Chained
This story came from a dream. Always follow your dreams...other than that one where you're at school in your underwear. That would not be good.
~~))~~
One: Capture and Betrayal
Kaiba0302: First fic to be posted on FF.net!! Yay! (Gods, this better work...)...
****
Hard rain lashed through the open windows, soaking the sheer curtains. The clock on the mantle was blinking, repeatedly bathing the room in a soft, yet short-lived, red glow. Lightning flashed brightly, followed swiftly by a sharp crack of thunder, which echoed before dying away, like the low growls of a caged animal. The flash illuminated the entire room.
Including him.
With sleek, dusky-gold flesh bare to the waist; tight, black, cargo pants slung low across dark, shapely hips; Marik Ishtar was a somewhat imposing figure. He sat upon the edge of the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. His head was lowered; long, thick, flaxen hair spilling into his eyes and over his tanned, firm shoulders. Another blinding flash of lightning lit the room; his lavender, black-rimmed eyes glittering brightly, throwing the deep shadows on his angular face into sharp contrast.
Slowly he moved a long slender-fingered hand to his right leg, fingering the black handle of a large hunting knife strapped to the inside of his thigh. He drew it from the sheath, gazing at it in the shallow glow of the blinking clock. The handle was polished cherry wood, with intricately carved hieroglyphs spiraling upwards from the hilt. The blade was of stainless steel, unmarred by wear or blood. For the time being.
He had first felt it when he was letting himself into his apartment earlier that evening, before it started raining. As he turned the key in the lock, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, an icy chill running the length of his spine. Someone was watching him. He turned silently and gazed into the darkness beyond the circle of light he stood in, unblinking, hoping his stalker, or stalkers, might make a mistake; reveal their position. When nothing stirred, he continued working the lock, before swiftly stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He was also sure to fasten the deadbolt.
He gripped the knife harder. Unconciously, he knew that they were watching him, whoever they were. He knew that they would come for him. He ran his thumb up the edge of the freshly-sharpened blade, hissing in morbid satisfaction as it pierced his skin. Though this was not its first taste of blood, or last, the blade flickered as if pleased.
Blood rolled lazily down the edge of the knife, one beautiful crimson drop hanging, suspended, from the tip. Marik brought it slowly to his lips before taking it into his mouth, running the tip of his tongue lightly up and down the sharpened edge. He closed his eyes as the coppery taste of his life force made itself known to him, ensnaring and honing his senses. Quivering slightly, he withdrew the blade from his mouth, sheathing it with a wavering hand.
He settled back into the couch, black leather caressing brazen flesh. He rested his hand on his thigh, fingertips grazing the hilt of his knife. Several stray drops of blood trailed down the sheath.
"Come and get me."
****
A slight metallic clicking worked its way into Marik's senses, pulling him from the depths of his dozes. Opening his large eyes, he scanned the room, searching for the source, also noting that the rain had stopped and the full moon shone out all the brighter. Pinpricks of cold fire surrounded her face, and one particularly large band of them wove across the night sky like some unmeasureable serpent. The Milky Way. Marik stiffened and his hand strayed to the hilt of his knife as the doorknob jiggled again, clincking slightly. He came to life immediately, jerking his knife from its sheath, but instead of holding it by the handle, he flipped it around deftly and gripped it by the tip of the blade, in a throwing position.
He held his breath as with a final, louder click, the doorknob turned, squeaking slightly. THe door to his apartment swung open slowly. A small pool of shallow light from outside gathered. He could hear the muffled whispers of several people. He adjusted his grip on the knife tip as a large, black, leather boot was placed inside the doorway, clunking heavily. There was a pause before the limb's owner continued to make his way stealthily inside, closely followed by his companions.
Marik pulled his body up to its full potential height, forcibly tightening the muscles of his shoulders and allowing his chest to expand. He smirked to himself. Sometimes people just needed a little extra motivation. "Ever heard of knocking?" he asked in a mocking tone, forcing his voice to deepen threateningly.
He chuckled grimly when his would-be captors started in confusion and fear. All but one. THis one, obviously the leader, stepped forward. He was robed all in black, a cloth over his face covering everything but his eyes. "Where you planning on inviting us in?" he asked, matching Marik's insolent tone.
Marik raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't; no." He gazed into the cold emotionless eyes, and though he refused to acknowledge the feeling, they haunted him. They were frigid and black, like stones never before exposed to the sunlight or wind.
