Hellraiser: The Will of One

Chapter 12: Vasa Iniquitatus



Hell rang loudly with the moans of the dammed. Inquisitor stood at the precipice of Leviathan’s labyrinth, simply listening. It was a trick he’d learned over the last few months from the Favored Son, to better appreciate his status. Far better to be the giver than the receiver in this pit, yes, far better. He didn’t mind, for what else could he have been, certainly not one of the tortured masses. No he had skills, ones the Cenobites put to use far better than the Holy Roman church ever could. He smiled, fingering the tools at his waist; itching to use them on her, on Kirsty. He began to actively pine for the chance. It frustrated him to wait this long, when by all rights they should have hooked her a decade ago and dragged her screaming into the labyrinth, where they would be working on her now had she not confused them the first time.



But no, he followed his master’s orders, trick her mind, fill it with confusion and lewd thoughts, allow it to fester in the coils of her brain until the poor thing didn’t know up from down. Still, it was taking a while. And waiting was something he didn’t normally like, even in life.



He turned from the edge of the great maze, walked towards the halls and turns that made up his home. A figure stood in the slight glow; it was not the Favored Son. His Second in Command was off in other arenas, and the silhouette was wrong for the Philosopher. It could be only one other. The Virgin, it was so rumored, herself.



The Black Pope’s third of his quartet was the most mysterious, for no one knew of her origin save for Leviathan itself, and as usual, the god provided no answers to questions such as these. She came without warning, no clarion call sounded, and often she came unheeded, full of malice. Inquisitor was used to this by now, had been for an uncounted time. But she was often thought of as Xipe Totec’s chief spy, the guardian of his conscience, if he’d ever had one.



“The lord wants a report, Inquisitor.” She hissed icily. “What have you to say?”



He was not intimidated, he’d burned at the stake hundreds of women, innocent or not did not matter to him, so for one to stand before him and use that tone- “In one day’s time on Earth,” he replied evenly, circling around in a lazy arch to indicate his ease with her. “The prize of The Black Pope will fall. She will be ours.”



A brief smile marred the perfection of the Virgin’s features. “Certain?”



“As my soul burns in Hell, you may count on this.” Inquisitor returned the smile, though his eyes did not match it. He hated her in truth. Aristocracy had its drawbacks, being in the Black Pope’s inner circle would mean dealing with this one. If that was the case, so be it, but he didn’t have to enjoy the fact. Even in Hell, there were societies. “Is there anything else you wish, other than delivering messages?”



The Virgin’s eyes flashed a fire colder than any in their land. “Make sure you keep your word, Inquisitor. Our Lord hates failure.”



He bowed his head. “His will be done.”



She turned and left, he straightened the moment she turned her back to him. An even sicker part of his already well warped imagination wondered if she was in fact a Virgin, would love to get her on an examination table, splayed open, without weapons, to find out that small bit of truth. He turned back to his meditations. Plans with Kirsty were going well, better than he’d actually expected; her confusion made her ripe, his watchfulness over her dream and fantasy states was close to exhausting him, but this was in a sense a race, one that must be won at all costs. He would win it, had to; to be stripped of his rank and thrown to the other Cenobites as an example was not a future he wanted to contemplate, nor one he wished to experience.



His conversion had been bad enough, the subtle pains that remained of that were enough to remind him of it. “Long is the ornament, short is the suffering” was the saying his fellow members of the Order we fond of quoting, they had no idea how wrong they truly were.



Inquisitor remembered, fondly, his conversion, though some of it filled him with shame. The hesitation, uncertainty of opening the box, his initial screams at the imbedding, shock and pain and fear all mixed into a heady brew that filled his mind while the tools were used, drawing out his blood, replacing it with the bile of Leviathan, a balm he came to understand as sweeter than any honey in the world. When he emerged, transformed, it was a baptism that seared you inside and out, never changing, always under the guidance of their God and his Pope, waging the never-ending war against chaos.



A war that was about to claim one more battle for their cause.



The Virgin walked on ready to deliver the news to the One. She delighted in the notion they would finally have the one who bested and betrayed them, still remembered Channard’s wounding of her. Never one to forgive or forget an offense, even a minor one, she kept all her jealousies on tab. Yet she walked through the halls serene, noting would touch her on the outside, unless she could show disdain whenever she had the opportunity. The minor warriors of their Order were rabble, let them have their intrigues and secrets. They meant nothing to her. Unless they got in Xipe Totec’s way, then all Hell itself would break loose if she had her way. Nothing would stand in their way to claim this one. This little girl, no matter how she aged, the Virgin would always think on her as a child; spoiled, defiant, and ultimately…clever.



