Chapter One and Two of: The Archivist

The Archivist

By: Frank Tudor

Copyright © 2025 Frank Tudor. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1: Tavern at the End of the Galaxy

A match struck.  

Sharp teeth gripped a cigarette as the spark burst into life.  

A quick exhale extinguished the glow, briefly unveiling a face designed for fear, then... sudden darkness.

As the smell of sulfur from the match faded, the faint stench of stale liquor rose from every surface—a lingering incense of troubled souls who had passed through and the bad decisions that once seemed like good ideas.

The flickering lights of the tavern couldn’t decide whether to keep working or give up. This was a tired place where time lost track of itself. A place where the drunk, the damned, and the desperate found common ground.

Tonight was definitely no different.

In the tavern’s dimmest corner, smoking his cigarette and hunched over a ceramic cup of steaming tea, sat Belial.

He looked like something out of a biblical fever dream: his skin the color of old blood, twisted horns curling back from his forehead, and almond-shaped cat eyes glowing like dying embers.

His nostrils, two vertical slits, flared rhythmically as he exhaled through them.

A permanent grin suggested he had witnessed the end of the world and found it mildly amusing. His massive, clawed fingers delicately lifted a newspaper. His forked tongue flicked over a broken fang, a constant irritation.

He patted his chest and looked around the table for his reading glasses, only to discover they were already on his face. Belial muttered something unintelligible as he exhaled. He turned to the front page of The Daily Firelight, a newspaper that prided itself on fairness in reporting and was staffed by both angels and demons.

He scanned the headlines:

The celestial stock market was in freefall.

Angels were unionizing.

An unnamed politician threatened to privatize purgatory. Again.

"Banter. Purgatory is Hell, and Hell is a social safety net. Good luck with that, mystery person," he muttered, gritty like gravel.

His spaded tail flicked against the booth, betraying the exhaustion of someone who had spent eternity dealing with bureaucratic nonsense.

Just then, the tavern door swung open. A figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the impossible radiance of an event horizon. The glow seared against Belial’s sensitive eyes. With a snarl, he shielded his face with his clawed hand. A man stepped in, and the door shut. Belial squinted as his vision adjusted.

Standing in the tavern’s sad lighting was what appeared to be an average human male. Or at least, it was something trying its best to look like one. The man scanned the room, slow and deliberate, until his brilliant blue eyes landed on Belial.

Oh no, Belial thought. He lifted his newspaper, pretending not to exist.

The man approached. The soft clap of leather sandals against the filth-stained floor stood out in the constant hum of intergalactic vice.

Belial, peering over the crease of his paper, studied him. His hair was a mop of loose black curls, and he wore red and white robes that contrasted with his swarthy features. And those eyes. He had the kind of eyes that made a person confess to sins… even the ones they hadn't committed yet.

The man stopped at his booth. "Excuse me," he said.

Belial sighed, rolled his eyes, and lowered a corner of the paper, meeting the stranger’s gaze. "Unless you're here to sell me a timeshare in Elysium Fields," Belial muttered, "kindly piss off."

The stranger chuckled and slid into the booth, uninvited. "Belial, I presume?"

"You may presume," Belial said reluctantly.

"My name is Persuasion. You don’t know me, but I’ve heard all about you." His voice was smooth, his smile friendly, yet neither reassured Belial.

Belial exhaled through the moist slits of his nose and didn’t bother looking up.

"Look. Whatever it is you want, the answer is no."

"We'll see... I believe that once I finish what I have to say, not only will I have your interest, but I will also get your commitment," Persuasion said, slipping his fingers through his black curls and pushing them out of his face.

Belial removed his glasses and closed his newspaper with a sigh. "I don’t like interruptions when having my cigarette, tea, and paper. It’s the only thing I enjoy in this shithole I call a life."

Persuasion leaned forward. "I need Geneviève Chevalier."

Belial’s thick brow arched. His slitted pupils narrowed, giving Persuasion a bit more scrutiny.

