Eternity

The cold seeped assiduously through his clothing, clinging with vicious obstinacy to his icy skin, sinking softly, relentlessly with deadly intent into his bones, as it had been doing since the dawn of time It did not seem to matter, for he did not seem to care. His movements were unhindered – his bones were not stiff, for he still moved with the same languid grace and power that appeared inherent to his being.

It seemed that he drew the midnight darkness of the skies around him as a cloak. His figure was that of blackness - for he seemed to absorb all light that was cast upon him, and yet reflected none back. His trousers faded, and black, were dirty- a black scarf was flung carelessly around his neck and hung to drape across his overcoat. His mediocre dress should have allowed him to fade, to merge with the tedium of humanity. It did not, for he was never allowed to fade. The rules, had never permitted it.

Ominous clouds did not mar the velvet blackness of the heavens, no pinpricks of light indicated the presence of stars. The moon alone dominated the heavy darkness, casting an uneasy pale glow over the bare branches of snow dusted trees that lined the ice covered stone path and reflecting the utter whiteness of the world around him. The irony of it seemed to occur to him, the world finally appearing in black and white, with no shades of grey in between, for there could be seen a sardonic curve to the long, sensuous lips. He lifted his face – angular planes, exquisite bone structure - the face of a fallen angel was thrown at once into stark illumination. Dark hair, frosted with snow, fell artlessly over his forehead.

His footsteps crunched on the snow, leaving behind an imprint of his presence, a temporary reminder that he had been there. It would not last, for nothing lasted, not in this realm. The snow would come, and his presence would be covered, and soon it would not matter whether he had ever been there.

The long, callused fingers of his right hand gripped a cigarette – he held it to his lips and inhaled briefly, drawing in the pungent, sweet aroma of tobacco. He gazed at it for a moment, the tiny flame at the end winking as if mockingly at him, then with a derisive look flung it away. In the still silence of the night, the hiss could be heard as the small light flickered and died. The barest mist of smoke and steam rose from the snow. He regarded it for a moment, bemused, then the silence was once again broken by his languid footsteps.

It seemed he walked in a world of dreams, his surroundings, the skies, the earth, not relevant to him. The ground he walked upon unreal, immaterial, formless. It did not matter upon what he walked, for he did so - it did not matter why he walked, as long as he continued to do so. The trees that bore in upon him on both sides reached with gnarled hands, beseeching, luring. They reached out to grasp with weary hunger, slavering at the scent of barely leashed energy - for it could not be said that in him existed life. His gaze did not stray beyond that of his path. He walked on, unheeding, uncaring, secure in the derisive knowledge of his own neglected superiority.

There seemed to be no end to the path, for really, there was not. His journey would end when he chose it to, and abruptly, he turned, and his dreamworld dispersed, and he was once again in the cold, icy world that only his mind comprehended to be real. His home. His land. His domain. A terrain of sleet, of coldness, of ice, bereft of life, of love, of humanity.

He ignored the voices. They called to him, singing, mocking, wailing, always beseeching. His body throbbed, but he walked. And slowly, but steadily, he made his way, wandering, until he seemed to stand upon the precipice of the world, where but one more step would pitch him into the abyss. His lips curved at the thought, for it seemed to him that mortality was fickle, and perhaps not an enemy, but a friend. He paused, gazing over the edge, seeing nothing and seeing everything, and then he looked down.

She lay sprawled on her side, curved into herself, as if seeking shelter from the world. Her hair, soft and mahogany brown, draped in a flowing sheet over her body, her eyes were closed seemingly in slumber. She was as any other in this place - and yet like no other, for she alone in the horde of his pathetic possessions had known him for who he was, for what he was. And it had been knowledge, in the end, as in the beginning, that had been her downfall. A daughters of Eve - it was a fitting ending. Her chest rose and fell with every breath, yet her breathing could not be heard. His eyes were blank as he watched her, and he did not have to touch her to know that she was cold, did not have to run his fingers through her hair to know that it would break upon the slightest touch, did not need to feel for it to know that her breath was not there.

He watched her, and in his eyes the cold satisfaction of possession gleamed, but it was an empty satisfaction, without meaning, without emotion, for he had gained, long ago, what he wished - and yet still he sought, and could not find. He could feel, no longer, for he could not touch her. He was cold, for once she had been warm. Inexplicably, he wished she could be warm. She belonged to him - and yet he would never have her. He owned her soul - and yet he wished that he did not.

He watched her, and he felt nothing, for he had ceased to exist long ago, from the moment he had condemned her to his fate, from the moment he had ceased to embrace his own existence for what it was. From the moment he had broken his own rules. His eyes glittering, he cocked his head and regarded her thoughtfully, his lips curved, for yet another amusing thought had occurred to him. Lucifer, it seemed, did not always want souls, and yet, this one that he owned, he would have for all eternity.