Suki Blue Fiction

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He waited.

Candles burned and flickered around him, setting the darkened room ablaze with a dancing orange glow. A small brass bowl sat in the centre of the circle, billowing the scent of a thousand herbs through mystical swirls of grey smoke.

How many times had he done this before? How many years had he wasted in unsuccessful pursuit of the impossible? Days had become weeks which had become months which had become years. And now, after those years had slowly and painfully become centuries, he was on his last try, his last attempt at reuniting with his heart. One way or another, he would join his love tonight.

With his friends long ago lost to mortal death, and no desire to ever form a bond with another that could be so unfairly taken away, Angel was alone. And he could stand it no longer.

A sacred athame lifted into the air and the chants of pleading and worship filled his ears. Angel no longer listened to the words that were spoken. He’d heard too many of them since his love had been taken. They were meaningless now. He closed his eyes and listened instead to the sounds of life.

The passing of a car.

The bark of a dog.

The twitter of early morning birds.

Dawn had broken, his way out secured. Just a few more moments to wait. A single tear of blood fell from an eye that had not cried for five hundred years.

The athame lowered and Angel waited one more time for Doyle to return.




(Athame = a ceremonial knife)