A Question Between Dark and Light

An Exiled Frank

Disclaimer: The characters, situation, and environment wherein are not my own. I am merely playing around with their emotions. They belong to David Eddings, etc. all. I promise to return, more or less, the same.

Author's note (because you need something to get this started with): I found Kal Zakath a fascinating character, cruel and ruthless but horribly sane. Then, one day, a little voice questioned what if Zakath and Belgarath actually talked to each other. I tried to tell my muse it wouldn't work. This what it got. The story takes place in The King of the Murgos on the same night as to when Zakath and Garion start talking. It is purposely meant to be strange. Two notes. First it is mentioned that those in 'Eastern' kingdoms (that is under Torak) sound different than those in the West. If that is true, than those in the West would sound different than those in the East (and it has absolutely nothing to do with the image of Sean Connory as Belgarath). Second, Zakath never has a fit over the fact that Belgarath is seven thousand years old, possibly because had this conversation over that same fact before.

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Only the harsh clicks of boot heels striking stone floor were the warning before the door was opened wide. Bright light from torches flared, near blinding the room's inhabitant. Harsh guttural sounds of command were aimed to the sprawled body, bleary-eyed from interrupted sleep. A retort flew back, rolling on a strange accent, sharp and piercing to the ear. A gruff reply. Stony silence commenced.

Tension boiled in the atmosphere as neither of those that spoke backed down, making a solid wall of dislike. Finally, the occupant, whose blue eye's still squinted in the bright light, sighed making his shine and twinkle disappear under weathered skin. With a winkled hand against his throbbing temple, a consequence of the night before, an inner debate could be seen upon his ancient face. Emotions that played so fast that one could not define them all, but irritation (at the hang over or the interruption of his sleep was uncertain) seemed to be the underlying mask. Only breathing (harsh, soft, and deep, from the soldiers, the occupant, and the commander in that order) interrupted the silence. Two different hands quivered on sword hilts. The commander started to loosen his own. He had orders to obey, force allowed. The blue eyes opened suddenly, abruptly, now staring unflinching in the light. A brief nod and a hasty plea for time to be decently dressed was asked.

The soldiers closed the door.

Minutes passed and the once peaceful sleeper came out, a stained white robe hastily wrapped around his lean frame. No words were exchanged; nods and stares were sufficient as the group walked down the hallway, two guards in front, one behind the robed man.

Another door opened, shut.

Now only two were in a room, one sitting, one standing. Four dimly lit braziers sat in the corners, with the only real light coming from a single candle at the desk in front of the sitting man. Polite phrases rolled from the dark-haired man on his throne-like chair, motioning for the other to sit, relax, perhaps a drink would be in order?

The guest, though prisoner perhaps would not be far off the mark, refused just as politely in his lilting voice, rubbing his head to excuse his disinclination to have more of what caused the pain in the first place. Besides he was planning on going back to bed soon. A flash of emotion, anger, annoyance and humor, before fading to deadness passed the sitting man's eyes. The blue eyes narrowed at the quick flashes, silver eyebrows twitching ever so slightly before his face smoothed out to placid blandness. The game had begun.

"I'm glad you decided to come."

"Your guards made it rather difficult to refuse to."

"Some how I find it doubtful that no matter how determined my guards could have gotten, they would have had little impact one whether you wanted to see me."

"True."

Silence. The players had drawn their positions.

Sudden attack from the new player, looking for a reaction, "I suppose you have a reason for wanting to talk to me in the middle of the night."

"Many reasons, not the least of which because I do my best work at midnight, though, to be honest I did not think you'd be asleep at this hour." Flash of white, a smile, possible point.

"How unsurprising," A brief murmur though what he was unsurprised at was unclear.

Dark eyebrows still clear of silver furrowed, eyes tightened, and winkles grew deeper but his voice remained calm. Lost point.

"I have been told you are seven thousand years old." Smoothly the dark-haired man used his own attack.

"Thereabouts, a couple of hundred either way. I was born a very long time ago and the calendar was a little vague back then." A touch of humor.

No return joke. Interrogation continued, game of attrition.

"You are a sorcerer." A statement, not a question at the moment.

