The fire of hells are growing cold, when he leaves; there are still demons here, and lost souls, but they are pale shadows endlessly repeating the same tortures like broken marionettes, their substance wearing away to nothing, renewing itself in the reality of the world above-
A world, the demon thinks, which no longer has need for a heaven or a hell, souls passing through and renewing themselves without the need of heavenly reward or hellish punishment, the respective realms atrophying to nothing.
It is freeing, when he passes through the veils, never to have to hear the screams of the lost and the laugher of the demons run mad from the pointlessness of it- the demon spreads his wings in the silence of the winter’s night, delighting in the crisp frost under his bare feet, the ice in the air after the increasing hollowness of his old home- there would be nothing left of it soon, frayed to nothing, worn away from lack of souls and purpose.
The chill air cools his overheated skin, paling from red to pale among the ice crystals of the stars- free free a thousand years lost and he is finally free-
His wings arch, catch the breeze and soar, until the lights of the town below are mirrors to the light above, and there is nothing of flame left within him, a purification into flesh beyond what heaven could grant-
A flicker across the stars catches his attention, the fluttering of feathered wings and the demon smiles in recognition of a fellow emigrant, he soars up and they circle each other, the angel’s white wings darkening to grey, his smile broadening as they dance together in the silence of the winter’s night;
The demon extends his hand, and the angel takes it, they drift down together to the solid, sweet, perfect earth, the crackle of frozen grass, the crack of forming ice on the trees above them; that hand in his is warm, the angel is smiling, and the demon cannot help but join him, “My name,” he tries to cutting air, rejoicing in the chill in his lungs, the joy of giving the name he has harboured in his heart for so long, “Is Hermann,”
The angel holds his hand tight, comes close, long wings swirling patterns in the falling snow, “Mine’s Newt.”
stop playing the victim. that’s not even a real instrument
i will never forget this post
Celebrities taking the underground
What fucking subway is this
imagine just getting on a train and bam your fav celebrity is sitting there listening to miley cyrus and eating a burrito
Seriously thought why fuck does this never happen to me.
I don’t do a particularly good impression of either character, but OH WELL, DID IT ANYWAY.