#.｡×:*♔ ⌜ azazel nerezza | paras. ⌟

[witchtrivls]

baby.

a peak into the demon prince’s life before he became the demon prince.

        THE SUN SHINES warm and bright through the few clouds that linger in the ocean-coloured, early morning sky, and the tiny boy basks in its rays as he runs through and between the colourful abundance of bushes and trees and flowerbeds that so prettily decorate his mother’s garden. a string of endless giggles bubbles from his lips and spills into the humid, summer air, even as thorns prick his sunkissed skin and weeds entangle themselves in his silky hair. he adores the feeling of the cool but scratchy grass beneath his feet and grimaces at the squishy mud that sticks between his toes; he is content.

        ❝ baby !! ❞ a melodic voice calls out from within the small house and travels through the open windows.

        the tiny boy instantly looks toward the source of the voice, ceasing from rolling around in the grass and bringing himself to a clumsy standing. ❝ mama ?? ❞ he calls out in a small, sweet voice of his own.

        ❝ baby, come inside !! ❞ that same, comfort-laced voice calls out for him again, and sends him all-too-quick to go tripping through the grass and sprinting toward the house. ❝ baby !! ❞

        ❝ comin’, mama !! comin’, comin’ !! mama, comin !! ❞ he shouts as loud as he can in hopes of his mama hearing him, though he stops running for the house in favour or stopping in the very midst of his mother’s most beloved flowerbed and plucking a handful of daisies and dandelions from the earth. he clutches them in his hands and shoves them at his nose, making entirely sure that they smell as pretty as they look before he hops, as quickly as he can, from the muddy patch and bounds, with a skip in his step, toward the front door of his house. ❝ am here, mama !! am here !! mama, mama !! am here !! ❞

        ❝ there’s my baby !! ❞ his mama greets him, quick to lift him up into her awaiting arms as soon as he bounces into the kitchen, skin red and warm from the oh, so generous sun’s heat. ❝ it’s time to get you cleaned up !! go grab a towel and i’ll run your bath and grab your clothes, okay ?? we have many things to get done before papa gets home, so we better hurry !! ❞

        the boy is quick to nod, a bright smile upon his lips as he holds out the crushed and wilting bouquet of freshly-picked flowers to his mother, with an exclamation of: ❝ for you !! ❞ before he wriggles out of her embrace and darts down the hall to his bedroom.

        ❝ thank you, baby !! ❞ he hears his mother call out to him, and a satisfied smile makes its way with ease to his lips.

        IT’S NOT SOMETHING that he has ever thought of or concerned himself with before now. in fact, had the other kids on the playground not said anything of it, he would still be none-the-wiser. they had mentioned it, though, so now he was curious, too.

        he tugs at the hem of his mama’s shirt, tiny fingers grasping at the tattered cloth as he chirps out a soft, ❝ mama ?? mama !! mama, question !! mama !! question !! ❞

        his mother is quick to turn her attention from her journal and to her beloved boy, a small smile tugging at her lips as she speaks, ❝ what is it, baby ?? ❞

        the questions fall from his lips with the hesitation of every three-year-old --- also known as: none at all.

        ❝ why baby ?? why no name ?? ❞

        the smile upon his mama’s lips falters, something her smile has never done because of him, and she clears her throat and lifts a hand to ruffle his messy, dark hair. ❝ because you’re my baby, of course, ❞ is her reply.

        he knows his mother loves him, so he simply nods and smiles at her.

        HE IS SITTING in his bedroom, waiting for his mama to come in and read him a story before he goes to bed. he’s tucked in, fluffy, pastel blue blanket wrapped snuggly around him, and surrounded by his very favourite stuffies.