"It is what I've been called, yes in any case."

"Your family has, what is considered, sorcery?" question underlying fact.

"Most have what I would call a gift that might be considered sorcery. My daughter most definitely," under the breath, "unfortunately for me," louder, "and my grandson."

"Belgarion you mean."

"Yes, my grandson with a indefinite amount of greats."

A nod of interest, a quick gleam in the dark eyes before continuing, candle light swaying to light up most of his face. Point kept. Move ahead and surround, he was wary of the sharp tongue the knew too much.

"Can you kill a man just by looking at him?" humorous subject change.

"Probably not, though I could make him wish he was." Unusual seriousness.

"Have you ever….?"

"Ever what?" feigned ignorance, blue eyes laughing merrily.

"Tortured a man by thought." Slight impatience, annoyance at the lack of respect for the game, for him. Point not yet finished.

A speculative glance, mental windows shutting behind his eyes, "Pol tends to do it better than I."

"You evaded the question."

"I did." Bald, flat, uncaring of consequences.

"Are you going to answer if I asked you again?" flatness in return.

"No," he added as an after thought, "you really don't need to know either."

"Many would be headless from such impudence."

"I am not most people."

Searching glance, interest and caution mixing with something close to uncertainty in the dark eyes before an almost reluctant reply. A reluctantly given penalty. "No, you are not most people."

A half-bow, lips tugged in a faintly self-mocking smile at the surveying dark eyes that almost matched the dark niches of the room.

"You are not what I had in mind." Sudden change in conversation, different strategy, the hardest yet.

Half-shrug, indifference or disinterest.

"I expected someone taller, bigger, muscular, liked the exaggerated tales of savage Alorn giants."

Their eyes met; blue meeting dark brown and black evenly. Something seemed to pass that he liked as the dark haired man leaned back.

"But, on the other hand, you are much more, I suppose, intelligent I would say, than I expected as well."

Mocking full bow, impish grin.

The dark-haired man grinned back but without any impishness or warmth.

"Yes, quite different than what I imagined." This time the smile lasted longer. "But then you must have had a different image of me."

"Not really." Unemotional.

Surprise from the desk, easily shown when he moved forward, his plain linen clothing rustling together, elbows on table. A different twist to the game.

"Should I be hurt?" Dry.

"I find people who wish to take over the world very much the same."

"You mean, all of them are very much like Kal Torak." Half-amused glitter in his eyes and tone.

Shrug.

"And his disciples, but mostly yes, Torak."

A twitch at the pronounced disappearance of the courteous title but no other reaction.

Shadows played across their faces from the flickering golden candlelight. Age seemed undetermined, for it was not clear who was older of the two by sight alone. Even their eyes did not betray their beings, only that one seemed merrier and sadder at the same time, while the other was cold, like cloudy pond water in winter time and just as opaque.

"I have never wished to be Kal Torak."

An undecipherable grunt. Blue eyes unfathomable yet still clear like clear blue sapphires.

"I do not know what to make of you." Frustration with slight anger glimmer sullenly in the eyes of coal.

"As you pointed out, I am a sorcerer and seven thousand years old, it would take a very observant man, indeed, to know everything about me."

Bitter laughter that ends just as quickly as it began.

"I don't believe it, you do know that."

"That's not my concern." Evenness.

"And what is your concern?" He pounced on the last word, eyes glittering with a stranger ferocity.

No reply.

For once the blue eyes do not meet the condemning dark ones. They are frowning at something in the distance that only he can see.

Point won in the obscure game of his that only he knew how to play, that dark haired man leaned back.

"As I figured. You may leave Belgarath," snorted derision at the name.

Dismissal was in his tone and body. The second man did not move, ignoring or not noticing the signs for him to leave. Scratching his scruffy beard thoughtfully, the sorcerer pulled his eyes to easily meet the emperor's.

"My only concern, Zakath, is the world, only the world."

His robe rustling against his body was the only sound of him leaving the room, the closing silently behind him. Upon leaving the candle on the desk grew suddenly in luminescence, almost ethereal blue before abruptly blowing out leaving the room and it's ruler alone in the darkness.

End.