Daemons, Dragons & Infants by Alanna Blaney
They’re beautiful creatures, aren’t they? Dragons I mean. They remind me of the angels I’ve seen from afar: the way their wings arc when they swoop up into the air; the way distance turns them to miniscule stars, sparkling from moonlight reflected from their scaled skin - so striking is the similarity.
Dragons are definitely my passion, and have been for aeons. I was still a young daemon when I saw my first, not even considered a creature of the night yet. It was a time when my (many) older sisters used to think it was funny to say I was still in training when describing me to others, (‘Well, we do have another sister, but she’s not quite ready for summoning yet, still in training’) - to this day their wicked laughs still echo in my ears, bringing a blush to my pale cheeks, despite the knowledge every childe is treated with this same patronising tone.
Now where was I before I leapt onto that tangent? Ah yes, my first sighting of a dragon. It was a spectacular sight, the most magnificent creature I had ever seen. Even now very few dragons compare to its beauty! It was huge, and appeared from the very flames of Hell straight before me, as I travelled from world to world. Its scales were charred black by the fire from which it appeared, yet glistening, as if wet, or, as it struck me later on, made from sheets of ebony etched with the pattern of scales. Its eyes glared out at me as it rose into the air, two round emeralds that could be seen even through the streams of fire that belched forth from its nostrils sporadically. Its tail lashed out behind it like a strand of Medusa’s hair, and its beautiful wings, that same thin sheet of ebony stretched over a spider’s web of bones, seemed to fill the entire cavern. The sight of this precious beast took my breath away, and I found myself still staring at the space where it had appeared many hours after it had left my sight. I could still smell the brimstone of its breath in the air, could still feel the heat washing over me in waves from where it had beat its wings whilst I had stood and stared. That first sighting has never left me. Not that I got to see them very much once I left Hell.
My father (or more correctly, The Father) only keeps us there until we are ready to be sent out into the world. The only creatures you’ll find in Hell on a residential basis (that aren’t children in waiting) are Satan, Lucifer and The Father himself (although itis thought that only Satan and Lucifer know him as more than a name and all-consuming power).
I can almost hear your confusion now - I can assure you, they are separate entities, and in no way the rulers of Hell, as some mortals would like you to believe. They are just the two beings you are most likely to meet if you somehow ended up there, and being the rash creatures you mortals are, the presumption is frequently made that one of the duo must be the rulers of the underworld (honestly, if you walked into a restaurant, would you presume the doorman was the owner?). Despite their thirst for power, it is not rare knowledge that neither Lucifer nor Satan would say such a thing. No daemon would dare imply such a thing when The Father could hear them - and believe me, The Father would hear them! Crudely, they are something between the caretakers and tour-guides of Hell, although it is rumoured their duties extend to much more sinister and mysterious matters. I feel I should set the record straight, once and for all, lest you do end up in Hell and become confused like so many before you.
Satan is the masculine entity of the siblings, a bad tempered daemon, who favours observation over interaction. His pallor is more deathly than my own, not the bruised colour of a corpse, but pure, as if his very skin has been frosted with ice. The only hint of colour you can see on him is in his lips, which are as red as those of a freshly dined vampire’s’. He possesses hair as white as a winter’s fog - long enough to touch the very base of his spine - which cascades around him in a swirling mist, mimicking his skilled movements. He is witnessed frequently disappearing at will and floating precariously on thin air, scaring the Hell (no pun intended) out of both visitors and dwellers alike, making us all feel very stalked as he patrols Hells borders. He prefers the outskirts of the land (where what could have once been a vast ocean is frozen solid) and stays away from the fires found in central Hell (notice Hell caters for both lovers of hot and cold weather - The Father is very considerate like that!). From here he watches people with void, opal eyes that glow dully from beneath his black hooded cape. He carries with him at all times a sword that seems to be forged from an electrically charged glacier and is often seen in the acquaintance of Death and his tribe, as if some kind of magnetic attraction pulls them towards him.
I seldom saw Satan as a child, but his sister, on the other hand, was long my fascination, and between searching for dragons as a child, I would furtively watch her patrol, enamoured by the swing of her hips and crooked smirk. Lucifer is almost the opposite of her brother, A creature of fire where her brother is ice, scorching flames bliss to her, though she is in no way less deadly. She is much more playful than him, a socialite in comparison, but her mischief is that of a cat with a mouse - pitiless and with an air of temptation and seduction. There are countless stories revolving around her and her playthings (lost mortals, foolish daemons…), many of which end in her standing amidst the lava and flames of central Hell, laughing wickedly as she watches creatures somehow convinced it would be safe to join her burn and melt in the heat.
