade had pierced his lung.
Azrathiel watched him, silent for a long moment. The only sounds were Dante’s tortured breathing and the eternal drip, drip of moisture somewhere unseen. “Now that you’ve got just the smallest taste of what I have to offer you,” Azrathiel continued, his tone chillingly conversational, “you give me information. I might just stop this torture.” He tilted his head slightly. “A reprieve. A chance to heal those… unsightly wounds. Think on it.”
Silence stretched. Dante’s mind, fogged by pain and exhaustion, sluggishly processed the words. Information? He’d expected demands, ultimatums, not this vague bargaining chip. A spark of bitter anger flickered, weak but real, cutting through the haze. He lifted his head a fraction, a monumental effort that sent fresh fire lancing through his neck and shoulder. His voice, when it finally came, was a raw scrape, thick with blood and hatred. “You gonna fuckin’ spit out what the fuck you want,” he rasped, each word an agony, “or just stare at me, you sanctimonious prick?”
Azrathiel chuckled. A soft, dry sound devoid of warmth. He leaned in slightly, his silver gaze pinning Dante. “Direct. Very well. Give me the little abominations. The ones you and Lute created. And Adam. Hand them over. All of them. And…” he paused, letting the offer hang, “…you walk out of here. Free. The torture ends. Today.”
Dante stared. The names landed like physical blows. Lute. Adam. The little abominations. Images flashed – fleeting, chaotic: a flash of defiant blonde hair, shared laughter that tasted like rebellion, creations born of forbidden desire and celestial tinkering, tiny sparks of chaos he’d protected fiercely. A profound, protective fury surged, momentarily overpowering the physical agony. He met Azrathiel’s cold gaze, his own eye burning with a feverish intensity. He didn’t speak. Seconds bled into what felt like minutes. The silence was charged, thick with the unspoken history and the weight of the demand.
Finally, Dante bared his bloodstained teeth in a ghastly approximation of a grin. His voice, though weak, carried a final, defiant edge. “Go. Fuck. Yourself.”
Azrathiel’s lips curved into a slow, chilling smile. Not of anger, but of cold satisfaction. “Ok, Prince,” he murmured, the words dripping with condescension. “Have it your way.” He didn’t rise. Instead, his hand shot out, not towards a blade or vial, but towards Dante’s mangled left wing.
His fingers closed like iron pincers on the shattered joint – the same joint he’d threatened to detach days before. Dante’s choked scream tore through the chamber, a raw, animal sound of pure agony as fresh shards of white-hot pain exploded through his back. Azrathiel twisted his grip, grinding shattered bone and torn ligament. “Such stubbornness,” he hissed, his composed facade cracking for the first time, revealing a glint of cold fury. “Let’s see how stubborn you feel after I peel the rest of this wing off. Bone by bone.” He leaned his weight into it, applying slow, deliberate pressure, the sound of grinding cartilage and bone a sickening counterpoint to Dante’s ragged, screaming breaths. The angel’s other hand moved towards the jagged, half-healed tear on Dante’s chest, fingers poised to rip the infernal stitching wide open.
Azrathiel’s fingers, cold and precise as surgical steel, dug into the ragged edge of the wound on Dante’s chest. The infernal stitching, a desperate internal magic holding molten veins beneath angry, puckered flesh, strained instantly. Dante’s scream choked off into a wet, gurgling rasp, his remaining eye bulging as the angel’s other hand maintained its crushing, grinding grip on the shattered wing joint. Bone grated against bone deep in Dante’s back. “Stubbornness is its own sin, Prince,” Azrathiel hissed, the clinical detachment momentarily replaced by a chilling, focused fury. “Let’s liberate this useless appendage. Bone by fucking bone.”
With a sudden, brutal wrench, Azrathiel tore his fingers sideways across Dante’s chest. The infernal stitches, never meant for such violence, snapped like rotten twine. Molten yellow ichor erupted, sizzling as it hit the cold stone floor, followed by a fresh gush of dark, coppery blood. Dante convulsed, a silent, agonized spasm as his own internal fire spilled out of him. But Azrathiel wasn’t done. He shifted his grip on the wing joint, his fingers finding purchase not just on shattered cartilage, but hooking under the root where wing met spine. Dante felt the invasive pressure deep within his thoracic cavity, a violation worse than the blade between his ribs. Azrathiel braced a knee against Dante’s lower back for leverage. “Hold still, filth,” he commanded, his voice tight with effort. “This requires… precision.”
A sickening crack-snap echoed, wet and final. Dante felt the separation deep inside, a catastrophic tearing sensation that wasn't just physical but existential. Azrathiel pulled, muscles straining beneath the pristine robe. Ligaments stretched, screamed, then gave way with wet pops. Vertebrae, fused by millennia of infernal power, splintered. Dante’s hoarse cry shattered the air as the massive, broken appendage tore free in Azrathiel’s grasp, trailing ragged strips of muscle, ligament, and shards of bone. The angel held it aloft for a moment, a grotesque trophy dripping gore onto the floor, before tossing it aside with a contemptuous flick. It landed with a heavy, wet thud. Dante slumped forward, a ragged hole weeping ichor and blood high on his back, the phantom agony of the lost limb a white-hot brand on his shattered nerves. He retched, bile and blood splattering the stone between his trembling hands.
