He must be no older than twenty-three. At least, he doesn't look older than twenty-three. He has the face of an angel. Always wearing that chipper smile, red red lips, prominent canines, he draws people in. His blue eyes, an unnaturally pale shade of blue, are always wide open in exaltation. It makes him look young, innocent. He's no taller than five foot eight, nine maybe. He looks like a boy, dark brown hair short on the sides, longer on top, cropped like a gentleman, tousled like he's been outside for too long. In the night, no one seems to notice neither the eerie pallor of his skin, nor the coldness of his touch. His playful smile brings warmth and a hint of fear into the hearts of the ones it strikes. Oh, but he looks so young, so pure. His glistening white teeth clash with the redness of his lips; he's a modern Snow White, by the looks of it. He lures the people, mostly older men, with his boyish charms and flirty eyes and a nasty nasty tongue.
And then he kills them.
He drinks their blood until his porcelain face is stained crimson. He sinks his teeth into flesh. He plays with his meals. It brings him glee. It makes him laugh.
He may look twenty-three, but he's quite older than any dirty old man he feeds from. In fact, he may have seen them born, wearing the same face for centuries.
He's a creature of Bacchus, wild and promiscuous, sexual and deadly. He answers to the night and drinks the wine of men as well as the wine of their hearts. The shade doesn't differ much and the effects are nearly the same. They say he looks like an angel. He is a devil.
The Devil always wears white at a wedding but he'll wear red at a funeral.
He charms by his looks, yes, but not his looks alone. He can entrance you, as soon as you lock eyes. He can make you want, he can make you despise, he can make you quiet, he can make you scream. His thrall is powerful; he knows what you think at all times.
He's old, very old.
And so very dangerous.
His features are carved in stone, graver than the grave although as handsome as Apollo himself. This man is cold, made of steel unbinding. He looks twenty eight, maybe older. His expression is too serious to decipher and too hard for a man his age. He hunts like the wolves, discreet and stealthy. He sees no passion in the emotions of men. He does like to study pain though.
There are things that bring a spark to his pale green eyes and a quirk to his lips, things like blood and pain. He studies the decay of humans, the blindness of them all. He watches them lie, make war to one another, rape, kill. He delves into the inhumanity that composes humans. He finds it amusing still that women, and men alike, throw themselves at his darkness like animals. They helplessly rut against him like a horny dog would his master's leg. Despite his icy allure, he possesses a kind of pull, for steel is magnetic. His hair is short, cropped close; it makes him look harsh, military.
They call him Stahl Mann; Man of Steel. His heart, dead in his chest, bends for nearly nothing. He claims to love a deep love for one thing though his lack of a pulse does not bid in his favour. Besides blood and death, he loves one thing only.
He loves the Devil. The one true Devil that, though may seem warm and welcoming, is in fact cruel and vicious. He loves the tyranny of this being, of this other damned child he pursues his fate with. The Devil has a name, this name is Charles.
And the Stahl Mann has a name too, it is Erik.
Legends claim that to every race, every breed of living creatures, even dead ones, there is a desire stronger than will to another being, a link so strong that it binds the two together in every realm, whether life or death, heaven or hell.
Rare are the ones who can find this true love, this mate, as we'd call it. Men have renounced to their privilege of love, stooping low for riches and power. As they say, the hearts of men are easily corrupted. A human can never love fully. The crimes of passion and proofs of devotion are but euphoria and delirium, slowly seeping through the brains of oblivious people. Free from the gift of humanity, creatures that were once men can finally feel true turmoil, true passion, true love. And it is pain and impulsion that drive those creatures to sadism.
Why blood, why death? Because it's what they are. Why pain? Because it's what they feel. How love? Because it's what they long for.
Charles found Erik in a creek, half dead, bloody and disgusting. He could have killed him, drank his blood for all he cared. But he cared. He thought of an easy prey at first, hunting war fields for the blood of battle. He will never fully comprehend why it was that man that caught his eye, invaded his senses. When he found him, he did not turn him. He nursed him back to health, studied him. He grew a few years with him, saving his worth at dangerous times. A proud Celt. They grew to love one another, separated by death. Erik grew a few years into his skin, Charles remained unchanged. One day, Erik grew tired of slipping away from his love. He begged for the gift; Charles gave in, reluctant. He felt himself drain the life from his beloved, the sweet nectar of his veins, sweeter than any he'd known. He could hardly pull back. He hated himself at first, stealing the heat from his cheeks, the beat from his heart. But when Erik awoke, he saved Charles. He wiped the tears away, kissed a cheek, nipped a tongue. He drew blood, Charles laughed. All was well with the world now. Erik understood more than ever what it was to love. He could never be separated from Charles, it would kill him. At one point, he thought Charles dead; found him weak. He killed hundreds that night. Charles reassured him, petted his hand, graced him a smile.
"I'm not dead yet. I don't intend to be."
And Erik cried his first immortal tears, flowing freely like he was back to being a boy. Charles explained that if really had died, the pain would be unbearable for not only was he is mate but was he also his sire. It would be the kind of pain that would make you tear one of your own limbs off to quell it and drive a stake through your own heart just a second too late.
Once again, he was eternally thankful for Charles and for the fact that he was his.
TBC