Eternity, With You.

"Would you like to hear a story?" He would ask, voice soft and smooth as velvet, rich and warm as hot honey. The words would drip from his red, red lips and bespell the listener time and time again.

They would nod - even the cynics and disbelievers, the blasphemers against his God - and wait and watch as his pink tongue darted out for a mere second in preparation for his tale.

"Once upon a time," He would say, and his eyes would scan the crowd of hungry faces. His eyes would land on you and a smile would steal his lips, his voice would quiver for a moment. He'd clear his throat and look further.

"Once upon a time, there was a band of gypsies," He started once, and your fine, blond hair that clashed with your bright clothes would be his inspiration.

"They travelled far across the land, leaving whispers of their power behind in each town, admirers of the flamboyant troupe, it's strong, handsome leader, and his myriad followers." His hands would make gestures, they always did, strong and wide, drawing the listener in with his movements.

"One woman, she did not dance, nor did she sing, never had she bespelled a man with her beauty, yet her craftsmanship was second to none. Woven into each carving, each charm, was a spell unique from her hands again." His face would be full of passion, caught up in his spectacular tales.

"Yet one day, travelling through the cities and lands, she was overwhelmed by the capital and the things it had to offer. Silk and satin caught her eye, though none of it she could afford. Unwittingly she drew her hands across fabric, her ring catching and tearing it. So caught up she was in the feel, she did not even notice until an angry stall holder took hold of her wrist. Indeed, an expensive fabric, and the loss he would not take lightly.

'How do you presume to pay for this?' The snarl on his face said it all and the pace of her breathing quickened. She hadn't the likes of fortune needed for this.

So she closed her eyes, and prayed. Prayed for a miracle, any miracle to come.

And come it indeed did, in the form of a nobleman. Hair the colour of leaves in autumn, eyes the colour of grass in spring, his handsome smile in such a pale face drew her in.

His fingers pried the merchant's hand from her wrist, skin so pale against her own cinnamon.

'Your Grace...' She breathed, though courtesy was not her forte. Not at all, having been brought up far from any semblance of wealth. This man though, he seemed as though he very much deserved it - perhaps an angel fallen from grace apart from his title.

That smile stopped her again, and she stood wordlessly as he bartered with the merchant, taking the fabric and her hand, before leading her back to a home. His home, by the way the footman - he even had a footman! - greeted him.

Tea and brandy, no myriad amount of biscuits and other such foodstuffs were brought into what she could only guess was called something like the blue sitting room, as everything was done in shades of blue.

'So,' His voice rang out, and she felt almost silly for starting at the sound of it. Light and quiet... Strangely delightful. Kissable. She shook her head to rid herself of such thoughts. No use having them about such a gentleman.

'Yes?' She asked in return, fidgeting with the fabric he had lain next to her on the settee. A wonderful shade of purple, silk and ever so soft.

'I have heard much about you all since you have arrived in the city,' He said, green eyes watching her intensely enough to make her squirm. 'Either I have had a stroke of luck, or those tedious church meetings have proven useful.'

'Your Grace?" She asked cautiously, eyeing the man's features, the sly smile placed upon his lips.

'Yes, a stroke of luck indeed,' He smiled wider. 'I am quite the collector of your works.'

Her eyes widened, and she could tell he noticed by the way a soft chuckle escaped him.

'You...truly collect my works?' She ventured, more cautious than ever so as to not get hurt by words that could turn vicious at any moment.

He nodded this time, rising from his high-backed chair to kneel in front of her. 'I am quite taken with puzzling out the charms you have interwoven, every detail you have added...They possibly keep me busy for days!'

His exclamation made her blush, yet he paid it no mind as he took her hand in his own, stroking her palm with his soft thumb, so unlike her own calloused hands.

'Yet I have a request,' And she knew what was coming now, and knew she would regret what she did in the future.

'Yes,' She forced out before he could speak. 'I'll do it.'

The smile on his face almost made it worthwhile, and his enthusiasm in the next few hours would reinforce her thinking.

- - -

Sitting in her wagon, she turned the piece of dark mahogany over and over in her hands. A fine piece of wood and she would make a fine carving from it. She'd already decided it would resemble an angel. The angel Lucifer as carved by her father, a great inspiration to her. Yet as opposed to chained chained, he is free. The angel Lucifer, flying free, to resemble the beauty and sly cunning of the Marquis St Silver, as of yet to be caught by authority or love.

The initial carving should have taken her mere days, yet the complicated spellwork made it take thrice as long as normal.

Finally done, she stared at the carving that was the size of her forearm. A true beauty, though the spellwork was the truly wonderful part. Guilt bit at her as she looked at it, yet the desire won over need.

- - -

'Your Grace,' She called, watching the man walk past the room in which she sat. Those angel eyes turned to her and she felt a blush creeping up her neck.

'My Lady,' He smiled charmingly again. He did everything perfectly. She sighed, took his hand, and lay the carving in it.

The spell took immediate effect and the rosy look he gained made her burn with glee.

Desire always won.

- - -

Near to a year later she stood in her wagon, looking into the cot at a child with hair the colour of leaves in autumn, though eyes the colour of the sky as Lucifer fell stared back at her. Dark blue, she knew he would be stunning when older.