With a swift motion Marik rose from the couch, shifting his hand so that his attackers could not see the knife he held clutched within it. The entire group made a move for him. The leader held back. In one fluid movement, the knife left his hand. There was a sickening, wet, tearing sound as the knife was buried to the hilt in the throat of one of his attackers. He turned and lunged smoothly over the couch, lithe body twisting and contracting. He landed, cat-like, on the other side and engaged the remaining six.
The leader watched, eyes expressionless, as Marik continued to dominate the brawl. He remembered Master Marik well, swift and deadly as a bolt of lightning, cold and beautiful as a blade. A steel magnolia; wrought of determination and strength, and giving off a scent of betrayal. The leader stooped and, pressing a boot heel to cold flesh, ripped the knife from the throat of the dead servant. Quickly and silently as death he made his way towards the occupied Marik.
Marik's breath was becoming ragged. He didn't know how much longer he could keep up his part. The persistent bastards just kept coming back for more. Suddenly a blinding pain ripped up his arm into his shoulder. He arched and cried out involuntarily. Turning, he met the chilling eyes of the leader. He could feel the blood welling to the surface of the wound and splashing down his arm and side, hot and sticky. He ripped his own knife from his arm and lunged blindly, desperately swinging his fist into the nose of one of his attackers, relishing the scream of pain that arose. A fist drove mercilessly upwards into his stomach, bruising his ribcage and knocking the wind out of him. He sank to his knees, black kneading the edges of his vision as a foot connected with the side of his head. He slumped to the floor, spent and defeated. He could feel blood trickling out of his ear, soaking into the carpet. Blood coming out of one's ear was not good.
He knew that it was over. There was no hope; nothing he could do to stop it. He could feel the merciless beating, but it felt more as if he was watching from far off. It took every ounce of his will to keep the darkness from taking him.
Suddenly he was roughly flipped onto his back. He found himself gazing into those cold stones of eyes once more. In desperation he made a swipe at the leader's face. The cloth covering it fell away, and he gave a gasp, low in his throat, as he looked into the face of a former Rare Hunter.
"Ogano," Marik breathed, "You too?" before the darkness took him.
~~))~~
This story came from a dream. Always follow your dreams...other than that one where you're at school in your underwear. That would not be good.
~~))~~
One: Capture and Betrayal
Kaiba0302: First fic to be posted on FF.net!! Yay! (Gods, this better work...)...
****
Hard rain lashed through the open windows, soaking the sheer curtains. The clock on the mantle was blinking, repeatedly bathing the room in a soft, yet short-lived, red glow. Lightning flashed brightly, followed swiftly by a sharp crack of thunder, which echoed before dying away, like the low growls of a caged animal. The flash illuminated the entire room.
Including him.
With sleek, dusky-gold flesh bare to the waist; tight, black, cargo pants slung low across dark, shapely hips; Marik Ishtar was a somewhat imposing figure. He sat upon the edge of the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. His head was lowered; long, thick, flaxen hair spilling into his eyes and over his tanned, firm shoulders. Another blinding flash of lightning lit the room; his lavender, black-rimmed eyes glittering brightly, throwing the deep shadows on his angular face into sharp contrast.
Slowly he moved a long slender-fingered hand to his right leg, fingering the black handle of a large hunting knife strapped to the inside of his thigh. He drew it from the sheath, gazing at it in the shallow glow of the blinking clock. The handle was polished cherry wood, with intricately carved hieroglyphs spiraling upwards from the hilt. The blade was of stainless steel, unmarred by wear or blood. For the time being.
He had first felt it when he was letting himself into his apartment earlier that evening, before it started raining. As he turned the key in the lock, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, an icy chill running the length of his spine. Someone was watching him. He turned silently and gazed into the darkness beyond the circle of light he stood in, unblinking, hoping his stalker, or stalkers, might make a mistake; reveal their position. When nothing stirred, he continued working the lock, before swiftly stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He was also sure to fasten the deadbolt.
He gripped the knife harder. Unconciously, he knew that they were watching him, whoever they were. He knew that they would come for him. He ran his thumb up the edge of the freshly-sharpened blade, hissing in morbid satisfaction as it pierced his skin. Though this was not its first taste of blood, or last, the blade flickered as if pleased.
