The Seven Deadly Sins
Gluttony
By: Lin West
i.
Papers of important descriptions, calculations for formulas, and solution ratios critical for his creation of the prima material were cast aside, littered the floor, crunched underneath his feet, and made into a coaster for his bottle. His hair, also carelessly sprawled across the desk, was only distinguishable from the basement's deep shadows by the glow of candles upon it. Far below the Zaberisk mansion in the private of the black abyss that engulfed the room, Georik cried. An act he had forbidden himself. To cry meant falling victim to unreliable emotions. It meant collapse, to have no other methods with which to answer a question. It meant submission. However, such was the position Georik had found himself in. Georik Zaberisk was well versed in many art forms. The art of drowning oneself in drink was not one of them, rather Georik believed smothering away your problems was foolish and idiotic -- coherency was the best method of producing a remedy for a problem, intoxication was only an escape from troubles.
But he needed an escape, God, did he need to forget how his laboratory smelled of death and decay that no amount of incense could cover. Blood had stained the stone ground and seeped into the dirt, and there was no end in sight to how many more precious lives would be sacrificed. Georik swirled his third cup of vodka in hand. What had he allowed himself to become? Georik's hands were stained with the blood of over five hundred men, women, and children. How many more would be lead to death through his hands?
Caressing words slithered from the darkness and resonating through all of Georik's being. "Me thinkst, thou hast drunk more than suffice, Master." A faint tap of heels against stone as Mephistophiles approached the physician. The sole light from the candles illuminated the devil's form as he seemed to materialize from the darkness of the room itself next to Georik.
Refusing to look at the speaker, Georik rasped with malicious edge in his voice, "I have no patience for your games. Be gone."
Hands with black nails that resembled that of claws, one by one clasped Georik's shoulder. "I come not to mock. My heart cannot bear to hear thou suffer."
It started as a chuckle that grew into a resounding bitter laugh that echoed across the four walls of the room. Georik clawed his fingers through his own hair, his grip threatened to pull them from their roots. "Sweet words, my good Devil, are best saved for maidens and kings. Which do you take me for, a maiden or king?"
Mephistophiles brow furrowed, then smoothed as he fell to his knees and took Georik's gloved hand into his own. "Without doubt, a king, my Master"
"A king of rot and decay."
"Nay. A king of wisdom, compassion, and beauty." His lips pressed against Georik's knuckles.
Georik pulled his hand from Mephistophiles disapprovingly, and with it he sought the clear glass bottle again. He poured the liquid that resembled water only in appearance into his glass. Georik's normally steady hands trembled as he set the bottle to rest against the worn wood of the tabletop with an unceremonious thud. "If you, of all people, sincerely attest to such things, then I know them to be falsehoods." Georik once again laid his head against the table, and he did not raise it again. His strained expression melted into calm and a steady breathing parted from his lips.
A strained sigh from Mephistophiles, "Master..." The devil watched the man rest, as if debating what to do with his captive. Resolute, Mephistophiles held Georik and effortlessly pulled the man from his chair and brought him into his arms. Pressing his face to his, Mephistophiles kissed his brow, the scar on his cheek, jawbone, and finally with chaste tenderness, his lips.
He carried him up the basement stairs, across the hallways of the manor, and to the topmost room that was Georik's chambers. He laid his master carefully down onto the sheets. He removed both of Georik's boots and relieved him of his suit and gloves, leaving him comfortably in only a loosely fitting white shirt and slacks. Mephistophiles again pressed his lips to Georik and tangled his fingers in his soft tresses of midnight, this time his lips did not abandon the other's so quickly. The Devil kissed him as if he drunk on Georik's soul. As he parted he stared at Georik's sleeping form longingly. A soft whisper that fell on sleeping ears, "Evil men do not mourn their nature, Georik."