Eighth Death

Chapter Thirteen: Shadow

Unlike most, Alaric wasn't used to a home. He wasn't used to not constantly being on guard, he wasn't used to not having to reach for a weapon every couple of minutes. That's how all immortals started off, until one by one they all started settling into homes.

From small cottages, to villas, to mansions to flats.

Kaiza, Drea, Sereia. All of them, he was the only one left behind until he wasn't. Alaric moved around too much to have time to go back to a place and oh so comfortably call it a home, he had way too many trust issues for that. Out of all four of them, Kaiza, however was usually the one who looked back at the past the most. Perhaps that was why he simply let Alaric stay, no questions asked.

He liked the quiet atmosphere and yet he hated the weather of Canterbury, it was almost always cloudy. He liked seeing the sun, sometimes at least.

Though not used to a home, he was used to books where he created himself a home in his mind, though usually filled with chaos and thoughts of bloodshed. Alaric usually found peace whenever he read.

Unlike the other three, who had their rooms designed to their own specific tastes, spending thousands just to match their so-called aesthetic. All Alaric's room had was a bed, desk and bookshelves (and a walk in closet he didn't particularly like taking about). The library simply wasn't enough.

When you've been alive for as long as the four invincible immortals have. Money becomes an easy thing to come by, so for once. Kaiza, Drea and Sereia decided to come together and build the mansion of their dreams around a century ago, though the house has gone through many changes ever since. Except the room that they had reserved for Alaric.

He knew none of them particularly cared for him, invincible immortals thought they were above that. Although no one could deny that each of the four invincible immortals needed each other, for their own benefits, of course.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, getting tired of waiting so he sighed to himself as he picked up a book and opened up the window, a few droplets of rain splashed onto him. To no one's surprise, it was raining.

He took a seat on the rather old wooden chair, leaning onto his even older desk as he began to read. The window was positioned right in front of his desk, he preferred it that way really. The cold air hit his already icy skin, it gave him chills and made the hairs on his back straighten up but he didn't mind. The cold never bothered him anyway. He bit back a smile.

Death was supposed to be cold and unforgiving, and that was who he was.

The gentle hands that were now delicately turning the pages of a book (in his defense it was a rare edition of 'Pride and Prejudice') were the same hands that had shed the blood of thousands. He's probably spent more time with the dead than he ever has with the living.

A fact he never knew what to feel about, he tried to focus on Elizabeth and Mr.Darcy but his eyes kept going back to the window. Waiting.

The shadow basically crashed in through the open window, having no form in particular as it shook the rain off itself, a blob of darkness of sorts.

Once it finished drying itself off (with a lot of sass) it began spinning in circles mid air, suddenly forming wings, a beak and feathers. The raven made of nothing but shadows swung it's wings around the room, knocking over a few books and having its own fun before it took a seat on Alaric's shoulder.

"Greetings." The shadow spoke, its voice deep enough to shake one's bones, and yet it remaining slightly raspy. The motherfucker was getting old. "I hate small talk." Alaric grunted, almost rolling his eyes.

"You make me work day and night with no break, mustn't you at least have basic human decency and be nice to I, for once?"

It cawed, Alaric raised a hand as his fingers gently brushed over the shadowy feathers of the raven, from far it looked as if it was just a regular raven. But when one got too close, which they really shouldn't, they'd notice that the shadow was no true raven at all. The demonic look it always had in its eyes was hard to miss.

After all, a raven wasn't the only form the shadow has taken to taunt Alaric over the years, never missing a chance to remind him who he really was over and over again.

"We both know that is not true, and I am not human." He said and the shadow snorted, Alaric's eyes narrowed, his patience running thin. "Now do your job, and speak." He warned, pulling on one feather, plucking it in a quick and sharp move as he watched the shadow yelp in pain, his own face remaining stoic.

It glared at him before snatching the feather back with its black and sharp beak, the feather automatically moving back to where it was originally was.

"Humans do nothing, that interest me." It flapped it's wings. "All she did was sip on the hell those creators named coffee, and laugh with her mates."

That caught his interest, Alaric looked at the shadow curiously. The frost in his eyes melting a little, now filled with intrigue, "You heard her laugh?" He asked and the fake raven nodded before it started cleaning its feathers, throughly.

Laugh. The shadow heard her laugh, he heard the soft and sweet sound Marceline let out whenever she was in joy. And for a moment, he couldn't help but feel jealous.

He has watched mortals and immortals ruin themselves with alcohol, gambling, cigarettes, drugs and even certain sexual desires. He has always despised it, always looked down upon such things. He has never understood how one could be foolish enough to let such a small thing demolish them entirely, ruin them entirely.

Alaric has always been a hater of addictions. Yet he understood them.

  He has lived for over a hundred years maybe even a thousand and yet, her laughter was the only thing he ever found himself getting addicted to.

One got addicted to something when they simply wanted to find solace in a world of chaos, something that helped them escape this bitter reality. The escape soon becomes something that replaces air for them, they get addicted to that solace. That feeling of comfort, so much so, that they find themselves not being able to breathe without having more.

Every time he hears the laughter of the girl he tries so hard not to think of, he can't help but stop everything he was doing and instead do something, anything, to hear it again. He could simply stand and listen to the sound over and over again, it usually sent him in a trance of sorts. Enchanting him in every way possible. A trance he hates snapping out off. A world without her laughter is not a world he would ever want to live in.

In a world full of screams and sirens, the sound of her laughter was the only thing Alaric ever found himself finding peace in, solace in.

He had seen it getting snatched away from her once, he wouldn't let it happen again. He clicked his tongue as his eyes roamed around the room, familiar and unfamiliar all the same, soon enough his gaze fell on the small jar of blood at very top shelf of one of the bookshelves in the room right next to the one from 1932, the blood of the man he killed that day in her room.

Perhaps one of the most satisfying kill Alaric has had in a while, it was quick yet painful. He almost snorted, deaerved? Heck yes. He exhaled, closing his eyes as his mind brought him back to that night, to that girl he couldn't help but be hopelessly addicted to.

It was one strange night, the first night they were in the same room together where death had existed, the first time that very death did not belong to her.

It was a bit too peaceful for his liking so he looked back at the fake raven which had finally finished cleaning its feathers before flapping it's wings and flying back to where it was, where it belonged. As his shadow.

Though not many noticed it's absence, the shadow rarely ever left his side. A shadow he was stuck with for eternity. Being what he was.