Soul of Nothing

"Your soul? Why the hell would I want your soul, it's worthless to me!"

Foreword: Another one inspired by a post on r/WritingPrompts.

He finished carving the last line of the rune at the same moment he finished the incantation, feeling the thrum of power emanate in the otherwise featureless room. The lights all dimmed, leaving just the solitary overhead over the table, and he sat in the chair, waiting. It did not take long before the figure resolved itself across from him, draped in shadow, only two pale hands visible, calmly lacing fingers together. There was nothing but an expectant silence in the air.

"Talk," he spat, slamming his palms on the table as he leaned over it. "We had a deal, and you--"

The figure unfolded itself, standing up, and seeming to grow ever taller as one of its hands clapped itself over his face, clamping his jaw shut. The grip was icy cold, and there was a hint of claw digging into his cheeks as it spoke. "Let's try that again, shall we? Mind your manners this time. I do not tolerate impoliteness."

It released him, and he dropped back into the chair, massaging where it had gripped him as he rearranged his thoughts. Memories ticked back over as he recalled the protocols about this sort of thing. He took a deep breath, then nodded. "My apologies. Thank you for answering my invitation. I called for you because I have questions about our deal."

The figure had arranged itself back at the table, hands once again folded there. "Hm. It's too late to back out. Far too late." There may have been a smirk in the shadows. "Thrice spoken, thrice agreed."

The summoner slapped his hand on the table. "I didn't get what I wanted!" He pointed an accusatory finger. "You were supposed to give me the talent to get rich!"

"And by the terms of our deal, I delivered." The smirk remained, the voice amused. "I gave the talent, you cultivated it and produced works which earned you great success."

He ground his teeth. "My scripts got me money, but nothing near what they should have after they got made. My scripts are getting panned by critics! No one's accepting my work anymore!"

A shrug from across the table. "I fail to see why this is my problem. Our deal said nothing about how much you would earn, or how long your newfound wealth would last you."

"I gave you my soul!" The summoner's voice rose in fury and desperation. "My soul for the success and wealth you promised!"

The voice on the other side of the table went flat, a coldness in its words. "I promised nothing but the talent to write the works you wanted. It was always down to you to make the best of it." But then it chuckled. "But... your soul? Why would I want your soul? It's worthless to me."

The writer went still. "But..."

The broker spread its hands. "I took the soul not from you, but from your works. The evocative spirit and inspirational spark of such creative works are far more colorful, far more beautiful, far more desirable." A hand disappeared into the shadows, and there was a movement, and a sound, like lips tasting a flavor off a finger, then a heartfelt sigh of pleasure.

Then there was a suggestion of a lip curling in disdain. "Far more than the shriveled, withered thing offered up by one such as you, so willing to trade it away for the fleeting grasp of fame and fortune."

"But... our deal--"

"--was valid. I was very clear on what I would give you and what I would take. I said I would take a soul. Not your soul."

The broker began to rise from its seat at the table, but the writer held up a hand. "Wait! What would it take to restore that ... that spark?"

"You have nothing of value to trade," the broker said coldly.

A hand grasped for the shadowy sleeves on the figure's arm. "My firstborn!"

A disappointed sigh. "Ah. Typical."

"Think!" The desperate man's thoughts were racing. "You want a soul? Think of the value of a soul, freshly born, so full of potential--"

"Potential is what you had, and you traded it away." A hand brushed off the fingers gripping its sleeve. "And I have no patience for a wailing, mewling thing that would need shelter and care and raising. Potential is worthless. Potential realized and fashioned into wonder-- that is worth trading."

The shadows began to draw back along with the figure as the lights in the room began to rise. "Fare thee well. I will overlook this pointless invitation once. If you dare call upon me again, do not waste my time."