        ❝ mama !! ❞ he calls after growing far too impatient to wait any longer to be read to, ❝ mama !! am ready !! read, read !! ❞

        a giddy feeling bubbles in his chest as he hears footsteps pattering down the hall, and he cannot at all contain the excited giggles that pour from his lips. ❝ mama, read !! ❞ he exclaims, but is instantly shushed.

        his father’s head pokes into his room, his usual, serious expression on his face. ❝ shush, child. your mother is busy. she has no time to read to you. you’re not to be reading those silly stories anymore, anyway. give it here. ❞ he trudges into the room and tears the storybook from the tiny boy’s hands.

        he simply stares up at his father as the tall man makes to leave the room. his small, now-empty hands clutch desperately at his favourite stuffie as he buries his face in its fluff and fur in a desperate attempt to conceal his tears and cries.

        he knows he did a poor job when his father comes back to slam his door closed, mumbling something about not wanting to hear his pathetic noises.

        HIS BIRTHDAY IS coming up in three days. he’s turning three-years-old, and he knows that three is a very big number, so it will be a very big day. he wants to spend the day with his mother, wants to go on a picnic at their favourite spot near the river zale and pick flowers from the grass to make them into pretty bracelets to wear until they wilt and can be pressed between the pages of his mother’s journal. then, maybe they’ll get ice cream and go back home for some cuddles and a nap, because after such a big day, they are sure to both be quite very sleepy.

        that is the plan for his day, and he knows that such a plan will make his third birthday oh, so perfect.

      his mama, though, has seemed sad most recently. she spends her time only writing in her journal or tending to her garden, pays attention to him only when he needs a bath or to eat, and has sparkly tears in her eyes every time she look at or addresses him.

        his initial assumption is that he has done something wrong, that maybe she was upset with him for plucking the dandelions from the garden, or for getting his clothes muddy from rolling around in the grass all day, or for talking too much whilst she was trying to work, but --- when he asks her these questions, even more tears spill from her brown eyes and fall onto her pages, allowing the fresh ink to bleed, and bleed, and bleed as she shakes her head in an attempt to assure him that he is far from the cause of her sadness.

        ❝ it -- it’s not you, baby. it’s not you. it could never be you, okay ?? you’re my special baby, right ?? you could never make me sad. never ever. ❞ her words are as soft as cotton candy and sweet like it, too, but her smile is sad, melancholic. it doesn’t have the same twinkle that it always has around the tiny boy, but she would never lie to him; he believes her. ❝ hey, how about we celebrate your big day tomorrow instead ?? we can do whatever you want !! i’m just too excited to wait another day !! ❞ she wipes the tears  from her eyes and tugs him closer to her to bring him into a hug.

        he wants to argue that he will, in fact, not be three tomorrow and that he has to be three in order to celebrate being three, but his mama has tears pooling in her eyes again, and she’s hugging him so tightly that he can hardly breathe; he would do anything to make his mama happy. so, he smiles and nods and chirps out an excited, ❝ okie dokie, mama !! ❞ before wrapping his arms around her and holding on as tight as he possibly can.

       HIS PRE-BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION is spent in the exact way he wished to celebrate his actual birthday.

       he wakes up very early after hardly sleeping at all the night before, puts on his best outfit, and scurries into his mama’s room to find her already awake. she asks him what he wants to do for his special day and he tells her, in the most detail he can possibly give, his plan for tomorrow, but insists that, because he loves her, they can do it today instead.

       so, she gathers him in her arms, slings her bag over her shoulder, and they take a walk to the river that isn’t too far from their home. he’s heavy ( he’s going to be three, after all ) and he can tell that his mama is getting tired, that her breathing is harsh and her arms are stiff like the twigs that crunch beneath his feet in the garden. he tries to wriggle out from her embrace, but she just smiles, holds him tighter, and murmurs a soft, ❝ i’m fine, baby. just wanna hold you. ❞

       there are tears in her eyes, though, just as there have been for the past few weeks, and he knows that she must be upset about something again — but she said it wasn’t him. it could never be him, not her baby, never her baby. so, he tries to push it out of mind.

       it gets harder and harder as the day goes on, as she won't let him run through the grass or dip his toes into the cold river's edge because her arms are like steel clamps around his tiny frame, as she stops making bracelets and necklaces and crowns from the dead and dying flowers that they pluck from the earth in favour of sobbing into her hands, as she insists that they cannot go home quite yet even when he whines of being oh, so sleepy and needing a nap.

       she doesn't want their day to end.

       she cries as though this day may be her last.

