A/N: I should be banned from writing when I'm worried about something. I always manage to come out with the strangest stories...
Meh. I was sort of experimenting with some different ideas that popped into my head, and it would be wonderful if some kind soul could tell me which one worked and which ones didn't. I can't exactly tell, though I really did have fun with the last section. And with the irony in the first one.
The basic premise I'm working with is that Raven was tricked into letting Malchior go a second time, and he manages to overpower her and lock her up in... a castle somewhere? Imagine what you like.
Pride
She refuses to scream.
Inexplicable, pointless, idiotic (commendable) nobility! She is bleeding from a thousand wounds, she will die within the next day if she does not receive help, and still she holds out. She does not scream, she does not beg, she does not even speak, and he cannot understand why (though he has spent more time than he should have puzzling over the subject).
He will save her if she cries. He does not seek her tears, because they show that she is human (and he loves the human).
But this purely demonic stubbornness, he cannot stand (because it is cold and aloof and he knows that no matter how hard he tries to get at it, it will always be like that).
Let her ask, entreat, plead for his help; he will grant it. But she must ask. If she maintains this foolhardy (admirable) silence, he will let her die (for he will not be able to see her through his tears).
Why can she not admit that she needs assistance (needs him)? He would rather not (cannot) think that he will be her killer, same as he did not want to be her torturer (nearly died every time he saw what he had done to her), but first he wants to humble (possess) her, to eliminate the pride, the (untouchable) haughtiness in her entire being. He will have her (in whatever way he can), he will break (take) her. He will see that baseless (intoxicating) disdain vanquished, and he will rejoice (mourn) at the loss.
How can she hold out? Only a fool (a saint) would take what he had put her through willingly, but only a madwoman (a goddess) would do so when he had killed all of her allies (her friends). He had made her watch the deaths, hoping it would shock her into submission (make her seek comfort in his ever-open arms), but it only seemed to reinforce her indifference.
She is his plaything (obsession), a puzzle (longing) he has never been able to unravel (obtain), and that failure irritates him (drives him to the brink of insanity) with its persistence (with denied lust and repulsed love) whenever he thought about it (every waking moment).
She is mildly (achingly) attractive (gorgeous) when she is chained, because the bonds are a physical (erotic) reminder of his power over her (and all that he can do to her while she wears them), but that is not the source of his interest (though it is enough to fuel many sleepless nights). The steel in her eyes and the rigidity of her spine mystifies (torments) him, because he cannot find its origin (because he finds himself imagining what it would be like for her to melt into him).
He will break her (and his own heart). Or her will kill her.
(And the river of blood will mingle with his tears.)
She does not bother to look up as the door to her dungeon cell clangs open.
"You are dying." There is an emotion in the dragon's voice, but she is too drained to identify it. "Do you not wish to live?"
How can he ask that, when he has taken away everything that she had to live for? Guilt is all that is left—guilt that she fell for him again, and the hard, glittering knowledge that it will not happen a third time, like a diamond in its purity and permanence. Do I want to live? No. No, I do not. Get out and let me die. But she does not speak.
"You will not attempt to save your own life?" Now he is angry—angrier than she has ever seen him. "Damn it, girl, why are you…" He trails off into silence as he meets her eyes. He looks oddly stricken; she wonders what he sees. "Don't you care?"
She drops her head and amuses herself by counting the droplets of blood as they fall from her flesh and splatter on the cold stone floor. Five thousand nine hundred and three, five thousand nine hundred and four, five thousand nine hundred and five… It is past six thousand when he speaks again.
"Look at me."
She gives no indication that she has heard him, but when a hand grabs a fistful of purple hair and drags her head back, she has little choice but to comply. His eyes are burning and tortured. "What is wrong with you? How can you be so—so—"
He chokes, unable to find the word he is looking for, and her gaze shifts past him so that she is scrutinizing the bare walls of her little prison. He may still be talking; he may be declaring his love, for all she knows or cares. He is unimportant. All that matters now is the blood trickling from her veins and how long it will be until it is gone. She wonders idly what form her curse will take—the curse that she created the moment she realized what she had truly released. The death-grudge of a demon is a heavy one; he should have remembered it.
She is pulled back to reality by the feel of gentle hands against her face. She cannot remember the last time she was touched with this sort of tenderness. Perhaps she never has been.
"Why won't you speak?"
What does he think I have to say? Maybe he can't see that she is already dead, and the heart beating in her chest and the breath coming in quick, quiet gasps are just formalities to maintain the illusion of life.
"Speak, and I will heal you!"
"You cannot."
"You cannot." Her voice is hoarse and broken from disuse.
"I—what?" Of all the answers he anticipated when—if—she gave in, that was not one of them.
"It is too late."
"No."
Raised eyebrow, more eloquent than a thousand tomes of poetry.
"I am a dragon—I am strong—do not tell me what I cannot do! I will heal you!" Green magic reaches out, is repelled by a black shield that shouldn't be able to exist.
Soft, bitter laughter. "Flattering."
"What?"
"You care."
"Yes." No thought of denial—it is true, after all.
Head being shaken slowly, pityingly. "It's sweet, but I won't spare you for it."
Sudden moment of painfully blinding clarity. "You… you wouldn't."
Silent tilt of the head, revealing a night-black mark of Scath at the base of the neck.
"But, I… you know that I… I…"
"Can a spark of affection outweigh the death of four innocents?"
His lips on hers, suddenly; heat and tongue and hands and soft, involuntary moans that give way to ragged gasps as he finally pulls back. "Not—not a spark."
"Still, no." Voice weak and hoarse once more, fading by the second.
"Shall I do it again?" Quip to distract her as he pours magic into her wounds, seeking to undo the damage he himself has inflicted.
Again, the dark mirth. "Farewell, Malchior."
"Raven!"
Her death, and the fiery gates of Hell appear before his eyes.
Inaudible whisper, lost in the clamor of the damned that he has now joined. "Goodbye, love."
I think I'm insane. Is it possible to be insane and still do well on finals?
Review! And a quick side note: does anyone know of a book/movie/relatively-short-manga that has a dancer in it? As in ballet, jazz, modern, etc.? Thanks!