She is an attractive creature, to those of you who find familiarity in the more human like daemons, a totally different breed to some of the more grotesque you will find in The Fathers realm. Her figure is Death’s hourglass, her skin burnt red by the inferno surrounding her. Her talon like nails are painted black, as are the edges of her eyes, which are lined with intricate patterns later used by the Egyptians (though how they obtained her designs are unknown). Her lips are naturally black, as is her hair, which reaches down to her shoulder blades and at the front falls into a natural fringe over her eyes, which are void like her brothers’, filled only with the reflections of the blaze around her. She likes to adorn herself in jewellery and ornamentation of all kinds, particularly the Ankh. She is never seen without an Ankh imprinted on gauntlets, hanging from her ears, or on a pendant round her neck. From her shoulders protrude two leathery wings, not unlike those of a dragon, a similar colour to her skin, that hang in folds from bones of ebony with ruby red veins travelling across them. Perhaps it is these wings that gave me my strange fascination with her, or perhaps I idolised her in her role as one of the most powerful female daemons.
Of course, we all know that The Father created female daemons to be much more dangerous than the male or those of no sex at all. Femininity exudes from her like fatality.
Her weapon of choice is something of a cross between a scythe not unlike that wielded by Death and an oversized battle-axe. So many times I have watched her patrol, weapon in hand, the blade licked and tasted by flames that have crept along her own body onto the metal, somehow attracted to the razor sharp edge.
The present is catching up with us, I must explain myself faster.
There are many types of creatures in Hell. Some travel in clans and tribes, some work alone but are of many, and of some there are but one creature left to face this world alone.
We’re all conditionally immortal; a succubus must feed upon the soul of a mortal through carnal pleasure in order to live, just as a vampire must drink a mortal’s blood to stay in existence. Not all of us are designed for mortals’ pain though (The Father has some mercy) - some of us just happen to like it. However many choose not to attack unless they’re provoked. Dragons fall into this category. How they have been written as cruel, vicious creatures is beyond me! They are actually very quiet and shy by nature, but like so many can turn disagreeable quite quickly when they feel threatened.
I don’t know what I am any more. I was once a siren, probably still am, but I have been changed. Sirens are strange creatures. We are renowned best for our singing, and it is the sound of our own voice we feed upon, but as irony would have it our singing gives mortals the same satisfaction we feel from the feed multi
plied to a point where their minds are filled with no thought but our song. It blinds them. And that’s when the problems start.
Mythology has given us a bad label. We are like the dragons, shy creatures who rarely choose to live with our own kind, let alone abide the company of mortals or any other species! So we try to stay away from the shore, instead aiming for obscure areas, preferably surrounded by rocks which can be used both as a hiding place and as a seat above water level for feeding. But there is no escape from the Father’s wrath.
As fate would have it, whenever a ship comes our way (and they inevitably do) our singing causes them to lose control of their vehicle, and the next thing you know - it is wrecked upon the solid moats of our water built castles! And unfortunately, despite being able to breathe underwater, we cannot hear our own singing there, and are forced to come up onto the rocks when we need to feed. And as Sods law will have it, you can almost guarantee, no matter how far out into the middle of nowhere you place yourself, as soon as its time to feed, a mortal will just sail on by and be caught in your snare of melody.
Please don’t let yourself think this is funny - It’s the worst feeling you could ever imagine. It is seldom you will find a creature of the night. The Father who feels remorse or guilt for those they have slain, but sirens certainly do! How many sirens I have witnessed crying whilst they sing, not realising why until they’ve finished and are greeted by more bodies and broken vehicles filling the sea with debris.
As tragic as this all is, it is pretty standard certainly not a sob story worth telling. What I recall to you is much worse.
I fear that I am no longer one of them, that I am now a freakish deformity of what I should be. It crosses my mind that I have been this way all my life, but why only today? After all, I’d only ever attracted mortals before - that’s what we sirens do! I can still remember every single person that I have watched die upon the edge of my home. My first kill was the worst; I remember weeping and weeping, my tears tasting like the sea, and stinging my cold cheeks. It was the lack of remorse that hurt the most - the irony of killing to stay alive was too much for me!
I was still a young daemon then and having never experienced death at my own hands it had been a shock to me. The mortal I killed, though male, was barely a man, just out of boyhood, reeking of androgyny. He had been sailing alone, in a small boat that easily fragmented upon impact. Why he was out there in the middle of nowhere? By the time I had opened my eyes from feeding, he was already dead. His body drifted by me, and curiosity forced me to stroke his skin, relishing the unfamiliar sensation. It had felt so warm and different to my own, even though I knew it to be cold from the water.
However I didn’t have long to savour the feeling, for his body soon floated away with the tide, leaving me on the rocks, alone and suddenly racked with guilt.
I swam underwater, cowering at the ocean floor as I watched the shadow of his carcass move above, afraid it would suddenly awake and turn on me. It never did. I was so young then, I didn’t realise his soul was already gone and my tears meant nothing to his corpse. I’ve grown since then and I’ve learnt to see their souls leaving.
They watch me as I continue to sing, until Death himself takes them by the hand and leads them away to the land of souls. I know they don’t feel the pain until they’re out of sight, as long as I keep singing. And I always do - it’s a responsibility I feel I owe them, and it helps ease my guilt. I no longer cry either. Only watch and sing.
