[ WP ] Satan is a single father trying to raise his son , who , in a rebellious phase , is all into peace , love , and harmony .

Shaitan slouches home to Bethlehem, the Great Beast lowering itself into the world, currents of air and dust knitting together into corded muscle. His hair tangles backwards, furred, his nails like the claws of animals. His left eye bulges, the pupil squeezed into the horizontal slit of a goat's eyes. He smiles with yellowed teeth. Outside the people are gathered, chanting, holding hands in solidarity, flowers passed through the crowd, Muslim and Christian and Jew. A song sparks up. Shaitan avoids all that, creeps up the stairs, growing more corporeal with each step, accumulating sinew and grease and bone. The windows are open to the air, to any assassin's bullet. The rising song drifts through. Masih has his eyes closed in the sparse room, seated on the edge of his bed, and if Shaitan did not know better, he would have thought the boy was praying. 
 
 `` Hello, son,'' he says. 
 
 Masih opens his eyes. 
 
 `` You ca n't tempt me,'' he says, his voice high and wavering. Such a beautiful child, his wavy dark hair, his almond eyes. The weight of the world upon him. He slips his feet up onto the bed, like a child afraid of something reaching up to grab his ankles. `` There's nothing you can offer.'' He turns his head to the window, almost afraid to look, afraid to be seen. `` You've seen them out there, have n't you? You've seen what they can do. Out of fear and mistrust and division, they can extend a hand across that chasm and discover each others' humanity.'' A soft smile crosses his face. `` Have n't you become bored with cruelty, father? With senseless rebellion?'' Masih closes an hand over his heart. `` What's there to gain from it?'' 
 
 `` Oh,'' breathes Shaitan, tasting pork, tasting swine. This flesh he's made for himself is unclean, sweating. He licks his lips. `` When have I ever led you astray, boy? When have I ever denied you your rebellion?'' He leaps, defying gravity, defying the forces of Earth, crouching atop a dresser. He luxuriates in the serpentine curve of his spine. `` I'm no hypocrite, my boy! It's a son's duty to rebel against his father! And oh! What a job you've done!'' 
 
 Masih is pale, his fingers clutching the bed sheet. He makes to stand. He is drawn inexorably towards the window, towards the crowd, and is halting, stumbling, terrified. Shaitan slinks down, crawls, palms intercrossing on the floor. The air is hot. Masih trembles. 
 
 `` I could do nothing else,'' he whispers. `` They were killing each other. Sowing division, hatred. All the senseless division!'' He clutches both hands. `` Everything you've done -'' 
 
 Shaitan clutches a hand around the bedpost, and is crouching beside his son, weighing down the mattress. `` I could do nothing else!'' he trills. `` A perfect clockwork world, with its ignorant clockwork beings.'' He cups his palms and forms a blood-red fruit. `` I gave them knowledge! I gave them freedom! And so you have seen what they have done with it!'' 
 
 Masih practically leaps from the bed, pacing the floor. `` Everything I did,'' he insists. `` I did out of love. I did with a pure heart.'' His eyes are flashing, manic. He clutches his head. `` You ca n't pervert this! You ca n't!'' 
 
 `` Oh,'' Shaitan sighs. `` My beloved son. My false Messiah. Did you think, that by rebelling from rebellion, you would find your way to the truth? Look at them! Look out there! Look at what you have built!'' He squats on his heels. `` You taught love for the sake of love, peace for the sake of peace. An all-encompassing love of humanity.'' Shaitan raises his hands, rolls his eyes to the heavens. `` And what of God, my son? What truth have you given them but their own self-centered needs?'' 
 
 `` Their own-!'' Masih blurts, and then falters, his legs going weak. He clutches the windowsill, steps forwards, shows his face. The crowd explodes into a worshipful cheer, signs raised, hands raised to the heavens. Masih can not do anything but smile back. Shaitan creeps behind him, places a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 `` It ca n't be true,'' Masih whispers, as his father leads him away. The crowd swoons, cheers after his departure. Masih's hands are cold, his steps numb. `` I did... I did only what I thought was best...'' 
 
 `` Oh, I know, my son,'' Shaitan whispers, and cups his son's cheeks. `` This is to be a son. To gaze with disgust upon what begot you, to spread your wings and fly, to circle back involuntarily. To live a debt you can not escape. For even in your flight, who has shaped your wings?'' Shaitan spreads out his wings, crooked, crippled, and encloses his son within them. `` Did you think I would not understand? Did you think I was never a son myself?'' Shaitan leans close. `` Everything we ever did, we did out of love.'' 
 
 And Al-Masih ad-Dajjal leans into his father's arms, and like a child, cries.
