Creation is a Divine act. In the Beginning, when there was only Nothing, God came and Created Something. It was His first act, and it defined what it meant to be Him; to be God was to Create, and to Create is Divine. So it is only natural then, that Creation is sought by all beings, like it was sought by God. When Satan rebelled against God and was cast into the deepest bowels of darkness, he Created Hell. When further angels fell, those that had aligned with Satan, they Created their own domains within Hell. And when Mephisto found himself lying defeated on the burning cold stone of Hell’s depths, he Created Blackheart, his son and progeny.
Aah, Blackheart; admirable, exquisite Blackheart. A finer child no demon could ask for, such was the pitch-darkness of his soul. A perfect mirror held to the basest of Man’s desires and ambitions, Mephisto poured into him all the evils of worlds both mortal and divine. Into Blackheart went all the evil witnessed, all the evil perpetrated; all the evil that would be done, all that
could be done. When Mephisto was finished, he admired his Creation, and for the first time experienced Envy; Blackheart was his perfect self, to be lived by another.
Blackheart stood tall and strong on the floors of Hell, and regarded himself - this new body, this new mind, these new thoughts and feelings. He regarded his father, Mephisto.
And wherefore hast thou birthed me, Father? He asked.
To make good thine potential, Child. Mephisto answered.
Daimon Helstrom woke slowly, his dreams filled with the only thing they were ever filled with: fire, screaming, his sister, and his demon father. Even now, some half-a-decade later, Daimon was still haunted by the night that his father returned, and all that had been laid low by his reappearance. The house they had lived in at the time sat to this day a smoldering wreckage, embers within still glowing so many years hence. The neighborhood paid little attention to it - the house existed in a sort of blind-spot, an itch behind the eye when you looked at it; when one passed by, it lived in the peripheral, inflicting a vague, mercurial sense of unease and disgust. Anyone who could bear to look at it for long enough would start to taste sulfur.
Daimon thought of his mother. Visiting hours were short, and she was often unreceptive to seeing her son. This pained Daimon, but he understood why; her face, to him, was a trigger for the trauma of that night, that he had to re-bury every time they spoke. He could not imagine that his visage was any better for her fractured mind.
He thought not to dwell on it any longer, and sat up, letting the sheets slide off him as he left the bed. The cool morning air gave way to goosebumps up his arms and across his shoulders, but he quickly shrugged it off, snapping his fingers and muttering under his breath as he stepped into the front room; the curtains pulled themselves back sharply, flooding the room with early sunlight, and flame erupted on the hob beneath the stove-top coffee pot. Daimon rubbed his eyes, beckoning slightly with an open hand as he stood at the counter - from his desk in the front room, yesterday's shirt lifted gently off the back of the chair it had been draped over and floated toward him. He slid his arms through the sleeves as the coffee began to boil, and buttoned with one hand while he poured out the first cup of the day into a well-stained mug. A few cubes of sugar splashed coffee over the rim, and Daimon absentmindedly twirled one finger over the surface of the liquid, compelling it to stir itself, as he groggily made his way back to the desk he had departed not even 6 hours ago. Files and notes were strewn across the worktop, and a heavy, leather-bound tome laid open in the corner, biro sandwiched into the center crease. There were various notes scrawled in the margins, musings and ruminations scribbled hastily in a way that would make the elderly librarian he had purloined the book from
incredibly angry.
Daimon sipped on the coffee, willing himself to wake up as he perused the files. Very little had been trickling in from his office; private investigation often wasn't a lucrative business, especially if you lacked any public notoriety, and
especially especially if your newspaper ad featured "expert in occult business and demonology" in the listing. For the most part, this bothered Daimon very little; less business was less talking to people, and less talking to people came with two advantages: more time for his personal study into Hell, demonology, and his father, and also less talking to people.
The
disadvantage of less business was irritating little 'BILL DUE' letters through the door, of which Daimon had amassed the beginnings of a small collection. They sat in a neat stack in the drawer of his desk, and as he drained the final dregs of his coffee, he heard the rattle of the letterbox that surely signaled another. He stood, letting go of his empty mug and waving his hand in the same motion, setting it on a path through the air toward a refill as he went to collect the post.
There was no debtor's letter, however - no post at all, none of the usual cold-call nonsense. Instead, there was a small stained envelope, with only Daimon's name penned across the front, and no delivery or return address. It wasn't even stamped; he flipped it over in his hand, catching the returning refilled mug from behind him in the other. His eyes narrowed; the wax seal holding the letter shut bore an impressive crest, marked with sigils that held familiarity to Daimon but were nonetheless unrecognizable as any known runic script, from either this plane or any other. He set his mug aside and carefully broke the seal, fishing out the letter from within the envelope. He drained coffee as he read through, while at the same time, with ever-increasing pace, finishing getting dressed.
Dear Daimon,
My son is missing. I understand that this is likely not unusual for you to hear, being in the business you are.
What is unusual is I cannot remember my son's name.
Many times, I cannot remember I have a son at all.
But there is an empty bedroom in my house, and a wardrobe full of clothes I do not wear, and Mother's Day cards addressed to me from a name I do not recognize.
My husband is afflicted worse than I; when my son's absence finally wells up within me enough to recall, he rejects the notion entirely. I show him the clothes, the rooms, the cards; it is like he cannot see them at all.
Please - find my son. Return him to me, so that I might be convinced of his existence.
If you wish to help me - if you can help me - then visit me.
You can find me at my curio shop, on West 37th.
Ask for Amelia.
By the time he finished the letter, his shoes were tying themselves as he stuffed it back in the envelope, and thrust the envelope into his pocket before he left.
Festive
mickilennial
Half Pint
Qia
Melissa
webboysurf
Supermaxx
Nemaisare
Aeolian
