Categories > Original > Fantasy
The Burning
0 reviewsThis is a story I wrote while listening to the song, I Wish I Had An Angel by Nightwish.
0Unrated
Nothing came a greater thrill than watching another one burn. The melting flesh, the anguished, dying screams,…and the way those beautiful, pure white feathers burst into flames and became ashes within mere seconds.
Divine, he thought, absolutely divine…
The man drew closer to those beautiful purple flames and bent down, reaching a hand into the hungry fire. He scooped up some of the ashes smoldering on the ground and withdrew his hand, which showed no sign of physical harm. No burns or blisters.
Quickly and fluidly, he stood up, barely flexing his inhumanly strong, yet finely muscled, legs. With large, lusting eyes, he gently poured the cooling ashes into a thick, black, leather pouch that he kept strapped at his waist, gasping in awe at the silkiness that still beheld the ashes from its former feather state.
He chuckled as the last sparkling ashes fell into his pouch, and he pulled the drawstring gently, closing it slowly. His pitch-black eyes turned back onto the bright flames in front of him…he could still make out some of the girl’s beautiful features, forever twisted in agony and hatred…an ironic end for an angel. He smiled.
Suddenly, he felt eyes on him. He glanced over at the Grand Canal on his right, taking less than a second to spot the gondolieri staring at him, horrified, from his gondola. His smile vanished and with a quick whip of his hand, the stricken man was gone, already drowning at the bottom of the canal, only his boat remaining witness to the scene. He looked around some more, scanning every dark corner for unwelcome prying eyes.
Never had this part of Venice been so empty. The Ponte di Rialto, Venice’s market district, was often supremely crowded, even in the dead of night. But tonight not a soul had wandered in that general direction, except the poor gondolieri.
The man’s face became grim-- someone had been unaffected by his charm. How could he still not have enough power? He needed more power. He needed more ashes, more dust. His cold face remained morose as he turned his penetrating glare back to the beautiful, dead angel.
“Arrivederci, mi angelo,” he muttered, kissing the tips of his forefinger and middle finger, then pressing them through the fire and against her burnt lips. He brought his hand back out of the fire-- still completely unharmed-- and reached back to pull on his black, satin hat, which hung around his neck by a single black leather strap. He pulled the hat down low and turned to stride away.
“Goodbye, my angel.” His voice was barely a whisper.
His strong legs pushed off from the ground and huge black wings unfurled, instantly carrying him high into the air. He needed more power…he needed more ashes…he needed an angel.
Divine, he thought, absolutely divine…
The man drew closer to those beautiful purple flames and bent down, reaching a hand into the hungry fire. He scooped up some of the ashes smoldering on the ground and withdrew his hand, which showed no sign of physical harm. No burns or blisters.
Quickly and fluidly, he stood up, barely flexing his inhumanly strong, yet finely muscled, legs. With large, lusting eyes, he gently poured the cooling ashes into a thick, black, leather pouch that he kept strapped at his waist, gasping in awe at the silkiness that still beheld the ashes from its former feather state.
He chuckled as the last sparkling ashes fell into his pouch, and he pulled the drawstring gently, closing it slowly. His pitch-black eyes turned back onto the bright flames in front of him…he could still make out some of the girl’s beautiful features, forever twisted in agony and hatred…an ironic end for an angel. He smiled.
Suddenly, he felt eyes on him. He glanced over at the Grand Canal on his right, taking less than a second to spot the gondolieri staring at him, horrified, from his gondola. His smile vanished and with a quick whip of his hand, the stricken man was gone, already drowning at the bottom of the canal, only his boat remaining witness to the scene. He looked around some more, scanning every dark corner for unwelcome prying eyes.
Never had this part of Venice been so empty. The Ponte di Rialto, Venice’s market district, was often supremely crowded, even in the dead of night. But tonight not a soul had wandered in that general direction, except the poor gondolieri.
The man’s face became grim-- someone had been unaffected by his charm. How could he still not have enough power? He needed more power. He needed more ashes, more dust. His cold face remained morose as he turned his penetrating glare back to the beautiful, dead angel.
“Arrivederci, mi angelo,” he muttered, kissing the tips of his forefinger and middle finger, then pressing them through the fire and against her burnt lips. He brought his hand back out of the fire-- still completely unharmed-- and reached back to pull on his black, satin hat, which hung around his neck by a single black leather strap. He pulled the hat down low and turned to stride away.
“Goodbye, my angel.” His voice was barely a whisper.
His strong legs pushed off from the ground and huge black wings unfurled, instantly carrying him high into the air. He needed more power…he needed more ashes…he needed an angel.
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