[Dire] Beelzebub

Other Information: Beelzebub believes that every god, demon, and higher power in existence speaks to him inside of his head; most of his actions are influenced by them which makes it incredibly difficult for him to see reason. The voices occasionally convince Beelzebub that he must sacrifice pieces of his body to deepen his spiritual connection which makes him prone to self-mutilation. 

Beelzebub does not remember that he was born in central Anikira with all of his legs intact. That memory is, to him, inaccessible and non-existent, because recalling it means acknowledging that he never walked among gods. The lie that he lives and breathes consumed him long ago, feels real and therefore is real. The truth would kill him if it did not kill everyone around him first.

His head has been crowded for as long as he can remember. Every thought is jumbled with the thoughts of several gods and, as a pup, when he did not know to speak slowly and carefully, he struggled to string his sentences together sensibly through all of the background noise. It drove him mad and, perhaps, understandably so. He could not sleep no matter how tired he got. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would scream at the top of his lungs without warning and wake his entire family from a dead sleep – anything, anything at all, to drown the voices.

As he got older, the static noise and jumbled words turned into actual conversations that he could interpret, listen to, and partake in. It got better, then, but only marginally so, because now the voices issued commands and, if he would not listen, they would hurt him, mentally exhaust him, from the inside-out, until he was driven to do their bidding. Their orders had no consideration for his age, innocence, or inexperience. The first thing they ever told him to do was to kill his own father.

He knows that you can hear us. He thinks that you are dangerous. He will kill you if you do not kill him first. We will show him what you are planning to do. He will kill you. He will kill you. He will kill you. Kill him.

Having nothing but these dark thoughts inside of the head on repeat, whispered into the subconscious mind even as it sleeps, would surely take its toll on anybody’s sanity. Beelzebub, a mere pup, could not cope with it, could not fight it, so he inevitably succumbed to it – but it was a death wish. He was barely six months old at the time. As he stood there, hovering over his father’s throat, he accidentally stepped on one of his paws and woke him. The backlash, the pain, was excruciating; if not for his mother who pleaded and wept than he undoubtedly would have died. Beelzebub suffered several cuts of varying deepness, but his mother had been able to stop most of the bleeding. That evening, for the very first time, the voices confided in him as reward for what he had endured on their behalf.

You are gifted. You are in contact with everything divine. Your body is our vessel. You do not have to fear death. Your soul is godly, eternal. Once you walked among us, and you can do it again. All you have to do is…

It was grisly, disgusting, and far too much to ask, but Beelzebub hardly bat an eye as he carried himself into a dark corner of the cave and began to gnaw on his leg like it was any other prey bone. He severed half of the limb on his own before his brother, Baphomet, awoke to the sight. Beelzebub was compelled to ignore him, to shut him out of the event, but the voices had something else in mind. Their control over Beelzebub was immense, all-consuming. A couple of whispered words inside of his head for his ears alone and suddenly he felt distinctively emotional and needy, begging for Baphomet’s help. His brother obliged wordlessly. When their mother awoke, too, it was to the sight of her sons drenched in Beelzebub’s blood, his freshly removed foreleg lying uselessly against the wall. She left them in haste, but if Beelzebub ever missed her at all than the memory is locked away. The voices were quick to silence any thoughts and feelings that did not benefit them.

The next morning, Baphomet helped Beelzebub hobble outside into the light and then asked him to carve specific lines into his face. Beelzebub did not understand nor did he recognize the symbol, but neither mattered. It felt good to cut into something, to leave a mark, and to feel the dribble of hot blood. He enjoyed it even if Baphomet stood still and patient, tolerating the pain with admirable indifference. Beelzebub might have been a litter rougher than he needed to be. He did not want to hurt his brother, necessarily, but that hardly meant he could not try to make him scream.

