Whispers at Witching Hour

Chapter 50

Musical inspiration: I Will Never Die – Delta Rae

Lilith placed her hand on the trunk, paying attention to every winding in the bark underneath her fingertips and palm. The minion had advised her to come back here and suggested she might want to find herself a hobby. It sounded ridiculous, but ever since talking about her former home, she had this incredible urge to come back here. And if she found something to distract herself from the absurd play that was her life right now, the better. 

Up in the earthly parts of the crown again, where Zelda and she had spent their first date, she started doubting if this was a good idea. How was she supposed to get some rest if this place would only remind her of what she had lost?

She wandered aimlessly around the platform, stopping on the edge where she had almost fallen into the nothingness. Of course, she was not that easy to kill, but it Had been the event, the action that had messed her up at the time. Strangely, she did not feel anything about it anymore, knowing Zelda was not at fault for any of this. What hurt her were the remnants of the pain she had felt when they parted.

The demoness crossed her arms in front of her chest and stood there with her legs hip-wide open, her gaze wandering to the horizon. For a good ten minutes, she did just that. Let her thoughts drift and the warmth of the tree – her first real and only loyal friend on earth – fill her heart. Maybe this was a good idea after all.

Then, she continued her stroll and walked around the trunk to see the other side, where they had not been with Zelda. Mostly, because there was not much to see; only books on shelves that coiled around the tree trunk like a strangler snake. Most of them did not mean much to her, were only acquisitions from wherever she had been during the day, exploring the world.

Only one book caught her attention, the only thing she had managed to grab before she was kicked out of the Garden. Lilith stroked her thumb over the binding of it before she pulled it out.

It was a collection of ancient Enochian poems – poems written in her mother tongue. The one only God's first divine creations spoke. There had been an angel that had grown particularly fond of her back then in the Garden. They had come to visit her every now and then, they spent endless hours together, talking. But she had never considered them a friend, rather a mentor or teacher. Metatron.

A smile flitted over her face, remembering their deep conversations and philosophical discussions. Metatron was one of the few authors of Enochian poetry and seized every opportunity to talk about them. Lilith opened the book and found the dedication Metatron had written: "To the first and last woman, mother and daughter. May you never forget your origins. Metatron."

Lilith wondered if Metatron had known back then she would be kicked out of the Garden. Was the book their farewell gift? She returned to the other side of the platform and took a seat in one of the armchairs, book in her lap.

At first, she leafed lazily through the book, but then stopped to read one of the poems. 

A nor

The Son

Zadzaczadlin i gigipah o luciftian

Adam is breath and brightness

Zadzaczadlin i ors o teloc

Adam is darkness and death

Crip a pasbs uran tia monons ca t i

Only the daughter sees his heart as it is

A tear rolled down her cheek and a strange feeling rose in her gut, reading her mother tongue for the first time in millennia, speaking to her. And it truly felt like home, like the Garden, like Father. The poems were short ones as the Enochian language only had restricted vocabulary because it was not used as much since divine beings could communicate via telepathy, waves. But even though it were only few words, every single one of them resonated within Lilith, touching her weak spots with precision. It was easy to get lost in it; the words wrapped around her like a heavy blanket.

She kept reading for a while, turning page after page until one poem put a firm grip on her:

Mozod

Joy of God

Ah congamphlgh ar gnay ge om boaluahe

A spirit that does not know love

niis de gahal g donasdogamatatastos

Came to exist in hell-fire

a gah ds om gohed boaluahe

The spirit who knows everlasting love

Trian torzu de ne turbs

Could arise to divine beauty

A demon is made a demon by taking away their ability to love and be loved. That was silly, she thought, because she clearly loved Zelda. But at the same time, while loving Zelda, she had felt less and less like a demon... It was just poetry, was it not?

Time went by as she turned page after page, diving into the world of her long-lost mother tongue. Her eyelids got heavy, and before she knew it, she dozed off. The book dropped on her chest and for the first time in weeks, she slept peacefully in the wooden chair in the tree of life, her home.