It’s not who you are underneath, but what you do that defines you.
A THRONE OF RED AND GOLD, fresh blood seeping into straw beneath where she laid—that was the second thing I had seen.
Sapphire gems, covered by silver shillings, declaring my Princess dead—that had always been the first.
Freed eyes, great seas of frozen glass, reflecting my own, but hers were calm—that was the second thing I hadn’t felt.
Limp fingers, pressed to my cheek, on the inside of her wrist, I had searched for a pulse—that had always been the first.
Ephemeral, cumin-scented white and red petals that I had plucked, placed delicately over her forehead in a crown of roses bled, staining my memories.
And her parted purple lips, as I kissed her a last goodbye, lingered on my own, the cold reaching my heart and leaving me frozen.
And all the while, this nightmare sifted through with the melody once hummed by her harp. Her sweet voice sang the words around my mind—words that would be her last.
NEVER AGAIN WOULD I ALLOW MY EYES TO CLOSE INTO SLEEP. An inescapable retelling of the morning I had found her gone, rehashed over and over.
No. No more. I couldn’t bear it.
I slid off the edge of the bed, and made my way over to the dirty window, searching the darkened roads outside. Street lamps with dull glows hung low, throwing little illumination onto the few people going about their business.
No sign of him. I would have to wait a little longer.
I pulled out the soft fabric from my trouser pocket, and uncoiled the silk-like material in my hands. Within the delicate fibers, perfect spheres of crystal glinted and glistened against the candlelight. Many, might call them beautiful, but I knew what true beauty looked like—and it did not form the shape of a crystal. Flippantly, I discarded the wrappings and gems next to the lantern sat on the ledge of the windowsill.
A loud knock bellowed from the wooden door, and I turned my attention to the far corner of the rented room.
“Come in,” I said in a hushed voice.
I watched the brass handle push down. The heavy door squeaked as it opened. A figure emerged from the shadows, his face now lit by the flicker of a single candlestick on the table beside the door.
He was so much older than I expected. He read my surprised expression quickly. “I am a fallen Angel, and I have been mortal a very, very long time. All things considered, I’d say I look fairly young, actually.” He unbuttoned his long overcoat, and removed his homberg hat, positioning it next to the candle on the small table, before shutting the door behind him.
“I’m sorry. I have never met one of the fallen before.”
“And it’s likely you won’t meet many more,” he said, and I couldn’t help but notice the quake in his voice.
He took a step forward and I followed suit. He took my hand in his, shaking it firmly. “Malachi. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Gabriel,” I said, nodding astutely.
YOU ARE READING
The Styclar Saga (Book1 Lailah): Gabriel short storyVampire
The year is 1941 and Gabriel has returned from Styclar-Plena to Lucan, Ireland amidst the Second World War. Gabriel has spent a hundred years of Earth's time seeking out Lailah's soul in the in-between, to no avail. Certain now that Lailah is truly...