The New Helel

Dareios VIII

"Father! Father! Play with me!" The young snake jumped up and down in joy.

"Of course, my little Dareios," Astaroth replied. He spun Dareios around in circles, watching as the little serpent coiled up. Yet something seemed off, somehow. Was it the temperature? Or the sounds of nature? No matter what Astaroth thought, he couldn't pinpoint exactly what was wrong.

Slowly, though, he began to notice things. His forehead felt rather warm, and his neck was sweating. He could feel his vision getting blurry. As time went on, he began to feel something building up in his chest. He pretended everything was fine, but as the feeling in his chest increased, he had to drop Dareios to the ground.

"What's wrong, Father?" Dareios asked with concern.

Astaroth didn't reply. Instead, he heaved until the pressure lessened and he finally coughed something out. Something that looked an awful lot like blood.

*

Daerios held his head in his hands. "So you are saying that the peasants cannot produce enough food, correct?"

The woman bowed her head. "Yes, Your Gra- I mean, Lord Dareios."

"Very well," he said. "What seems to be the problem?"

"There aren't enough workers to feed the entire duchy."

"Not enough workers?" Dareios questioned incredulously. "The peasants make up the vast majority of the population. How could this be?"

"We're ... not sure yet. Perhaps productivity has gone down?"

Daerios sighed. "Find out. Quickly."

As the woman left, Dareios clutched his forehead. Ever since Azazil's arrival — no, even before that, his life had felt like it was spiraling. First his sick father, then Azazil's mess, and now the duchy's problems. The challenges he faced had slowly worn him down, and he was devoid of the strength needed to overcome them.

All of a sudden, the door to his office slammed open. "Lord Dareios!" Tiamat called. "It's your father! He's gotten worse!"

Dareios' mind, busy as it was, stopped functioning when he heard the news. "What?"

*

"No," Dareios whispered to himself. "No."

He tightly held his father's sweaty hand, his eyes fixed on his father's bony frame. "What happened?" He asked the attendant for an explanation, but he got no answer.

"Father, are you feeling well?" He inquired as he turned toward the bed.

Astaroth blinked once. No.

Of course, he wasn't. What was Dareios thinking, asking such an idiotic question? His father was dying, and all he could do was stand by his side and gape at what had happened. He was useless, utterly useless. Astaroth had raised him to be strong and level-headed through all situations, yet Dareios had failed him.

All his plans to help his father's illness proved fruitless. The healers in Gehinnom couldn't keep up with the disease — in fact, they made it worse. It was a disease that could only be cured by being connected to God, but how could a demon accomplish that? They had to get into Shamayim H'Shamayi somehow. That was the only way Astaroth could be healed. But with such an insurmountable task, the possibility proved to be nothing short of impossible.

Daerios sighed as he clutched his father's hand in his. For the first time in his life, he felt nothing but hopelessness.