AutumnsBandit

Fox was not a demon. It had taken him entirely by surprise when, sometime in the 15th Century, someone had brandished a crucifix at him and hissed 'get thee behind me, demon.' He hadn't. He'd stood and stared questioningly at them until the poor bugger had gotten embarrassed and wandered off. Fox knew demons. Knew angels, too. Busybodies, the lot of them. Fox also knew a lot of small gods and medium gods and quite a few big gods. He knew anthropomorphic personifications and supernatural entities and a fair few of the fair folk, as well as a huge number of folk tales that had gained sentience just for being round so long. He had tea with Old

"You're a monster." She hisses, all brutal, angular honesty. "You're a fucking hypocritical, homicidal monster." He doesn't flinch, doesn't bend, doesn't break. He stands all slouched and casual and laughs and smiles a wicked smile best left on the reptiles. The smile doesn't touch his hard, cruel eyes. "Do you think," he says, voice so low she has to strain to hear it even in the dead, cold silence. "I ever fucking cared? Did it ever echo in your stupid little head that you aren't important?" She straightens like he never could. "No." She says, eyes hard as his. "Never."

She was dead from the moment she saw him, lying in a pool of his own blood. He was dead, and so was she. So she pounced. It hurt, being killed. It hurt. But not as much as being without him. The torture didn't come from the blows, or his laughter as they rained down. It didn't come from him taunting her, his baby girl cooed in the softest voice she'd ever heard. It was a relief when the final blow broke her. His eyes were sad when they met again beneath orange skies. There was only peace in hers.

"I'll kill you." He says, and there isn't a trace of doubt about him, not in his voice or his face or his ice-blue eyes. He has become ice, you think. There's no warmth about him, not anymore. When he reaches out and grabs your face and pulls you kiss-close, you don't want to melt into his embrace or hold his hands or stroke his cheek. You want to pull away, escape, but his fingers are a steel cage. He looks into your eyes like you're a stranger, and he says "Don't cross me. I'll kill you." You believe him.