Demon Stories

Violette: The Heart's Mouth, 1472, Spain

Violette

The Heart's Mouth

1472, Spain

Dripping droplet, my dear crimson jewel. Jewel more, jewel less. Impossible to think it, for blood to form on her finger without the punishment. 

She is dressed in royal clothing, a strange disguise, yet she can carry it out. Her commanding prescence blinds all to what she is. Her glowing green eyes hypnotize all with her beauty, there is not a protest on their lips. We take their children, and there is yet not a protest on their lips. 

She watches me intently as I suckle on her finger like a newborn lamb. My body shivers as her cold hand sweeps my hair again and again. It is not a loving gesture. So what is it? 

Outside, the storm is raging, liquid sound everywhere. Every so often, the sky will erupt in light, and from the window it casts in, against her moonlight white face. Illuminating her impossible beauty, too perfect to be real. Her high cheekbones, her blood red plump lips. Her large staring green eyes. 

It is not real. If others could see. Her swirling black shadow of smoke like large wings, wrapped around her. When they spread apart, you will die. 

She looks out the window edged in smooth stone. All I hear is the ever pounding rain, echoing in the empty castle. She makes not a sound. Others would experience clothes rustling, something, but somehow her sound is masked, as if muted mysteriously.

She hears something else.

I gasp as I notice one of her eyes is staring at me. Without a word as always, she takes my hand. Her icy grasp causes my heart to clench, for its sudden coldness and for this feeling which can not be described. The squeezing feeling, not warm for her, not cold. A thankfulness. A deep fondness.

She takes me on her back, and crawls to the roof of the castle quickly, without weight. This practice is no longer disturbing to me. In the beginning, I would look down and have a fright at being so high up. Then she taught me how to fly.

She stands unnaturally still on the roof, as if being a painting instead of a being. She breathes in and in the darkness. Far off in the distance, we hear the chiming of church bells. It is New Year's Eve, a time of great suspicion and fear for the people of this land. They fear many things foolishly, not understanding of what truly is out here. Such bliss to not know. They don't know how lucky they are. Why waste it with such superstition and fabricated fear? There is only one thing which they have to fear, and she is standing right next to me breathing in and in. And fear her they do. Yet they have no idea.

The smell of rain and dirt fills me up as I try to do as she does. A heavy pat on the head startles me and causes me to open my eyes. She is staring at me again, a slight smile, which sends a shiver up my spine, on her lips. Her large eyes are curved upward more than her lips in this merriment. She is proud of me for trying. My heart cascades upwards in a torrent of bubbling rushing glee. 

She nods her head slightly, and I know what we are doing next. She takes my hand again, and that familiar feeling encapsulates my heart unbidden just like every time. It is almost as if her cold hand is wrapped around it, sending a shudder in my chest. There is a cold, weightless air on my back, and my black wings touch the sky in shy eagerness.