The Devil’s muscles tense up, his back tightens, and his shoulders become stiff. The Mistress doesn’t see this, but she can tell when he’s getting angry or frustrated (you have sex with someone enough times you learn a lot about their body). She can also feel something else too, something she’s felt every time The Devil disappears for a period of time, a slight fainting of his presence, his energy, his existence. And now, she’s seeing it happen right before her eyes. She’s seeing what happens when an entity of an egocentric nature meets one with a holistic one, what happens when the master of deception and manipulation meets someone who has transcended such methods of communication with reality.
The Mistress has an inkling of an idea what’s happening, but she doesn’t know why it’s happening. She’s never been one for spirituality or holism, but she knows that those two subjects are all The Devil reads. In fact, The Devil doesn’t only read books on spirituality, he devours them. Every night for the past ten years (after that rough, wild, and divine sex) The Devil stayed up and continues to stay up, in his study reading about Yogis and Gurus and Mystics and enlightened philosophers, trying to figure out what it is about spirituality that’s so deadly to him.
The Devil didn’t bother with religious books like The Bible, The Quran, The Book of Genesis nor the Testaments because he’d already corrupted those books thousands of years ago when Man was primitive and brute. The Devil’s been racking his brain twenty-four-seven trying to get to the essence of spirituality and snuff it out (if not, at least corrupt it somehow) but every time he gets within spitting distance of an exemplary figure he freezes like a deer in headlights. And now The Mistress is seeing it firsthand.
She doesn’t know what to make of this.
The Devil’s shoulders alternate in rhythm with his breathing she assumes has become laborious. The gauntlet remains in the air as if frozen in time and something strange is happening to it. The gauntlet seems to be fading somehow, the blackness goes from a deep obsidian to a grayish color as if it’s aging. The wooden curls that go up to the elbows are straightening and getting that ashy look to them, like the remains of a cremated relative.
A few moments later the gauntlet begins to disintegrate from the elbow down until it’s nothing but a pile of ashes on the ground which then dissolves into nothing. Just The Devil’s dark and shadowy hand remains.
The Yogi simply looks at The Devil with that smile, that calm, and divine smile, that smile a mother gives her child after giving birth to it, that smile someone in love gives to their beloved, that smile Patrick used to give her when they first started dating. Yes, it was a sweet smile, and she can tell the Yogi means it. There’s no malice, no hate, no resentment in it. The Yogi has a smile you can trust, a smile you can bet your life on without a care in the world (and the white teeth revealed with that smile certainly help).
The Yogi Mashallah doesn’t move from that position. He remains there just as relaxed as a person coming home from a twelve-hour shift when they get to bed. He has his hands folded just above the groin area and his breathing is deep and slow. His body has no tension in its muscles and the blood flows as smoothly as water in an unpolluted river. His organs functioning in perfect synchronicity.
There is no fear, no apprehension. He is as serene as The Garden of Eden. His face is turned toward the fluorescent light, yet his gaze and wide smile remain on The Devil who isn’t smiling in the least. The Devil’s fiery red eyes look at the Yogi with a murderous intent that’d make even the most dangerous prisoners piss their pants and beg for mommy. He bares his long, white fangs at the Yogi and begins to slowly grind his teeth in stewing anger.
He tries to get closer, tries to fight his impending fear of being erased from existence yet the fear is too strong and his instincts (which he’s trusted for over ten thousand years) are beginning to assert their will over him. The Devil straightens out his shadowy hand, still suspended in the air, and tries to recreate his gauntlet but fails. Only a small puff of black flame appears and disappears just as quickly.
The Mistress looks on in stark astonishment.
Suddenly yet gradually, The Devil starts to catch fire. Not the black flames he creates when he makes his gauntlet but a bright, Valentine’s Day pink, flame. It starts from the end of his dark and shadowy robe and works its way up to his body. The Devil waves his hands and snaps his fingers to try and put it out. Usually, that works but this time it doesn’t.
The pink flames are not his to command. They are not the Yogi’s either, he doesn’t deal in hatred or violence to sentient beings of any kind. He simply remains where he is, his gaze still on The Devil with that smile. The flame becomes too overwhelming for The Devil to stop; he slowly burns and disintegrates until he is but a pile of ashes which dissolves to nothing, the same way his gauntlet did.
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