When you get thrown into a smoldering fire pit at about 300 miles an hour, your insides generally won't feel the best. The fire pit, in this case, was none other than Hell itself, (no, that wasn't a metaphor — I meant it quite literally).

I was in hell, again.

​

Lucifer thought that arriving in a good, old-fashioned horse-carriage was far too "last century," and thus, the get-dropped-from-the-sky-at-the-speed-of-sound method came to. Those without wings — particularly like myself — had no choice but to suffer through broken bones, cracked skulls, fractured spines, (you name it) upon arrival, and since we couldn’t exactly die again, it was. . .

Honestly, it sucked pretty bad.

But don’t tell Luci I said that.

He likes watching us thunder down from way up there.

Sick bastard, I know.

Again, don’t tell him that.

​

The sky spat me out like a piece of gum, sending Al-Nashur the Great plummeting through several mountaintops and into some abandoned store-front, (yes, Hell has stores. You'd be surprised what else it has; it's not all fires and demons down here).

​

My back hit the flimsy shingles of this particular store, and before I knew it, I went barreling right through.

​

Bam! Broken bones.

​

Slam! Fractured spine.

​

Crack! Split ribs.

And a new crater in the ground.

​

As I lay there contemplating my very existence, (and wondering how exactly I had ended up in such a predicament) a figure descended from the skies above and landed before me. Its massive wings unfurled and beat at the reddish dirt, while its bird-like feet clawed at the grounds and scratched streaks of white. It looked at me.

I looked at it.

​

Oh, dear.

​

The figure leaned forward, keeping both hands behind its back. A beak chattered noisily. "Nashur? Al-Nashur, The Iron Warden? No, it can't be! You must merely be an imp masquerading behind some form of demon guise — but alas. . . I am mistaken. It is you!"

​

I struggled to lift a finger. Although a seemingly minuscule and mundane task, a broken spine makes even such trivial actions quite the challenge, (don’t ask me how I managed it up there). I smirked through the gaps of my helmet and breathed a sigh of relief. It was a friend, (loosely speaking). Thank Father Destiny. "Hello there, Ra'az. Haven't skipped a lunch, I see."

​

The bird-man prodded my armor with his bejeweled staff, (it's worth mentioning that his entire wardrobe is riddled to the teeth with gems of all shape, color, and size. If you ask me, it's a tad bit too much — even for my taste). "Why, I haven't seen you in ages! You seem. . . Different, Nashur. I can't quite place my finger on it, but something about you has. . . Changed."

​

"Yes, yes — I get that a lot. Sooner or later, the overworld takes its toll on you. I maybe, probably, might've spent a century too long with the humans. Who knows?"

​

"Ah. . . Those filthy, corrupt, horrendous disgrace of a life. They'll do that to you, alright. How long was your service? A decade? A century? A. . . Millennia?"

​

"A millennia."

​

"Shame."

​

"And a half."

​

"Ooh, ouch. I pity your already fragile soul. Hurts me to see you like this."

​

"Mhmm. . . You understand my frustrations, then?"

​

"Oh, yes, believe me. My last summoner was a wicked, vile man. He would march me off to fight his wars; order me to slay my fellow brethren; task me to rip their souls asunder and further his research! Can you believe it? The malintent! I swore by their graves I would find him, and when I do, I'd make him beg for a swift en—"

​

"That's fantastic — a truly remarkable story. Now before you go any further in detail, mind giving me a hand?"

​

Ra'az contemplated. Though a good friend of mine, he has quite the menacing ego; the Sand Jinn despised, above all, aiding others. Why, exactly, he had such an aversion to help remains a mystery, probably even to himself, (I once asked him to pass me an adjustable wrench. He hurled an entire shed at me. Yes, you read that right: an entire shed). "Erm. . . Can't you stand on your own? I trust even someone such as yourself can manage."

​

I stared at him long and hard, struggling to translate thoughts to words. "I've a broken spine."

​

"Cry me a river; Many have had worse."

​

"Mhmm. . . So I imagine."

​

Instead of simply helping an old friend to his feet, Ra'az decided to grab the back of my gorget and haul me along, dragging Al-Nashur the Iron Warden through Hell's reddish dirt every inch of the way, ( was it painful? No. Was it uncomfortable? A tad bit. Was the sand getting into places it absolutely shouldn't be in? Yes, very much so).

​

"While I have your attention," Ra'az said, shrugging a speck of dirt off his decorated vest. "Lucifer would wholeheartedly appreciate it if you'd stop by for a chat."

