I don't like to talk at the beginnings of my fanfics, so I'll make this short.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Dark-Hunter books, or any Dark-Hunters. Quite sad, really.
Rating: This is currently PG-13 because there is some language, sexual remarks, ect. I have no idea if there will actually be a sex scene in this fanfic, so I don't know if I'll have to change this or not. Also, this is a man-on-man fic, so if you don't like that, please leave. I probably won't get too graphic, but there is a lot of potential mush in here, or there will be.
Just Because: I'm not expecting a lot of reviews, because there doesn't seem to be a lot of Dark-Hunter fics, so I'm assuming there aren't many Dark-Hunter fans on this site. But...if you do come here, please spread the word: these are really great novels people, if a bit mature. Night Embrace is the one I actually base all my fics off of, simply becuase I don't like losing Zarek in Dance with the Devil. Broke my heart, so I won't use anything from that. I'm just pretending it doesn't exist.
On with the Dark-Hunter goodness!
just...
creating...
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Prolouge
The explosion was enough to rock Acheron to his bones, and he cursed as he flew backwards from the mess that was left from the suicidal Daimon. With a thump, he landed gracelessly on the alley floor, smacking his head against the dirty surface, and watched as several of his Dark-Hunters did the same. Groaning, he stood on uneasy feet, and continued to fight the rush of violent Daimons who, to his surprise, fought back. Warrior Daimons, damn it. All of them, with no exceptions, it seemed, were Spathi. He hadn't thought there were any of them left, and now he was about to pay for not making sure.
Unprepared for this new development, he was unsurprised to note that his Dark-Hunters were, very rapidly, being over come by the stronger and more skilled fighters, including, he was asshamed to notice, himself. As a large group of them surrounded him, disarming him easily of his various weapons, he was forced to admit that, if he and his men did not surrender, the remainder of his men, of which there were few now, would be destroyed. The entire army of Dark-Hunters he had brought with him to fight this particular battle had been reduced to half, and then some, being at a strong disadvantage against the Daimons, especially with their strength weakening every moment from being in such close proximities with one another. Laying down his sword, he was forced to admit defeat for the first time in nearly 11,000 years.
"We surrender. We will no longer fight this battle" he stated calmly. He expected the Daimon in front of him to react in the honorable way, following the code of battle, and except their surrender. Instead, the man he had unconciously decided to be the leader grinned at him with malice, and thrust his sword, a fine creation made from Daimon silver and steel, through his side, just inches inside, narrowly missing his spine. He would have gasped, but he had long accustomed himself to not revealing any weakness to his enemy, no matter how great the pain. His face remained disturbingly neutral, even when the man twisted the blade in his stomach, intensifying the pain ten fold. Finally, the man yanked out his weapon, and looked at it dispassionately, seeming disgusted with the blood stains tainting the fine craftsmanship.
"We except no surrender, Dark-Hunter. Although it amuses me greatly to see you standing there with your blood running through your lips, I'm afraid it is time for you to die."
Acheron made no move to stop the blow that struck his face, and successfully knocked him to the ground. Instead, he moved his tongue to the edge of his mouth, where he indeed tasted the sweetness of his own blood. My god, he thought, wiping at the offending liquid with the back of his hand, the bastard must have pierced an organ. He felt one of the Daimon's various henchmen jerk his head up by his hair, and press a knife to the base of his throat, preparing to severe his head, the only way to kill him. But, then again, Arty would simply put him back together again, so death wasn't too much to worry about; the goddess had an unhealthy ubsession with him. When I get put back together again... he thought, thoughts of vengance and revenge flitting briefly through his mind as the man behind him began to press the blade into his neck, breaking the skin. He waited patiently for the gush of blood, then the unconciousness that would follow, but it didn't come. Instead, he saw a flash of blinding light, white and intense, that he had only seen a few times before. The Daimon, whoever he was, was jerked unceremoniously off of him, and he felt gentle hands supporting him, even as he felt himself sinking back towards the ground. The hands stroked his hair soothingly, an unfamiliar gesture, and he couldn't help but be touched by it. He felt his lips stretch into a thin smile, even as he felt the first wave of unconciousness sweep over him. An unconcious Dark-Hunter is a dead Dark-Hunter...but not this time, he thought, vaguely feeling himslef rise into the air. He would not die today, for he knew the person whose help he had recieved, had known the man for a long time, but had not seen him since the plague had ended. He felt himself sinking, sinking, into a world of peace he scarely remembered, a time without dreams. With his last breath he whispered the words he rarely uttered"Thank you, Jasson."
Then, he fell unconcious.