Tinsel In Her Wings
Christmas card for eumenides1
Tinsel in Her Wings
Death/Lucifer
Merry Christmas!
He recognized her instantly, even though she wore a robe of flesh that night, and her skin was as rich and dark as new chocolate. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulder, teasing the corner of the tank top to which was pinned an emerald green Christmas bow. He hated the holiday, but upon her it looked jaunty and... cute.
It was not that he begrudged anyone a night of celebration, but what this night had become struck him as puerile and diluted. It was Saturn they celebrated, with trees and candles, not the smiling babe Yeshua who had been born in the summer and died near the time of the first frost.
But the piano-keys still lingered ghostly upon the tips of his fingers as he went to her, not smiling. She looked up at him gently, with the smile that held a tiny touch of sadness yet blooming in her eyes.
"A drink on the house," he said, and handed it to her.
"Please sit down." The timbre of her voice was lovely, resonant and deep.
"So how long has it been, Morningstar?"
He paused, then lifted a shoulder elegantly. "If we were truly mortal, I could waste my time with some sophistry of 'too long.' But we do not reckon time in cliches."
She smiled. "The burn feels good. It's been centuries since I drank whiskey."
"It often feels good to burn."
Death stood up. She glowed in the neon lights of the Lux, and began to slowly roll her hips in time with the music. "Will you dance with me, Morningstar?"
"Of course, my lady." His hand looked very white against hers.
The dance was very slow and sweet, and it left him feeling differently than he felt he should feel. The ambivalence swelled, until he dipped her low, and in the golden light her smile was radiant and she was warm and heavy on his arm.
Then she kissed him, a snowflake flash of lips against his cheek. She said, "Merry Christmas, Lucifer," as she swept out the door, her calves flashing above her high lace-up boots.
And he felt himself enjoying the sound of puerile words.
Tinsel in Her Wings
Death/Lucifer
Merry Christmas!
He recognized her instantly, even though she wore a robe of flesh that night, and her skin was as rich and dark as new chocolate. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulder, teasing the corner of the tank top to which was pinned an emerald green Christmas bow. He hated the holiday, but upon her it looked jaunty and... cute.
It was not that he begrudged anyone a night of celebration, but what this night had become struck him as puerile and diluted. It was Saturn they celebrated, with trees and candles, not the smiling babe Yeshua who had been born in the summer and died near the time of the first frost.
But the piano-keys still lingered ghostly upon the tips of his fingers as he went to her, not smiling. She looked up at him gently, with the smile that held a tiny touch of sadness yet blooming in her eyes.
"A drink on the house," he said, and handed it to her.
"Please sit down." The timbre of her voice was lovely, resonant and deep.
"So how long has it been, Morningstar?"
He paused, then lifted a shoulder elegantly. "If we were truly mortal, I could waste my time with some sophistry of 'too long.' But we do not reckon time in cliches."
She smiled. "The burn feels good. It's been centuries since I drank whiskey."
"It often feels good to burn."
Death stood up. She glowed in the neon lights of the Lux, and began to slowly roll her hips in time with the music. "Will you dance with me, Morningstar?"
"Of course, my lady." His hand looked very white against hers.
The dance was very slow and sweet, and it left him feeling differently than he felt he should feel. The ambivalence swelled, until he dipped her low, and in the golden light her smile was radiant and she was warm and heavy on his arm.
Then she kissed him, a snowflake flash of lips against his cheek. She said, "Merry Christmas, Lucifer," as she swept out the door, her calves flashing above her high lace-up boots.
And he felt himself enjoying the sound of puerile words.