​

I attempted to lift a finger.

And was greeted only by the setting numbness.

There was something else that nagged at the back of my mind, something I'm not keen to get into, (much less so face). The prospect of an ensuing chat with Lucifer himself — Hell's very own patron saint (I understand if the analogy could prove perplexing to some. Apologies) — had done nothing to better my mood.

​

"Well, then, I regret to say that I have matters of utmost importance to attend. Perhaps my confidante can drop by sometime soon a—"

​

Ra'az dragged me over a cracked bit of pavement and managed to slam my head against a nearby wall. The rattling of metal served only to further daze me and blur the sights. A smirk forced its way unto his face, I imagine. "So sorry to hear that, Nashur. Unfortunately for the both of us, he expects to hear from you."

​

"Expects?"

​

"Yes, quite so. Expects, you see. If he hasn't much to say, I fear that the appointment will be short-lived; it'll make for decent entertainment, I hope."

​

"Or so you say."

​

"Speaking of things that come to mind — we're here."

Ra’az stopped dead in his tracks.

​

"Here? Here, where?"

​

"Home, Nashur. Home sweet home."

I swallowed, hard. “Ah.”

“We’ve missed you, dearly.”

***

The hallways hadn't changed much since I last visited: velvety reds and shimmering golds ran from one end of the building to the other, while oil paintings of old depicted Lucifer's many grand conquests throughout much of Hell. The carpet itself — that which buried a great deal of the pristine marble floors beneath — was still spotless as ever, retaining their patterned embroideries despite Mistress Time's nagging. To top it all off, the crystal chandeliers that once flickered by the days and faded by the nights now exuded a new kind of vigor. All this, I assumed, could be credited to Lucifer's new management — or so I've heard.

Rumors make their way to the overworld in chatters.

It’s hard to decipher what’s what and what’s was.

​

Towards the end of the hallway sat a massive, granite statue of the demon king himself — complete with fangs, horns, and claws. Shadows rose and fell rhythmically, circling the base almost as if they had a mind of their own. Ra'az paused to admire the work of art, occasionally mumbling to himself what I imagined were compliments, (or perhaps, approvals). "He's certainly fascinating, isn't he?"

​

I tried to turn my neck. No luck. "A suck-up, are you?"

​

"Consider it an act of. . . Respect, warden. Since sire Lucifer personally requested my assistance with a certain errand of his, it became apparent to me that his office could use someone of my specialty. Play the cards right, Nashur, and he might consider sparing your soul; after all, this little predicament of yours could use a tad bit. . . Fixing up."

​

"Predicament? What predicament? I'm not in any sort of quote unquote predicament, Ra'az."

​

"A broken spine? A cracked skull? A split rib? The list spans miles, Nashur. Not to mention, of your little failure. A Deathwish Oath, was it?"

​

"Yes, yes — I get it. No need to rub it in."

​

Ra'az turned a corner; I followed complacently (not much like I had a choice, anyway). To my knowledge, those who failed to see Deathwish Oaths (a summoner's final charge, bestowed unto demons under their command) through the end, would face fate grimmer than death: Kay'Zen — a higher jinn hailing from somewhere up north — had his soul eviscerated; Hackett — a soldier in Lucifer's 76th Dragoon Battalion — was fed to the Hellhounds; and Al-Nashur — the Iron Warden of East Escardia — well. . .

​

I can only but hope.

​

Another corner brought us to what I assumed was the main lobby. The buzzing of invisible wings rang ceaselessly throughout the air, while the rhythmic thudding of non-existent boots shuffled to and fro, (either I was going completely insane, or Lucifer was having an awfully busy day. I, personally, prefer to believe in the latter).

​

Ra'az stopped; I slipped from his grasps. Almost as soon as my back hit the cold, marble floors of the grand lobby, a deafening clang echoed throughout every room, hallway, and secret passage present within Artemis Central — Hell's very own hub.

​

Without even glancing his way, I could feel the cringe slowly claw its way out of him. Ra'az sighed. Heavily. "Good day, Viermann."

​

The subtle yet definitely noticeable scribbling of pen against paper disappeared almost instantaneously. I would like to think that the receptionist grimaced when he saw the trail of red and orange, (and probably the thousands of scratches as well) now running through the once pristine lobby floors. Must be a lot of work for some very unfortunate souls in sanitation.

Sorry.

Not sorry.

