Demon Stories

Violette: The Heart's Mouth, 1472, Spain

Her milky hand rubs the edge of my cheek in like an affectionate touch, and my heart shrinks to the size of a pea in the fear of her power, yet in the impossible dream of her affection also. She can not be rubbing me in love. She takes her hand away and reveals a small smudge of dirt, which simply fades away in the rain. My heart is crushed in the desire for her affection, yet I smile to her in thanks. Her eyes smile back to me. 

She knows what I want. There is no way she can't know. She knows all. She knows the slightest things wrong, the slightest upturn of events, or need. 

The possibility of her affection is impossible. Yet still my yearning heart tries. For what I don't know. I don't know why I desire her this way. Yet there is a power there, a burning passion for her caring touch. But in what way? What kind of connection would there be? A mother to a daughter, comrades, sisters, good friends...a lover? 

At this last one, my heart twinges like a needle going through it, as if it is being strung up and hung up. The thread tightens around it. 

A lover. That is what I want. And she knows. 

She guides me by the hand in flight, my flight path still a bit shaky. She flies without wings, just the black smoke around her outspread as like her wings as always. 

As she flies for us, I observe her, drinking her in. She will know I'm looking, of course. There is no reason to look shyly since she knows, yet I can't help taking nervous glances. Her clothing is made a of thick fabric, smooth, yet still rough. It is a golden kind of yellow, with white vertical striping in the sleeves, a voluminous tunic blouse underneath. She is bound at the middle by the corset under her clothes, yet she would hardly need it, as she can look like anything she wants to humans. I want to poke her in the stomach, and I blush full red at this childish thought. I wonder what she thinks of this thought.

Embarrassed, I turn my gaze to the houses we're passing down below. There are still people in the streets, and a few look up at us. She unashamedly does not give a care if humans see us. The sight of us inspires fear and keeps the legends and stories going. She delights in spurring fear in the human heart. Surely with sighting us, the humans not understanding what they see, there will be warnings and churnings of desperate horrified feelings this night. They will spread laurel and holy water and ash where they will to try to prevent the witches from stealing their children. 

The Black Swallowtail adores laurel.

We swoop around, high into the clouds. There is no danger, but I flinch. Then I remember something, and my heart rushes forward. Swimming in the clouds. The first time I saw her she was swimming in the clouds. And I wished to be with her in that swimming. Now here we are. My heart floods in euphoria, and I would drop in forgetting flight if not for her hand. 

I feel her hands around me suddenly, as if she were climbing me a bit. Her arms wrap around me, and for the briefest of seconds I think she has heard my heart's call. But the whooshing of air around us just reveals a spiral, and we are barrel-rolling out of the clouds, dropping fast. My body puts up a fearful response because it is not used to this sort of movement, but my heart burns and bubbles in the realization of her touch such as this. Almost as if it is a hug.