The tale of Angelus Mortis

In the depths of an inky woodland, sits a dark abandoned cabin, feared by legends to be the abode to outcast witches. A forest even wildlife trembles to enter, depths even sunlight dares not explore, is home, to a little girl. A mellow child, unaware of the world’s evil, enjoying her toast, in a place deemed cursed by the outside world. Thriving in a place such, anyone would agree that it would be impossible for the child to form a bond with a fellow being. To find a friend. But. She had a friend. A unique one.

The ice-cold breeze of dawn swayed through the quiet of the shadows. The sole sound was the rustling of leaves and the faint water dripping from the roof from last night’s downpour. She stood by the dewy window, waiting to see the familiar figure. She waits, water droplets counting time. Then she sees it, the outline of a dark shadowy figure and she runs out the door, through the mist-covered air, to greet her friend. His arms pick her up, holding her close to his heart, his gracious wings engulfing her in them. Rustling of leaves and excited laughter echoed through the trees, as they playfully ran towards the cosy cabin. Fire about to die, he fed the fireplace fresh timber and proceeded to the kitchen, to prepare milk and eggs for the little girl, as she excitedly asked him tales of his work night and he told her about the new guests he guided on. She loved his company. He would spend the day with her, narrating tales, making her delicious bread, collecting logs, and then as moonlight overtakes the light of dusk, he leaves for work. Carrying the lost in his arms, guiding them to a better place. He would then return as the first light of dawn strikes. Wings softly caressing the ground, a man of the softest demeanour, crystal grey eyes beaming with love and empathy as his long blonde tresses and soft smile decorated his face. He always wore the same black robe, tinted with a soothing blue and purple silhouette, vest hugging his body flawlessly, his rhinestone crown holding his locks in place. He made her happy. She always felt safe in his arms, a comforting presence, the only one she had ever known. She would mention him in her prayers every night and tell him about all the people she met in her dreams whilst he feeds her marshmallows and toast. She would fall asleep to his singing and wake up, anticipating his return.
She writes in her little diary, every morning before he arrives, about him, her best and only friend, Angelus Mortis. The Angel of Death. Unaware that she, is the daughter, of Angelus Mortis. Filia Angeli Mortis. The Daughter, of the Angel of Death.