ɪ. ᴢᴇʀᴏ-sᴜᴍ.
𓄿: tags/notes . . . obey me, gender neutral mc, past Barbatos' POV centered AU, not the happiest 'ending' I'm afraid
𖤛: synopsis . . . | He is immune to bounds, to falsehoods and deceit. Still —he has slipped once, and it costed him nearly the continuity of his existence. Meeting an even stranger in this tinny form while he struggles to revitalize back into his prime may yet be an impending cost he is not ready to face.
BARBATOS WOULD NEVER let anyone get the best of him.
This wasn't a warning —but an omen spread into the beguiling hearts of lower level demons. He who walks between the cracks of a myriad realities and realms. To whomever unaware of the legitimacy of his existence, these stories —many stories —were more akin to a bedtime story, an impossible urban legend.
Well, he definitely was a local of this realm —and he'd be damned (literally) if he ever slipped —it mattered not how infinitesimal an opening could be, as he knew the nature of his kins better than anyone.
And yet —this knowledge did not save him this time.
He was weakened. No, not just weakened —dying —how shameful it is! The one thing he devoted himself to —acquiring every tidbit of the worlds —and excruciatingly specific at times, nobody could truly say that information is useless and mean it. And it was especially useful, knowing oneself —a being ruling over time at his fingertips. Sometimes, it is easy to lose yourself in the notion of self-observance —one can live only for so long until you are your own audience.
Too much of anything could be poison, that Barbatos knew very well —but he has fallen to his own distant whims, and now he is praying the price on a muddied soil —a tempest of rainstorm pooling into his lithe snot. He had left just in the nick of time —and who could ever find him here, on the green fields of earth? No demon could succeed that kind of fear by themselves without summons, and even more specific limitations.
Alas, Barbatos was no mere demon —and though lain with poison coursing steadily through his bloodstream —he is undefeated. Oh, he already has plans for what he'll do to those imbeciles —the filthy hand of the sky had been playing a part of it, he knew.
It was only a matter of time until he completely recuperated to his prime.
But then he noticed it, a human nearby —and his eyes glinted that hazy gleam. He thought of it as strange —the unusual palette of your soul.
It was transparent.
The chances of encountering a soul that wielded such a barrier was simply nonsensical —the idea that such a hue existed on its own at all could be as ridiculous as closer to blasphemy, and the implications it set ablaze in curious minds.
He's certainly taking greed to levels seen unheard of —but still. A demon's a demon, and when you so easily put something in front of it…
They passed by him, then —and stopped a few feet away. A long cloak adorned their form, and their hood was even longer —so long that it covered half their face, if not entirely —when their head happened to snap towards the direction of his tail slapping against wet ground in its nerve instinct. The only thing he could make out were your lips, half parted. Barbatos wondered if you were actually saying something, but he could not hear it in the heavy clap of the dribbling rain.
He was watching you keenly —and then, you surprised him. It wasn't as though you pulled out something from a world by gone —nothing as unprompted, but that you were walking straight towards him was outlandish on its own. Did you truly not realize who he is —the weight in his presence? Surely, this animalian form couldn't have tricked you that easily —
“Hello, sweetheart.” You sussured, kneeling, lifting half the side of your cloak to shield him from the torrents of the icy rainfalls.
Barbatos lifted his head —stared into the pitfalls of your gaze. He caught the slightest curve of your eyes, the edge of your lashes smeared with pinpricks of a heaven's cleanse.
Since then, he could not believe —nor understand your audacity. You took him with yourself —carried him throughout your incessant travels as you saw fit. Barbatos was disturbedly aware of the fact that the process of him riding the dose in his veins was taking longer than what he was content with. You were odd, that was as clear as the night to him —and apparently you shared the sentiment in the fact that he was not an accessory to behold by your elbow, to showcase his uncanny eyes and coat.
Much to his utter befuddlement, you were trying to help him, actually.
At first, your foolish hands tried to feed him with your natural remedies —and he hacked it back out on the ground, intentionally wasted and soiled. He had no time or the inclination to entertain an amateur who did not even recognize who wore this coiled skin. The sooner you left him be —the sooner he could just slumber in a dark pit to get back into shape.
Part of him is glad he did so —if he hadn't, you certainly wouldn't seem to have taken it as a challenge instead and began using other means to cleanse the rot taking root in his being. Yes, magic. Adding to the pile of your not-quite-explainable aura, and the odd steadiness of your company by his unwilling side —now he knows that you must be quite the brazen sorcerer to practice magic near him — of all demons —and much less in a time and place such as this one.
Your idle strolls had taken you quite far, too —places he didn't know existed. None of the places interested him. It'd take a lot more to garner his attention —and, albeit slightly, it did —at some point. You walked through the bustling starry-lit streets of hanazono-jinja and its antique markets by an even taller shrine —and Barbatos slithered under the satiny weight of your half-draped shawl, an amalgam explosion of colors bleeding into his irises. The way they compiled colors together in the art scrolls and those bold ceramics —it was a curious method he was not privy to.
Not knowing what he desired brought that familiar aching in his sinew.