The corner rounded, she came upon the Black Pope’s chambers. He awaited the news she would deliver him with characteristic calm. She admired him so, silently wished she could give him that gift, her precious maidenhead. To give that to someone who commanded all the legions of the Order was a prize she hoped for but knew she would never have. But she said nothing, never mentioning it, keeping her silence on this and any other hopes she may entertain. For even in Hell there were passions that simmered. One day, when her Lord tired of this whelp of a girl…who knew what would come then?



“Enter.” The Lord of the Order commanded, and she stepped forward, bowed as was his due. Respect in Hell was earned, not given, and he had earned it in many ways. “Inquisitor has reported to you?”



“He has, my Lord.”



“He expects triumph?” the jeweled pins (oh how she longed to lick them, each one, down to the grooves in his noble face) clinked together as an eyebrow raised.



“He claims she will be ours tomorrow night.”



“This is excellent news, Virgin.” Pinhead commented, the gladness in his words never reaching his face. It was important that this be seen as just another taking, even though they both knew this was special, it would be…legendary, just as he’d promised, so very long ago. Kirsty’s suffering would go so far heaven itself would cry. She would see to it if he didn’t. But the lord spoke again, and her attention riveted. “Have the main audience chamber filled tomorrow, I want all in the Order to see this, they can continue their torments after I show them my prize.”



The Virgin’s eyes soured minutely, again with this tiresome drive for the wretch-“As you will it, My Lord.” She answered flatly.



Pinhead noted the tone. “Something displeases you about this?” he looked at her evenly. On the undertone, he scanned her features, wondering. What so confused her regarding the capture of this girl finally, why not laugh in triumph, as she had done so many times before. All of Hell knew of her cruelties, they were as infamous as her chastity.



“It is not worth mentioning, My Lord. I will see to your commands. Do I announce a moratorium?”



Pinhead considered this. Finally, “Yes. All the suffering will cease for one day upon her arrival. I want Leviathan itself, in his infinite power, to hear her screams alone. No one shall escape us, no matter how long it takes, will be the lesson this day.”



She stood there, disquieted, a feeling something akin to jealousy within her. She hated Kirsty, though the dictates of Leviathan’s will demanded a dispassionate nature, the Cenobites were still subject to the one same frailty that their human counterparts were. Emotion.



It was the one agent of chaos that could not fully be removed from their natures. For without hatred of chaos, they fell into disarray, without anger, they became sterile, impotent in their cause. So their god took a blind eye to his soldier’s weakness, their own emotions, for they were the true seat of their power. However, it did not mean she was allowed to feel what she was feeling. Anger, hatred, these were useful. Jealousy…against one of the damned...was sheer anathema. Pinhead looked plainly at her, searching, and the Virgin felt her soul being seared by his questioning gaze. “What else?” he asked expectantly.



“No, my Lord.” She answered, hoping she could hide what she was feeling from him. It was futile; she reminded herself…she could not hope to ever –“Just a desire to see your wishes met.”



Pinhead’s eyebrow raised again, that familiar clink. “I see. Very well. Prepare.” And with that, he turned to face the parapet again, watching over his legions and their unholy work.



The Virgin turned, dismissed, and left his chambers. It wasn’t the expectation of victory she felt, but a gnawing in her, a yearning ache to feel fulfilled in a way she would always witness but never fully understand. It pained her, this desire of her lord, and yet it was all part of the plan.

For the Cenobites suffered as well. A faint smile glanced over her face at that thought, knowing that in all of Leviathan’s infinite plans, through all of the unending suffering of Hell, even the Black Pope had his doubts, felt…something.

That something was the most comforting thing she’d ever known, in all her dark days in Hell.



Kirsty prepped her dungeon, for what she was sure was the endgame, the final piece of the puzzle that was her life. Floors scrubbed, chains placed, gear oiled. Everything would be perfection for them, it had to be, the only way for her plan to work was to show them how much she was like them. And her final triumph over man, Harold, unsuspecting, thinking he was being let back into the fold simply for his own needs. His own base lust made necessary by a lack of true feeling for anyone.



She washed the sheets on the small bed she’d brought down there just for this purpose, the sacrificial altar, as it were. This would be special for Harold, the one thing he’d never even dared to dream of from her. A gift unlike any other. She would strap him down, and then the fun would really begin. Vanilla scented those sheets; candles were set out, for use and for light. It would be truly special.

And it would be the last.