Persuasion’s smile widened. His confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was the assurance of someone who had never heard the word no, which was probably worse.

"A situation has developed," Persuasion said. "And I need your help to locate Geneviève."

Belial tapped a treacherous claw against his teacup. "Geneviève Chevalier," he repeated. He rolled the name over his tongue, correcting Persuasion’s botched French enunciation. "It's an interesting request."

Persuasion nodded. "I assume you know where she is?"

Belial’s tail flicked. A subconscious betrayal of mild interest. He drummed one of his claws against the table. "Perhaps." His gaze sharpened. "Why don’t you tell me what this is about? And do make it quick. I’m one bureaucratic nightmare away from retiring my life to that black hole swirling outside."

Persuasion leaned in. "It involves a painting."

Belial groaned, "Oh no. Not that goddamn painting again."

Persuasion’s grin widened. "You know it?"

Belial rubbed his temples. "A sentient painting that comes to life and eats things. That warps reality and mucks with your perception. The same one I’ve been hunting for five centuries." He huffed. "Yeah. I know it. It's sort of a terrible obsession of mine."

"That’s the one," Persuasion said, his grin widening.

Belial knew where this was going, and he didn't like it. "Look, we can’t find it. Trust me, we’ve tried—"

"I know where it is," Persuasion interrupted.

Belial blinked unconsciously, jerking his hand and spilling hot tea over his claws. The liquid hissed into steam. "Excuse me?"

Persuasion was thoroughly enjoying his folly. "I said… I know the current whereabouts of The Painting of a Perfect Day."

Belial went still. He cleared his throat while sliding his teacup aside neatly, clearing space between himself and Persuasion.

"Okay? Well, that's something you don't hear every day. Do continue," said Bellial.

"As I said, a situation has developed, and I need to get to the painting with a team of people who know how to deal with this sort of thing… and that starts with Geneviève."

Belial exhaled sharply through his nose slits, his tail flicking against the booth. "The painting is unpredictable and dangerous. What kind of god are you, exactly?"

Persuasion smiled, smoothing a hand over his robe. "I hail from the human emotional plane. We call it The Eminence. And I am a …well, not entirely a god, but I have a special power and some interesting conveniences that normal people don't have."

Belial snorted. "The Eminence, huh? That sounds stupid."

Persuasion didn’t miss a beat. "Hell sounds stupid."

Belial blinked, then let out a sharp, unexpected laugh. "Hell is most definitely stupid," he said, agreeing emphatically. "Alright, mister god-that-is-not-like-a-god… fair enough." He took a sip of his tea, shaking his head. "You might be insufferable, but at least you make me laugh."

"Thank you. I take pride in my entertainment value," said Persuasion. "But what truly matters is not the painting itself, but what lies within it," Persuasion said.

"Wait… What's inside the painting?" Belial asked, taken off guard by this new bit of information.

"The Demon Core is inside it," 

"The Demon Core?" said Belial dismissively. 

Am I really being played for a fool? He thought. "Hmmm," he said.

"What's the matter?" asked Persuasion.

"Oh, nothing. I mean, those items are two fascinating objects lost to the ages. And it seems unusual that you, some small-time godling person, not only know the whereabouts, but you're suggesting they are in the same place. That's fascinating," he paused for effect. "But even then, considering the danger surrounding both, what makes you think you can retrieve them?" Belial asked, skepticism laced in his tone.

"That's why I am asking for Genevieve," Persuasion insisted.

Belial exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the table in a slow, methodical rhythm. "Ah. I see. Still. One part of vital information is missing," he said in a concerned tone. "So again. How do you know all this?"

"Well, Kirby Brink told me," said Persuasion.

Everything about Belial changed. Once a dull and tired white, his eyes flared to yellow and deepened into a burning, blood-red. The air around him grew thick, and the temperature rose just enough to make the varnish on the wooden table crack and peel. With a deliberate motion, he slid his teacup aside, folded his newspaper, and set it neatly beside the cup, clearing the space between himself and Persuasion.

