The Antichrist has fallen for the swamp witch, causing a myriad of problems in both the realms of spirit and form. Will they come to a solution?
My first story in about 2 years, I was heavily inspired by the Greek myth of Persephone and Hades to wri...
Michael descended into the underworld and floated through the black void in which he travelled with Misty. He heard the familiar sounds of screaming and suffering that were in some parts of the nether realms, and the bats flew past him with their little squeaks and fragile wings flapping about. He smiled, his heart fluttering lightly as he came near the precipice of the great hall very similar to the main lobby of the Hawthorne school. The fire was flickering the square firepit, and he used his pyrokinesis to make the flames rise higher to signal his return. Once he stepped in, Misty was no where to be found. She's still resting, he thought to himself. In his mind's eye, a vision formulated of her whereabouts in this part of the underworld. He could hear faint singing and light sobbing. Soon, the sound became clearer, as if he was actually hearing it. He followed the sound to the source, and it was the same closed door to the room he had shown her that would serve as their bedroom.
"I saw my reflection...
in the...snow covered hills..."
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Michael drew nearer, hearing the sorrow and longing in Misty's singing. It also sounded ghostly, echoing softly through the realm. As a matter of fact, it was better than hearing shrill screams in the void.
"Til the landslide brought me down..."
His heart broke again to hear her break out into crying again, sniffling and struggling to gain her composure.
He tried to be quiet opening the closed door, turning the knob and stepping in to find Misty, still in her white maxi dress, wrapping herself in her shawl to comfort herself while she was captive in this miserable realm of existence. Her back was to the door, her golden curls matted and glossy from not having been washed in a few days. Her boots, however, were off and resting on the floor in front of Michael as he stepped in. She stopped singing, and curled up even tighter in her fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably. The man tried to be undetected as he reached into the side drawer and pulled out a jewelry box, opening it slightly to see the contents inside before he sat on the bed closest to the door. He had the box on his lap as he leaned to gently shake the swamp witch.
"Shh... Misty, my darling," he whispered. "I've come back."
She was unresponsive, but not sobbing anymore. He could hear her sniffling. He continued to speak to her, however.
"I... have a gift for you," he said. "Please... turn to face me."
Misty did more than that, though, and on her own. Michael didn't need to use mind control. She wiped her eyes on her shawl and sniffled, but still looked down. I'll fix that, he thought as he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. His lips turned to a closed mouth smile, but Misty was not amused in the slightest.
"Much better," he sighed. "Wipe those beautiful eyes."
He used his fingertip to wipe any tears she missed, and she remained silent. His fingers gently brushed her cheek before he reached down to his lap and procured the velvet jewelry box containing her gift. Misty looked down at it in confusion.
