Title: At Our Close
Author: OpheliacAngel
Characters: Mephistopheles, Faustus
Genres: Friendship/Tragedy
Rating: Teen
Summary: Mephistopheles tried to alter Faustus' final decision. Though he did not succeed, no one can claim he did not try.
A/N: Written for Night on Fic Mountain for Selden. I read the play just before signing up for the challenge and fell in love with it, and I wanted to write more in-depth about Mephistopheles. While this may not be what you were looking for, I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Additional Note: I have given into the archive's spelling of the name rather than the Signet Classic's spelling, which is Mephostophilis, though I have kept that spelling in the dialogue; hence, the two spellings of the name found throughout. Also, I take no credit for the dialogue, it is from Marlowe's play; however, the words (thoughts) in italics that are not bracketed by apostrophes are mine.
Mephistopheles had warned him then, back when he still could, but his carefully - no, painstakingly - choice of words fell on deaf ears to the stubborn man. After the deal was made, after Faustus made a fatally human decision, one of selfishness and shortsightedness, one of little respect for himself or for what lay beyond his minuscule understanding of life and death, after he realized he had became somewhat close to Faustus in his final days, Mephistopheles wished he had tried again.
Again and again until he remembered vividly being an angel prior to his fall.
'Mephostophilis. "Oh Faustus, leave these frivolous demands which strikes a terror to my fainting soul!"'
His prince, Lucifer, knew of his efforts, yet he did not reprimand him. To Lucifer it was all in good fun, for mortals had to be warned before they sold their very souls, it made the act much more human and much more foolish than if they had received no warning at all.
Mephistopheles had a quota of sorts, so many souls needed to be corrupted and taken to his master every human year that passed, yet if Faustus' soul had been the only soul he saved, then so be it. One soul saved from the fires of his wretched home, one less scream sliding through him like knife through flesh, could have sated him.
But no, Faustus had brushed him aside, not in a cruel way but in an anxious one, caring not that power and greed would tie him to his ultimate fate much like they had tied the demon to his. Then he had kept Mephistopheles by his side as if the demon could protect him, but he could not. He could not beg for his soul from his once brother, his now father and master, his prince. Nor would he want to beg for that soul given Faustus' treatment of it, throwing it away as if it were no more important than Mephistopheles' attempts to sway his mind and decimate his desires.
He could do nothing for Faustus except serve him, sating those desires that Lucifer fed upon, but though every one of his demands should have irritated him or delighted him, the latter of which could be explained by one further demand meaning the human's days were growing shorter, Mephistopheles felt nothing close to either of those two human-like, petty emotions.
Faustus had become a friend, a foolish one at that, a human who was meant to pale in comparison to the demon even though Mephistopheles had made his own set of tragic choices, but a somewhat friend nonetheless.
They would talk and they would attend royal gatherings and Faustus would ladle what could have been deemed affection upon him, and even a sort of respect. Some days Mephistopheles would forget that such days would not endure; some days he was blind to Lucifer's glaring eyes and sharp, charismatic smile or deaf to his gloating laughter.
Yet the deal had been made, and dwelling on a choice that was not his own - and one he had tried to prevent - was a waste of his energies.
Mephistopheles had done what he could while he could, for anything that Faustus bade him do was therefore everything his prince demanded of him. He was driven quick to anger when Faustus found light and reason and began to embark on the course of repentance, for it was Lucifer who was Mephistopheles' master, his own light and yet the source of his torment and damnation. He spoke to Faustus about the glory and beauty heaven was not to comfort him by some means, his prince and the other devils ever laughing in the background, though Lucifer with a wary eye cast on Mephistopheles. He brought forth any thing or any person that Faustus requested, to show him that he was loyal and his ever-faithful servant for as long as it lasted, despite that the remnants of the demon's grace clenched tight because John Faustus would not see, could not see, his fatal error, his human flaw.
The man's unreasonable repetition of 'sweet friend' had only served to drown Mephistopheles in his own regrets, doubts and memories of a home that once was.
Faustus bade him not to relive such memories of heaven, as if to comfort the demon, as if to make him worry not about Faustus' own soul. Yet while angels carried no souls within themselves, their grace was a rich substitute and Mephistopheles' had been. His wings, burned to near complete ashes in the perpetual hellfire of his new home, the one he had chosen and been first led and then thrown down to, still hung on him in tatters, refusing to let him forget.
And oh! If Faustus himself could see them, see the charred remains, the blackened feathers, the smell of burnt flesh he carried as closely as he once had his grace, would the man be horror-struck? Would he be called by what he was? Demon! Devil! The one who led me astray and stole my very soul!
Yet Mephistopheles had perpetrated no such crime. He had tried to sway Faustus from that path, and the only deed he was guilty of was failing. Lucifer could look upon him with satisfaction that Mephistopheles had once believed sweeter than the misgivings of heaven, and Belzebub could gaze upon him in envy for the ripe plucking of John Faustus' soul, one who was so worthy of an eternity spent in hell, yet forgiveness could not be so easily found in Mephistopheles, not for himself nor for Faustus' such abrupt dismissal of the demon, of hell and of the man's very soul.
He supposed that pitying the man was a result of his own mistakes, his once beliefs that made little sense to him now.
Faustus had made him agitated and regretful as he set about on asking uncomfortable questions, dredging up a past that Mephistopheles often feared to recall. He had given up his true father for a prince who was less than kingly, a prince who was as insolent and prideful as he had been. The demon felt as if he had come full circle, only to be trapped in his own piteous existence. The man he now laid claim to could not understand, just like Mephistopheles was blinded by greed and arrogance at the time of his falling.
Yet in time, he might understand.
'Mephostophilis. "Ay, Faustus, now thou hast no hope of heaven. Therefore, despair!"' As I have done for many an eon. '"Think only upon hell, for that must be thy mansion, there to dwell."'
'Faustus. "Oh thou bewitching fiend,"' Yet I can see you for what you are now, John Faustus. It is you who are the fiend, you have cursed me with memory of heaven and I fear have corrupted me far more than I have myself. '"twas thy temptation hath robbed me of eternal happiness."' My temptation? And have you no words for your own? You have given me cause to pity you in a way that I have often pitied myself, yet it is men such as you that spread lies and deceit. You have called me friend, and I have done your every bidding, bowed to your every whim, yet you now curse me with the tongue you have only used to curse yourself. The blood of man, the blood which is tainted, the blood that you have given to my prince freely runs more darkly than your soul.
It was far too late to repent, to bring about anything good, with good reminding Mephistopheles of the heaven he did not deserve then nor would deserve now, even with his own internal urge to repent.
Yet Faustus' pleading with him as he remained in the shadows, now unseen, now no more Faustus' servant than a demon who no longer could lay any claim upon him, stroked a chord in him of a haunting lullaby of old that would not cease.
'The clock strikes twelve.'
'Faustus. "It strikes, it strikes! Now body, turn to air, or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! O soul, be changed into small water-drops and fall into the ocean, ne'er be found. My God, my God! Look not so fierce on me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile! Ugly Hell, gape not! Come not Lucifer! I'll burn my books!—O Mephostophilis!"'
The cries dissolved until there was absolute silence, penetrating deeper than former regrets, serving as a pair of iron clad restraints to hold Mephistopheles in place and to not follow. So it was then that John Faustus was dead, carried off into the fires of hell, where his screams would replace once demands.
His efforts had been in vain.
Now it was back to work for Mephistopheles.
FIN