Persuasion, unfortunately, now had Belial’s undivided attention.

Belial cleared his throat and gave himself a moment to search for the right words. "Are you aware that Kirby Brink aided the Rebellion and brought war to the very gates of Pandemonium?" His voice was steady, but there was something lethal in its precision.

Persuasion met his gaze without flinching. "Yeah, I heard about that."

Belial's claws flexed against the tabletop. "Were you also aware that he aided those two pariahs? Demon outcasts. The ones whose very names are unwelcome in my mouth?"

"Astaroth and Asmodeus," Persuasion said plainly. "Yes, I’m aware."

Belial’s expression remained eerily still for a moment. The silence was heavier than the gravity of a dying star. "So then you probably have now realized," he said, his voice like cooled lava, "that the mere mention of those three names has just about erased any possibility of me helping you." His claws dragged against the tabletop, leaving deep, smoldering grooves. 

Belial continued, "Now, Mr. Persuasion. Here is the most important part, so listen carefully. Did you know I would turn on you after you revealed all this to me before you walked in today?"

"I did," said Persuasion.

Belial inhaled sharply through his nose, his nostrils flaring. The very air around them wavered like heat off a desert road.

"Good. because I was beginning to think I would get lost on you. It seems I haven't, thank god. You seem lucid and of sound mind, so you'd best start explaining yourself, sir." His voice was low, deliberate, and humming with anger.

Persuasion held his hands up in a calming gesture. "First thing you should know is that Kirby works for me."

Belial’s lip curled. "Oh, he's working for you, is he?"

"Yes."

"Working on what?"

Persuasion’s response was immediate. "That information is on a need-to-know basis."

Belial stilled. The air pressure shifted. His wings flexed, talons tensing against the floorboards."Are you an idiot?"

"No, sir," Persuasion said carefully, his tone measured. "You'll understand once I explain…"

"Do you take me for some kind of halfwit? Some village dullard? Some witless, slack-jawed imbecile whose time should be squandered on monkeyshines and mental gymnastics?!"

Before Persuasion could answer, reality lost its footing.

The sound that followed was not a snap; it was an eruption.

Belial’s hand slammed down. Wood exploded. Metal fixtures tore free from the walls. A shockwave rippled through the tavern, sending dust billowing through the air. The nearest patrons flinched, covering their faces as shattered debris rained down. A bartender, a Lich who had seen empires crumble, stopped mid-pour to pay attention.

Silence. Conversations died. Even the low hum of interdimensional murmurs hesitated, seeking an escape route.

One creature let out an ill-timed cough.

Belial’s gaze flicked toward the source of the sound. The poor bastard shrank in his seat.

Persuasion exhaled, brushing dust from his robes. "Fantastic," he muttered. "Now we've made a scene."

"I think I've heard enough of your bullshit," said Belial and stood up and walked to the door of the tavern to the relief of many of the patrons. 

"The Archivist," Persuasion shouted. This stopped Belial, causing audible disappointment to the guests around them. One elemental slapped his forehead in complete disapproval.

"Go on and complain. I'm right here," said Belial, addressing the impatient, weary onlookers who were all inadvertently involved in this disruption of the afternoon.  "Half of you will be working for me before the century’s out anyway," he said, begrudgingly heading back to the table and dropping into his seat.

His clawed fingers tapped against the tabletop. He was no longer amused.

"I'm getting tired of these shifting conversations that are telling me everything and nothing at the same time. So… Are you telling me you know where the Archivist is?"

"No," he admitted. "I need to find him."

"Finally, a believable answer. Forget it. His domain is unknowable," said Belial, "The Archivist is a myth and nothing more than a story told by things that don’t understand how the real universe works."

"He’s not a myth," said Persuasion. "Belial, you know what I do? I pull truths from the unwilling… and secrets from the silent. Every being, whether an angel, demon, god, or mortal, has something they want or something they fear."

