Hello, hello, and welcome to a rare moment of original fiction. This just spawned rather randomly (in fact, the original title of the saved file is "randomthing1.doc") and I try to write it at school when I can, but there is a strong possibility I won't continue after awhile. sigh It's hard to keep continued interest in things with so much happening. Currently I am applying for college and finishing my senior year, so should you enjoy this little story and I discontinue it...My dearest apologies. Nice to be writing again though.



Beautiful raven hair, mysterious violet eyes, small, rosy lips...

Quiet, sweet, enigma. Where is she now? I cannot find her. What does it mean when she fades away from me, every evening? Is she afraid of me? Is she afraid of what we may become? I do not wish for her to fly away from me, melting into the velvety black evening. I want the stars in her eyes to stay with me forever in my arms. My precious angel, do not use your wings to escape...

Part I -- Betrayal

I awake again, sunlight falling warmly across my face, illuminating my world. Morning again, eh? Every morning always feels so hollow after an evening of tenderness.


I do not wish for this life of luxury and sloth. I want to be free. I no longer want to be trapped within this gilded, jewel-encrusted cage. Let me out, I say, let me out. But of course no one listens, for I am but a privileged child; I seem to exist for the sheer purpose of being pampered and fussed over. To the world I am but a fancy statue upon a pedestal to be worshipped and loved.

Hmph. Love. That is not love. The others do not understand what true love is. Only I do in this wasteland of wealth. I am the sole pupil of real emotion, of love, of my beautiful night angel. If not for her, I would be like them, clanging my gold wares loudly and angrily, sobbing for more. I would be kicking the common man and throwing dirt in their faces, as if some higher powered had bestowed upon treasure the power to torture and cruel punishment. That is not how reality works. That is not how reality should work.

I stand and wrap myself up in rich, colorful silks, detesting every minute of it. I am like a wolf in sheep's clothing, trying to hide my true self from the rest. I cannot stay yet I cannot leave; a perplexing situation indeed. If I stay, I will soon reveal myself in an outburst of emotion and run the risk of banishment from my own country. Yet, should I leave—I may not ever see my sweet angel again. What if she were unable to find me again, amongst the alleys and filth of outlying, neglected villages? What then? What is the use of this truth if she cannot share it with me? Where will I find meaning?

A knock at my door. Another royale breakfast feast. Reluctantly, I will follow, but I remain reticent at the table, as I have been since I met her. My family used to be concerned about my sudden silence, but eventually they resigned to failure. They could barely coax anything out of me; so strong was my hate for this empty family. I feel dead and cold. Not even the sweetness of sugared strawberries can bring a smile to my lips. Well, maybe they can, though it is only when I think of my sweet night flower.

She is so delicate and fragile, so unlike my own physical appearance. I cannot imagine what land could have borne such a lovely deity. All my material objects—my gold, my diamonds, my silks—I don't need them. They are but a hindrance to the spirit. Where is the use in worrying over gold and silver when the Angel of Death is forever watching over our shoulders, awaiting our fall? There is no use in this pondering, in these early morning thoughts. I must consume this meal and wait for my love.

Yet the day dragged on, the scorched the lands and I was still left waiting—waiting, waiting, always endlessly waiting for the Chariot to hide the sun away. Let the moon rise and the stars twinkle, let my angel come to me at last!

The moon has risen and is already ready to fall, the silver threads growing weary as the hours roll on. She has not arrived tonight, and my pent up frustrations feel ready to explode upon the slightest provocation. I am restless, I am tired, I am worried, I am thinking; I cannot organize my thoughts without her by my side in the evenings. Where could she have possibly gone?!

Tap, tap, tap—the sound of footsteps through the hall at this hour?

Such delicate footsteps; surely a visitor had not arrived without my knowledge? Such quiet footsteps, so unlike the clamorous stomping that occurs normally around these halls. It is not of my business, yet I cannot help my curiosity. Exactly what kind of person would come to visit my needlessly decorated abode?

Against my better judgment, I emerge from my dimly lit room, still swathed in crimson and gold. I take each step quietly, trying not to alarm whatever friend (or foe) that may be lurking about these dark halls. I can clearly hear the rustling of soft cloth and the gentle tapping of bare feet—a voice? Whose deep-throated whispers am I hearing, reverberating off of cool marble walls?

There is a soft glow of orange ahead, from the remnants of a candle...

Peering around a corner, I see none other than my raven-haired angel! What is she doing here, and why hasn't she come to me? It is already much later than when we normally meet. Suddenly, she does not appear so angelic. Her wings seem so...dark and leaden with malevolence. She was never like this, my sweet night. I should not be afraid—why does my heart pound with such terror now?

The quiet whispers are unnerving. My feet are cold. My chest is going to explode.

"You're such perfect little thing, aren't you?" my father cooed. My mind is on fire, on fire...

She giggled mischievously, "I'm amazed he's believed it this long! After all, you're not even his father!"

More giggling, soft chuckles. The sound of robes rustling.

I cannot believe what is happening to me. I've been blinded, so blinded! I am such a fool to believe that I was that man's son. Deep within the chambers of my own heart, I have always felt out of place and unnatural, but I always paid no heed to it. Damn him! And most of all, damn her for cutting the red thread of my heart! What gave them the right!?

I can't take this. I have to get out. Love, emotion, reality—where all the things she taught me wrong? Were they baiting me in order to murder me quietly? I can feel myself, burning—bright flames of betrayal and hate, smothering the smoldering ashes of Love. These eyes will know no tears for that wench, for this so-called family! I will not bow to their power and I will show them that my destiny is my own to shape!