[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
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( A re-enact of Hades...
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*please read the in-line comment
Mortality was no stranger to Thanatos. He peered at them from river Styx, through hollow irises made of gloom. Obsidian rake chafing against the ground, slicing a warning to the living. He was deity made of Nyx's best sky, ventured the realm in eerie. There are two kinds of mortals, he noted. One; would greet him as an old friend, a winged-daimon they waited by the door. Varied, from bodies made of wrinkles, tired, wretched and blistered flesh, to starry-eyed soul. He would guide them to the undergloom in peace. Two; those who tried to outrun him and Keres, arrogant mortal who would not be simply beheaded. They would be dragged through hell-fire, butchered limbs-by-limbs, daring them with malevolent eyes if they crawled back to their body.
Tom Riddle was the second, a supercilious mind, tooling his speck of magical intelligence to extend his existence like a raw rubber. Chopping his souls like pieces of ruined china, he spat on his mortality and the divine. But if you spat to the sky, it would return to your face. So, he morphed into a different entity that no longer resembled a human, only pieces. The more he denied, he had become an entity of darkness—consumed by it.
"Come, Regulus." His voice was nearly a hiss, a rattle of a deserted serpent. The boy shot his gaze up to view before him. Malicious—did not do justice to portray the cocooning aura wrapped the said human, though, after skimming the formidable being—skin painted from moonstone, thin and boney, a layer of serpent scale tattooed like age-line. The thinning lips, sharper than razors, stygian that each movement of his tongue spewed poison. Tom Riddle was an omen of mortality, punished by the divine for trying to outrun death. He was neither a wizard nor a complete soul. He was not a mortal—at least, he didn't resemble anything humane.
He was straight a plate of evil, then how come Regulus believed the candied reality he promised?
Riddle's words were compiled of Olympus premises and beyond that Hades longed for. He promised if he reigned the world, the underworld would no longer dark, he would paint it with aligned stars, that even Tartarus would have light and Persephone's garden would remain. So saccharine, well-crafted and adorning, that he failed to see what was beneath it: A poison drop lacquered of nectars, tongues of fire he defined as power. Regulus believed that, after all, you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.
He stepped forward, swallowing the trace of fright off his face. Perhaps, the antidote worked, in the middle of thick inky air, her image resurfaced at the back of his eyes like sunrise conquered the dark sky. Darkened sapphire irises that could withhold the stars, yet bright enough to mingle with the sun. She had been clinging to his soul, though, like a peony between quicksand—she was soon drawn in the dark.
