|chimerical. (scrawling) wrote,|
@ 2013-04-04 11:27:00
|Entry tags:||!!dora, !verse:fg, !verse:headspace, -[boggarted]character: zepar, -[dynamic]lucifer/tiny, -[dynamic]tiny/zepar, -[my]character: lucifer, -[my]character: tiny [leviathan], -[pantheon]judeo-christian, it could have happened thusly, snapshot without discernable point/plot, sometimes we can have nice things|
[tiny & lucifer]
read a poem about god--
almost believed it.
They conflate bulk with stupidity as if there is a sum total, a set amount of 'self' that can make up any single one of G-d's spawn, as if he must be like a herbivorous tyrannosaurus rex, an overgrown chicken with the requisite pea(-sized) brain. Not that he's an sort of genius, mind you--not that he's under some mistaken impression that he is, either. But he isn't an utter fool, he isn't just Zepar's bartender and sometimes valet and occasional breaker of skulls (and spines and spirits, as the case may be). He's more than some holy relic that Zepar picked up and twisted into a sinner's shape way back when humanity was still taking its baby steps--he's one of the very first things, created to be meat at the end of times.
But God erred, there. Because, you see, God didn't make him stupid. He should have, should have made him cowlike, thoughtless in the most literal sense, content to chew his cud 'til kingdom come and then humbly submit to the killing edge of His sword. But he--did not. He gave him a thinking brain with which to worship, with which to watch and marvel at His glory, with which to see Lucifer fall. He gave him the capacity to perceive his place in the scheme of things and therefore rendered him unable to fulfil it, made him sentient and therefore seditious. For from his desert east of Eden Behemoth saw the brightest star fall, and wondered. From his desert east of Eden he saw the man and woman cast out, and wondered. He saw the desert take the garden unto itself and wandered among the skeletal trees, saw Knowledge persistently, dangerously ripe and tempting where all else had been consigned to dust--and did not partake, saw the invitation and knew it was not for him and disdained it even so, saw that his desert had borders and sought them out.
And because he did not have that knowing, that intimate nature of his own nakedness, of his own monstrousness as it must be presented to the world--because he did not at that time know himself to be aught other than meat, he walked through the world as nothing more or less remarkable than a man among men, a beast among beasts. A large man, to be sure, and a beast no lion would challenge--but a man without the spark of violence in his eyes, and a beast that hunted only grass for meat. Behemoth was a herbivore, after all--his desert was his alone, and he had been meant to linger there for God knows how long with none but himself for company. A predator would have starved unto the very edge of death even if immortal, would have shrunken in on himself and become tough, would not have been a fitting meal for the valorous at the end of days. Behemoth's place had been to grow fat and fleshy and toothsome, lolling about his unpeopled kingdom of sand. But in motion, he grew muscle, he grew strong. He grew wrongly, and yet when he meandered alongside water and caught a sideways glimpse of himself-as-he-was instead of himself-as-he-looked he felt it to be good.
He encountered others, of course--and frequently, for the world was smaller in those days, and he took up more space than vision would lead a son of Adam to believe. There were angels aplenty, and wise men--and some tried to argue that the beast should return to await his slaughter, and all found their arguments lacking. Some tried to return him to his desert by force, but found their strength to be lacking. For he was created to fall only under the sword of G-d Himself, and though Michael did not look to best him it is near-sure that even the Lord's Right Hand could not without the cooperation of the Left. And the Left was as unlikely in those days to assist the Right as the Right is the Left today--which is to say, they are still the fairest of all His works and one is Fallen and flawed and the other is righteous and/or blind, and so the sight of each pains the other, and any battleground which holds both is doomed to do so in opposition (for there is no hate like brother-love--but that is a story for another time).
The Left Hand, the one which cut itself off at the wrist--ah, that one was another story entirely, one writ in curiosity and something unbecomingly like glee. It was Lucifer who taught the Beast to speak, all accidentally--but he is Lucifer, he is bright and shining and spits words with the conviction of a fire spitting sparks, he is fire but he is also flint, he is to the dispossessed wanderer what Mary is to the faithful, he is sweet acceptance of everything that goes wrong, he is the voice that welcomes the disbeliever and the disabused alike into the fold. And he was intrigued by Behemoth the way a cat who has leapt to the back of a chair is intrigued by a dog who stubbornly drags himself up to the seat of the same, he was a free-faller intrigued by the deliberate rappelling of the other. He sought Behemoth out, you see, and simply spoke until the creature spoke back, for stubbornness is the purview of angels (even angels who have turned their backs--perhaps for them most of all).
And so Behemoth learned words, and Lucifer learned little but discovered much, and they passed a night which lasted for more than a night, leaving a line of doubled footsteps behind them in the sand of a desert never intended for either of their feet. And then they took their leave of each other, great in their own ways and neither lessened by the encounter--one walking towards he knew not what (but something, but somewhere), the other simply alongside him one moment and then, when Behemoth's attention wandered, gone.
And when there was only one set of footprints, Behemoth would muse wryly aloud one day over drinks, a day too far off to even be thought of at that time, that was when I bored you. That was a good night, a damn good night--Bloody Marys all around, for every demon and fallen angel, everyone mellowed out the way communion wine could never make a man or a monster and Lucifer's laugh all startled delight so bright it lit his whole face up like he was stained glass (lit him up like he was an effigy to defiant joy, lit him up like he was burning from within and forgetting not to remind them of how G-d blessed bright he still was in all his damned glory) because almost everyone forgot sometimes, forgot that Behemoth wasn't dumb, that he had been bright enough to question without knowledge, to leave his desert hollow as a clock outside time under his own (will)power. Almost everyone, everyone except Zepar--but that's another story again, a slew of stories, a whole book of stories for another time.