Inside, Misery’s room was orderly to the point of obsessive-compulsive. An impressive collection of swords of various kinds and cultures lined the walls, organized by style. There were a half-dozen tall wooden bookshelves filled to the brim with alphabetized tomes, separated by the numerous languages they were written in. An enormous chandelier with candles lit by blue flames hung from the ceiling. It was a fire hazard Rodrigo was tempted to exploit in one final revenge against the dead king. But even if Resent hadn’t been in control, despite the owner, a lot of what was in the room appealed to him, and setting it all ablaze to get even with a ghost was pointless.
Rodrigo was a bit confused seeing a bed even if it didn’t look like it had seen much use, though what really drew his attention was its shape. “The halls, the stairs, now even the beds...”
“Sorry, are you approaching a coherent thought?”
“I mean, what’s this obsession you demons have with things being circular?”
“I could ask the same about you humans and your fixation with the rectilinear. It’s what feels natural. Now hush and let me search.”
After about five minutes, Resent somehow recognized the untitled, nondescript spine of the journal on one of Misery’s shelves. Pulling it out, there was no lock on it, but the pages were covered in gibberish. Resent shifted the book to his imitation right hand, and coming into contact with the nebulae, the incoherent scribbles rearranged into English. Putting the talking sword down, he took a seat on the bed and began reading from the first page.
3/40/389QEDOA
Upon witnessing one of my slaves put quill to parchment incessantly, I decided to inquire about it. He was too afraid to speak at first, yet eventually found his tongue, and explained that it is a human technique to keep their thoughts in place. For all their self-interest, demons do not have the disposition to scribe and reflect on the inner workings of their lives. I may have misjudged the humans by believing that all their ideas are inane or barbaric. Sealing it so that the pages are illegible to those not of my bloodline, and translate into the native language of those who are, I will scribe here whenever the mood strikes me. Being the Prince of Hell, I do not trust a single soul with my thoughts.
“Holy crap. 389? Strife was...” Rodrigo paused to do the math.
“It’s not as you think. Year 389 in the reign of my grandmother, Queen Envy, daughter of Anarchy. Despite having half as many months that are twice as long, the hours in a day and days in a year are roughly the same for our two species. Considering that, it would convert to the late 13th century in your calendar, as time runs concurrently between our two worlds. Strife himself would’ve been 303 at the time. Anyhow, as we are pressed for time, I’m going to skip some of this nonsense.”
1/35/391QEDOA
I have only just returned from venturing out into the abyss at the behest of my mother. It is an uncharted area across the sea from the landmass that houses our six great cities. Most of the inhabitants of these cities pretend the abyss does not exist. But sadly, it does. The entire legion that left Dreadmus with me was annihilated, an outcome I should have anticipated when none of our aerial scouts returned. To say the demons of the cities pale in comparison to what lurks in the abyss, or even the mutated aquatic life leading up to it, would be a colossal understatement. I was nowhere near adequately prepared for this expedition. Almost as if mother had noted my growing interest in Hell’s political affairs, and found it necessary to humble, if not be rid of me.
The sole reason for my survival was a morose young diavolik I encountered on one of the Abyss’ surrounding isles. He knew the lay of the land and demonstrated a surprising proficiency with a sword for his age. Witnessing his potential, I took the nameless waif under my wing. In giving him a moniker, I chose to keep with the convention of my bloodline and use a name that signifies an observed flaw intended to be conquered. And so, I settled on Misery. Without further exploration of the abyss, who can say how much of a threat it will inevitably be to the rest of us?
Resent turned the page. The next date was the year 36. The calendar had been reset.
“Whoa. How long’s it been?” Rodrigo asked.
“My grandmother’s reign ended at 465 years, so it’s been a century and a decade. But look closer. There’s a fringe. Pages have been removed.”
“That’s not a good sign.”
“Agreed.”
