#| ☩ A single flower blooms among the ashes ☩ (verse: au - haunted shrine) |

[aaetherius]

[ @cxffexngel || haunted shrine AU! ]

Wings with tips of scorched black and brown, dirty plumes veil the fave of the spirit that raged ever since unaccounted time, feared and isolated ever since of how much Sandalphon can even begin to remember. Everything around him changes, seasons pass and colors transition from lush greens to verdant colors and flowery beds, to snow and then the fall of leaves. A cycle he grows relentless time from time when shackled to the worn wooden shrine that would not allow the soul to leave the area, and only wallow in the loneliness and silence that, after centuries, the place had finally had gotten. It took million curses, dead people victim of his rage that inflicted illnesses to many of the unsuspecting visitors, heartbreaks that would wilt their lives to nothingness and then - silence. A cycle that happened time from time, and the winged creature, dressed in robes pf red and green and limbs of black hovered to many more days unable to really do much more but seethe with that flame that refuses to go out, an ire that fuels the vengeance that somehow is all he knows, no one that stirred the impatience of the haunting was ever free from the curses that would be laid as soon as eyes as red as a pierced heart's blood would stare down at them in the most reverent silent anger as words would be spoken, yet never head - and then silence would fill the empty field around the shrine again.

It's all he's known, Sandalphon has believed. To hate and lash out, to gnaw and curse, to wish and be left alone if no one was ever going to rid of him for good. The cruelest thing ever done binding his soul to such an empty place that looked like it'd fall down anytime at the foot of nature's will, and maybe someday, that's all he needs to finally go away — but fate was never kind. The heavens must resent him, as it mattered not how many centuries would pass, even when a period of stillness passed by, it never failed to occur the worst; a living to find their way to his shrine. The crunch of steps stirring vile and sickness to a being that only felt seething anger from thin air, like a wounded animal who wanted nothing but to be left alone, feathers would stir in anger and their battered ends would prickle, yet Sandalphon knew best that whoever is there, at best will feel the heavy air around the place, will feel that agony that the cursed place has been tainted with, and for better or worse, they'd leave. That's how it's always been.... Or not. There always is a time a single living would come by, everyday. Time from time again until they grew old and then the spirit would see them no more. For reasons unable to figure out, completely unaffected by the curses or his rage, nor even moved to fear or sadness over anything the sight would instill - nothing. All of those times, all of those lifetimes each living would have, they had in common one thing. Immense sorrow, guilt - and yet; it only angered the spirit even more. Why would they care? Why would they even make the effort for just a nameless being that only he remembers the name of? Ever since bound to this place, Sandalphon's known two things. His name, and that he's angry. Why? Betrayal. But what betrayal? Why was he cursed to be bound here for an untold time? Who did this? But such things were already dissipating as days could go by, and only the song of birds and wind blowing trees all but answered those questions. Looking back was a fog, a katana, red, horrified eyes of blue, and the shout of said name he all but remembers was directed to him. Everything else nothing but the blur of time passing, and frustrations that did not quell even as the ticking of an imaginary clock did not ever appease.

The sight becomes regular, always the same. A tall man, young yet lines of tiredness there. Sandalphon liking to guess it's his curses wilting that life away, but it was very obvious that it was something else entirely - somehow this place brought that man peace, much to his horror and distaste; and even worse. He'd try repairing the place, fixing rooting wood and painting faded reds back to something lively. It was disgusting, but little the spirit could do beyond hoping his clawing would somehow stir a reaction beyond tired hums he'd hear from the man rattle his chest, or words about things he cares little to listen when his mission was to let this place decay and be free; but it was helpless, his swings of dark clawed hands all but doing much, a much terribly futile attempt to what limited influence Sandalphon had, that he could only hover away, at a safe distance and stare at the other's back. A shirt that was cleaned not long ago, pants that fit nicely, but the vengeful soul wished they could just rot and bleed and be torn away by a wolf's teeth. Hair as bright as the first days after a gentle snowfall, fading to the slightest pink, and hands that told stories the ghost was not over interested to hear about. Why would he care? " Get tired already. " the psyche within what he can form as thoughts rattle as an echo of that wish from him, he could no speak, the wings get in the way - he could not see with his eyes, but he could feel the other's life radiating in colors a mortal could not. In a way, he could feel the other, could feel the world just like a living, and at the same time he could not. Limbs of feathers that sprout where ears could be all but locked in place, along bigger ones at his back that little needed to be there when as a spirit there were no bounds between earth and air, but just the unseen barrier that let him not to leave the place around the cursed shrine.

So the best now, just like anytime he's felt this presence ever since many times, Sandalphon just lets the curses take care of it. For now he just leaves him be and not care about what happens, for he all could bring is ruin and hurt, so that's what he will do.

