Taker's Muse

The storm brews outside with a fierce tenacity.  Thunder rattling the rafters, lightening streaking the panes of glass, and the wind stirring up a tempest roar.  He sits upon his throne, watching upon the screen as his foe rambles in misconstrued analogies.  Chuckling to himself, his enemy slowly twists the lid of the golden urn.  Pandora will be smiling upon him again, he muses, as the first pelts of rain patter across the eaves.  The phone rings, disturbing his train of thought.  “Yes.”, he bites into the receiver.  
“The crypt is empty, he has her” his minion sputters reluctantly.
The storm erupts, matching the rage blowing through his veins.  “FIND HER!”  He slams the handset down with a clang.  The torrent beyond the walls no longer soothes his spirit, but echoes his madness.  Evil unleashed, he recalls the legend of the box.  He’d accepted the challenge, what would be the point of taking her, where was the logic.  The innuendoes had reminded him, yet he’d surmised it as coincidence.  Decades of hiding her wasted.  Picking up the glass of amber liquid, studying the swirls of shadows contained, a grin creased his lips.  Downing the shot of Crown, memories streaming as the heat slithered through him.  She would be that man’s fatal mistake, as loving her had been his.  Staring out the window, the storm had cleared leaving the moon haloed by a rainbow.  As she had always been, hope would remain his triumph throughout eternity.