1/21/36KSSOE
Between becoming king and the birth of my son, Pride, I have had little time to write. At just 30 years old, his progress is remarkable. Naturally, being the crown prince, other demons of all ages are intimidated by him, and his discordant appearance alienates him further. He is never without his fade periapt, yet the wisest of demons still harbor their suspicions about his parentage, no matter how impossible such an existence should be. However, he seems to have found a firm ally in the son of one of Bittervale’s lords. Going by the name Murmur, the child is only slightly older than Pride and has the ability to command and see through the eyes of weaker beings whose wills he can dominate, excellent for information gathering. I look forward to seeing them achieve great things.
“What?” Resent whispered, turning the page to see even more entries were missing.
6/46/226KSSOE
I have bred a masterpiece. Only 220 years old and yet Pride’s strength has surpassed my own for some time. Despite my initial belief that Pride would have little to gain by training under Misery, in doing so, his skill with a blade has improved far beyond what I taught him. While Pride is well aware of how powerful he is, he does not allow it to make him conceited, already triumphant over the basis of his name. Though, in truth, he was named so more for my pride in him than any shortcomings of his own. Hopefully he keeps progressing in this manner.
“This is insane. Not only do I have an elder brother, but Strife trained him personally!” Resent roared.
As neither of them seemed ready to discuss Rodrigo’s heritage, he asked, “Didn’t Strife train you before Misery did?”
“Only to a basic degree. How was this apparent paragon, over two centuries my senior, never mentioned to me?”
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“Maybe he died. Let’s keep reading.” Rodrigo was becoming fascinated by all this, in no small part because it was possibly his family history, too. There were more missing pages and that they probably contained vital information was frustrating. Finally, they came to another crucial entry.
6/08/227KSSOE
Pride has been gone for a few days now. Several things of little monetary value are missing from his quarters, and Murmur has vanished as well, so it is surely voluntary. Pride had overcome all obstacles, passed every test, and more than proved his potential as a worthy successor. Were the high lords unwilling to make an exception for him, I would have amended that antiquated law myself. But Pride abandoned me. There has been speculation about his whereabouts, though thus far none of it has amounted to anything.
Shortly before leaving, he became cold and distant. His departure was not done on a whim. Something changed him and the only thing I could imagine causing such a shift in attitude is learning the circumstances of his birth, which I have gone to great lengths to keep from him. When I find the responsible party, my blades shall be the least of their concerns.
“See, I told you there was a good reason. Why would he mention you having a brother if he was a runaway?” Rodrigo asked.
5/05/232KSSOE
My second child was born recently. This time, I mated with a demon. Inconsiderately, she disappeared shortly after his birth, leaving the burden of dealing with this boy entirely to me. Physically, he resembles me far more than Pride did and from his mother, has likely inherited a Flair for possessing the bodies of humans and demons alike. If properly developed, this could grant him some semblance of immortality. Yet I feel nothing but bitterness when I look at the child. This is exactly why I have given him the name, Resent.
It may be unfair, yet every time I look at him, I think of my true son and struggle to contain my ire. Although I am uncertain how long it will take, I suspect that in time I will be able to put Pride out of my mind. He was a prodigy. What can this boy aspire to be?
“If you could do that, then why did you end up in the urn for so long?” Rodrigo asked.
“I did not know I was capable of it until death. When I found myself able to control the movement of my soul, I drifted back to my quarters, and chose to recover in the nearest receptacle. Unfortunately, due to my lack of experience with the Flair, I ended up laying dormant there until we met.”
2/45/536KSSOE
Resent is an arrogant fool who, unlike Pride, has no reason to be so bold. He is 304 years old and cannot hold a candle to my firstborn. Despite Misery’s grating attempts to reassure me that Resent is doing well, as I watch them spar, I can tell he would be no match for me. At 182, I knew Pride could kill me. Resent continues to disappoint and there are times when I still cannot bear to look at him. Simply writing about him frustrates me, so I will stop here.
“I’m sure he didn’t—” Rodrigo began.
“Shut up.”