At some point with you touring through at least fifty vendors —a particular cloth by the stand behind you caught his eye. It was a kimono —nothing quite special —but for a fleeting moment, Barbatos thought that it'd fit the curvature of your form and flounder the color in your lips to something one could not ignore. Tempting, but revoltingly confusing than anything —and it was brushed into the deepest crevices of his mind.
You continued to travel — through arduous roads to eventually Rome and even the astringent baths of Diocletian that you had the balls to snuck him inside of —and though it was distantly amusing, including your brief retellings of the events that took place here and fro, he still couldn't quite understand your motives to begin with, much less discern what you really were thinking.
Barbatos supposed that'd make the two of them —as to put it lightly, he wasn't the easiest patient under your ambitious administrations.
The one reason he hadn't simply left at whim was because he lacked the strength it'd possess to move as smoothly in this realm. He was not particularly involved or interested in the affairs of the human world —and while he would initially guide their lost souls to a more befitting end —his form was not used to this soil as much as he counted on.
That, and that he was still halfway into insidious decay.
You kept him under your radar, though —the human insisting onto oneself and its abilities of this calibre was as irritating as it disturbed him.
Any moment now, he'd think, with his eyes half lidded and laying atop a heated ——draped cloth. They will ask it of me, I know it.
But perhaps you were simply idiotic —or oblivious beyond belief —as you never did procure about dealings past your skillset, or other even foolish demands in nature to being indebted to you in some capacity. If you knew to use magic —especially the kind that you were adapting through various trials of error to simply cure his ailment —surely you must have noticed. You must've had questions about his forked tail —and its faintly turquoise sheen. There was no way you couldn't have, after all —you had to examine his condition on a few set days.
He would've likely tore your hand clean off if you weren't as brief, and if not for the thin piece of cloth that covered your hands. Barbatos wondered where you managed to procure such a garment. Yes, at times like these, he truly wanted to speak, then —not just to question you, but to remind lost lambs such as yourself in whose presence you paraded around.
And yet, he holds himself back from doing so. He still wasn't perked enough to even care enough in holding a full conversation with you. You were simply one of those blips of irregularity in his list. You would be gone soon, as quick as was his initial scrutiny.
With an air of injured dignity, Barbatos had to admit —you were good at what you did. Already, his scales glistened brighter than your feeble future, and he began to find himself awake more often than not.
After reams of harrowing nights —of how, most days, he could only hear your voice in his subconscious than even in his wake— these kinds of days were not kind to bear through their eventual end.
Your words lasted an unexpected effect on him the most, and it was the closest thing that came to hold his archaic mind from a bottomless line of limbo. It made no sense to him; your faint voice in such instances were not of incantations or to raise him into a demonic contract —but you told him a great many things of non-importance, and more mumbo jumbo about distant cautionary tales than he was looking to file in his memory —but it kept him anchored, and that was all that he needed.
But —need? Barbatos —to need anything at all from a mere human?
He must be truly more unwell than he realized.
It seems you knew he had a particular sensitivity to light and its fiery heat —so you'd allowed him to curl up just about in any spot that he could relax in. Yes, most of the time —he was asleep to preserve his steadily rising energy. You also didn't seem to mind that even when he was awake, he would not come near you or allow you near. Perhaps you knew better than to push your luck —or you understood the warning in his unnerving stares.
Barbatos would not tolerate being treated as neither pet or being babysat. For now, though, he supposed he'd let you be —see what you will concoct. Will you run away —screaming and upset —when you see him for who he truly is? Or, perhaps you are more cunning than he has given you credit for —and you hid behind your false ministrations to get him on your good side. Surely you must've wanted something; it'd be senseless for you to have been doing this all on whim.
Barbatos acquiesced; at least for your unending efforts, confusing as they may be, he would grant you one —singular wish.
As dawn rolled into night —he came to be. He did not simply look more luminescent than before —he felt more alive than a few days prior. Barbatos never realized the strains had made home in his bones —so much so that it was the norm for him. Today, not only had that damnation been wiped clean from his system, but that he held an unfamiliar kind of enervation now. It was strange —but not something to complain about.
And because it was so early, he allowed himself to slither out of his shadeless cocoon and about the place you were staying in. If he had been allowed inside, surely that would grant him the right to see whatever he desired —and it was an inconspicuous space, anyway. It looked empty —unlived within, even though you occupied it more often than not, located in the hillside of a whole nothingness, just a vast field, and even longer forest paths.
Good thing you knew teleportation magic. Otherwise, he'd give you a lot more trouble for the inconvenience of striding underneath that scorching sun. You were also careful enough to never get caught by passers, and regular older folk that'd stop to make small talk with you, or invite you in for a hearty dinner.
You rarely excused yourself. Really, you ought to be more aware of your surroundings, as esteemed a sorcerer you were. What if your rice was ridden with Coriaria, and you noticed too late? And how would you fare the consequences, leaving him in the foul companies of untrained imbeciles?
You weren't unkind.
Barbatos did not know what to quite make of this notion that became more apparent by the day —and he decided that such a thing must surely have been at test at least several times a day and night. That was how most novice sorcerers were, after all. They had little discipline in what should be grasped and what lines should be best left uncrossed.
