4 parts Ongoing the scars that marked their skin told different stories. his, carved by centuries of rage, and hers, kissed into existence by the hands of nature itself. yet when they touched, their wounds sang the same song - his darkness curling around her light, her gentleness bleeding into his paranoia, until love became just another form of ruin, and ruin began to look a lot like love.
[k. mikaelson]