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The princess is not a prince. The prince is not a princess, they cannot co-exist and so one must go to never be seen again— to rot on the other side of the screen that befalls them, in the dead of night in the House Of Lamentation, a tv glows.
It glows like this: bright, shiny and suffocating– awaiting a meal that seems like it’s never coming.
The prince is a faulty lover and a liar- not faulty nor untrue in his attempts to love. But held back by the very notion of his existence, kept at bay from being encased in gentleness for his lack of proper pride in the costume he wants to part from.
And again, the prince lies and the word shifts into “princess”.
For years, decades and centuries. To be buried with the taunting and shameful writing on their tombstone “best daughter and mother”— an idea that makes the young man shiver, hug himself and much like any night, stare at his messiah. The glowing embodiment of redemption he would receive if he reached out.
The attic, or the tv— he does not know which noble action should be established and taken care of first, to save a fellow human or to save himself— the prince, no, the princess decides to do what god would want, to selflessly come to the aid of a fair maiden and grant them salvation.
(Although the princess is not sure that is what a woman does, she is not sure why she does not believe the brothers to be capable of harm. The princess has fallen for sin and kissed it again and again, tainting her soul and in return her judgment, because yes, she can admit it— she has come to love those demons).
(And yet they find him dead, sprawled on the stairs).
The upcoming days readying for her betrayal are a blank, but the princess remembers her favorite moments she will come to miss when she’ll have to confront her dearest, and they go something akin to a beautiful list of moments she will miss.
I - Leviathan’s shaky hands guiding a spoon up to his waiting lips.
Lately, the human has lost their appetite— and while it is Beel’s joy, it is Levi’s need to worry before anyone else that carries into stepping forward and taking charge for once in his unstable life.
(He wants to pamper. Wants to prove himself a suitable mate— that he, the awkward and jealous demon that he can be, can nurture and let life grow, that he can love them slowly).
“Oh, hello Levi.” She greets softly from the kitchen counter, a book opened before her, clearly focused on making use of the few hours she has to learn to cook a little more of Devildom’s traditional dishes, it makes him weak in the knees— needy, enamoured and blushy.
(He wants to be hers).
(And yet that same feeling of want is what dooms him to fail later on, anchored to a human who itself needs an anchor— reassurance, that no, the teachings he had received before were all wrong. That it is not wrong to get distracted by the claim of the television, that if she so desires— he will turn that phrasing around, turn his wrongful ‘he wants to be hers’ into a ‘he wants to be his’).
(Leviathan is the second in the tragedy, the second to the nightmare. He finds him, they all do).
(They find him dead, sprawled on the stairs. Free of this broken shell, much like a caged dog has finally been put down and unrestricted from its duties, to be a dog whose only destiny was this, a long hell of suffering).
He does not remember the word he has said, but yes, Leviathan gets to feed him— much like a visual novel where he somehow unlocked the super rare scene no player before has achieved, he rejoices in being her first. The first to feed her, the first to see her lips slowly wrap themselves around the spoon and savor the dish.
(A dish he made, mind you. With all the love he could muster, the never-ending obsession he has with her, a puppy like no other).
(And yet he is not there for him. Leviathan finds him dead, sprawled on the stairs).
“Thank you,” he would say and laugh. “I’m a bit embarrassed but it was a good dish— way better than what I can make.” Looking at her watch, she would blink— smile and kiss his cheek, watch him grow redder than any and fumble to get his bearings.
Leviathan loves her.
(And so since he is in love with a copy, he finds him dead, sprawled on the stairs).
II - Satan absentmindedly kissing the top of his head while reading.
The human can’t fall asleep alone, not ever since the tv has not stopped calling, so instead— he sleeps in the safety of Satan’s rage, an anger always directed at his brothers but never at him.
(Satan is also the only one to know the tv’s glow, walks in on him staring into the other side of the screen and watches along. In its reflection, there is Satan, but when it is the human’s turn, it is a prince that watches along).
(Satan knows the mask is slipping, and so, he encourages it to be removed completely— he softly picks at it bit by bit, offers the most comfortable of spell to reduce the ache placed in ‘her’ chest, keeps it just enough so it can show, but reduce it enough to calm the brewing storm, if only for a while).
