Soul Guardian

Deep in the bowels of hell overlooking the pits of torment Bael was finally getting off work. His trip to earth had taken more time than he had originally expected and thus he had spent the last day playing catch up to his duties as a baron of hell. Some might have been surprised to find that as a baron Bael didn’t do much actual punishing anymore. Since the fall he had fought his way up the infernal ladder to a comfortable position in middle management and done his best to stay there. As a young demon he pushed a pitchfork, now he pushed paper.

(A special fire retardant paper because it only took one stray lick of hellfire to destroy a millennia worth of documents and he wasn’t about to make that mistake twice. Or rather, a third time.)

That wasn’t to say Bael didn’t do his fair share to keep the whole enterprise running. Bureaucracy was a vital part of Hell’s infrastructure.

Like any public service hell was by its very nature resistant to change and remarkably inefficient, most of the players spending more time trying to justify their existence or fighting amongst themselves than actually working. Bael’s secret to success lay within his willingness to adapt, his guile, and the fact that at the end of the work day he really didn’t care.

When he was younger Bael had believed in the cause and thought that they were doing the “right thing” by splitting off from heaven. Later he had told himself they were providing a much needed service by tormenting the damned. But then disillusionment had set in and he had realized that at the end of the day, it didn’t really matter. Or at the very least, he didn’t really matter.

Souls would continue flowing in to be sorted according to their sins just like they had ever since Adam and Eve made a remarkably poor choice of afternoon snacks. Supervisory demons with serious expressions and clipboards would oversee the sorting, answer questions and listen to complaints.

(And there were complaints. So many of them in fact that reading them had bogged down the system to the point of breaking until Bael had gotten the bright idea to outsource the job to the very damned souls that were doing the complaining. The idea had earned him a commendation and a black star in his file, which didn’t actually mean anything but it looked good on a resume.)

Lower demons with clip on name tags and uniforms would continue to do the actual tormenting, but to be honest most of them would just do enough tormenting not to be put on notice for work performance because at the end of the day they were really just in it for the paycheck. Things would go on more or less the same whether he was there or not. Someone else would just take his place and the wheels of hell would continue turning.

Bael looked around his apartment and felt a spell of weariness wash over him. The space was luxurious by hell standards but still lacking when it came to creature comforts. There was his narrow bed, sheets threadbare and second hand, headboard scratched and battered from decades of abuse. He felt the barest twinge of a smile as he remembered a certain much younger succubus that had left a mark on more than his furniture.

But he hadn’t spoken to her in centuries. Last he heard she had settled down in the seventh circle with a sloth demon and had a few kids. She had always talked about having kids. Bael hoped that she was happy.

On the other side of the room was his weapons rack, just as battered and neglected. Years upon years of dust covered his once prized collection. Experimentally he grabbed a halberd and gave it a heft. Had it gotten heavier, or was he just weak and out of practice? He wondered.

Once he could have swung it one handed lightning-quick and twice as deadly, now he could barely lift it.

When did I get so old and tired? Bael wondered to himself. Mere centuries ago he would have been out on the Abyssal plains raising hell (Well probably not hell as that would have been redundant, but something equally as good.) and showing up at his designated shift red eyed and hungover only to do it again the next evening. Now he was just another old goat who could barely muster the energy to brew a cup of tea and finish his book at the end of a long day.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Bael settled into his recliner, a human invention that he had fallen in love with. Like everything else in his cramped living space it was old, worn and covered with dust and soot from the fire pits. He thumbed his way through the grimoire until he found where he had left off. No sooner had he started reading when a dull chanting started to echo through the stone chamber of his living room then stopped abruptly.

He turned a suspicious eye towards the ceiling. Someone was trying to summon him. He waited for a moment before returning to his book. The second his eyes met the pages the chanting resumed, only louder and more sure of itself this time.

“Go away.” He said with annoyance, knowing that it was a two way link and whoever was chanting would be able to hear him just as sure as he could hear them. “I’ve had a really long day and I don’t feel like coming up for whatever it is you want from me.”

The chanting stopped again. Whoever it was, his words seemed to have given them pause. After a brief hesitation the summoner spoke and Bael found himself looking up at the ceiling in shock and disbelief. That couldn’t be right, there was no way that could be right. He must have misheard. There was only one thing to do, he was going to have to come up and see for himself.

“This has to be some kind of joke.” He muttered to himself as he reached for his coat.

***

Back in the world of the living Bael found himself in a familiar stone room flanked by eleven golden statues. He went to step out of the circle and was instantly blasted by what felt like a half billion volts of arcane energy. His hair was smoking and every fiber of his being was crying foul play or just plain crying. He hadn’t felt a barrier like that since the dark ages.

“Nice… circle….” He managed to say once his muscles had stopped twitching. And it truly was a beautiful prison. Every rune was painstakingly replicated and wrapped around a protective circle that seemed to have been laid out with almost mechanical precision.

“Thanks.” Said a little girl that couldn’t have been more than a decade old. Bael recognized her from the ritual. “You must be Bael-Sharoth, I’m Six.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Bael gasped as he got back to his feet, or rather, hooves. “Why have you summoned me, child?”

“I need you to open this jar.” Six said seemingly without any realization of how ludicrous her request was. “The lid is stuck on real tight.”

“And what exactly is in this jar you wish me to open?” Bael asked cautiously, fearing some kind of trick. He had heard about magical vessels that could trap a demon and hold it captive for all eternity. Though he was pretty sure that none of them were bright red and white with a picture of a tomato on the side.

“Marinara.” Six explained. When she saw the look of disbelief on his long angular face she elaborated. “I’m hungry, I want spaghetti, I can’t open the jar myself and the neighbors aren’t home. So I want you to open it for me.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Bael shook his head. “Alright, what will you offer me in return for this task?”

“Well what do you want?” Six asked, which stumped Bael because he really wasn’t sure what to ask for. What did one charge to open a jar?

Bael thought about it for a minute before answering. “Got any books? I like books.” He finally said.

Six nodded solemnly. “Books I’ve got. Open this jar and I’ll give you a fantastic book, one of my favorites in fact.”

Wondering where his life had taken such a strange turn Bael solemnly nodded in agreement then accepted the jar and the book. “Alright child, I’ll just take my book and… my this lid really is on quite tight isn’t it.” He said in surprise as his first attempts to open the jar failed miserably. “Tell me, would you be so kind as to bring me a spoon?”

Six looked him dead in the eyes. “And what will you offer me in return for this task?” She asked mischievously.

Bael gave her a look of pure disbelief. “Listen punk, do you want your spaghetti sauce or not?”

***

In the end Bael got the jar open and returned to his home in hell. He hung up his coat and settled back into his chair. Of course, by now his tea had gone cold. (It was the very nature of a cup of tea to go cold when left unattended, even in the fires of hell.)

He casually inspected the slim paperback volume the child had offered him in exchange for his services. She had said it was magical but hadn’t explained exactly what kind of magic the yellowed and creased pages contained. Six had only said that she was sure he would enjoy reading it. Bael looked at the cover trying to decide if indeed it was worth his time. What the hell, he decided. All he had was time. Besides, Bael was really quite curious to find out exactly what a “Princess Bride” was.