aenonian

Your first lesson is your family tree, tracing it back to when the earth split open and demons emerged from black mist lit by embers from the fires of hell. That was when your ancestor, Paimon, first cursed the earth and charred the world underneath his hooves. They called him Prince, they called him Sinderon, made of iron - they called him King and you get to call him your grandfather.

You begin to memorize the names of warriors and merchants, of the demons that came before you and each left their legacy. Chernobog, Stygal, tracing the heritage to your father’s undivine unholy head - held regal with horns that spiraled up and ended in the sharpest of points. “We are descended from true greatness.” He says to you proudly when he catches your little hands tracing the woven golden leaves of the tapestry in your family’s home. 

This the weight of your heritage - a legacy that is infernal, eternal and ever so proud.

-

It has been years since you’ve had these lessons, but even now, you can name your lineage from the very beginning, regardless of any branch. Muriel, your grandmother, Tamao - her father, children to Sabnac and Sakath. Sakath, born from Mephistoph, son of Camael. You run your fingers along the tapestry in the hallway - tracing the metal golden leaves that wreathe their portraits, the branches underneath that eventually connect to your father, Abaddon - the destroyer and together, woven next to each other is your mother, Aciel. Her family is not on the tapestry - you have always noticed. Your cousins, Hollow and Valentine, have always been the black sheep of the family and where the branches would have grown to represent the other tieflings - the branches are cut and trimmed - like a hedge that had grown out of control and was quickly dealt with. Underneath your mother and your father, is the three of you. 

Valac is the first - the eldest. Skin a stunning shade of red soft like roses with eyes that are sharp and piercing and you marvel at the handicraft of the weavers that had managed to capture your brother’s brilliance and intelligence. And then next to him, just a ways away is Decarab, the beautiful - skin like the night sky and you swear it’s diamonds they have sewn into the fabric to make her skin shine like stars. She’s just as stunning as you remember her and you noticed that someone has weaved white hyacinths into the background of her portrait - the same kind you dimly remember that was at her funeral. 

Your fingers trace her face for a moment and then to the side where they stop, they skip. The tapestry is charred black, and the stench of ash and burning and anger is still lingering - faint but has yet to fade. 

It will take months for the weavers to repair the damage, but when they are done, it will be like you had never existed - and the stain of your presence will be nothing but legend and rumor.