Title: Angel's Fault
Characters/Pairing: Horakhty, Zorc Necrophades
Rating: T
Words: 967
Summary: He loathes her. Loathes her with the hate he is composed of, loathes her with the hate she lacks. Eldritchshipping for R4 of the YGO Fanfiction Contest S9 3/4
Warnings: Mentions of blood, gory descriptions.
A/N: I hope there's still enough coherency here, when I started writing I had a pretty clear idea of how this would go, but I neglected to note it down and... I probably spent more time glaring at the document than actual writing.
She hovers, silent, calm, eyes still as glass as they observe him. She would hover close, close enough that he can taste her breath on his lips, feel it tickling the skin of his cheeks; other times she would be a mere speck in the endlessness that surrounds them. He knows one thing, and that is she's always watching.
The realm of the deities, where no rhythm of time exists, no concept of space is heard of, matter and anti-matter manipulated by mere will of the highest legions. For the assumed present he can only look back at her, glare at her and lament that she is above him. His claws yearn to tighten around her neck, sink the sharp tips into her pulse and rip off her head; he'll then tear into her chest and grasp her heart—it would smell pure, a nauseating scent, as is the glow that engulfs her—and the sound of the vessels snapping apart would be melodious as he laps up the blood that continues to pump through it within his palm and drip through his fingers; the sight of her wings faltering as he lets go and she plummets, plummets, plummets, would be oh so enjoyable to see.
But she is a deity of light, and she will always rise above him.
If only he could reach her.
He calls out to her, tells her that she's foolish for abiding by her duties, lest he breaks out of the chains she has bound him in. His voice is hoarse, although it may very well only been a second ago since he had last spoken. He only hates the haggardness that seems to permeate it, as if his restrains were draining him of his energy. Zorc is not weak, doesn't believe it is a term that can be applied to him, and least of all he does not want to seem weak in front of his nemesis.
It's not the first time he has spoken, but Horakhty once again does not grant him an answer. Her golden armour gleams bright, her form angelic in the light that surrounds them. And he is the fallen, arms held at length to his sides, suspended, at the mercy of the light.
If only she would reach him, because she very well can, when he feels her breath hot and cold against the cheeks of the mortal form in which she had restricted his soul; the form of his little thief puppet.
The little thief was the perfect pawn—a young child, not yet reached adolescent, who succumbed to his will in an instant because he had no guardian to listen to, and so easy to discard because no one will mourn after a wanted criminal with no family left to speak of. A mere speck of dust.
And Akunadin, lustful, power-hungry, his favourite kind of mortal. Both easy to manipulate, expendable tools, his plan came together so perfectly-
Only to be foiled by the deity that once again flies into his face and stares him down.
…
She mocks him.
Or that's what he would rather think; Horakhty is the living embodiment of purity and light, she knows not the deceit of mockery. Humans like to talk about morality; he scoffs at them. In matters of the celestial grey areas do not exist. There is only light, there is only darkness.
He, Zorc Necrophades, is a demon, to be damned by Good.
Sometimes he laughs, when she's close enough, and he revels in the sight of his spit landing on his face (not quite landing, per se, when she has an invisible barrier coating her) and he hates it that she doesn't flinch, not even a bit, but he continues to laugh in her face anyway, chiding her inability to kill him, until she moves away again.
He's been defeated. He's no more. The chains that bind him are no ordinary chains, and no matter how hard he struggles they will only tighten. It ticks him off, that he's allowed to live despite that his plans have been thwarted, to suffer the humiliation he has been dealt with.
Horakhty pities him. Pity for his doings, pity for his defeat, pity for his existence, that is all but drenched in treachery, destruction, because that is all he knows, and he's sure that she enjoys soaring over him.
He loathes her. Loathes her with the hate he is composed of, loathes her with the hate she lacks. Loathes that she calls him
brother.
When she does speak it is nonsense he already knows, that he will never acknowledge.
We are balance.
He could beat her within an inch of her life… and she will continue to live; not because she is of the light, but because he continues to live.
You must have noticed. Neither of us can destroy the other. We co-exist, or we cease to exist.
If she is to die, he will have to end himself. And Zorc is too prideful to do so.
This is the way it is meant to be.
And in this way he is bound to remain for as long as the gods determine eternity.
She leans in, breath ghosting upon his lips once more, and finally swoops out of sight in a burst of sharp, golden feathers, determining that he is fit to be left alone after indiscernible turns of the dial. Little Horakhty, so willing to partake in the role decided eons before her time, eons after her time, a role she had nothing to say in. An obedient little child sitting in the lap of Ra and Horus as they dictate her responsibilities, and all she does is drinks it all in, doesn't question it.
He thinks her a fool.
A silly, malleable fool.