Exchanging Names

Francis

“So you need directions?” The man asks as we reach a towering chair shaded by an umbrella that reads 'Lifeguard'.

“I suppose. Usually, I would not find myself in situations like this. If I still had my wings, I could fly around until I got my bearings. As you can see, those have gone missing. My magic seems to have mostly vanished as well. How silly is that?”

He gives me a look as if I've given him a riddle to solve. I’m not sure why. I didn't threaten him, nor did I say anything that would cause such confusion.

“If you could give me the name of the city, that would be splendid, peasant.

“Are you sure you didn’t, like, hit your head?”

“I can assure you I am quite stable.”

He gives me a look that says I question your intelligence as well as your sanity. I should know that look well as I use it quite often. Perhaps magic is uncommon in these parts. He tells me the name of the city, and I am more lost than ever.

“I suppose this may sound ridiculous, but which country are we in?”

“America.”

“Well, it appears I am severely misplaced.”

“You don’t know where America is?” The man asks, completely dumbfounded.

“I do not…”

“Do you have any cash on you?”

“Let’s see,” I answer, patting my coat and trouser pockets. “It seems I have none of my belongings.”

“I assume that means no phone? Actually, even if you had it, it probably wouldn’t work because of the water.” I shake my head. I don’t know what he’s asking, but I can only assume the answer is no.

The lifeguard sighs, “Why do I always get the weird ones during my shifts? Alright, here’s the deal. I still have about an hour left till I get off work. Out of the goodness of my heart, I’ll help you find a place to stay for the night when I’m done. In the meantime, you can–I don't know–sunbathe and dry off.”

“Why be so kind?”

“My mother would whoop me if she knew I left an innocent man to starve.”

I sputter out, “Your mother must be a great woman.”

He sends a charming, metal-accented grin my way before climbing atop his beach throne. I attempt to return the gesture, though I fear it's more of a grimace than a grin.

I feel his eyes burning into my nape as I shrug off my cloak and lay it on the sand, followed by my suit jacket. Sitting on my pile of clothes, I pull off my shoes and socks. Even halfway through the hour, I swear I can feel his gaze. Whenever I look back, he's monitoring the children playing a bit too close to the tide.

How in Lucifer's name did I end up here? I only have a small spark of power at my disposal, and all of my demonic features are missing. Did I somehow teleport here and heal myself using all my magic? At this moment, I should be a dead body on the floor of my castle. Instead, I'm a very much alive demon, with no visible battle wounds, sunbathing at the beach.

I rake my fingers through my sand-covered hair and watch as the children play tag with the waves. Step to the edge of the shore, wait for the ocean’s next move, and then run as fast as their little legs can take them before water laps at their toes. They must've played this game about a hundred times already, but they still collapse in a fit of giggles as they run away. All the while, a stray seagull rummages through their picnic basket.

The children of castle servants come to mind as I watch the scene. Just last week, I watched them play a similar game in the courtyard. Did their parents get them out safely? One can only hope the Hero was focused solely on my death and spared the lives of those who had no chance of standing in his way.

Rest isn't something powerful demons such as myself typically need, but in my less-than-magical state, drowsiness takes over. The mirth of human peasants, the calm ocean waves, and the warble of birds fill me with an overwhelming sense of ease. Hell’s perpetual heat comes to mind as the Sun’s warmth permeates my chilled skin and lulls me to sleep.

~⛧★♚★⛧~

I wake to the sound of the lifeguard stepping down from his lookout and greeting a short blonde woman in a uniform similar to his, though much more revealing. They change posts, and the man slings a black bag over his shoulder. He vaguely gestures in my direction.

“Come on, weirdo,” he says. I don't appreciate the nickname, but I can only assume he's referring to me. I put my shoes and socks on, gather my things, and stride alongside him.

“I am starving,” the lifeguard groans. With an exaggerated yawn, he stretches his arms above his head, and a few joints pop with the motion. The sliver of skin appearing beneath his shirt distracts me enough to fight back the yawn of sympathy building in my jaw.

“My name is not weirdo. I am Franciscus Adonis Lucifer III and the current ruler of Hell. As you are a peasant, you may call me His Majesty.”

