Fear has always been the scent that I enjoyed most. It’s complex, like a well-aged red wine. Fear is in the blood; a syrup for the senses. When the blood is stirred, the fear rises up in a scent of mercurial, crimson decadence. It is such sweetness. When left to settle, the rouge settles back down into the darkened pool leaving mere traces of its path around the sides of the chalice.
My brethren, well, they love the fear almost to the point of drowning themselves in it. They don’t care about the texture or nuance – they just consume in a slovenly manner as quickly and as much as they can. Not I. No, I long for that eternal sip. The perfect syrup in the crystal goblet. Mmmm, fear and resistance couple together and aged over time, that, my friend, is what I long for.
So long ago I found what I sought, so Angelic, pure, sweet…but in desperate need of aging and, of course, certain spices. Back and forth the game went, through Phoenicia, through Assyria, a short dance in Mesopotamia, always chasing and providing that window of escape.
You see, the best wine must be given time to settle before it is stirred again. The torment I endured, though self-created, was almost too much, but my lust for the perfect cup kept me patient. Time over time we played this game, her ever fighting and fleeing sending me that wonderful bouquet of fear and resistance. We battled in Babylon, cleansed our wounds in the Tigris river, sought shelter in the Pyramids of Egypt during the angry years. Oh, He was not amused by my antics with Jochaneh, nor was I pleased with her interference with the Pharaoh. I lie. I really was amused.
Oh, she would fight me with all of her strength and through all of her fear and I loved her for it. I Still do. But, alas, the centuries have passed and the time of aging is ended. The wine is aged and seasoned and my thirst is at its peak. It is time for Matanbuchus, Beliar, Belial to have his drink.