He let the words settle before continuing. "I met a Nephilim."

Belial’s expression flickered with something unreadable. "More bullshit. Ok. Where?"

"Wandering a desert coastline, confused and wounded. He shouldn’t have been alive, but there he was. We spoke. And in his delirium, he revealed something to me. A tome," he paused, looking over his shoulder. "The Tome Aeternarum Librorum."

The name sucked the warmth from the room.

Persuasion went into deep thought. Belial leaned back, tail curling around his wrist, and tapped the table. "You're drifting," he snapped. "Keep speaking."

Persuasion snapped out of it and reached into his robe, unfolding a worn slip of parchment, the ink dark and sharp as fresh blood. He slid it across the table.

"To find the Tome that will reveal The Archivist's domain, we need a method of perpetual power, the demon core, and these words," Persuasion said, pointing to the scribbled words.

Belial eyed the script with a flicker of suspicion, then exhaled heavily. He patted his chest, searching for his reading glasses.

"Give me a moment. My eyes aren’t what they used to be."

He perched the small, round glasses on his nose, settled himself in, and peered down at the parchment. His tail twitched once. Then again.

His lips parted slightly, and something flickered in his expression, something that hadn’t been there before. 

As he scanned the cryptic text, he recalled the demon core… A perpetual machine encasing a small star, its energy potent enough to power worlds. As he read the lines. The symbols pulsed like the star’s flicker, a cosmic metronome guiding toward the Tome Aeternatum Librorum. Of course, following the guide would undoubtedly lead to peril without the demon core.

“Ah.” His fingers drummed lazily against the tabletop. “Yzapa-Kur’s tongue.”

Persuasion arched a brow. "You recognize it?"

“Of course.” 

He pushed the paper back across the table with the edge of one claw.

He placed his claw on the parchment. “These words aren’t meant to be spoken,” he said, low and deliberate. “They echo the demon core’s pulse, a beacon in the dark.”

Persuasion raised an eyebrow. “You mean the core’s energy and these symbols are connected?”

Belial placed his thick-clawed hand on the top of the paper to hold it still. "There. See. This is the problem. This language is not meant to be spoken, let alone a demon because it is Yzapa-Kur," he said. "But where your story makes sense is when this is spoken with a power source as great as the demon core; it channels through the galaxy and sheds light on the location of the Tome of which you speak. That is mentioned in the text. That lends credibility to your far-fetched story."

Persuasion looked down and was suddenly mesmerized by the words.

"Whoa there, Persuasion…are you still with me?"

Persuasion's eyes turned to pinpoints, and he started reading the words out loud.

Vazrāθrā xšnūtō, drujvantəm aṇtarō yat̰ zāθā ā vazdāta. Īm verəθrajanā stōiθā; it̰ Vīštāspa jaiθi!

The temperature in the tavern dropped instantly. Every candle snuffed out at once, plunging the room into unnatural cold and darkness. The air felt stretched too thin, like in the absence of space.

A sound rippled through the void... not a voice, but something like a metronome, it started to speed up.

Somewhere in the unseen, something was chattering in a most vile tongue.

Belial rose from his chair so fast that his feet scraped against the stone floor. His eyes burned white-hot, his wings flickered into existence, and half-formed shadows clawed at his back.

Belial snapped his fingers. Persuasion warped back from the dark dot that manifested behind his eyes.

"Bloody fool." His voice was sharp, cutting. "You don't speak a language like that without the core? As you can see, it overtakes you if you are not careful. It leads you astray."

The lighting and warmth returned.

"Enough. I'm convinced. So let me see if I understand everything."

"You need a cursed painting, a demonic engine, a cryptic book, my acolyte, and a conversation with the Archivist. And all these these 100 percent exist. And you need my help to achieve your ends. Am I right?"

"I think you got the gist," said Persuasion, still reeling from the angry language.

"And I get... What exactly?" Asked Belial.

