Page 51 of The Misfit Mage and His Darling Demon

“You’re a demon.” My former self so astutely surmised after looking Mora over. I rolled my eyes at his baffled expression.

“And you’re a devil,” Mora replied, curtsying. “A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Lord Beelzebub.”

I hadn’t replied to her assumption, hadn’t corrected or denied it. Back then, I’d believed I was playing her, but in truth, Mora always knew more than the hand she revealed.

“I was honored to hear that a devil of such high esteem had come to grace us with his presence.” Mora stepped through Wally’s body, a ghost of the past rippling by as he remained silent and fully observant. “Then shocked to learn how disgracefully these mages treated you.” She twisted her face in disgust and spit. “Collective trash. Apologies your visit has been met with such crass actions.”

“I’m used to it.” My past self shivered, not from the cold I couldn’t feel without a host but from the acknowledgment my entire existence had been met with caustic hate from devils, demons, mages, Mythics, and mortals.

“I must ask, Lord Beelzebub.” Mora continued subtly closing the distance between herself and the scrawny demon radiating devil essence. “Why run from these mages instead of ending them where they stood?”

“I…” My past self swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words.

“I see. So much time in Hell must’ve left you disoriented, confused on how to navigate the mortal plane in all its simplicity.” Mora had a glint in her eyes, one I hadn’t noticed then, only registering the carefully crafted compassionate expression she gave. “If you like, I can offer my guidance until you understand this world better.”

“So, Mora was the first person to acknowledge you as Beelzebub?” Wally asked, ignoring her small talk to garner trust from a frightened feeble demon pretending to be brave. Always pretending.

“Yep, and thanks to her, soon other demons caught wind of me. They sensed the same devil essence Mora would, in turn, help cultivate. In time, I made a name for myself that spread like wildfire.” I smirked. “It helped that I set actual flames to feed the legend.”

“Wait, then why was the Collective attacking you now?” Wally asked.

“Did you not see my appearance?” I gestured to my scrawny form and obvious features, such as the three tails that twitched nervously the entire time speaking with Mora.

“Yes, you’re not possessing a host, which I know isn’t a requirement for Diabolics, but I always thought you preferred it for the sensations.”

“I do.”

“I just don’t understand why the Collective would strike if you hadn’t done anything wrong. Harmed anyone. Did you harm anyone?” He bit his lip, face reddening and entire body warming with guilt from the blurted question.

“No, I didn’t. They attacked me, hunted me, because they saw a vile demon, a Diabolic, that didn’t fit into the Collective philosophy or the accords they’d put in place for Mythics.”

“Sorry. Sometimes I forget—or am willfully unwilling to accept—that the Collective is just cruel to be cruel most days.”

“In defense of the current Collective,” I said, playfully batting my lashes and nudging his shoulder with mine to lighten the mood. “I did spend the better part of the next century slaughtering mages whenever the whim struck.”

“But not when you arrived,” Wally said, conviction in his voice and a lack of remorse for the bodies he watched Mora telekinetically throw into the fire. “What’d you do when you first arrived here?”

“Damn, Walter.” I pointed to the conversation between the former Mora and my past self playing out right in front of us. “I thought you wanted to know how I met Mora, why that—”

“All I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is to know more about you. All of you. All the parts you’re willing to share.” He stepped in close, delicately running his fingers along the hairs of my forearms, sending a delightful shiver through my body, then he cupped my hands into his. “No judgment. No reservations. I love you, Bez. I love everything about you. Even the things I hate—and to be clear, glorifying carnage and casually killing people are not high on my list of favorite things. But the Bez who lived in Hell had somber eyes; the Bez in this memory has a soft, curious expression. I want to know what he desired when he came to our world. What dream did the Collective take from him? From you?”

I practically choked, trying to form words. Gods, he was insufferable, always making me feel…seen. I hated how it made my insides warm and fuzzy. But I also couldn’t imagine my life without those sensations anymore.

“Back when I first arrived, I wanted to be a champion for anyone in need,” I said with a laugh because it was funny. It was pathetic and worthless and met with fear and disdain. Not only from the mages who didn’t like pushback against their authoritybut also from the Mythics who found my essence rotten and the mortals who believed me the literal Satan due to their tiny, glamoured, and simplistic existences.

“You wanted to help others? Why?”

“Because I was deluded.” I ground my teeth, unable to find the words for my obsession with true heroism or the guilt I carried for escaping Hell, leaving behind so many I despised, but wondering how many others like myself clawed at the locked walls, desperate for a reprieve I’d denied them.

I took solace in the fact that the knight who sparked such ideals in me had already lost his life before I abandoned my Hell. It would be far more gutting to know he suffered behind those closed doors for all eternity due to my cowardice.

Eligos, the dead fool, painted the mortal realm with such grandeur as one of the few demons offered leave from Beelzebub’s domain. Beelzebub found the errant knight exhausting, how he had always returned to Hell explaining the nobility of honor and valor and compassion and generosity and too many virtues. Eligos proved anyone could achieve anything if they believed enough. He fought harder, stayed true to himself for eons, and even in the coup that killed him, he protected the demons around him.

Eligos…

The knighted demon in all his glory appeared in the memory, flickering in and out much like the forest itself, shifting to the walls of a castle I once had the displeasure of calling home. A place where I cleaned and served and obeyed for what should’ve been all of time, taking small comforts in his visits, his tales, his journey for change.

“What’s going on?” Wally asked, watching the shifting memory.

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