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Merchant of Death, they call him.
The whispers of his name reach the deepest pits of hell. It’s a mark of shame for the denizens though that despite their centuries of hard work, a title so prestigious falls not to the Knights or the Archdemons or even The Prince himself, but rather a measly mortal man whose only connection to Hell was an ill-advised summoning of the Soldier, two Earth decades ago.
There have been many who have taken advantage of their brief forays up top to scope out said Merchant and they’ve all come back with varying tales of the man’s sharp wit, clever tongue, wide reaching influence, sexual prowess, charm, not to mention his capability of creating destruction with a flick of his fingers. All that, without a single spell.
And then there’s the accounts given by the souls sent to be tormented in the eternal fires by the man himself.
There’s grumblings, suggestions of recruitment, jealous tirades, but most of it is ignorable because mortals rarely live long enough to truly inconvenience the denizens of Hell. Plus, it’s pretty evident that the man is confined to his earthy form and has no intention of encroaching on their goings-on, especially their transactions.
So they learn to leave him be foolishly thinking that they will have no further business with the mortal.
That is until the day the Merchant of Death himself walks through the Gates of Hell, not through one of the minor portals either, still in possession of his mortal form.
They had been prepared for accepting his soul at the time of his demise, of begrudgingly making space for him in the tight bureaucracy of Hell. They hadn’t planned for this.
Someone is definitely getting fired for failing to report that not only the Merchant of Death was a magic user but that he was also powerful enough to walk through the fires without even a hint of soot on his expensive jacket.
A hush falls over the denizens as the Merchant walks along the lava pitted floor, drawing hungry stares and cocky flares of scaly wings that he pays no attention to.
It’s not until he reaches the iced over chamber where the Soldier rests that he pauses in his stroll through the pits of Hell.
And then, the transformation that occurs – from a being of pure power and strength to what amounts to a sheepish schoolboy with hands shoved in pockets and chocolate brown eyes wide and pleading with a hint of a smile on his lips – belies even the mightiest of shapeshifters.
If one didn’t witness it right that moment they might never have believed it.
The Merchant of Death has his eyes fixed on the Soldier who slowly rises from his slumber and utters the first words since descending into Hell,
“Hey, Bucky.”