Chapter Text
Inarius was a very hard angel to kill.
Sure, Mephisto hadn't been making a proper effort to kill him, per se, more aiming along the lines of brutally torture to the point where he'd wish for death. And then, crucially, the demon would not grant him that wish.
But aside from that, no one else seemed to be able to get the job done either.
No demons anyway.
Exactly how long he'd wandered through the capitol city of hell in an agonized daze, Inarius certainly couldn't say. Not nearly as long as he'd spent languishing, that was certain, but it wasn't a quick stroll in the park either. Long enough that he'd considered that he might just be trapped in yet another unique prison.
Whenever he'd started to numb over to the demon's machinations, Mephisto would change things up. Methods, cells, tools and spells. Inarius had been put through just about everything over the millennia.
That he could walk at all was something that others might marvel at, considering the abuse his joints had gone through. It wasn't so impressive to Inarius though; he couldn't glide or even float, for his wings were mere burning stumps. That would have been something to be impressed by. And walking through Hell hurt. The very ground itself had scorched the metal of his greaves, and thoroughly fried whatever was inside. Each step was agony.
Inarius was used to agony.
He supposed he could be grateful he was able to stand at all. Upon his initial escape, he'd first merely lain in the shattered remains of his cell, bits of glass and metal and brimstone digging into the places where his armor was weakest. Then, eventually, he'd grown bored, remembered that Mephisto had already beaten and fucked the dignity out of him, and proceeded to crawl on his stomach free of the chamber.
Eventually, he'd heaved himself to his hands and knees, and finally, found the wherewithal to stand on two legs.
Truth be told, Inarius would've rather seen himself put to death than gone through all that.
No one had bothered to try though. No one was even around to stop him.
When he'd finally encountered a troupe of demons who put an effort in, none of them had the strength to destroy an Archangel. (Broken he may have been, but there was still strength in what he was. His armor was still thick, even if everything beneath was scarred and flayed.) He'd grown bored of their pathetic attempts at slicing his armor, at their clawing hands and gnashing teeth. They were useless. He'd strangled the life from them for their failures, and continued on.
And so it went. He'd trudge a little farther, with or without any attempts at stopping him. Anything that failed to kill him in one or two attempts was torn apart.
He simply didn't have the patience for it.