       HE IS AWAKENED far too early the next morning, lifted into the strong, yet unfamiliar arms of his father, and he swears he hears the sound of his mama's most devastated, most heartbroken  cries through his confused, half-asleep haze.

       he wants to ask what's wrong, where they're going, why his mama is crying so hard as she is, but he can only blink tiredly, rub his eyes with his teeny sweater paws and yawn as he curls into his father's warmth. he's on the verge of falling into unconsciousness again when he is finally forced awake.

       his jaw is pried open by strong fingers and a whine escapes from the back of his mouth, but a thick cloth is shoved between and passed his pouty lips and halfway down his constricted throat before he can even so much as let out a pathetic cry.

       ❝ it's okay, baby, it's -- it's okay, ❞ he hears his mama's panicked voice nearby, ❝ don't scream or cry, okay, baby ?? it's okay, i promise, it's all okay. you're three now, remember ?? it's your birthday, you're all big now, so you can't cry, okay ?? ❞ she tries calming him down, reasoning with him in whatever way she can.

       he wants to listen to her, wants to be a good boy for her, doesn't wanna cry or scream or fuss, but -- his heart is pounding and he's shaking as his father slips a rough black cloth over his eyes and ties it in a knot at the back of his head. then, he's back in his arms, or at least he assumes as much, for he can't see through the cloth to confirm, but he knows it's not his mama who is holding him. the touch isn't soft enough and the body isn't warm enough, and he wouldn't feel the absolute and utter need to scream until his lungs burst and fill with blood if it was.

       he shivers pathetically, like a leaf quaking in the gentlest of breezes, as the night air hits his skin like a butterfly hits a windshield and bites at it like a cat snaps a bird's very neck between its teeth.

        he can’t see and can hardly breathe, and everything around him sounds so loud --- his father’s shoes patting against the pavement, his mama’s hard sobs trailing behind them, the cold wind brushing through the crisp leaves that adorn the branches of the trees, his father’s heart beating loud into his ear. it all sounds like screaming to him, like never-ending screeching in the pitch blackness of his gaze, and his father’s coat just as the cloth over his eyes and in his mouth, is rough against his skin, and half of him is warm and half of him is cold, and he doesn’t know where he is or why they’re outside; he is overwhelmed. every sense of his has either been taken from him or is being utterly overloaded and he feels like he may as well explode.

        then, his father stops walking, and the tiny boy is lied on the cold, itchy grass, a rough hand placed on his chest to prevent him from struggling, from trying to get up. a muffled cry leaves his lips, but he chokes on the cloth in his mouth and he feels like he hasn’t breathed in hours, even though he knows that he would be dead if that were true.

        he hears soft murmurs as the weight of the hand on his chest is eased.

        ❝ i -- i can’t do it, i can’t do it, not -- not him. not my baby, not him --- ❞ it’s his mama’s voice. it’s shaky and broken, and he knows that she has to be crying. he wants to help, wants to do something about it, wants to wipe away his mama’s tears and hug her until her crying ceases. he briefly hopes that his father will do it in his place, but that hope fades as soon as another voice pipes in.

        ❝ you know it has to be him. you’ve known all along, you’ve known since before he was conceived. it has to be him and it has to be tonight. ❞ it’s his father’s voice this time, as harsh and as cold as it’s ever been. he feels frostbitten just at the sound of it. ❝ it is your own fault for allowing yourself to grow such love for him. you knew that this night would come, and you knew exactly when. it is your own fault. ❞

        his mama’s cries quiet, cease, and the hand on his chest shifts and moves to his face. the calloused fingers dance along his cheek, playing at the cloth that covers his eyes before curling beneath it and slipping it from around the boy’s head. he tosses it onto the grass behind him before grasping at the cloth in the child’s mouth and tearing it from his throat

        the first thing to escape the tiny boy’s lips is a raw gasp for air, his lungs desperately intaking as much oxygen as he possibly can in the fear of his father shoving something down his throat yet again. the gasps are followed by cries, though, as his vision becomes clear and he sees his mama standing behind his father. his tiny hands reach out and grab for her, but the rough and calloused hands from before grab his own and force them down.

