Angel of Small Death ✷ The Vampire Diaries

𝖔. mystic falls, virginia

It hadn't been a smooth assault, but they'd gotten there–– destroyed most of the furniture and bloodied the witch's face into quite the picture. Now, he stood there with the intention to kill him, a comeuppance for an attempt to kill him and his family too many times in the past but also for the fact that this witch had now ruined one of his favourite suits.

What was it about the word immortal that people just didn't understand?

"I've been told that it's quite the killer," He added to the allegory, unable to help himself as the male witch's eyes, wide and wild, fixed on his, "It's had it's fair share of standing ovations––"

But the witch continued to laugh, even with no air in his lungs.

Slowly, the man's eyes narrowed.

He knew that there wasn't exactly a policy to dying, but there was something about laughing in the face of your murderer that almost soiled the art of it. Was it right to call it rude? It took away the gravitas of this, the poignancy of something that had been so long in the running––

Even to someone like him, it was almost unsettling.

"It would make sense that you're a mad man," He drawled, trying to shake off the very slowly unease that settled on his shoulder, "Laughing in the face of someone you would have to be insane to even think you could kill––"

"You can't feel it, can you?"

The words were barely even that–– it was a rasp at the back of the witch's throat, air that managed to escape his mouth just by chance. Immediately, the man standing over him rolled his eyes.

"I can feel your time running out," He said, "I can feel your artery and your lungs squeezing desperately––"

"Can you feel it?"

The bloodshot eyes followed him, boring into his soul as the man just stared back. There was something buried there, something outside of the realm of insanity or madness, something that made the unease, once again, build in the room–– the man ignored it again, threatening verbally to end his existence if he didn't stop––

"I can feel it," The witch rasped, a delirious chuckle falling past his lips as he writhed, weakly, with glee, "You can't feel that?"

"I have no time for the ramblings of a dead witch," The man sneered, feeling his short temper tick over at the back of his head, "I can feel my patience thinning and I can feel your time is coming to an end––"

"How can it end when everything is just beginning?"

He'd never been fond of cryptic messages. Out of all of his siblings, he'd been the one faced with them–– riddles, messages, psalms and verse, he'd grown sick of trying to figure out the meanings of everything. But then there was the part of him that he'd carried for all of these years, a curiosity that had lead him down too many dangerous roads.

It was because of that part of him that he sighed, dragging the witch from the grown and, in the blink of an eye, pinning him with the same force to the wall.

This was more comfortable. He preferred using his hands. He liked to feel the erratic pulse under his finger tips and feel the blood rushing with panic to their heads as they tried to fight to survive.