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neutral_omensTime: September 29, 2000
Place: Mictain's Room
Status: Private (Mictain -- Complete)
Summary: It's a day just like any other. Or perhaps not.
The moment he woke up, he remembered it.
Of course, it would have been quite hard to forget something like that in just half year after living with it for so long. It didn’t mean he had to like it.
Immortal beings rarely had birthdays. He didn’t have one, either – by the time he had been created, there hadn’t been even days, leave alone any calendar systems to measure and organize them. However, many of them had other kinds of special dates, like celebrations or holidays in their name.
Like Michaelmas.
It shouldn’t have bothered him so, of course. It no more had anything to do with him. Still, his claws itched to tear something, anything as he thought of all the people who even at this moment thought it was the celebration of the archangels, named after the archangel Michael. A celebration named after somebody who didn’t even exist anymore.
He’d never cared about it before, really. It wasn’t like it affected him in any way. So why did it bother him so much now?
There was something behind his door, he realized. Something that chirped.
As the chirping didn’t stop in a minute or two, he finally opened the door. A paper bird was flying in the air in front of him, carrying something folded in black cloth.
Mictain frowned in annoyance but let the bird fly in nevertheless. It dropped its burden on the table, where the demon took it from. He noticed something written on one wing of the bird.
“Happy Mictainmas,” it read. Nothing else.
Finally he managed to get all the cloth out of the way – it apparently liked sticking to his claws, stupid thing – and stared at what was revealed. A small, delicate painting, almost realistic enough to be a photograph.
He recognized the picture, of course. It was the same one he had seen hanging on the Christmas tree the year before. Every single brushstroke on it screamed the name of its maker, too; there was truly no mistaking its origin. Only, it wasn’t exactly the same it had been back then.
Where previously had been blue eyes, he now saw a glint of red. And, somehow, although the smile was the same as it had been, there was now a little hint of a malevolent smirk in it. A flame or two decorated the now dark background. He could have sworn the paint was still wet – he would have, if he hadn’t known Uriel always used miracles to dry her works.
With a small annoyed huff, he set the bird aflame. It gave a little, papery screech before disappearing in a puff of ashes and smoke.
He did not, however, burn the picture.
Place: Mictain's Room
Status: Private (Mictain -- Complete)
Summary: It's a day just like any other. Or perhaps not.
The moment he woke up, he remembered it.
Of course, it would have been quite hard to forget something like that in just half year after living with it for so long. It didn’t mean he had to like it.
Immortal beings rarely had birthdays. He didn’t have one, either – by the time he had been created, there hadn’t been even days, leave alone any calendar systems to measure and organize them. However, many of them had other kinds of special dates, like celebrations or holidays in their name.
Like Michaelmas.
It shouldn’t have bothered him so, of course. It no more had anything to do with him. Still, his claws itched to tear something, anything as he thought of all the people who even at this moment thought it was the celebration of the archangels, named after the archangel Michael. A celebration named after somebody who didn’t even exist anymore.
He’d never cared about it before, really. It wasn’t like it affected him in any way. So why did it bother him so much now?
There was something behind his door, he realized. Something that chirped.
As the chirping didn’t stop in a minute or two, he finally opened the door. A paper bird was flying in the air in front of him, carrying something folded in black cloth.
Mictain frowned in annoyance but let the bird fly in nevertheless. It dropped its burden on the table, where the demon took it from. He noticed something written on one wing of the bird.
“Happy Mictainmas,” it read. Nothing else.
Finally he managed to get all the cloth out of the way – it apparently liked sticking to his claws, stupid thing – and stared at what was revealed. A small, delicate painting, almost realistic enough to be a photograph.
He recognized the picture, of course. It was the same one he had seen hanging on the Christmas tree the year before. Every single brushstroke on it screamed the name of its maker, too; there was truly no mistaking its origin. Only, it wasn’t exactly the same it had been back then.
Where previously had been blue eyes, he now saw a glint of red. And, somehow, although the smile was the same as it had been, there was now a little hint of a malevolent smirk in it. A flame or two decorated the now dark background. He could have sworn the paint was still wet – he would have, if he hadn’t known Uriel always used miracles to dry her works.
With a small annoyed huff, he set the bird aflame. It gave a little, papery screech before disappearing in a puff of ashes and smoke.
He did not, however, burn the picture.
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