The dilapidated shrine tucked beneath overgrown bushes and crooked tree branches isn't some whimsical or magical sight to behold. It's not a unique and beautiful treasure found amongst the aged trees of the seemingly out of place woods that some might assume it to be with the various rumors that circulate among the public about it. No, it's not special or breathtaking or mystical. It's haunted and rundown and unsightly. There's been talk of tearing it down for a few years now, but the plans to do so always fall short. The workers become ill or mysteriously vanish, and all efforts to remove it are brought to a halt. Curious onlookers are a rarity, too, these days. Back when Lucifer had first started coming to this shrine, years ago -- when he had been a child drawn to the ruined building by an indescribable tug on his heart, he would see the occasional brave daredevil who would visit the shrine just to prove the rumors were false. Sadly, all they ever did was add more creditably to those rumors. It seems, finally, after years of misfortune relating to the shrine, most of decided it's best to leave it alone. He's seen all manner of ill befall those people over the years he's been coming to this place, yet, that same fate hadn't befallen him. Perhaps it's only a matter of time before he finds himself cursed or worse, but, despite that possibility hanging over his head, he's never once considered putting an end to his visits. After all, he's come to this shrine every single day since he was five years old. A habit of twenty-two years wasn't an easy one to break. And, if he were being honest, even if he wished it, he doesn't believe it would be possible for him to put a stop to these visits. It would make his heart ache for too terribly.

So, with two cups of piping hot coffee, and a hefty bag of supplies strapped to his shoulders, Lucifer makes the same walk he does every single day. Up the same set of mossy, stone steps, beneath the same withering branches that creak eerily in the wind, past the same red gates that are full of splinters and chips, to the small shrine nestled within it all. Inhaling softly, he almost instinctively holds his breath as his gaze dances over the shrine, releasing it only when he's certain none of the awkward and worn pieces of wood holding it together will come crumbling down. He's fixed them a few times, but much of the original structure has rotted over time, and there's only so much he can do. Despite the lengths he's gone to to keep the shrine standing, he can't even begin to claim he's confident in his handiwork. But he wills those thoughts away to replace his concerned frown with a gentle smile as he kneels down before the shrine to make his offering, and say a prayer. Muttering a silent, yet heartfelt vow, he places one of the cups down on the alter alongside a handful of herbs before settling down on the steps a few paces away, and shrugging off his bag. Rolling his stiff shoulders back, he digs through the contents, removing a notebook, pen, a can of paint, and a paintbrush.

"I started the southernmost gate yesterday," he says to no one is particular as he taps the pen against the neat list sprawled out on the page he's opened up to. "Today I should be able to finish painting it. Ah -- perhaps I should sweep the steps as well." It's autumn, after all, the weather is getting colder, and the leaves have started to fall. He can scarcely hope to count the sheer number of them that have collected on the aged steps. Setting the pen on the page he had been eyeing, he glances upwards towards the dwindling sky. It's a bit late. He hadn't been able to get out of the meeting, and the sour taste it left in his mouth still lingered. But, here, for some reason, he felt at ease -- a world away from the hustle and bustle of daily life. Away from the expectations of society, and the slog of daily life. Here, despite all of the rumors that he fully believed, he felt safe. At home. The thought alone is enough to make his smile a genuine one. "It seems I will be in your company for some time tonight. Please look after me." He turns to the shrine as he speaks, watching the abandoned building groan with the wind.

He doesn't know if this shrine is haunted or not. He has no way of knowing if a spirit or ghoul or god calls this place home -- if anything at all, but, in his heart, he doesn't feel as if he's alone. But the feeling is comforting rather than unsettlingly, even if he does get the occasional chill or hear the faintest of rustles from time to time. Shaking his head, he tosses the notebook onto the bag, and takes the can and paintbrush over to the torii gate leading up to the shrine, admiring the post he's already managed to complete. The fresh paint has dried, and the color has gone from a muddy pink to a vibrant red that stands out against its peers, but he's determined to repaint every last gate around the shrine so, one day, they'll all match. Without hesitation, after all he's spent the last twenty-two years tending to this shrine, he gets to work painting. Sweeping, he's decided, he'll do after he's finished with this gate. Ah, it will be well past nightfall by the time he leaves, but that thought doesn't frighten him. "Today I brought you a latte I brewed. I am afraid I have yet to master the art of drawing in foam, but I pray my humble portrait of the gates brings you some joy."

He's like this every time he visits -- speaking to nothing and no one in particular. Having a conversation with the wind and leaves. If there is something here, he feels like he should speak whenever he comes by. After all, he's the only visitor to this shrine anymore, and not having anyone to listen to must be lonely. Ah, it's a feeling he knows all too well, and he can't bear the idea of another enduring it. So, if he can help ease some of the pain just a bit, he gladly will. Even if the coffee he brings always goes cold, and there's never a drop missing from it by the time he leaves.