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Of course, a contract for a soul is supposed to be signed with blood, and you cut your wrist so eagerly. The blood instantly mixes with all the regular ink on your fingers, palms, back of your hands.
A drop even somehow lands on your forehead, on that black smear you noticed in the morning in the mirror and forgot about immediately.
You sign.
Your devil wears both mourning and the confidence of a cardinal, and his attire is accordingly ebony and scarlet, but simultaneously. A demonic illusion. What else to expect from their kind.
He stands straight with his hands behind his back, a picture of obedience, except for a smirk, ever so slightly touching a corner of his lips and lower eyelids. Whatever is there besides his inherent infernal viciousness makes your blood – falling from your wrist and thudding in your ears – warmer. Not in the sense of affection or fondness, but as if you are nearing a fire, which you are, you know that, and by your own will.
“Mephistophilis,” you say, still blinking at the colours of his clothes and the temperature inside you, “you will serve me from now on, am I right?”
He smiles a little wider, though dryly.
“Your wish is my command, so make a wish, master.”
Your head is spinning, both at the loss of blood, however little it was, and the feeling of power engulfing you.
“I hunger,” – an accidental choice of a word, but even truer in your current state – “for knowledge.”
The smirk comes back, yet now as a nervous twitch. Mephistophilis bows.
“Ah. The original sin. How fitting.”
He looks back into your eyes again. His stare is heavy, full of anticipation and something you can't pinpoint at this moment, but it reminds you of your colleagues, recoiling from you when you pace in the corridors of Wittenberg, angry at how slow your brain works.
Well, now it will work perfectly, will it not?
You shake your head to get your thoughts straight and come back to Mephistophilis holding a tome. Black, obviously; the leather of the cover is from something – or someone – not of the mortal world.
“It has all the knowledge wielded by humankind,” Mephistophilis explains.
“There is more,” you realise.
“Oh yes.”
You suck air through your nose, nostrils scratched by the same warmth. Isn't this all you've ever wanted?
“One thing, however,” your servant adds, walking around you to your desk to pick up the contract, and points at a paragraph. “I don't have to tell you anything about how Heaven works. At that, you must not ever ask for it.”
Now you see a tint of pain in his eyes. You are able to see it at all only because he is very close to you, your chests are almost touching.
And before you ask any questions, neither about the clause nor this emotion, he speaks first.
“Apart from that, I will do everything you want, will give you everything you want, will transport you anywhere you want. I will hunt every piece of information for you, should you so desire, my sweet Faustus.”
The air between you burns you, converting that warmth into fully hellish fire. It is only natural that it finally happens.
You nod, almost grateful for his promise, even though he is to obey you anyhow.
And now you see in his eyes something else, something he allows you to see. In addition to the slyness of the smirk and the pain you don't (yet?) know the reason for, there's understanding, a comradeship of some sort.
“I desire, my sweet Mephistophilis,” you whisper, and he takes and kisses your hand.
It makes you think of one particular kind of knowledge, and the vague craving is now directed there.
“Do you know where you want to start?” Mephistophilis asks, and reading your silence correctly, smiles devilishly again. “Shall we, then?”