He loved me on the operating table.
The corax-headed apprentice pecked at my entrails as I lay on the cold stone. My flesh unfurled in an Acherontia styx imitation.
I had been washed in saline ether, a liquid of occult origin.
Liver:
It was removed carefully with a sharpened black steel scalpel, doused in vinegar and watered-down ale. The smaller of the apprentices held it between its mandibular mouth parts.
Heart:
The ventricles were punctured with a shard of ice from the glaciated peaks of Mont la Douce. This done, after the pericardium was lifted.
Stomach:
It was emptied of its meagre contents and filled with the stubborn texture of deshelled land snails, which were previously soaked in serpent blood for three days.
Brain:
Cured in a pyridinium salt.
Lungs:
Each of the organs were flattened with an ash wood mallet, to chase the living air sprites from within. The right lung was fed to the ravens in the east. The left, to the carrion beetle in the south.
Genitals:
Hermaphroditus' gift did not go unnoticed, but it left my corpse without thanks.
Bones:
My calcified buttresses were extracted, bleached in bovine urine and later ground. The fine result was halved into two clay vessels, the cooking of which had left intricate convolutions of mesmerising complexity on the surface.
One half was turned to ash, to be used as pigment.
The second half was handed out to the villagers in the west. The spirits and entities they are in commune with will finally acknowledge their incurable despondency.
In conclusion, one does not learn from one's mistakes.
"Oh for the love of..."
ReplyDeleteI turned to face Hanan'el with a look of consternation carefully arranged across my features.
"My dear fellow," I inquired, "what ever is the matter?"
Hanan'el did not appear to be listening, so I took the opportunity of examining my friend in the meagre light afforded by the guttering black candles.
He was rather tall and quite slender, so many of our kind let themselves go and tend to become short and squat. I always found this quite shocking but then I do tend to over dramatise everything. I myself have made attempts to keep trim, facilitated by occasional trips 'above'. It is good exercise on the whole. On the hole. Hah. I have made a funny.
I was describing Hanan'el. Tall he is, and thin but do not think that makes him weak. You would do better to think of him as possessing a wiry strength. He will not be bending any steal girders but he could easily snap a man's neck. A pair of ragged wings extend from his back just below the scapulae. These are feathered like a swans but black as though dipped in oil. They smell as charred feathers smell, so not entirely pleasant.
His face is long and slim and he tends towards a dourness of expression when he decides to talk at all. Currently he is staring off into space as though someone is talking to him. My own bet would be that someone in the realm above has discovered the rather elaborate ritual necessary to summon a demon of his rank. An irksome situation, I would advise you to avoid dabbling with mortals who write things down.
"Fuck a duck," his clear orange eyes focused on me once more.
"Some cunting mortal needs my attention and obviously it can't fucking wait" he sighed in exasperation and almost waggled his head. He leaned forwards and I met his lips with mine and then he was gone.