“Yeah…not beating the weirdo allegations any time soon, man. How about Francis? Is that fine?”

“No one but my mother calls me Francis…” She called me Francis as a way of pretending to herself that she cared about me. But when he says the name, it feels less empty. “I suppose, since you saved my life, I will allow you to call me Francis if that is what you would prefer.”

“Just doing my job,” he boasts with a twitch of his lips. “By the way, my name isn't peasant. It's Zeke. Ezekiel, actually. Call me Zeke, though.”

“Zeke,” I say, testing out the name. I've met a few Ezekiel’s in my decades of living. All of them angels. All of them determined to kill me.

Zeke stops at a beachside platform holding up a quaint–but busy–shop. “Take a seat, I'll go get us something to eat.”

I find the sunniest table in the vicinity, place my clothes on the back of a chair, and sit. Zeke sets his bag next to the opposite chair and heads for the store. This place seems normal enough. Not much different than the small peasant-owned shops I've seen before.

It's strange being with someone who has no idea I’m a king. Back home, they wouldn't dare call me by anything other than my title. The thralls back home would only smile at me for fear of being beheaded. Zeke smiles at me like he genuinely has something to smile at. It's as if Zeke and I are equals. I’ve never had an equal. Only those above me and below me. Perhaps I should pretend I never said I was a king.

The bell attached to the shop’s door rings as Zeke walks out with a tray carrying two slices of a savory-looking dish and two dessert-like drinks. He sets half of the food in front of me and sits in his chair.

“You owe me when you get your wallet back,” Zeke declares, bringing the savory slice to his mouth with one hand and his drink with the other.

“And what exactly is this?” I ask, pointing to my plate.

Zeke's eyebrows twitch as he searches for an answer to something in my eyes. “It's…pizza.”

“What is in it?”

“Uh, I didn't know what you like, so it’s just bread, tomato, and cheese.”

I nod slowly and bring the sweet drink to eye level, examining it with a light swirl and a tentative sniff. “And this?”

“Mocha latte,” he says, taking another bite of his pizza. “It's coffee, milk, cream, sugar, and chocolate.”

“I do enjoy coffee. I've never seen so many things added to it.” Before I take a sip, I pause. In the castle, a food test would be done before every meal to ensure it was safe enough to eat. After King–I’ll be honest, I don’t remember which one–was poisoned by his wife, it became a necessity. And, I've had enough near-death experiences for one day.

I lower the drink and ask, “This is safe to eat, yes?"

“You're being deadass?”

“Pardon?”

“You're being serious?”

“Extremely so.”

Zeke shrugs. “It’s not poisoned or anything. A rat is probably the worst thing you’d find in that kitchen.”

I look at my plate, not totally convinced. Ask me to lead an army or oversee the affairs of Hell, and I’ll handle it with ease. However, when it comes to determining whether or not a sip of coffee will kill me, I’m completely useless. Has it always been like this? Am I not capable of doing simple tasks without the aid of servants? A dull ache stirs in my chest, but I’m unsure if either of today's assaults is the root.

Zeke eyes my food and considers for a moment before leaning across the table. He picks up my slice of pizza, takes a small bite, chews, and swallows. My eyes follow every motion as he draws in closer and pulls my arm towards him. Wrapping his lips around the straw of my drink, Zeke takes a measured sip, forest eyes never leaving mine. Warmth penetrates me through the hand on my shirt sleeve. It’s as if his spirit is mixing with mine and causing my body to hum with renewed life. The ache in my heart is soothed away within seconds. Does he have magic of his own?

“Safe to eat, Your Majesty,” Zeke mocks, licking at his lower lip and falling back into his own seat.

“Right…thank you.” Setting my drink down, I try to remember the last time I took a breath.

“You better eat it before I do. Food is crazy expensive here.”

Zeke smiles around his own drink as I take my first bite. It's…not that great, but it's better than starvation. The servants would never allow me to eat anything less than perfect. I take a sip of the coffee, and my eyes widen. It's so sweet, my teeth may rot if I finish the whole cup. It's the most hellishly debaucherous drink I’ve ever tasted!