I don't own anything. The stong is from D. Gray Man, and I don't own Belphegor (tho I wish I did.)
I only own the plot and the mother 3.
A long, long time ago, there was a cradle
I loved my babies. They were both so beautiful. One had golden hair, like a field of life-giving wheat. The other's head was crowned with silver as if the moon, itself, had given him a halo. They were both the same and different, and I loved them.
And in the cradle, there is another cradle
I named the silver child, gave him the name of an old but powerful god of strength and sunlight. My husband named the gold child, gave him the name of a demon of slowness and loathing. I almost wept for him then. Perhaps I should have, before it was too late. Instead, held my children close and loved them in silence.
One cradle has become a twin now
They grew up as all children should, free from hardships, never wanting for anything. The world was an apple to them, fresh for the picking if they only reached out and grabbed it. I would smile indulgently as they ran around in their garden. Each needed no one else but the other, a playmate fashioned in their own likeness. Oh, how I wished those days would last.
And one of the cradles got lost in the fog by itself
Why hadn't I done something about it? I saw the changes long before they noticed it themselves. I watched in silent denial as my child's grin twisted into a smirk. I gazed on as he slowly began to resent his brother. I turned a blind eye and a deaf ear every time my husband appeared, favoring the child that I had christened and denying the one whose title he had chosen himself.
A star is shining brightly at the sacred place
Before I realized what was happening, it was over. My white dress was stained in that evil color. My child, my precious moon, lay on the floor, as my glorious sun stood over a him, a childishly triumphant grin etched on his face. My husband was slumped against my legs. He had tried to escape. He ran to me, most likely planning to hold me hostage rather than telling me to escape. Now, he lay at my feet, pretty daggers protruding from his back like little sings.
"What's wrong, Mother?" I watched in mute horror as he approached. My child, my beautiful son, was drenched in the bad color. It covered him from head to toe, changing his hair color to something not unlike ash. I pressed my hands to my mouth and shook my head. "What's wrong, Mother?" he repeated. He hugged me and climbed onto my lap as he often did when he was still a child. Perhaps, he is still one even now.
"Don't worry, Mother." He rubbed my back gently. "It's just you and me now. Don't you love me, Mother?" His face became haggard in desperation.
"Don't you love me? Mother?" He began to weep as he reached for a knife. It looked so pretty, like a shiny feather, fallen from an angel's wing. I opened my mouth but could not speak. No sound emerged from my petrified throat.
"I love you!" I tried to scream. "I love you!" He frowned, tears falling fast from hidden eyes as he reached for me, knife in hand. "I love you!"
And disappeared
"I love you... my dear Belphegor."
