03-27-2019, 03:38 PM
you are sacred because i have made you sacred.
Beelzebub
“You’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful.”
The first words he ever heard, mumbled like a tired prayer against his damp newborn skin as he shivered in the cold. His golden eyes blinked into a morning that was still dark, a day so new it hadn’t even bloomed into sunlight yet. He coughed the fluid from his lungs and staggered up on wobbling, clumsy legs. The flowers beneath him burst open to reveal their beautiful petals as though to welcome him. The grasses grew a little taller and delicately touched his slender ankles like they remembered this soul. Then Glassheart began to kiss him clean so carefully, as though he might break if she loved him too hard.
“Beelzebub. You are my Beelzebub,” she whispered against his ear before pulling him close. Her monster, she didn’t say. But he felt it somewhere in the vacant spaces of his mind that it was true somehow. His heart is still pristine like an altar’s veil but when he closes his eyes, all he can see is blood stains and looming shadows. Something shaped like rage and built from smoke.
This is all he sees as he stands in the meadow, head barely tall enough to see over the grasses that have thrived beneath his careless touch. Vibrant green patches mark his winding path to this point but he doesn’t seem to realize the strangeness of this fact just yet. Beelzebub is beautiful even beneath the sharp angles of his youth but not in the same elegant way his mother and father are. Glassheart walks the way water slips down a window, all effortless grace and sure of every movement. Even her most simple gestures inspire awe within him.
He, meanwhile, is lovely in the way that wolves and jackals are. Their eyes know secrets they dare not breathe. They are animals not to be approached or caressed, much as the gentle curve of their cheeks invites. At best, he and the jackals may be muzzled and commanded, but never loved. Never trusted. When creatures like him come scratching at your door, it’s better to lock it and pretend no one’s home than to invite him in.
His eyes open slowly, glimmering golden as he waits.
The first words he ever heard, mumbled like a tired prayer against his damp newborn skin as he shivered in the cold. His golden eyes blinked into a morning that was still dark, a day so new it hadn’t even bloomed into sunlight yet. He coughed the fluid from his lungs and staggered up on wobbling, clumsy legs. The flowers beneath him burst open to reveal their beautiful petals as though to welcome him. The grasses grew a little taller and delicately touched his slender ankles like they remembered this soul. Then Glassheart began to kiss him clean so carefully, as though he might break if she loved him too hard.
“Beelzebub. You are my Beelzebub,” she whispered against his ear before pulling him close. Her monster, she didn’t say. But he felt it somewhere in the vacant spaces of his mind that it was true somehow. His heart is still pristine like an altar’s veil but when he closes his eyes, all he can see is blood stains and looming shadows. Something shaped like rage and built from smoke.
This is all he sees as he stands in the meadow, head barely tall enough to see over the grasses that have thrived beneath his careless touch. Vibrant green patches mark his winding path to this point but he doesn’t seem to realize the strangeness of this fact just yet. Beelzebub is beautiful even beneath the sharp angles of his youth but not in the same elegant way his mother and father are. Glassheart walks the way water slips down a window, all effortless grace and sure of every movement. Even her most simple gestures inspire awe within him.
He, meanwhile, is lovely in the way that wolves and jackals are. Their eyes know secrets they dare not breathe. They are animals not to be approached or caressed, much as the gentle curve of their cheeks invites. At best, he and the jackals may be muzzled and commanded, but never loved. Never trusted. When creatures like him come scratching at your door, it’s better to lock it and pretend no one’s home than to invite him in.
His eyes open slowly, glimmering golden as he waits.
there is no burning that i did not create.