The human thinks after Mammon, they loved Satan first, despite his anger.
(Because they get each other).
(And that’s probably why Satan is the third, for once in his life. The third to find him).
(Because they found him dead, sprawled on the stairs. Clearly having died in pain.)
“What are you reading?” He would inquire— for yes, with Satan, the prince can bloom. And bloom, he does, and he is sure any of the brothers would water him and help get taller and taller, but as of now, this is what he’ll take.
“It is the book you recommended to me.” He would reply and the other sinks further into his warmth, nuzzles and seeks comfort in the other’s body as if they could merge. And maybe they do want that, to merge, to be one and more.
Because they’re both angry and confused, at an existence not chosen but imposed— and so Satan is the only one who knows how deep the tv glows and how important it is to let go, because at one point, even now, despite being fixed— it calls for him.
It wanted him. It took him. And It’ll forever remind him.
(Satan wishes it was him instead of his dearest. And yet, the outcome is the same, cold, tear-stricken and dead).
(He is sprawled on the stairs, in pain).
And so to soothe it, he kisses and kisses— takes an awful lot of pauses in his reading to see the way they beam and chuckle when his lips meet the crown of their head— and in that moment, ‘they’ or well, he— looks as alive he can be, as he should.
(But it’s not enough).
(For they find him dead, sprawled on the stairs).
III - the fact soon, he will have to leave. That he won’t be a burden anymore.
He is getting closer to the need to leave, to free the other and run away from here, lest she wants to be the victim of Lucifer’s wrath— she must free the poor man, and then die of shame and guilt at killing the trust she’s established between the six of them.
(He will come to regret it forever and ever, lying might be worse to murder).
So it is no surprise that he’s growing uneasy— jumpy. He’s so scared of it, he wants to stay, because this is his home.
(And he’s never had a home before. The closest thing to one that he ever had a glance at was the possibility of being sent to an orphanage— for the longest time ever, the church has been a prison more than a home. And soon he will find it again).
(He doesn’t go back home, there is no home).
(For he is dead, sprawled on the stairs).
He makes his peace with this and readies herself— he is slipping, the tv is glowing— he must not fall for its calling.
He is ready.
────────
He was not ready. Belphie— or well, Belphegor is a cruel man. And maybe that’s what it takes to be a real one, cruelty. From the priests to the choir boys back at home, all they’ve ever offered to him was cruelty, he remembers,
(From the taunt to the shoving to the mockery to the beating, to the abuse. He does not recall why he kept asking the lord for good things to come his way, not when he knew what he would grow up to be should’ve been prevented by an earthly death at birth).
But it does not matter.
(He will soon die, once the remaining air leaves his lungs. He will soon be back, for he can’t see a sinner like himself go anywhere but hell. He can tell).
(And so he’ll be found, he’s sure).
(Dead, sprawled on the stairs).
And in the few minutes, hours, seconds(?) that he is allowed to be dead, he sees her. Or well, sees himself— it is a woman, but with a face akin to him and pretty angelic light, it is the princess he was cursed to be— it is Lilith, selfishly choosing her brother first and then him later.
He is dead, sprawled on the stairs. Like an useless ragdoll that no one cared enough to cherish.
He is dead, sprawled on the stairs as though a statement of his never ending pain.
He is dead, and on the other side of the television. He finds he is Lilith, to some extent. He is her love for humans, her love for her brothers— she is him, and so, he is her.
He was always the black sheep in every family.
(His neck hurts, his body hurts. Lilith talks but he can’t listen, he’s crying— because he knew something was fishy but his love for aiding obstructed all reasons, he is crying because he is dead).
(Dead, sprawled on the stairs and cruelly laughed at— he is sprawled like those barbies the other girls at the church would come with and rip apart, he is freed of a woman’s body for an instant, and Lilith was indeed the voice calling to him, on the other side of that television).
He loves the idea of being dead. He was found dead, sprawled on the stairs.
And yet he’s brought back, with no satisfaction of a new body.
It’s hard to die when all the birds are singing in the sky.