        ❝ what’s the time ?? ❞ his father asks, not looking away from his son.

        the small boy manages to turn his head, to look around him, to see that they’re in the middle of the forest, near the river, and to catch a glimpse of the few candles surrounding them. his father’s face is dimly by these candles and he can only hear his mama’s voice from somewhere within the darkness that falls behind him.

        ❝ it’s three twenty-nine. it’s -- you have four minutes. ❞ her words are soft, her voice dripping with a sadness that has never slipped passed her lips before. ❝ can i ... can i say goodbye ?? please. ❞ she sounds desperate and the tiny boy doesn’t understand. she sounds as if saying goodbye is the last thing she may ever do, but he doesn’t understand why she’s saying goodbye or who she’s saying goodbye to.

        is she leaving his father ?? is she leaving him ?? no. no, she would never leave him. not her baby. never her baby.

        ❝ you have thirty seconds. be quick about it. “ finally, his father’s hands release his own and he brings himself to a standing, stepping away from where his son lies on the grass.

        his mama is quick to take his place, to drop to her knees on the cold, hard ground and bring her small, terrified son into her warm, comforting embrace. she holds him against her as tightly as she can and he can hear her heart pounding against the prison bars that are her ribcage. her sparkly tears leak from her eyes and spill down her cheeks, dropping onto his skin, but he can hardly tell because he’s crying, too.

        ❝ i -- i’m sorry, baby. i’m so sorry. i -- i love you, okay ?? i love you so much. i’ve never loved anything more than i love you, and i never will. you’re my baby. you will always be my baby, forever and ever. even though we won’t be together anymore. you will always be my baby. ❞ her words are rushed, and her tiny boy doesn’t entirely understand why she’s telling him this or why she’s sobbing into him while saying it. ❝ i love you. i love you. i’m so sorry. i’ll never forgive myself for this, i -- i love you. i love you. don’t forget that, baby, okay ?? you’re my baby and i love you, always, always --- ❞

        her words are cut off by her husband tearing the boy from her arms and tossing him onto the ground. he shoves his wife away, insists she move back, murmurs something about it being three-thirty and needing to begin.

        the tiny boy looks around them, eyes desperately searching for his mother as his father drags him to the river’s edge. it’s loud, far too loud, and he can hardly see anything now that the candles are so far from him, and he wants to scream again. he wants to scream for his mama, wants to scream for her to come get him, to hold him, to tell him she loves him again, but ---

        his father starts murmuring something under his breath. it’s quick and quiet and near unintelligible, but something tells the tiny boy that, even if he were speaking clearly, he wouldn’t be able to understand it anyway, something tells him that he’s not supposed to. perhaps that’s for the best, because the rushing river and his father’s words blend together in a mixture of pure white noise and all he can do is cry as he is so utterly overwhelmed. but his father continues to grow louder as time ticks on, and he swears that the few stars that he can see through the thick branches and leaves of the trees have gone out, and ---

         a sharp blade slides through and across the tiny boy’s neck and thick, red blood slips, like velvet ribbon, through the wound and spills from him with complete and utter ease. it coats him and his father in what was his lifeline, pools in the grass before slipping slowly toward the river’s edge and turning the clear liquid crimson.

        he briefly thinks he hears his mama screaming somewhere in the distance, but he can hardly focus on such noise as his eyelids slip closed and his senses dull and fall from him.

        the tiny boy’s heartbeat beat slows as the blood pours from him, and his father drops him into the river, letting it carry him away, just as has been planned since before he was born.

        yet, his mama still cries: ❝ goodbye, baby. ❞

        NO BODY IS ever found and the boy called baby is never spoken of again.

        far beneath the earth, though, a newly-three -year-old boy’s soul, shivering and desperately reaching out for something to cuddle, is found with a deep scar on his neck, but even deeper ones on his heart.

        a sinister being, with fire dancing at its fingertips and sin playing on its lips, takes the boy into his wretched arms and presses an ignited hand to his torso.

        a handprint is burned into the tiny boy’s side as the creature christens him ❝ azazel ❞.