bitter honey

destiny

700 years ago, a world of barren land. A man, - or rather some ancient undying being - Ayther Monalled, wreaked havoc upon the world. He was a demon of rage, spawned by emotion and cast away by his own kind for nobody wanted such an anger filled person next to them.

500 years ago, a man named Ayther was at his lowest. He longed for love, a sense of joy, something to send his mind to the heavens he would never be accepted in. He would kill people in search of a soul, sucking in their essence for any means of joy within them. Feasting on their hearts, wishing for the sense of love Ayther wished had gotten when he was created. He longed for a normal life, but naturally, a being of fury wouldn't be able to be tapered down so easily.

A being of fury, killing people in a blind rage and drinking and gulping down the essence of a pure soul. For he wanted one as well, but the brief satisfaction of devouring one was the best he could do.

However, he found a way he could play with affection for a while, granting him the feeling of a drunk love for mere hours. Kissing, devouring lips and marks all over the supple skin of the throat, rough, calloused flitting hands across trim waists. And one night stands hosted and empty words of affection being retorted back and forth. And chaste lips on the back of a hand and an empty gaze of his piercing ice blue eyes. There was never love in them.

A frustrated cry. Why he would never actually love them? Stop toying with their feelings. Men and women wailing, why was there was never any real passion behind those beautiful slanted eyes? Long dark lashes that shadowed and mysterious icy depths. Lips pressed to lips and throat and hands around throat and claws digging into the supple skin tainted with marks of an empty love. A rip and cry of agony, a rip of claws into soft skin and tearing open the insides, drinking the blood and devouring the heart of the subject. Empty eyes glazed over with death, a hotel bed soaked with day old blood and no traces of another person to be seen.

They just wanted to be loved for a night.

Ayther wished he was loved for an eternity.

He sucked in the remainder of their soul before he flew away.

Sloshing a stein of beer, the liquid gold spilling over the edges and unceremoniously falling onto crisp pants on slender legs. Giant dark wings enveloped the bitter soul, Ayther was perched on the roof of a church. A holy place so near to an unholy being. He could've torn down the walls and broken the stained glass windows until all was left was a scattering of colorful glass and rubble.

However,

The being of rage took off into an inky black night and a forgotten mug of beer perched on the cross of the church.

500 years ago, a woman was found beheaded, insides pried open and missing a heart. A splatter of blood across sharp fangs and deadly claws dug into her chest, ripping open the subtle skin and presenting the foul stench of blood. Rumor of a missing pendant, swirling blue resin and a pure essence to it. Ayther gingerly picked up the pendant between clawed fingers, the golden chain had blood crusted in between the delicate ridges, a taint of what he had done.

A face still smiling of pure innocence even when beheaded.

Maybe it was that what drove Ayther to change.

He went into hiding for centuries, longing to repent for his gruesome actions - trying to tend to peonies and hydrangeas gently but failing to do so. Petals scattered the flowerbeds and his cottage in the middle of the woods was surrounded by shriveling leaves and a looming sense of gloom.

He lit his cigar and sucked in the artificial strawberry taste. It almost felt like the souls he robbed people of. It was almost a comfort.

A gentle breeze arrives one day. So gentle. It scattered the raven black hair and made the fabric of his cloak lift up a little, caressed by the wind. Top-heavy flowers swaying gently like a lullaby. It was when a young man, a sorcerer of sorts, stumbled into his garden. His eyes were like lavenders. A god of the winds. His hair sparkled with moon dust and his eyes glistened almost like his own icy blue, but just a little more emotion within the purple depths.

A being of rage lessened his scowl, loosened his shoulders. His eyes forced closed and his mind conscious of attempted peace. His fangs dulled and his claws filed. Maybe this is what a god of wind did to a being of rage. Gentle breezes and violent fury. Beautiful hydrangeas of grace and beauty, petunias of rage but promised hope.

Gentle hands flitting over a trim waist and a chaste press of lips against hand. A star exploding on the nape of a neck and soft throat and beautiful blue of a swirling pendant and delicate purple and,

They would sway in the wind.

A being of rage and a man descended from ethereality.

Perhaps they were fated.