"For you, my heart, see?" Vandal let the jewels slip between his fingers as he presented them to you, as gleaming and precious as rain. Precious people deserve precious things, is what he always told you.

It was easy to shower you in gifts, along with his affection. You were, after all, something of a heart to him. Something he, as a man of countless centuries, thought was lost to him thousands of years ago.

His affection for you was an odd thing, a break from his continuous existence where, for a moment, you were the center of his life, his endless time.

He had lived long enough that objects were just that, objects. Whatever it is you wanted he acquired with ease; jewelry, perfumes, beautiful clothes of draping fabric. All for you, whenever you wished it. Even if you insisted repeatedly it was unnecessary, the gifts still came in droves.

Vandal took pleasure in spoiling you rotten.