θ: they are afraid of your muse.
He weighs 230 pounds give or take a few depending on the day.
He’s the kind of man who fills a doorway.
He’s the kind of man who can see his toes but not exactly touch them.
He doesn’t run… not from angels, not from demons. Not from hell hounds or murderers. He does not fear death but merely wants to live long enough for his life to have mattered; for it to have meant something to someone.
But the sins he carries have a much more developed sense of self preservation. On earth they can still carry weight. On earth they can effect Cain -they can mean something. In hell they will be burned away and it is only his own soul, in it’s purest truest form that will matter. So the sins push him to do better, be better. They protect him if only to protect themselves.
Like a priest he has exorcised thousands of demons but unlike a priest, he has devoured and carries each one of them. They want to survive… to linger and decay their host. So when they witness the true strength of the angel Cain, the man, has come to love, their own fallibility is reflected back at them. The sins of Cain react violently, recklessly -flaring up with every alarm ringing.
The mantra is simple, the repercussions less so. Cain stands his ground, watches as she burns the life right out of a true demon. Whatever her reasons are, he has faith that the are justified. But staying and watching and being near her is no less easy. His body and his mind scream, ‘you’re next, you’re next, she sees what you are… what you can do and she will burn the heart right out of you. Run run run little gingerbread man, just as fast as you can. You never had no right to look at the queen anyway. Leave her. Save yourself.’
It’s quiet. It’s subtle. It’s a whisper among screams but it is true.
And he promised… he promised… he promised.
When she looks at him finally, he is choking on his fear. Fear that is not his -fear that is. His hands tremble and he stuffs them in his pockets. He cannot hide what he is. Before it rested beneath the surface, something easily ignored. But now the sins are reeling and they creep like a sickness across every part of him. A spiderweb of black approaches each iris from the edge of his eyes before slowly claiming the orbs completely. He is not a demon himself, no… but it is what he will be.
“No,” is all he can say, stepping back. If she touches him, he does not know how he will react but he knows her fingertips -always so gentle and sweet- will bring him pain.
And that is the truest agony. For he finds his comfort within her embrace.
He steps back a few more times until his back hits the wall. He can feel the sins crawling against his skin. That spiderweb network and it hurts. Even his clothes hurt. He wants to peel his own skin off or otherwise crawl out of it and become someone else. He pulls his hands from his pockets and uses them to trail against the wall, tender and burning as they are, with their black tips, he makes his way to the kitchen. It is with effort and relief that he tugs off the henley he had been wearing.
Their are six demon sigils aligned along his spine, each one chosen for a reason, and all of them raised on his skin, angry looking as the flesh around them possesses a bright red color.
His six sigils all work to reinforce the turmoil of the sins he has devoured:
Hismael -the acquirerZagam -the forgerMeeod -the restorerSuluth -the great thiefSurgat -the lockpickStygal -the death bringer
He can feel each one like nails hammered into his spine as he moves around her kitchen searching for tea; his tea. Something, anything, to help quiet the storm. He hears her footsteps and when she is near him, her hand hovering above his shoulder he cringes despite himself.
“No,” he says again, ready to choke on all that is resting in his throat -he can feel the hands of the reaper closing around them even just now. He feels smoke and dust coat his teeth. It is gritty and vile and ash falls from his lips. As he speaks he brushes it off her counter top.
“The fear of a sin eater is the fear of the sins. Please… Chickadee… you can’t touch me. Not now. Not yet. Let me settle. Please do this for me or ask me to leave if you’d rather not see…it.”
