The Werewolf [COMPLETE]

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He was staring at the fire, watching it slowly devour the logs. The flames were lighting the dark room and their shadows were playing on walls lined with shelves and shelves of old books. The brown oak floor was covered by thick and expensive carpets to retain the warmth in, to hold it and keep it, until the snow outside his windows would fade away to nothingness, until the moon would fall and the sun would rise.

Sitting at his desk with his hands under his chin, his face had been empty of any emotion and his eyes hadn't left the hearth once since the night had fallen. He had been impassive for a long time, so long a time that the seconds had become minutes, so long a time that the minutes had become hours, and he was lost in his mind, thinking or not thinking, looking or not looking, hearing or not hearing, waiting or waiting, waiting.

The fire crackled.

His gaze lit up.

He tore a page from one of the books next to him and grabbed a pen. He wrote two names in black ink on the thick paper, he stood up and walked to the chimney. Without a single hesitation, he threw the page into the sparkling fire. The sheet of paper immediately ignited. And the flames, burning in his eyes, burning the logs and burning the page, turned the leaf and the ink and the writing into dust, uniting the two names forever.

The Cupid had chosen the Lovers.