Astaroth’s labor, that was. Because Ozroth had been the answer to Astaroth’s self-doubt, and to see the younger demon succeed was to know his own success. It had never been about Ozroth at all.
Taken all at once, the memories painted a damning picture. Astaroth had been a selfish, sometimes cruel mentor so focused on ambition that he’d failed to give his protégé space to be a child, or even his own person. Ozroth had been an extension of Astaroth, like his sword: a weapon to be wielded to ensure the demon plane thrived, and Astaroth’s reputation with it.
There was something he didn’t remember though, and it wasn’t because of the amnesia. This would damn him even more, but it would be cowardly to hide behind evasions or half-truths.
“I don’t know if she’s dead,” he admitted. “Maybe. After you became my ward, I . . .” He broke off, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I forgot about her. She was no longer relevant to my plans.”
Ozroth’s nostrils flared, and his fists clenched like he was imagining pummeling Astaroth.
Well, it wasn’t the worst olive branch to extend. “You can hit me,” Astaroth said, a feeble offer at letting Ozroth get out some frustration, if not undoing the damage Astaroth had wrought. “If you like.”
In response, Ozroth gripped Astaroth’s hand and pulled, helping him stand upright. Then he punched Astaroth in the face.
“Ow,” Astaroth said, cupping his jaw. Did the bloke have bowling balls for fists? At least he’d apparently taught Ozroth well. “Feel better?”
Ozroth scowled. “No.”
Well, atonement couldn’t be that easy, or therapists would have long ago traded the chaise longue for the boxing ring. He moved his jaw from side to side, then traced his tongue over his teeth, checking for damage. The copper tang of blood met his tongue, and a hot throb had started beneath skin and bone, but otherwise he was intact. “Want to do it again?” he asked.
Ozroth considered the question, then nodded. “Yes.”
He punched Astaroth in the gut.
The breath wheezed out of Astaroth as he bent over. “Bloody hell,” he gasped, bracing his hands on his knees. “That was a good one.” He breathed deeply, then coughed. Lucifer, he hoped Ozroth’s anger ran out soon, or he would end up more tenderized than a decent steak. “Where next? Though I should remind you I’m mortal at the moment, and while a beating is fine and justified, I don’t consent to being murdered.”
“I don’t understand you,” Ozroth said. When Astaroth looked up, he saw the larger demon glowering at him with his hands on his hips. Some variant of brooding or scowling seemed to be his default expression when he wasn’t going starry-eyed over Mariel Spark, but this glare held a substantial amount of confusion. “Even a month ago you would have had my hide for defying you in any way.”
“Hopefully not literally,” Astaroth said, wincing as he straightened. “If my degeneracy has extended to skinning people, it’s worse than I feared.”
“No, not literally.”
What a relief. “I’m recovered enough to continue,” Astaroth said, bracing his feet and squaring his shoulders. “Punch away.”
Ozroth’s lips parted. “You really are different, aren’t you?”
It was a strange notion, that Astaroth could be a wholly different person without his memories. Maybe identity was just a story people told themselves. When Astaroth’s past had been stripped away, it had put an abrupt end to the narrative he’d told himself for centuries, and a new story had begun.
Was Astaroth truly different? No and yes, in the way all things were after enough time had passed. When the plank of a ship rotted and was replaced by fresh wood, that ship might bear the same name, but its composition had shifted.
Astaroth’s internal composition had shifted drastically over the past few days. He bore the same name, carried the same legacy, but losing his memories had allowed a rotting board to be swapped out for something better. Something stronger.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve changed.”
“Huh.” Ozroth ran his hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots of the dark, wavy strands. He shifted from foot to foot. “Well,” he said after a long pause. “What now?”
Astaroth had been bracing himself for anything from a punch to fresh accusations of being a manipulative, lying monster. He blinked. “What do you mean, what now?”
Ozroth gestured between them. “The talking. Is it over yet?”