"I'm sure something will crop up along the way," said Persuasion.

"An open-ended deal, eh? My favorite kind. You are either stupid, which I don't think you are, or hiding something, which you most likely are, but either way, you are making a binding deal with the devil, which carries risks that only favor me. Regardless. I agree. You get Kirby, and we will start tomorrow," said Belial.

With that, he spun out of existence, leaving a smoldering, blood-stained contract already signed by Persuasion.

Persuasion looked at the contract. 

"Oh dear," said Persuasion as he read the horrible details of his contract. A twinge of regret touched a nerve. He shook it off.

Turning, he gave the strange tavern one last look. There was no denying it. If you were to kick off a cascading series of bad decisions, the universe provided you with the ultimate venue.

And Persuasion could say one day. It happened right here.

He stepped out the door, admiring the black hole silently churning in the distance. He closed his eyes and let the radiance of the event horizon wash over him.

Then he was gone.

The Lich bartender approached two Yzapa-Kurians in the tavern as they sharpened their blades. A blue magical glow emanated from his core, a light that kept his decayed flesh intact. His smile revealed diamond-encrusted teeth, the source of his reanimation. The Yzapa-Kur; These undead custodians preserved ancient legacies, including safeguarding The Tome Aeternarum Librorum, a duty sworn on their souls and bound by oaths as old as civilization.

One of the Yzapa-Kurians threw back a shot glass of green smoke, the vapor drifting through the tattered gaps in his flesh.

“Hello, cousins,” the Lich said cheerfully in a hollowed gasp. “Hearing that ancient dialect stirred something in me.”

The two Yzapa-Kurians exchanged a glance, silent and knowing.

“Well,” the Lich continued, “you know what I’d do if I had skin in the game.” He turned as if to leave, then paused.

“And if you asked nicely… I just might say yes.”

His voice carried the quiet promise of duty renewed.

The undead patrons looked back at one another and cracked deathly grins as they understood power had shifted, sealed by nothing more than pleasantries.

Chapter 2: Kirby Brink

Kirby Brink stood at the base of the cenote, gripping the baseball bat embedded with rusted, bloodied nails. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, his knuckles white around the handle.

At his feet, the humanoid creature twitched, its shattered teeth glistening in the sunlight pouring through the top of the sinkhole hundreds of feet above. Torn flesh barely clung to its warped skull, and it stopped looking like a face after the first few hits.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting filth and sweat.

Fifty years ago, he’d never have believed this was how things would go.

Back then, he was just another encyclopedia salesman. One of those guys who knocked on strangers’ doors with a forced smile, trying to sell them a set of books they’d never read.

Until he knocked on the wrong door.

Then, he met Paimon.

A low growl yanked him back to the present.

Kirby turned just in time as another one of these demonic creatures lunged at him, its talons outstretched. He swung the bat hard. A wet, crunching noise followed as the nails punched through the demon’s face, ripping flesh and cracking bone. The mangled body tumbled back into the darkness, disappearing into the depths of the cenote.

He looked up. The rim of the sinkhole was impossibly far.

He never wanted to be in the Yucatán Peninsula, bashing proto-demons in the ruins of some godless pit, but here he was.

And if not him, then who?

Sand shifted beneath his boots. His mind drifted back.

***

Fifty years ago, he was standing in the shadows of a rotting old house. Peeling paint. Twisted iron gates. A door that shouldn’t have still been standing. Kirby adjusted his suit and bowtie and knocked on the door.

The woman who answered smelled of dust and decay. Her milky eyes stared through him.

"Are you here about the job?" she asked, voice smooth as oil.

Kirby blinked. "Uh… no, ma’am. I sell encyclopedias." He lifted his case, flashing the polished leather-bound books.

She didn’t blink. "You should come in. There’s something you need to see."

Kirby should have walked away.

But he didn’t.

Inside, the air was stale, thick, and wrong. Symbols twisted across the furniture, jagged things drawn in what he hoped was ink. The woman handed him a brittle parchment covered in impossible script.

