Shadows of the Woods

Chapter 7

Greece, 1876.

Abaddon Ambrosia watched from the shadows as his daughter buried his wife.

Astera had tears running freely down her cheeks, her lovely face twisted in grief and anguish. The female counterpart of his children had always been the one he'd prided in the most; Apollo was too kind and soft, too much like his mother, whereas Astera had the potential to become something more.

To be more like him.

He was expressionless as he watched the girl gently pick up the Callidora's covered body. The bundle was so small; she had always been a petite girl. Small and beautiful, like a butterfly. Abaddon coldly shouldered those thoughts - he'd killed her for a reason. Sentimentality was for humans - for the weak.

After a short pause, her lip trembling, the girl ever so gently laid her mother in the ground. Her shoulders shook as she began to cover the human woman with the earth.

Abaddon looked around leisurely as Astera worked. Where had that boy run off to? He would've wanted to be here for this. Apollo had probably gone after his father; Abaddon enjoyed a private smile. If the boy wanted to fight, he would surely lose. He was delicate still, just a flower. He hadn't raised  a hand to save his mother - he wouldn't be able to strike a blow to his father.

The moon was just a sliver, and the sky was pitch black. A cold wind shuddered through the mountains, and the trees waved in agitation. The wild black hair around Astera's face swirled like a whirlwind, but still she cried and still she dug. Abaddon continued his watch in the shadows, and it wasn't until at least thirty minutes later that she finally trudged her way back into the cottage Abaddon had impatiently built for his wife.

A few minutes later, Astera's crying became hysterics, and Abaddon reveled in the sound of her pain.

"It was all necessary, child." He murmured.

He considered going closer to the cottage, so he could watch her cry with more ease, but another cold wind trailed its icy fingers up his spine.

Abaddon sighed.

"You again." He said dryly into the night air.

"Of course." The voice was musical and relaxed. "I told you I would keep coming."

Abaddon turned around slowly, his dark eyes narrowed into slits. He was an older version of his son - dark, silky hair, marble skin, perfect skin. Apollo was still soft, with a rounded jaw, but soon he would be sharp like his father. Abaddon couldn't wait to see it.

The figure opposite him watched him in silent amusement. He was the epitome of light, with ivory skin and snowy white hair. His eyes were a pale, crystalline lilac, and his perfect lips were a dewy pink. The white shift he had on floated like a cloud around him - he looked like an angel who had come down from heaven.

It was the massive, ebony, feathery wings, however, that made him look more like Lucifer - fallen from grace.

Abaddon surveyed him distastefully. The witch had first appeared to him fifteen years ago, on the birth of his children. He'd visited every year, the same question on his lips.

"And I will tell you the same thing, every time you come." Abaddon said coldly. "I will not allow it."

"You're such a worry." The figure unfurled his wings, stretching them out leisurely, except never taking flight. "This is an exceptional offer I'm making."

"Then go make it to someone else." Abaddon replied shortly.

Another sob echoed back to them from the cottage. The two both glanced back to the dwelling; the windows were dark, and the place looked oddly forlorn. Abaddon narrowed his eyes - even the cottage missed Callidora's radiant touch.