Blood rolled lazily down the edge of the knife, one beautiful crimson drop hanging, suspended, from the tip. Marik brought it slowly to his lips before taking it into his mouth, running the tip of his tongue lightly up and down the sharpened edge. He closed his eyes as the coppery taste of his life force made itself known to him, ensnaring and honing his senses. Quivering slightly, he withdrew the blade from his mouth, sheathing it with a wavering hand.
He settled back into the couch, black leather caressing brazen flesh. He rested his hand on his thigh, fingertips grazing the hilt of his knife. Several stray drops of blood trailed down the sheath.
"Come and get me."
****
A slight metallic clicking worked its way into Marik's senses, pulling him from the depths of his dozes. Opening his large eyes, he scanned the room, searching for the source, also noting that the rain had stopped and the full moon shone out all the brighter. Pinpricks of cold fire surrounded her face, and one particularly large band of them wove across the night sky like some unmeasureable serpent. The Milky Way. Marik stiffened and his hand strayed to the hilt of his knife as the doorknob jiggled again, clincking slightly. He came to life immediately, jerking his knife from its sheath, but instead of holding it by the handle, he flipped it around deftly and gripped it by the tip of the blade, in a throwing position.
He held his breath as with a final, louder click, the doorknob turned, squeaking slightly. THe door to his apartment swung open slowly. A small pool of shallow light from outside gathered. He could hear the muffled whispers of several people. He adjusted his grip on the knife tip as a large, black, leather boot was placed inside the doorway, clunking heavily. There was a pause before the limb's owner continued to make his way stealthily inside, closely followed by his companions.
Marik pulled his body up to its full potential height, forcibly tightening the muscles of his shoulders and allowing his chest to expand. He smirked to himself. Sometimes people just needed a little extra motivation. "Ever heard of knocking?" he asked in a mocking tone, forcing his voice to deepen threateningly.
He chuckled grimly when his would-be captors started in confusion and fear. All but one. THis one, obviously the leader, stepped forward. He was robed all in black, a cloth over his face covering everything but his eyes. "Where you planning on inviting us in?" he asked, matching Marik's insolent tone.
Marik raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't; no." He gazed into the cold emotionless eyes, and though he refused to acknowledge the feeling, they haunted him. They were frigid and black, like stones never before exposed to the sunlight or wind.
With a swift motion Marik rose from the couch, shifting his hand so that his attackers could not see the knife he held clutched within it. The entire group made a move for him. The leader held back. In one fluid movement, the knife left his hand. There was a sickening, wet, tearing sound as the knife was buried to the hilt in the throat of one of his attackers. He turned and lunged smoothly over the couch, lithe body twisting and contracting. He landed, cat-like, on the other side and engaged the remaining six.
The leader watched, eyes expressionless, as Marik continued to dominate the brawl. He remembered Master Marik well, swift and deadly as a bolt of lightning, cold and beautiful as a blade. A steel magnolia; wrought of determination and strength, and giving off a scent of betrayal. The leader stooped and, pressing a boot heel to cold flesh, ripped the knife from the throat of the dead servant. Quickly and silently as death he made his way towards the occupied Marik.
Marik's breath was becoming ragged. He didn't know how much longer he could keep up his part. The persistent bastards just kept coming back for more. Suddenly a blinding pain ripped up his arm into his shoulder. He arched and cried out involuntarily. Turning, he met the chilling eyes of the leader. He could feel the blood welling to the surface of the wound and splashing down his arm and side, hot and sticky. He ripped his own knife from his arm and lunged blindly, desperately swinging his fist into the nose of one of his attackers, relishing the scream of pain that arose. A fist drove mercilessly upwards into his stomach, bruising his ribcage and knocking the wind out of him. He sank to his knees, black kneading the edges of his vision as a foot connected with the side of his head. He slumped to the floor, spent and defeated. He could feel blood trickling out of his ear, soaking into the carpet. Blood coming out of one's ear was not good.
He knew that it was over. There was no hope; nothing he could do to stop it. He could feel the merciless beating, but it felt more as if he was watching from far off. It took every ounce of his will to keep the darkness from taking him.
Suddenly he was roughly flipped onto his back. He found himself gazing into those cold stones of eyes once more. In desperation he made a swipe at the leader's face. The cloth covering it fell away, and he gave a gasp, low in his throat, as he looked into the face of a former Rare Hunter.
"Ogano," Marik breathed, "You too?" before the darkness took him.
~~))~~