Inferno of God

5: In Which an Important Mission is Made on a Whim

Though entering one of the demons' bedrooms was strictly forbidden, Satan bowed deeply to the huddled group standing outside Baal's room. "Although," he admitted a moment later, managing a weak smile, "I feel you could have managed without the presence of this many people," and at that he stepped through the door, not waiting or caring for a response.

Even before the epidemic had started, Baal often wondered what being ill was like. He had never been the type to romanticize such experiences, but he always thought it would, at least partially, be nice. He was horribly mistaken. Every breath was a painful struggle, to the point where he wondered if it would be more comfortable to just stop breathing altogether. The universe also felt off, as though it was no longer real and he was just watching it as one would a stage production. He began to register a series of voices chattering in the background, one of them, he recognized as Satan. A warm hand touched him, and he wanted nothing more than for it to get off, but did nothing about it, then he lost consciousness, though whether it was the fault of sleep, passing out, or delirium was anyone's guess.

Even before the doctor began to speak, Satan was sure he had discovered the final straw, buried beneath the sheets. The sounds of Baal's breathing hurt him just to listen to, and he found himself wondering if he would still be alive if he had been a living human. Though Satan tried to pay attention to what the doctor was saying, his mind kept wandering to vastly different places, constantly frustrating him as he begged it to be quiet.

After the man had finished talking, he nodded and smiled softly, though it was far too tired looking to be legitimate. "Thank you," said he, "As much as I want to assist, I'm afraid I have some other, rather desperate matters to deal with, so I'll need someone to look after him for a while, can you do that?"

"I'm pretty busy, but I think I can find someone, why can't you do it? The work you're talking about is in the manor, isn't it?"

"No, I'm afraid it's not." He stood up and began to exit the room, "but I thank you for your service."

The doctor was obviously suspicious, probably for a reason he couldn't even pinpoint, "hey, where are you going?"

Satan stopped to think, telling him the truth would just cause an argument, possibly even widespread panic if he was particularly unlucky, both of which would only make it more difficult to leave, and make Hell more vulnerable. "I'll tell you once it's been done," he said finally, his voice devoid of emotion. He didn't allow a response, stepping down the hall and into his own bedroom before a proper one could be thought up.

It was a shockingly simple chamber considering the man's position, perhaps because of the little time he spent in it. The furniture was nicely made, but quite sparse, in fact the only things that could qualify as furniture were a mirror beside the door, a small stool and music stand, a wardrobe hardly wider than the trunk of an average tree, and a bed. He stood in front of the mirror and stripped off his multilayered robes, not even leaving on the simple grey pants and tunic worn underneath, and turned around, pressing his fingers into the knotlike scars on his shoulder blades, where his wings had once been, testing for pain in the area.

They were fine things, he remembered, quite large for an angel, even an archangel, and distinctly ravenlike in structure, though, to the surprise of everyone he mentioned it to, they had been white, in fact, his entire body was an unhealthy grey pallor back then, it was a feature all angels shared. For unknown reasons, however, both him and Baal had tanned to a deep black color when they were cast out, as though their skin had been scrubbed with charcoal. Their first millennial punishment soon followed, occasional, but severe pain in the area, which worsened when touched. Thankfully, there was none.

Moving to the wardrobe, he opened it and pulled out a neatly stacked pair of breeches and loose shirt, along with a simple Georgian style waistcoat, all in the shades of black and grey he had grown so accustomed to. It was actually quite rare for him to be seen wearing the outfit. The only circumstance in recent memory, in fact, had been a few incidents around fifty years ago, when a few residents thought it would be humorous to place a few pigs in a tree, and somehow, they had become so stuck that he had to spend the better part of an afternoon remedying the situation. According to them, the outfit looked ridiculous on him, but at least it allowed the freedom of movement necessary for such a delicate operation.

After dressing himself, he took a piece of paper from the bedside table, as he would often do paperwork in his room on particularly stressful days, and began to write a short letter, causing the side effect of becoming overly aware of the danger he was putting himself in.

To whom it may concern,

I have gone to Heaven in order to confront God about our current situation, if I don't return, please continue with everything as normal, and if you are reading this, Baal, take my place as the leader of Hell in every respect, for I regret to inform you that I have not set a limit on the length of my visit.

Sincerely, Lord Satan

Setting down his fountain pen, Satan picked up the note and shuffled down the hall, stopping at Baal's room before moving downstairs. An older woman sat with him, and turned her head to Satan as he entered. "He's gone to sleep," whispered she, "don't worry, I used to be a nurse, he's in good hands."

He barely even entered the room properly, but instead whispered a brief thank you, and nodded in appreciation before attempting to close the door, though he was, like the last time he entered his Baal's room, stopped. "Now where do you think you're going? I've been told you're acting awfully strange."

"It should become obvious soon, I hope, but for now, I'm afraid I can't tell you."

Her brow furrowed, "Just promise me this is to fix things."

"That," said he, "Is exactly what I am doing this for."

The note was pinned to the message board, and Satan quickly moved back upstairs to what was simply called 'The Potion Room,' by the residents, or occasionally 'The Room With Liquids.' It was a large, gothic, yet comfortably furnished environment lined wall to wall with shelves, each one filled with a plethora of vials, all filled with a unique, whimsical ingredient. In the center of it all, sat an antique chaise, with a simple chair and a table beside it, the latter of which held a crystal brandy cavalier, where potions were always kept before being served to whatever resident would be consuming it. In a corner, there was also a second table where the substances were mixed.

Satan browsed the shelves, pulling out the occasional vial, and pouring its contents into the cavalier. After at least five or six repetitions of the frantic cycle, the mixture reached a glowing, pale yellow color. The experience of mixing it was actually quite nostalgic for him, as he hadn't a reason to create it since Heaven had become horribly dangerous a thousand years before, and he found himself smiling softly at the light memory of it.

Finally, he poured the liquid into a glass, and, after laying down on the chaise, and quietly drank it in short gulps, immediately growing drowsy from its effects. It was an odd feeling that he could never get used to. Although Satan had supervised the process countless times, despite the obvious disapproval of the angels, this was the first time he would be travelling to Heaven in such a way, and, as expected, it felt almost identical to travelling to Earth. The feeling had been described by the residents as similar to going under anesthesia, and since he had never needed surgery, he believed them, though all he knew for sure, was that the whole thing was unbearably serial, like he was falling asleep, but much more quickly than he would ever choose to, though in a way, it was peaceful... Then suddenly he was bursting awake.