"Read this," she whispered. "It’ll change your life."

The moment his eyes traced the first word, his skin felt too tight. The candlelight flickered. The shadows moved.

Something breathed behind him.

And it was too late.

"Greetings, Kirby," a voice coiled around his spine, cold as a razor’s edge. "I’ve been expecting you."

Kirby turned.

A round, lacquered table sat where there had been empty space. At it, a man watched him with a grin too wide, too perfect. His hollow eyes dissected every flaw, every weakness.

Paimon.

The demon laced his fingers together, elbows resting on the polished wood. A contract lay before him, ink still wet.

"You want a better life?" Paimon slid the parchment forward. "I can give it to you. Just sign here."

Kirby had been desperate. After all, he was at the bottom of the barrel selling books door to door. He barely hesitated before pressing the pen to the page.

And then his world changed.

At first, it was a blessing. Money. Power. Respect.

Then, the actual payment came due.

***

Back in the present, a shadow lunged.

Kirby reacted on instinct, driving his knee into its ribs. A sickening pop followed. The demon snarled, and he followed up with a boot to its chest, sending it flying back.

He tumbled backward down a sandy slope, slamming hard into the cold pool at the bottom of the cenote.

The water was crystal clear until his blood darkened it.

He surfaced, gasping, shaking wet hair from his face. His eyes blurred as he looked up.

***

Fifty years ago, Paimon loomed over him. He was down to one knee, trying to shake off the effects from a barrage of devastating blows.

The demon’s lips curled. "Not a bad hit, Kirby, but mine was better. You'll have to do better, if you have it in you."

Paimon grabbed him by his collar, lifted him above his head, and tossed him forcefully. Kirby’s back hit a brick wall. He managed to land on his feet and then woozily spat blood. His grip on consciousness quickly escaped him as he fought to keep his eyes open.

I have to try.

He lunged, fingers clawing at Paimon’s face.

That's when it came. Out of nowhere, a flash of silver, then a howl of agony.

The demon staggered, twisting to pull a blade from his back.

A woman stood behind him. It was Geneviève Chevalier.

Dark hair. Sharp eyes. A dagger pulsing in her hand with eerie light.

"This ends now, Paimon."

Kirby stared as Geneviève as she went on a balletic, full frontal attack. Paimon writhed, clawing at the blade, his mouth curling in a silent scream.

"Who are you?" asked Kirby.

She grabbed Kirby’s arm. "No time. We need to move."

***

Back in the present, a hard slap yanked him from the memory.

"Wake up, goddamn it."

Kirby swung on instinct. His fist collided with a smooth jawline.

It was Persuasion.

The man barely flinched, but the distraction was enough. Kirby lost his balance and slipped, tumbling toward the edge.

From below, a chorus of howls rose. Demon spawns clambered up the walls.

Then, the ground gave way.

The cenote collapsed, swallowing Paimon’s ruined portal in fire and ruin. The heat licked at Kirby’s face as he watched a mighty demon clench his fist, sealing the abyss shut.

Kirby coughed dust, his body trembling from exhaustion.

Next to him stood two figures. One, a beautiful blonde woman in a pristine evening gown. The other...

A grotesque mass of conjoined, headless twins, one hand gripping a boar’s severed head, the other clutching a ram’s, fresh blood dribbling down its corpulent chest.

Astaroth.

Asmodeus.

Two demons.

They didn’t attack. They simply watched.

"He’s gone," Kirby muttered, more to himself than to them.

The woman, Astaroth, shook her head. "Not gone. Just wounded. He’ll crawl back eventually. We all do."

The world felt too still.

***

Kirby exhaled, forcing himself to his feet.

Another figure emerged from the dust.

Tall. Composed. Radiating power.

Belial. The second-in-command of Hell.

Kirby’s eyes narrowed. "I think I know you."

Then the world tilted, and he blacked out.