Status: One-shot
Lovebirds
Lovebirds
He lay still, hidden in the perfectly verdant brush that was still the Garden of Life’s Beginning. Birds sang; he could hear them. Around him, there were the rustlings of life: the scratching of mice, the scurry of tiny predators, the sinuous slither of Temptation.
But there was nothing that tempted him here—he wanted no poisoned apple, nor the knowledge of mortality. He had that knowledge already, stricken as he was, feeling the thing he called life seep out of him. No, everything that had tempted him had been far grander.
And so much more deadly.
But it had, briefly, been worth the price. For a moment, he thought he’d had all within his grasp. An angel’s heart—what more could anyone, even and especially a demon, ask?
It had, of course, been impossible. This was no stage, they no star-crossed Lovers, as the Poet had once proclaimed.
They were beings of light and darkness, air and fire, all of them mixed round. Really, they were the same, simply born—created—to different spheres. The One was there, of course—They (and it was They, even as it was The One—God(s) were exceedingly tricky like that), many thought, was still there, though no one had seen One for a very long time. The Oldest of both Races still had “meetings” during the brief, biannual armistices to reminisce about that time. But They had declared that the Light and the Dark would not cross, ever. No matter what could be the excuse, be it Love, Hate, or sheerest necessity for the continuation of their species, it had been Decreed.
But they had been young, for their breed, and vastly foolhardy. Or he had been. She had known all along what it was she was to do.
For just as it was Decreed that no Light and no Dark would ever couple, so it was Decreed that the two would forever be at War.
She, naturally, had never let the goal—fulfilling her life’s mission, and ridding the Worlds of one more demon—from her mind. His Lover was good at that, single-minded, driven ambition.
He wondered, as the world of green around him blurred in and out, and began to fade, if it were the wounds that made his dying body ache with an agony no human would ever feel, or if it was the breaking of the center of him, what those self-same humans would call a heart.
Not, of course, that there was any kind of difference. Not for one such as he. To Love, truly, and go without that Lover was to die, as he was dying.
His last thought, quiet, unprepossessing of its own, tiny right, was that humans, for all their many, many failings, might have the better of it—they, after all, had only their own petty laws to separate them from the ones they Loved.
He would never know, she knew, that she was here. This was his Deathwatch. She would watch, silently, as he inhaled his last, as he exhaled it. She would watch, and torture herself with the knowledge that the wounds he bled from, as only a Light or Dark could, had been by her blade. And then, when her Lover had died, so, too, would she. One, after all, could not be without the other. They were Matched, though he couldn’t know it.
She felt, in her own body, as his core pulsed its last, shuddering beat, felt against her skin as his eyes, with their long lashes, closed for the last time, hiding from the Worlds those deep-black eyes. Heard, within her head, his last thin breath, whoosh in, and ease, so slowly, out.
This was how it must be. That she knew—it was Decreed. So, as the pain started in her own body—so similar, and so different that his—she walked to her Lover, lay down beside his body in a painful parody of a Mate’s Embrace.
She bled from no visible wounds—when the Scouts found them, she knew they would see no physical reason for her Death. But they would know, as any of the Light and the Dark would know, what had happened. And they would know that neither he nor she had broken the Decrees.
But it was cold comfort now, as her own painful last breaths came, and her center twisted and rebelled the death of her Match.
Perhaps, she felt the hope float through her mind as the last thing before she fell into Death, they would meet again, he and she. On the same side, or better still, as humans. Surely They, the One, the Many, would grant that? Or perhaps not. But she hoped…
Fin.
But there was nothing that tempted him here—he wanted no poisoned apple, nor the knowledge of mortality. He had that knowledge already, stricken as he was, feeling the thing he called life seep out of him. No, everything that had tempted him had been far grander.
And so much more deadly.
But it had, briefly, been worth the price. For a moment, he thought he’d had all within his grasp. An angel’s heart—what more could anyone, even and especially a demon, ask?
It had, of course, been impossible. This was no stage, they no star-crossed Lovers, as the Poet had once proclaimed.
They were beings of light and darkness, air and fire, all of them mixed round. Really, they were the same, simply born—created—to different spheres. The One was there, of course—They (and it was They, even as it was The One—God(s) were exceedingly tricky like that), many thought, was still there, though no one had seen One for a very long time. The Oldest of both Races still had “meetings” during the brief, biannual armistices to reminisce about that time. But They had declared that the Light and the Dark would not cross, ever. No matter what could be the excuse, be it Love, Hate, or sheerest necessity for the continuation of their species, it had been Decreed.
But they had been young, for their breed, and vastly foolhardy. Or he had been. She had known all along what it was she was to do.
For just as it was Decreed that no Light and no Dark would ever couple, so it was Decreed that the two would forever be at War.
She, naturally, had never let the goal—fulfilling her life’s mission, and ridding the Worlds of one more demon—from her mind. His Lover was good at that, single-minded, driven ambition.
He wondered, as the world of green around him blurred in and out, and began to fade, if it were the wounds that made his dying body ache with an agony no human would ever feel, or if it was the breaking of the center of him, what those self-same humans would call a heart.
Not, of course, that there was any kind of difference. Not for one such as he. To Love, truly, and go without that Lover was to die, as he was dying.
His last thought, quiet, unprepossessing of its own, tiny right, was that humans, for all their many, many failings, might have the better of it—they, after all, had only their own petty laws to separate them from the ones they Loved.
He would never know, she knew, that she was here. This was his Deathwatch. She would watch, silently, as he inhaled his last, as he exhaled it. She would watch, and torture herself with the knowledge that the wounds he bled from, as only a Light or Dark could, had been by her blade. And then, when her Lover had died, so, too, would she. One, after all, could not be without the other. They were Matched, though he couldn’t know it.
She felt, in her own body, as his core pulsed its last, shuddering beat, felt against her skin as his eyes, with their long lashes, closed for the last time, hiding from the Worlds those deep-black eyes. Heard, within her head, his last thin breath, whoosh in, and ease, so slowly, out.
This was how it must be. That she knew—it was Decreed. So, as the pain started in her own body—so similar, and so different that his—she walked to her Lover, lay down beside his body in a painful parody of a Mate’s Embrace.
She bled from no visible wounds—when the Scouts found them, she knew they would see no physical reason for her Death. But they would know, as any of the Light and the Dark would know, what had happened. And they would know that neither he nor she had broken the Decrees.
But it was cold comfort now, as her own painful last breaths came, and her center twisted and rebelled the death of her Match.
Perhaps, she felt the hope float through her mind as the last thing before she fell into Death, they would meet again, he and she. On the same side, or better still, as humans. Surely They, the One, the Many, would grant that? Or perhaps not. But she hoped…
Fin.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm not sure what brought this on--it attacked my brain one night and was written and editted in less than fifteen minutes. I've decided not to argue with it. Comments are appreciated, and this is not meant to offend.