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The god flew beneath the cracks of heavens with a bouquet in hand. A spectacular mixture of blue anemone, forget me nots, chrysanthemums and snapdragons—each with their own baggage of meaning. The foreboding claps of thunder signaled his arrival, the trumpets of the second coming started playing in a tune that seemed familiar to the god, yet he chose to ignore the unimportant stuff. A hollow song paired with the angels who raised their swords in defiance…clearly, they do not want him near.
“...I have been tasked to cleanse this land,” he murmured to himself, as the strong wind tangles his long, blueberry locks together, “and in the long run I have given love with occasional carnage.”
Luculia gave the silent shadows a dry laugh as he looked back to the face of the addressee.
The destroyer of worlds—Leona Kingscholar, his lover whom he’ll eternally love.
“Do I terrify you, Kingscholar?”
“No.”
“My love, you are partly melting and this is not even my entire form yet.”
The god states the obvious without a hint of any concern laced in his voice. In fact, he wanted his lover to melt into oblivion. Luculia wants Leona to become one with him, to have him flow on his hand gracefully even when his fingers aren’t that of God’s. His love is a threat, a knife pointed to the throat. And as he reveals his true form to the mortal, even the land below would wither.
But his lover’s face restructures itself and purges the god’s expectations. If he was no one to the cataclysm, he would have his soul shattered into million pieces and his lungs full of volcanic ash. If Luculia didn’t love a mortal so much, then humanity would have ended on the same day.
"I have perished under your seething warmth more than once, Luculia. More than anything, I am the monument of your sin, the wound scalping through your ears and the body you’ll fail to bind to the Earth. You are looking at someone who belittles god.”
The blueberry haired youth flew closer to the believer and caught his body. Leona gave out the look of a fallen angel— L’Ange Dechu, the poison in Christ’s eden, the rebellious rage and shame painting his angelic features as god casts him out of heaven. As the devil puts his hand around the glory, the God of Cataclysm raises the bouquet. Few petals broke free from the stem, and then he asked his lover: “Is this your form of repentance, Leona?”
“My form of salvation is to feel pain through you. I love you just as how there is a church inside a hospital, and you my beloved, are the symphony of that holy place reeling everyone as your light blinds the believers. I will be your shrine, your holy temple, and we will always be connected in one way or another. In my scraped knees you will see nothing but my unreserved adoration and in my mouth you will hear nothing but your glorious name being spoken. You will come running back to me, apologetically, and think of me belovedly more than anyone else, yet at the same time you will rip out my chest and claim what is yours.”
Leona gave him an eye of longing.
“Luculia, we are nothing but a myth of heaven and hell to the non-believers. To me however, you are real, and right now I am being carried by your love to where my body should be.”
As the gap between the destroyer and the god lessens, so is the crack in the universe. Only the damned and the redeemer will never hear of this deathless, violent love.