See! All perfectly normal stuff. Had you ever asked me to identify myself, I was a siren, plain and simple. Until now. Now I don’t know what I am! For not too long ago, a dragon collided with the rocks before my very eyes, attracted by my song.
Surely you can see what’s wrong with this picture already! And that’s not the worst of it, for the creature did not die upon its impact as most mortals would have, but instead lay impaled on the rocks, slowly dying before me. In shock I stopped singing, forgetting the pain that would now return to the creature, lost in the horror and confusion of the moment. I didn’t know what to do! I wasn’t supposed to attract immortals! Sirens and mortals are the only being who get affected by our voices - to other immortals it just sounds another voice and nothing more!
Shivering, but not from cold, I swam through the water to where its carcass lay heaving against the waves. I put my hand to its skin, noticing how its scales felt like that of my own sleek tail, the familiarity making my already cold blood run like ice. It was heart-breaking! I couldn’t bear to watch it die so slowly, yet what could I do? Foam lined its contorted mouth, which opened and shut pathetically, allowing it to emit low moans of pain and anguish.
When our eyes finally locked, there was no denying it - it blamed me. Surely it knew the pain I was causing it wasn’t intentional? Surely it could see that it wasn’t my fault?
Oh, if only it knew how I loved its kind, and how my only ever wish was to be near one again. Was I doomed to live a life of irony? I looked desperately for some way to help it, searching my brain frantically for anything - I was too shaken to even attempt to sing, to help ease its pain! I wiped tears from my eyes as it dawned on me that it was too large for me to move on my own, and I was not strong enough, nor possessed any weapon with which to end its suffering. I was as helpless as it was!
Through blurred eyes, I caught a flash of a precious colour. Blinking away more tears, I realised its silver blood which ran down the rock was turning gold in the water it had now reached. Instinctively, I moved back, as quickly as I could, trying to prevent its blood from touching me. I’m not sure why, but the very thought was like poison to my veins, I could feel my heart beating faster the second realisation dawned on me. But it was unavoidable and the blood was soon covering me, a particularly violent wave, made sure I was covered head to fin. I could feel it, thick, in my hair, much heavier than water. I tried to concentrate on the dragon as it writhed in agony, trying to rationalise my own panic, though every pore in my body told me to run away! I tried to recall wanting to help, but upon realising the impossibility of this instinct was taking over.
Yet I was paralysed with fear. Its blood was colder than the water and stung my eyes as it ran down my face. I blinked hard as more tears cascaded downwards. Furiously, I wiped my face, only to find myself staring at the metallic gleam that now coated the back of my hand. Was that running from my hair, or was that coming from my eyes. Was I crying dragon’s blood? Was it possible? I was crying dragon’s blood! Blind panic took over; the blood was everywhere!
The water gleamed with it; it seemed to be filling my lungs; it blinded me and filled my nostrils with its stench of pain and regret. I spun around, away from the dragon’s watchful glare, and ducked under the water, trying to cleanse myself - but the blood did not wash off! It clung to me like a warning to all - I had been tainted! I was a freak! I had killed an immortal! I had turned on one of my own! Turning back round, and bobbing to the surface, I found I couldn’t see the dragon anymore; my eyes felt like they were burning with acid! I rubbed them to no avail, unable to see anything but silver and gold darkness. My lungs felt like they were collapsing! My panic turned to frenzy as I tried to inhale, but nothing was filling my lungs but a fiery liquid - it must be the blood!! All I could taste was that bittersweet blood, coating my tongue and the lining of my throat.
There was so much of it!! It couldn’t all be coming from the dragon surely? I had become hectic, spinning around the water in circles that I was sure would be making me dizzy had I been left with any concept of my surroundings, with any sensation other than fear and the dragons blood inside me. Or was that outside me? I couldn’t remember!! It was filling my mind!! I felt my arm scrape hard against the rock, my own blood cascade out of my wound. I didn’t care. I wondered momentarily if it was even my own blood anymore; I was sure I was bleeding dragon’s blood, just as I was breathing, sweating, crying, feeding upon, being kept alive by and driven insane by dragons blood! It really did seem to be inside me, filling my every inch, as i
f I was purely composed of it. I just wanted to escape myself, to get away from it all, to get away from what I was turning into; is it possible to become claustrophobic due to being locked inside oneself? I could hear the dragon’s wings beating in my ears, or was it my heart beating the blood around my body - I could no longer tell. I was in darkness, could no longer see a thing! The panic swelled up inside me to bursting point, and suddenly I found a voice!
‘NO!! No!!! Get off me!! Get off me!!!’ I screamed, scraping my hands and nails along my skin in an attempt to remove it from myself. They felt soaked! More blood! It was under my nails, covering my hands, it was everywhere!! I thought I could hear the dragon roar back at me, in response to my earlier cries; it might have been waves though.
All Destiny MoON Fiction: A Mix of Old & New Short Stories Page 4