3/04/662KSSOE
Human slavery is one of many ingrained practices that the confines of Hell’s political system does not allow me to rectify. Many a demon sees it as retribution for how the ancestors of these humans treated us when our species was in its infancy. Conveniently, they disregard or forget that we diavoliks, the apex of demonkind, are partially descended from those same humans. Therefore, I treat my slaves decently, but have grown to pay them little heed. However, a beautiful young woman was captured recently under bizarre circumstances. Afflicted with the human malady, depression, she jumped from the top of a tower that had been built over one of the portals connecting the human world of old to Hell. She reached the bottom just as a demon was making his way back and was pulled through along with him.
Upon having the suicidal girl brought before me, something about her made me feel a peculiar sensation of lust. Perhaps it was her golden-bronze skin, reminiscent of Pride’s mother, and so unlike the pallor of most diavoliks, or rather the world-weariness in her eyes that has taken me centuries to acquire. Simple as it would have been to subject her to my desires, I thought it rather boorish to do so before familiarizing myself with her.
When she had calmed somewhat and become capable of speech again, she informed me she was only 17 years old. To an extent, it intrigued me, as I had never taken much time to learn about humans beyond a surface level. Strange as it may be, the girl and I began to truly speak. I was amused as together we discovered that every 20 years in a demon’s lifespan is equivalent to one in a human’s, as far as appearance is concerned. Thus, if the girl was a demon, she would be considered somewhere between 340 and 359 years old. In some ways, that rapid physical growth could be seen as one of the few advantages that humans have over demons.
After many weeks spent in conversation over dinner, during which Misery often brooded in the corner, she became comfortable enough to say that I was not what she would have thought the King of Hell would be like. As one who has always endeavored to deny the instinctual urges that come with being a demon, I considered it high praise.
“Hey, how old are you exactly?” Rodrigo asked.
“431. If my time without a body is included, 446.”
“Hah. Not as old as you act. You’re only twenty-one or twenty-two.”
Resent didn’t respond, distracted as he turned to the last page with text on it.
6/57/662KSSOE
In the first personal affront to me since trying to strike me decades ago, Resent seduced the human girl of whom I had grown a mite fond. I had no choice but to send her back to her world after the fool unwittingly impregnated her. My enemies would use one of our bloodline fathering a second demon of mixed origin in another halfhearted attempt to brand me a traitor to our species. Sickeningly, she was a sniveling mess, desperate to shift the blame when I had Heinrik escort her back to the portal. While I expect such treachery from Resent, I was...wounded by the actions of the girl. Was she simply attracted to his youth, or was it the brashness that I have come to loathe?
The only reason I did not execute her is for the sake of my unborn grandchild, who I can only hope will bring enough glory to my lineage to offset the shame that Resent begets with his every breath. It is possible that the very same mixed-blood most demons look down upon is exactly what made Pride more powerful than the better part of his mother’s family.
I am 1041 years old and have reigned for far longer than most. Although I still have nearly half of my natural life left in this world, I am beset by enemies who relentlessly seek my end. No matter what Miriam calls the child, they will always be my blood and inevitably find their way back to Hell. Only then will I dispose of Resent and take his offspring as my own.
Resent closed the book and held it in a shaking hand for a long moment. Then he flung it upward into the candles of the chandelier. Ignited by blue flames, the binding and pages left not even ashes behind as they fell out of the sky.
“Are you kidding me?” Rodrigo demanded. “You don’t get to be the angry one here. You knew. You had to have known as soon as you saw my mom!”
“The girl was so insignificant to me I did not even recall her name. And having doubled in age and weight, the sow was unrecognizable,” Resent said, his voice acid. “I always had my suspicions. Your nebulae being your own and not simply an extension of mine, one of the portals to Hell being a short distance from your home, and let’s not forget the random bursts of strength, or how much faster you adapt compared to the other humans. With all that in mind, I assumed, as Misery did, that you were my agnate brother. But apparently, you’re the mongrel who Strife was setting up to replace me.”
There was no room for doubt like there might have been if the deceased Strife had claimed to be his father. Rodrigo’s entire life was a lie and his birth father was far more vile than his mother could ever be. “I don’t care what needs to be done. I want you gone.”
“Oh, don’t worry. The feeling is mutual, Son.”