- - -

It was almost two decades later when the plague raked the land, taking the sick, old, and very young. She knew she hadn't much longer to live, and gripped her son's hand.

'Samen,' She sighed, stroking the hair that was so much like his fathers. He had the pale skin of a city dweller, the sharp angles of a gentleman, but she had made sure to teach his the ways of a gypsy.

'Mother,' He whispered back, laying his head on her chest. He would burn everything when she died – they were the last two, she about to die, and he not yet contaminated. He'd make sure it wouldn't spread.

'Make sure you live a good life, Samen,' The order was clear, it had been all his life.

'I will, Mother,' The promise was as sincere as it always had been, and with a smile she passed away.

The tears he shed were quickly dried by the fire.

- - -

Samen shivered as he ran, cold and wet from his trip into a river. Surviving with nothing was hard, he'd discovered while he scaled another wall. He'd taken about twelve so far, all at the far ends of noble territory.

Yet...this. He stood stock still as he gazed at the garden full of fruit, the mansion he didn't know how he'd managed to miss. Beautiful.

And off limits to someone like him. He hides, hoping not to be caught as footsteps echo down a path of gravel. He stares, then looks again.

A man, everything about him as pure as marble. Fine white hair and leathery wings as pale as fresh milk. Even white nails tip his fingers and toes, though at a second glance they resemble small claws, more than anything. No wonder the man is barefoot.

A pale gold crown sits atop his lovely looking hair, and muscles ripple under his skin as he reaches up. A glance tells him that it's an apple he wants, shining and red, probably lovely and juicy. And all too high up for him to reach. It's then he notices the height – the man must be at least a head taller than him.

But man isn't the correct word, for he must be an angel, with such a beautiful garden and godly appearance.

Then he leaves, though, and Samen feels he is left bereft, though of what he does not know. He shakes the feeling off as best as he can, quickly and cautiously picking berries and other sweet fruits, though the apples ever tempt.

- - -

Weeks pass, and though he can not tell how many it can not be more than 5, seeing as autumn is barely ending. The ground grows cold and the air seems to find a way to chill him to the bone no matter where he goes.

Even as the other plants wither, the apple tree stands tall and proud, with it's lovely angel coming for a sweet treat each evening. He always gets the feeling he knows this angel, though. He writes it off as gypsy ancestors.

But today. Today, his angel hasn't come, and he fears as it grows dark – what if he has been seen and this is punishment for watching?

The sun sets, lower and lower as he waits, and as it disappears he creeps from his bushes towards the tree. He scales it, with great difficulty as the tree is quite large and the bark scrapes his hands. Reaching, the holds on to the largest apple, he can, tumbling gracelessly from between the tree's branches.

Standing slowly he brushes off his clothes and follows the path his angel takes. The door he comes to is large and slightly ajar. He pushes, finding it easy to open. Tentative steps take him inside the manor, filled with splendor and riches beyond his imagination.

Riches, and sounds of pain and sorrow. He jolts as a scream rips through the mansion, and the apple almost slips from his fingers. His angel? In pain? His steps quicken as the sounds get louder.

A dark coloured door seems to block his path, and with great effort he opens it.

His angel, barely sitting on a boulder, because this room is not of this world, he is sure. Barren trees line the seemingly endless Savannah, heat beating down upon them both.

Shackles on his left hand and right ankle chain his angel to the rock, his crown in his hand, along with half a scepter. The other half is carelessly on the floor, gold shining in the relentless sun, soon joined by the apple as he drops it. The statue. The one his mother loved so fiercely.

He stares, stares Lucifer in the eyes, and can't bring himself to feel hate as another cry of pain, remorse and so much more leaves those lovely pale lips.

One cautious step is followed by a second, that soon followed by a third until he is close enough to clasp cold hands in his own and tug them out of hair that's as soft as it looks. They warm slightly as he shifts, sliding his arms around the fallen angel's shoulders as silent looks inquire to his meanings.

He stands. Soon enough, cold arms embrace him too. A head rests on his shoulder.

If this is eternity, they will spend it together.”

At this time he finishes, and the cynics and the optimists alike leave feelings oddly bereft yet happy, away to lie about what they feel, because to tell their actual emotions would be foolish.

You walk away too, and his eyes follow you. As you approach the altar, feeling dirty in a place so holy, arms also embrace your waste and his lips brush the curve of your jaw.

“If even the Devil himself can find redemption in love, so too must you,” He will whisper to you, an continue to even as you shake your head and try to slip away.

He will convince you, he says. He does not care where you have fallen, or how low you have been.

“This is your eternity,” He says.

You shake your head.

“Our eternity,” He corrects himself. He turns you around. Lips brush yours, and again you cannot believe the love of this holy man. You nod. If this is your eternity...

“We'll spend it together.”

If this is your forever, your deathless love will bring you to your light amidst the darkness.

Because he promises it, and you love him.

And love will ever win.

“I love you.”

x

I know it's full of mistakes. I know it sucks. I know somewhere I switched POV's. It was 3 am. I was bored. I don't even understand my own fucking plot. Enjoy.