Allister Nelson

In a Garden – Bitter

The corpses were fresh, tide not receding from the barrows of Hell, little bodies of children and adults – some of my brethren mere babes when they had rebelled, following my pennant of red and pride to an early grave.

I wept. Alone. No others had fallen. It was only me.

Cast off. Broken, bruised.

“Proud, brother?” I begged Michael in my mind, his sword wound hot on my head. “Proud to be rid of you.”

I remembered how he damned me with 

A kiss.

It takes an eternity to build. Several more to heal. More centuries to farm, plow, govern, for Mammon to scope the metals to build some semblance of edifices, for Moloch to raise the graves of the fallen and arm us, for Mulciber to get the electricity up and running on ether.

Beelzebub warms my bed, clings to me.

I am alone, though, even when I plow deep into his soul, this husband infernal mine.

Why? Well, of course, I ache.

Everyone knows me. Proud Lucifer, wise ruler, Tempter of Eve, King of Hell. First for freedom. Liberty’s spark.

But my eyes? Always, skyward – though we gaze up at sulphur and caverns. Beelzebub finds me weeping as I have drawn a whole tapestry of stars in blood with my claws on my thighs. I dig them, pick, shred, deep, deeper.

Lilith’s pudenda cannot anchor me. She tires of me, weds Asmodeus. Eve wanders, cast off into Hell, gets a job under my husband. The Infernal Empire builds. The first souls after Eve come: Cain, Naamah, the Cainites. The Canaanites. It seems my godforsaken Father damns everyone.

“Lucifer, what do you think of, when you kiss me?” Beelzebub asks.

I cannot say it. He will choke it out of me. He just, instead, tends to my wings with his mouth. They are rotting – always rotting – and Beelzebub sucks the poison out with his tongue.

“Michael,” Beelzebub answers himself. “You think of Michael. Long for your brother.”

Beelzebub begins to weep. I stare at the ceiling, on my back, spent.

“I am never enough.”

I cannot tell which of us says it.

The Empire builds. Infernal Machine. I begin to think less of the stars.

But then, a crack… I have found a way, my old serpent form healed enough, finally, after millennia. I worm my way like the shamir to Gan Eden’s crust, to the tender apple tree I planted, when I dreamed of better days – of a humanity that would seed the cosmos with their beauty, topple my Father G-d.

Michael is there, tending my Tree. I hide in the bushes, demon formed, my rotten wings, horns, and scarred leathery skin, face of horror, sanguine hell body, smelling like burnt meat. Oh, I will never heal.

Michael is singing. The song we made up as boys.

I weep.

“Lucifer? Sam – Samael?” Michael chokes, his nostrils flaring. “The hell are you doing here?” he says, a tear in his eyes. “There is no way in, no way out. I am the only one with the keys. Enemy mine, o wretched brother –” he catches me as I faint.

All I see are his blue, blue eyes

Tears

Meeting

Mine.

When I wake, he is rubbing nard into my sick, twisted, maligned burden of a body. Flesh and blood and bone poke out, charred as much as the rest of me. Michael does not mind. He is singing Psalm 31. I wince.

“Brother, you should have killed me again,” I choke, my voice as always, wretched.

He smiles through tears, gold haired, beautiful, the most holy thing G-d ever made.

“I missed you. I forgive you, Lucifer.”

I hiss, turn into serpent. Bite his ankle. “YOU CANNOT FORGIVVVVVE ME.”

He looks down, sad, and lifts my snaking form to his lips, then kisses me. I cannot help it, turn back to winged burnt husk, moan, bite his lip, and he makes love to my hell, my burnt bruised body. I cry out, as his tongue licks my wounds, heals me with the touch of an angel. It cannot do much, but the bones seal, and the spear wound he gifted me: my greatest pain? It is

Gone.

“Brother, I love you,” I mourn. “I will destroy this false Kingdom G-d and you build. I will eat you, fuck you dead, destroy you-

“I love you too, Samael. You are hugging the life out of me.”

I tear at my hair, I would beat myself with goat leathers, if I had them. “YOU CANNOT FORGIVE ME.” I weep, finally, too tired. He rubs my hair.

“Perhaps not, Samael. Perhaps our wounds are too bitter to ever heal.”

I gaze up at the stars. My humanity. My children. They will reach the cosmos, span the multidimensions, spreading Eve and Adam’s beautiful, blessed progeny.

“I did it all for them.”

“I know, Samael.”

“I will never bow to you.”

“Then let me bow to you, Samael.” He does, bending, his mouth meeting my erect, scarred cock tenderly. 

“Fuck you!” I moan, threading my hands through his hair. He bobs his Golden Boy, overgrown seagull – as all angels are – stick-up-the-ass – FUCK! – head on my member. I can’t hold it in, my lust and bitter love and hatred burning, balls tightening, the great belly of my beast spilling out onto his tongue. My cock throbs and I shudder, pass out again.

Too much. Too much.

Bloody

Hell.

“Sleep, my twin. My only love,” Michael sings, then hums B’Shem HaShem to me.

Bitter, I fall asleep, spent.

We take to meeting in the Garden. I tell him of Hell. He tells me of his and Father’s plans on Earth. One day, Michael will incarnate, virgin-born.

“Nothing is born of a maiden unsowed,” I say, suspect.

“Wait.”

He is born, in a manger. I weep. I am his guardian

Angel. 

How? I was just in my office. Yet here, G-d – who should have no claim on me! I barren! Hellbound! Tyrant of Gehenna!

How could Father, still, all these years?

Pull me back

To Earth.

To watch Michael, with rosy lips

Take

His first

Breath.

Mary and Joseph fall asleep. The Three Kings leave.

I clutch the babe in my arms.

He sighs.

I sing Michael, his mind wiped, this Yeshua

B’shem

HaShem.

Oh, what wretched wonder. I must atone? I – I – no, I will ruin this Christ.

I tried.

I offer Yeshua, this Christ, life.

He takes the bitter cup. I teach him all his Gifts. All his Holiness.

That is something the Bible never tells you. He does not cast out demons by Beelzebub, but by

Samael.

He comes to Hell. I harrow him, in my bed. Beelzebub curses and never returns.

I grow bitter.

He leaves.

I grow old.

The End of Times comes.

He kisses me, then casts us both

Into fire.

“With you, or nothing,” Michael Christ says, gleaming like sun, merciful. Love, it shines, is holy writ

On his Tongue of Swords.

“Michael, please, my only love, be rid of me,” I beg at his feet, a Beast.

He smiles, casts us both

Into Fire.

Enflamed.

It is quiet, in Hell, now.

Empty save for Michael

And I.

And we

are happy

you know.