​

"For fuck's sake," Viermann muttered under his breath. Something slammed against the tabletop. Hard. "What the hell do you want now?"

​

Ra'az kneed me into a sitting position and proceeded to pat my helmet. "Lucifer has requested my presence; I have obliged."

​

"Stop speaking like that. It makes you sound like a jackass."

​

"There's nothing wrong being a tad bit sophisticated. Maybe some day you can learn a thing or two from me."

​

"Keep dreaming, pal."

​

"Banters aside, where is he?"

​

"Third floor, second conference room to the right."

​

"Very much appreciated, Viermann."

​

"Go away."

​

"You have yourself a nice day as well."

​

"Yeah, yeah. Shoo. Off!”

​

We were back on the move once again: Ra'az took the lead, while I trailed behind, (by, 'trailed behind,' I meant 'being dragged by my unlikely companion').

​

We took a left at one end of the lobby and turned into yet another hallway of grandeur proportions. Instead of taking the elevators like any normal person would, (I really shouldn't say 'person’; after all, we are anything but your run-of-the-mill human), he decided to take the stairs and smash my insides in every step of the way. And by the looks of it, he really seemed to enjoy this excruciatingly painful trip of ours.

​

After about three flights of bangs, clangs, and thuds — all of which were completely out of my control, mind you — we finally arrived at our target destination: third floor Artemis Central, (AKA: the place where Hell's most important demons gathered to boast about their recent achievements and sling passive aggressive remarks at one another).

Today, however, I had the privilege of attending this mess-of-an event. Lucifer himself has asked to see me, and by no means am I looking forward to this little meeting of ours, (when 'Mr. Big Shot Lucifer Boss Man' calls upon you personally, you've either done something extraordinary to catch his attention, or mess up big time. By my luck, it's probably the latter).

​

And it turns out, I was right.

Hell’s a business, after all.

And I’ve not held up my end of the deal.

​

We turned yet another corner and almost ran smack dab into Lucifer himself who, judging by the irritated look splayed across his face, had quite the day.

Oh, just perfect.

Of course he’s moody today.

Thank you Father Destiny.

You’re a charm.

​

Ra'az dropped me by a wall and extended one hand; Lucifer shied away and swatted it aside. So much for a loyal errand boy. "Only 3 hours late, Ra'az. I am dearly disappointed."

​

"My apologies, sir. It took quite some time to track this one down."

​

"I do not want any of your petty excuses; I want results."

​

"I understand, si—"

​

"Results are everything, Ra'az. Results are what shape us and define our very existence. From birth, you have been trained to obey and comply, and thus far, you have proved to be a fairly decent subject."

​

"I extend my grati—"

​

"And yet, you fail me now — not once, not twice, but thrice."

​

Ra'az looked just about ready to pop, and I could sense it. His “eye-opening promotions" didn't come without its own quagmire of drawbacks, I see. He looked to the ground and bowed once more. "I apologize profusely, sir."

​

Lucifer turned to face me.

​

Oh, boy.

Here we go.

​

"You, there," he said, brushing past the Sand Jinn. "Navor — No, Nashur, is it?"

​

I tilted my head and attempted to stand upright. Long story short, (and sparing you the many embarrassing details), such attempts failed miserably. After a good few seconds of fidgeting, I decided that further struggles would prove pointless — and embarrassing. "Err. . . Yes?"

​

"Fantastic. If you would kindly follow me; we have utmost important matters to discuss."

​

"Erm. . ."

​

"He can't stand, sir," Ra'az chimed in. "He no longer possesses a spine. Figuratively speaking as well."

​

A long overdue sigh slipped past Lucifer's lips and cut through the silence like a blade. Apparently, today was terrible for the both of us, and neither one was getting by well. He clenched a fist, staring way off into the unknown for a few moments before turning and addressing my pathetic suck-up of a friend. "Well then, haul him along!"

​

"M-Me?"

​

"Yes, you. Who else would I be addressing, Ra'az?"

​

"Uhh. . ."

​

"Precisely. Tuck him under an arm — or however way you prefer to carry someone — and come along now. That's it, there we go. Quickly, time is money. Chop, chop."

​

"What's this about some most important matters?" I asked.

​

Lucifer straightened his coat and swung open the double-doors of his lavish office room; he ushered both Ra'az and I in. "A Deathwish Oath has gone unanswered; have you any involvement in this matter?"

​

Remember when I said I probably, might've, maybe messed up very badly?

​

Yep.

​

Someone's caught on.

​

"You do, haven't you?"