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[roadkill-god.livejournal.com]

Date: Sept 20, early evening, just after the power went out
Status: Public (this means YOU)
Setting: The bar
Summary: Horus explores the bar (Bohemian Rhapsody Plot)
Rating: G



Horus swooped around the manor, not really looking for anything in particular when a sudden movement near the manor caught his eye. He circled lower and dropped to the ground when he realised what it was, a silvery feather far too long to be from any bird. He carefully caught it and gently brushed his fingers over the blood red tip. Belial.

He nervously eyed the door the feather had blown out of, but eventually curiosity won out over caution and he hesitantly poked his head though the door. When he saw that the dim room was empty he took a few timid steps further in. There was music playing softly from some source he could not see, calling to mind a song he had once heard playing from an black car that was decades out of date*. He hummed a few bars of it, the lyrics floating through his head. Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy...? He trailed off, not knowing why those words had caught in his head. He looked around again, eyeing the doors that lead farther into the building, and wondered if he should just go back outside.

*Two guesses as to whose car, and one doesn't count.

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[lordofthesouth.livejournal.com]

"I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy." He turned the music up a bit and turned to face himself.

In the dusk light, Belial crafted a perfect lie in the mirror's cold reflection. His face was smooth, flawlessly beautiful, the perfect mask. Only his eyes betrayed the truth, dark and pained.

"'Cause I'm easy come, easy go. A little high, little low."

It pained him look at himself any longer; not the way the shadows crept across his face with growing intensity, burying him in their depths.

Sorrow wreaked havoc between his stomach and neck, building and burning and twisting.

Killing him, he knew.

If ever were a demon to die of sorrow and depravity, it would be him. There was no slow wasting away, starving, or sickness that accompanied a human's death, but a gentle fading, a fuzzing about the edges of his existence. His will wavered, ephemeral, and he pushed the mirror away, unable to bear the sight. He was tired.

Tired of being in love, of disappearing, of being something that he was not.

His heart--and how it ached--was heavy and he felt like weeping. No tears rolled across his lying face, but behind his eyes they fell hot and fast.

"Any way the wind blows... doesn't really matter... to... me," he whispered.