Die For My Religion

[This outline is just an indepth look at a character of mine that I'm writing about oh so slowly but over a few novels length. Her name is Lilith Greene, and these are her thoughts on a very special ethereal being]

"I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion - I have shudder'd at it. I shudder no more. I could be martyr'd for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you." - John Keats


I hate him.

I hate that he came into my life and turned it upside down. I hate that he answers my questions about angels and daemons and everything inbetween. I hate that he himself is a daemon. I hate that he corrects my pronunciation on the word day-mon when I say what I've always said, dee-mon. Oh, I REALLY hate that.

I hate that he's always around, and the fact that I can feel him even when I can't see him. I hate that he thinks he has to protect me because I'm human, and when he's sickly sweet to my eccentric, naive mother. I hate that he looks human and he's not.

I hate his black hair, just a bit long, that frames his handsome quiet face. I hate his odd eyes, quicksilver grey with a ring of blue around his pupils. I hate his half smile that always seems like he's laughing at me or something I've done/said. I hate his lean body, even though he eats five times more than I do.

I hate it when he difusses my anger, when he hugs me when I need him to, when he holds me when it's too much. I hate it when he tells me he loves me, even being what he is, and how he doesn't expect anything in return.

I hate that, after awhile, I suddenly didn't hate all those things anymore. I hate that I don't hate him, even when I should. I hate it that I love him, and that I'm too much of a coward to tell him. I hate that...sometimes...I catch him staring at me like I am so much better then what I am.

I hate myself because he deserves better from me, and I might not be able to give it to him. And I love the fact he's willing to try. I love all these things about him I thought I hated.

I hate religion, and I hate the complexity of angels and daemons, and I hate the misconceptions on both sides. But him I can love. Him I could worship, if I let myself. Him I could give my whole heart to, where I could kill for him, maybe I would even die for him.

And I'm afraid, because I thought my hate was stronger then anything, and I was wrong. This consuming fire...it burns everything, it burns me down to my soul, and I'm scared because I don't care if it does.

Despite it all, down to the simplest line, even the things that annoy me about him, they make me happy. They make me whole. He makes me whole. Maybe someday I'll tell him, but I have my suspicions the smug bastard already knows.

And that's okay.