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When a Goetia walked into a gun shop, everyone inside turned their heads.
The Goetias had no need for firearms. Such silly, primitive little things; instruments of death only for the lower classes, for lesser beings. The royalty of Hell only needed a few special words and their imaginations to kill, and with far less of a mess involved if they wished.
Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia made his way to the handguns with single-minded purpose. It only took him a few seconds to pick out a revolver—nothing too fancy, only chambered in .38 caliber— and bring it to the sales counter. The imp store owner eyed the owl-like demon up and down; he cocked his head to the side slightly, his sunken eyes unblinking, and flashed him an empty smile. If it were anyone else, he would’ve turned him away, but knowing better than to question the motives of his superior, he rang the Prince out without running him through the typical battery of forms and background checks.
He was out the door without a word only moments later. The entire exchange had taken less than five minutes, and everyone breathed a little easier when he was gone.
Stolas couldn’t tear himself away from the mirror.
His own deep red eyes stared back at him, the white pinpricks of his pupils just barely visible within the glow. He’d already done his makeup, dressed himself in his Sunday best, and just for extra measure he readjusted his hat to make sure it sat just right on his head. He’d even tidied both his bedroom and bathroom just to give himself something to do, to give himself time to rethink it all. He’d stopped taking his medication weeks ago and properly disposed of them at one of Belphegor’s hospitals, so there was no chance of them ending up either in the hands of his servants or, Lucifer forbid, Via.
By all counts, he was ready to do the deed at any time.
So why couldn’t he look away from himself? What was he waiting for?
Obviously, Blitzo didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. He’d made it crystal clear that he didn’t care—that he’d never cared. Not in the same way that Stolas had cared about him. He’d made it clear that Stolas had been the one to grossly misunderstand their situation, and that Stolas was only causing him pain by trying to drag him into a relationship that he was obviously not emotionally prepared for.
All I did was hurt him, Stolas thought, and if he still had the capacity to cry, he would’ve shed a few tears in that moment.
Via was with Stella at Andrealphus’s castle. She wouldn’t be here to ask any questions. He didn’t want her to ask questions; there was a chance that she would try and talk him out of it and he was too committed by now to back out. He felt a familiar pang of sorrow shoot through his gut when he thought about his daughter, about how much hurt his starfire would go through when he was gone, about how much he loved her more than anyone or anything else. But that pain was suppressed, dulled, when he realized that, in the end, she would be okay. It would hurt, for a while, but she would still have her whole life ahead of her. Actually, he reasoned, she would be better off without him there to keep screwing things up.
Some father you turned out to be, he mocked himself bitterly.
Just like the husband you turned out to be, too.
The words were enough for him to finally move his eyes away, and the relief he felt at no longer having to see himself was palpable. He eyed the revolver on the counter, slipping his hand around the grip and feeling its weight as he lifted it up. The kind man at the gun store had thrown in a box of ammunition for free along with his purchase, but he only needed the one shot.
Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia stepped through the portal and out of his mansion for the last time. Just down the street, the office building out of which I.M.P. operated loomed over him. He had been half-tempted to just go up there and do the deed in front of Blitzo and his employees, but that would have been needlessly cruel.
Besides, for as horrifically as Blitzo had broken his heart, Stolas knew that he still had the power to stop him. That was unacceptable. He needed to free himself from Blitzo, and Blitzo needed to be freed from him. The cycle of hurt between them needed to stop, and it was difficult for him to imagine another solution through the permanent mental fog that had settled over him apart from… this.
No. He’d do it out here in the street and Blitzo would only find him well after it had been done. It was better that way.
Stolas sighed and straightened out his posture as he brought the revolver up. He thought of his life, of Via, of Blitzo, and offered apologies to each of them in his head as he put the tip of the barrel in his mouth. Before he had the chance to reconsider, he pressed his finger down, and—
Nothing.
He tried again, and—
Still nothing.
He let out a muffled, frustrated curse. His finger was shaking. The trigger wouldn’t move, not because of any fault with the weapon, but because he just couldn’t exert enough force to pull it. It wasn’t just his finger that had suddenly disobeyed him; his whole body had gone stiff, all of his muscles pulling tight as they actively prevented him from destroying himself. Frustrated with himself, he shoved the tip of the barrel deeper into his mouth and counted down.
Three.
Two.
One.
Pull—
Nothing.
He screamed around the barrel as he tried again and again and again, but something in his body was keeping him from doing it. The gun was shaking in his hands now, rattling around in his mouth and scraping against his teeth, and he could taste the bittersweet gunmetal rolling around on his tongue.
Fed up with himself and becoming increasingly self-aware of his situation, Stolas yanked the gun from his mouth and screamed the loudest, most pained scream he had ever let out in his thirty-five years of life.
People were starting to stop and stare. Before he could embarrass himself further—and before Blitzo or any of his employees would come out and see what the commotion was about—Stolas opened a portal and quickly hopped back through into his bedroom.
The gun store owner was confused when the Goetia returned to his store several days later with more of a pep in his step. He grew more confused when Prince Stolas set both the revolver and the complementary box of ammunition down on the counter and requested in a kind, gentle voice for a refund. The gun was unfired, and all of the rounds were accounted for, so he was happy to fulfill the Prince’s request.
He didn’t ask, of course, but he noticed that despite how exhausted the Prince looked—as well as the streaks of makeup dragged down his cheeks by dried tears—his smile was wider than he’d remembered seeing it.