The optimist returned home from the meeting, shedding his trench coat and shoes. His living room remained as is: gloomy as though ill. A stray chair sat in the middle, as though in its own realm of existence. By a noble fireplace was planted a reading couch, stiff by leisurely. Arthur kept his plethora of books in another room, lest they catch an ember and burn the house to ashes. Another couch longed against a wall, for visitors, though he rarely received them.
He trudged into the bathroom, his footsteps heavy. The mirror, cracked at the left side, greeted him. Arthur leaned over and picked at his lower eyelid, pulling it down. There, on the red flesh, was his seal. It remained somewhere where no one would ever bother to look. If a doctor were to take a gander he would be perplexed by it, and say not a word for fear the others would think he had lost his mind.
Listen: Years upon years ago, at the dawn of the so-called Dark Ages, Arthur enlisted in the help from down below. He was desperate and sick. People were unsanitary and darkness filled all minds, depriving them of enlightenment and beautiful knowledge that could pull them from there.
Arthur couldn't risk it, and his mind was already on the fritz from various plagues sent over by foreign men. So he fell asleep one night after trying to seek hellish help from within himself, and was greeted by a gleaming creature, small and beady-eyed.
"…If you accept, the gates of paradise will forever be out of your reach…" it whispered in a cackling, crude voice. Arthur tried to squirm but his body was locked into position, sharp bindings taping his bony arms to either side of him. The feel of his parchment-like skin on his weak bones brought alive a will to bring that man forth.
So he accepted the contract, varying slightly from the others that were said and would be said. The seal came into his eyelid and he broke away from the dream, into a light, airy place.
Stepping forwards was a sleek man in a very well-to-do suite. His straight back and sleek hair held a dignity to what little personality he had.
"How do I know I can trust you?" Arthur said, squinting at the ethereal light.
"You have entitled your soul to me, how can you not?" The demon raised a glove hand to his chest, continuing to stare at Arthur unwaveringly.
"Very well," Arthur replied, "Then do you have a name?"
"I have whatever name you choose to give me, master."
Arthur noticed the white streak of hair going from the man's temple to the back of his head and decided to keep it in mind, along with the high cheek bones and the eyes that looked as though they could never be detached from reality.
"A name… I shall call you Dante." He declared.
Dante bowed low, a strand of white hair slipping and falling into his face. It dangled before him, like a leaf ready to fall. He tucked it back smoothly, returning to his standing position.
"I need your help, Dante," Arthur pressed his finger to his eyelid. By the stem of the eyelashes, he pulled it down and exposed the red-hot seal. "That was an order."
"Your wish is my command." Dante raised his other hand, where the scar-like seal of his own was.
So these events unfolded again in Arthur's memory as he washed his face and dressed in a night gown. The meeting had eaten up most of the daylight and left the trimmings of it to read by. Arthur did so, on his reading couch, leaning against his chin.
A fuzzy layer of a beard presented itself on his fingertips.
He would visit the barbershop, he decided. He should be at least somewhat presentable before Dante, wherever he may be.