“See?” Azrathiel breathed, wiping ichor from his fingers onto Dante’s sweat-slicked shoulder. “Cleansing.” He stood, surveying his work with cold satisfaction. Dante’s back was a ruin, the chest wound gaping, molten fluids pooling beneath him. The angel nudged Dante’s hip with a sandaled foot. “Roll over, Prince. Onto your back.” The command brooked no refusal. Dante moved with agonizing slowness, every shift sending fresh waves of torment through his ravaged torso and the raw socket where his wing had been. He collapsed onto his back, the cold stone pressing against his wounds, his breathing shallow, rapid gasps. He stared up at the shifting, ethereal ceiling, the pulsating light a mockery of freedom.
Azrathiel knelt between Dante’s splayed legs. His gaze, devoid of anything resembling empathy, roamed over Dante’s broken form – the gaping chest wound, the weeping back, the bruised skin, the mangled ruin between his legs where the holy water still simmered low in his guts. He produced the obsidian shard again. Dante flinched hard, a choked sound escaping him. “No… not that… not the knife again…” The memory of the shard slicing open his asshole, the deliberate widening of the wound, flooded back with paralyzing terror.
“The root remains corrupted,” Azrathiel stated flatly, ignoring the plea. He pressed the cold, sharp tip of the obsidian against Dante’s scrotum. Dante froze, breath catching. “This seed sack… a font of abomination.” Slowly, deliberately, Azrathiel dragged the razor edge down the length of Dante’s flaccid, scarred cock. It wasn't a deep cut, just enough to split the skin, leaving a thin, burning line of blood welling in its wake. Dante hissed through clenched teeth, his hips jerking instinctively away, but Azrathiel’s free hand slammed down on his lower belly, pinning him.
“Hold him still,” Azrathiel commanded seemingly to the empty air. Chains manifested instantly from the shimmering walls, snaking out with predatory speed. Cold, ethereal metal clamped around Dante’s wrists and ankles, yanking his limbs wide, spreadeagling him naked and broken on the stone floor. He was utterly exposed. Helpless. Azrathiel positioned himself, shifting Dante’s hips slightly with impersonal hands. The obsidian shard returned, pressing against the tight, bruised pucker Azrathiel had previously torn and sliced open. It was swollen, inflamed, still leaking traces of blood and holy water residue. Dante tensed, every muscle straining against the chains. “Fuck you! Don’t! I’ll fucking kill you!” The threat was pure reflex, empty and pathetic.
“You invented this,” Azrathiel murmured, almost conversationally, as he pressed the obsidian tip harder against Dante’s resistance. “The taking. The violation. Let’s see how your design holds up.” With a brutal, sudden shove, he forced the shard inside, not into the existing wound, but directly beside it, tearing through virgin, clenching muscle. Dante’s scream was a raw, animal sound that scraped his throat raw. The obsidian ripped a fresh path, widening the entry into an obscene, ragged tear. Blood gushed, hot and slick. Azrathiel pushed deeper, the black stone disappearing up to the hilt in Dante’s ass, grinding against internal scar tissue and the still-sensitive burns. He twisted it. Dante bucked wildly against the chains, screaming endlessly, the sound echoing off the uncaring walls. Tears streamed down his face. “Hurts! Fucking… stop… please!”
Azrathiel withdrew the shard slowly, savagely, tearing the wound further. He discarded it with a clatter. Before Dante could gasp, the angel’s hand was back, not with a tool, but with his fingers. He pressed two fingers directly into the fresh, gaping hole, past the shredded rim, knuckle-deep into the burning, violated channel. Dante’s body arched, a silent scream locked in his throat. Azrathiel’s fingers probed ruthlessly, finding the internal scar tissue left by the holy fire, the spot where he’d pressed before to trigger Dante’s involuntary release. He pressed down on it now, hard, grinding his knuckles against the charred nerves and the fresh tears his fingers created. Dante convulsed, his cock, despite the agony, giving a violent, traitorous jerk against his thigh.
“Still responsive,” Azrathiel noted, his voice chillingly detached. He scissored his fingers inside the tight, bleeding passage, stretching the new tears wider. The sound was obscenely wet. “The core corruption is resilient. Requires deeper cleansing.” He withdrew his slick fingers. Dante sagged, trembling uncontrollably, sweat and blood soaking the stone beneath him. He expected another vial, another searing flood of holy fire inside his guts.
Instead, Azrathiel shifted his hips. Dante’s bloodshot eye widened in dawning, absolute horror as he saw the angel unfastening the front of his pristine white robes. Azrathiel’s cock sprang free; thick, uncut, and already fully erect, glistening faintly with pre-come. It looked obscenely out of place above the broken, bleeding ruin of Dante’s body. “No…” Dante breathed, the word a shattered whisper. “You fucking… angelic hypocrite… don’t you fucking dare…”
Azrathiel gripped the base of his cock, aligning the swollen, ruddy tip with Dante’s ruined, gaping entrance – a ragged mess of torn flesh, fresh blood, and internal burns. He met Dante’s terrified gaze, his silver eyes cold and pitiless. “Purification requires immersion, Morningstar.” He leaned forward, putting his weight behind it. “Let the light scour you clean.” With one brutal, unrelenting thrust, Azrathiel sheathed his entire length into Dante’s torn, burning depths. Raw. Dry. Brutal.