Chapter Text
It taunted Alastor since the day he was born.
Soulmates were a thing of beauty. People craved that ultimate connection to their perfect other half that went beyond any known constraints of the universe. In a world where there were millions of others and only a few handful destined to be together, to be blessed with such gift was a sign of fortune.
A romantic tale indeed, where two souls were created to be the equal of each other in any and all the ways that counted. The soul mark permanently etched into skin brought on a period of passion, driving people to touch incessantly in hopes of completing the bond and achieving the purest form of love known to mankind.
It taunted him.
Alastor had died never knowing who his soulmate was and that suited him just fine. It wasn’t like he had shared his father’s superstitious beliefs of what it symbolized about his other half.
No, rather, he simply didn’t find it in him to care at all for such a trivial thing.
As a radio host, he heard many things throughout the years. Stories of soulmates always sold to the public, both because of its romanticized nature and because people loved being nosy. Killing for love, doing stupid things all in the name of being with their “destined” one - it all seemed so irrational. Did one blemish on the skin truly determine who you’d have to spend the rest of your life with?
Alastor couldn’t be bothered. People spoke so much of that burning desire that was surely exaggerated to enhance the story. Love at first sight? He could barely tolerate another human being on a good day, when would he ever have sudden “burning desire” to love someone with just a glance?
It felt like a soul mark was wasted on someone like him, but alas, on his skin the blemish remained.
Now, Alastor didn’t know what happened after death. The best one could do was speculate. What he wasn't prepared for was waking up a demon in hell after being mistaken for a deer and shot at, of all things. Beings that both resembled human and not roamed the streets that were littered with evidence of the depraved nature of hell.
A perfect hunting ground.
Alastor took his time exploring the streets and forming a plan of how he’d spend the rest of his second life enjoying what he did best. It was only in the safety of a quiet room he found, humming a familiar tune and getting ready for bed, when he saw it, mockingly bright against his skin.
Clearly, dying and becoming a demon did not erase his mark. Perhaps it was true the bond was etched into the very essence of his soul if it followed him through death.
Truly, it taunted him.