The next few days were quiet, almost peaceful. Days like that were especially loud within Beelzebub’s headspace. He left the cave in frenzy and then vanished into the surrounding forest for the better part of the day, returning in the night without his sight. He used his teeth to sharpen the points of two sticks into spears and then threw his head upon them, but he does not speak about this day or the events that transpired just as he does not speak about his severed foreleg. Baphomet tended to his wounds as he had done the first time, and as he would continue to do for every other time to come. After blinding himself, the voices were quiet for a while, but their return was inevitable and Beelzebub awaited it impatiently. When they finally did, Beelzebub was urged away from his childhood home. The voices were indifferent to whether or not Baphomet joined, but Beelzebub clung to a shred of selfness, of clarity, to keep Baphomet informed. The brothers ended up journeying together, something which Beelzebub was silently grateful for. To be alone with his thoughts was a terrifying thing.

To see him in the flesh is a thing of nightmares, for he looks like something that crept and crawled its way out of the deepest, darkest, and most gruesome fantasy of a twisted mind. While Beelzebub might not be the most pleasant sight to behold, his presence is, nonetheless, a gift, godly and unprecedented. Prior to his unfortunate birth into a mortal world he lived among unimaginably powerful beings. He might not be as powerful as them, but he is undeniably one of them, a vessel through which they communicate, act, and decree. To have their voices speak through his tongue, to have their thoughts inside of his brain as his own, to have their thunderous steps breathe life into every hobbled stride that he takes, is an indescribable feeling of otherworldliness, of authority, that is reserved for those who, like Beelzebub, are spiritually inclined.

While his grisly appearance is surely enough to strike fear into the most hard-hearted of wolves, Beelzebub is, in truth, physically weak, slow-moving, and defenseless; however, he is reluctant to acknowledge his bodily hindrances, for each of them has added to his capacity for divine contact. He does not show fear when under threat. What a corporeal wolf does to him will have done unto them, in turn, tenfold by the gods. The voices inside of Beelzebub’s head are always pushing him towards situations in which he can enact violence. Should he go too long without opportunities to sate the sadistic appetite of the gods, then he will often turn onto himself in the hopes of deepening his connection with the gods evermore. Witnessing these moments of self-mutilation can be disturbing, to say the least, but he will stop at nothing to ensure and, perhaps on some level, hasten his return to the ethereal dominion from which he originates.

Beelzebub’s sense of self-importance is unrivalled. He believes that he is a chosen one, of sorts, with a gift that his peers cannot hope to understand in their mortal lifetimes, and for that he pities each and every one of them, considering them immeasurably beneath him. Everything that is to be known about what lies beyond life already exists inside of his head. Beelzebub has spoken to every god. He claims himself an authority on matters of afterlife, of heavenly and hellish. If a mortal tongue attached to an ungifted body boasts a religion that he has not been in contact with then he will dismiss it, crush it, for it is fraudulent and offensive. It is a hopeless feat to attempt to talk Beelzebub off of his mighty pedestal. Those who speak on matters they do not understand are beneath his consideration. The select few who do understand but wrongfully assume that they are anything like him, can ever be anything like him, are lying to themselves and others, and he cannot save them, will not save them, from the wraths of the gods who await them in death.

The only thing that any of them are good for is humouring him, entertaining him with their unintelligence and their belief that power stems from rank, dominance, or ability to inflict pain. As he has gotten older he has also gotten better at securing moments of quiet in his headspace, of peace that he can use to sleep or to remember who he is as an individual; in those fleeting moments, if one had the privilege of speaking to Beelzebub, and doing so without ever laying eyes on him first, they would likely think him charismatic, even gentlemanly, because his nature is surprisingly bubbly, talkative, and personable for how low of an opinion he has of his peers. It is partially out of love for the sound of his own voice, of that there can be no doubt, but he also fosters an appreciation for interpreting language, verbal or body, since he no longer has the ability to take cues from facial expressions.

But, in reality, he is not charismatic or gentlemanly in the slightest. Beelzebub is, in truth, a beastly and chaotic shell of a wolf. He is very rarely alone, and the constant swarms of thoughts and feelings, of dark urges, that race through his mind have long since warped him into a maniacal creature, vicious and cold-blooded, without a shred of sympathy. It is difficult to tell whether Beelzebub or one of his other godly personalities is the acting authority over his mind and body. The constant struggle inside of his head for control, for a say, has left behind an irritable and unpredictable monster, but he will insist with his dying breath that it is a gift, and he is blessed to have it.