They wanted —and wanted. Endlessly.
So did you? He did not know —and it gnawed at him with rabid unrest. Barbatos was a demon of excellent composure and will, but if he hadn't, he surely would have inquired. You wasted your time with strangers you didn't know, just to satisfy an untold societal expectation —and sometimes your voice was duller, or sweeter, and it always varied to a deacon he couldn't quite discern.
Barbatos did not know, and it began to kill him more meticulously than withstanding the poison locked within his lined veins.
To probably not to startle your hosts —you'd never pulled him out, nor introduced him, but only acknowledged him with silent mannerisms —a nod when he would rather stroll outside, a faint tapping to redirect his path out of your cloak and to the wooden ground. He couldn't resist messing with you a little in his own way —when he crawled to a wrong opening that could make the others spot him, or whistle an entropy in your ears, just to see the slightest panic paint your complexion.
He hasn't seen your eyes in a while, so this is all he has. Barbatos doesn't know if you find it unnerving to gaze back at him —because you always have that cloak masking half your countenance. Maybe you do meet gazes. Just not directly.
And when those little visits finally come to an end, Barbatos is met with a finely skewered piece of meat in his face. You take what is offered to you on the side and let him snuff out what piques his interest. Mostly, he remains haughty and distant —eyeing some of your antique purchases.
He takes what he wants and you smile at him, pleased. Barbatos is less disgruntled by this strange term of exchange —he has noticed it lately.
Ah, but today would mark the end of his soddy state —finally, and perhaps he'll think of what to say to you soon. Right now, he needs to shed this skin…
But he is halted by the call of him from the other end of the room, Night — you say, because of course you would come up with such a name for him. Really, he has been outstandingly patient with this human when he needn't be. At the very least, he can appreciate the vast ambiguity in its title.
You tell him you'll be back with his final fix —but he doesn't quite understand your wording. You looked at him for only half a minute. Couldn't you tell he was entirely cured, now? Was your collection more important than him —the one to let the threads you walk across exist?
He was a little iffed, certainly —but who was he to truly understand a human's heart, especially one as indecipherable as your own? You bared it to no one —not even to the slumbering companion.
So, Barbatos found his way into your quarters while you were out and about. And again, it surprised him slightly.
It was just as empty as the rest of the house.
The wooden desk would be a good place to pry, he decided. Just a rust toned cushion —a dingy little bed that had seen better days, and there were the trinkets. Not to you perhaps, but to Barbatos —they didn't seem particularly eye-catching. He would go back to your desk and pause for a moment, looking back at the neatly rolled blankets —the way they were placed. Finally, it clicked.
Those travels and books —they weren't simply for the sake of your gung-ho carelessness. You were collecting possessions to perfecting your medicine —and it was meant for him.
Barbatos feels the tendons in his body shift.
Most of these leftover items had been used. He is awake and better than ever thanks to the little tricks he must inquire to you about. He doesn't know what else you surmised that he must possibly need —perhaps you saw how his scales are drying out, but you didn't know that he is to shed it. Are you going to bring him back one of those goopy looking nourishments in a bottle?
Well, it doesn't matter. Because the next time you see him, now, he will actually have a face and a voice that can respond to you. He has a lot he wants to talk to you about, after all. There was potential in you, too, he spied. Barbatos mused; were you under anyone's pupillage? Did you learn everything you knew on your own mortal hands?
So he sits —not before shedding his old skin and wearing something more, well, humanoid. A familiar face is always better than the other with humans —how much discomfort it brings, even the smallest anomalies on his person. Which —right, does not matter, does it? You will know he is a demon, one way or another. Perhaps you'll be one of those who will propose a pact, too, humorous as may it be. It would take one herculean heights for him to even amuse the thought.
Barbatos sits —rod-straight and poised, waiting for you to come back by noon.
You never come back.
He disguised himself —and he tracked down the remnants of your magic. It came to a stand in the middle of nowhere —deep within the forest. There's nothing he could grasp from your soul, either —it was a boundless thing, far beyond the reach of being something relatively readable. He could not snuff you out —he could not find even the slightest lingering of your being.
Barbatos stops in his unrelenting tracks —and looks to the darkening sky. In his eons of existence —he has never experienced a stark feeling of being as lost as he is now. And that makes no sense! He is the one whom the beguiled denizens of the devildom turn to for guidance, he is the one to shepherd lost lambs to wherever reality they belong.
How dare you disappear on him, just when he was finally himself again —when he had so many burning questions to satiate? He won't accept it.
Barbatos tears through the fabric of time and space in search of you —to catch even a faintest glint of those eyes he only saw once —but the truth is an unkind one to face. The chances of your encounter is epsilon —and as myriad zeros filled his vision —he would not accept it. Even if you did not exist in any single timeline other than in this one —he would not accept it.
That voice, faint but sure —it may be turning weary on the edges of his memory bank —but Barbatos holds onto every single memory, filed away in the glowing candles in his room that never run out. He stops by in his room sometimes, gazing into the glowing lamps —replaying the epiphany of your company, that lightless space draped with about as much as yours did —a collection of zero-sum.
