Okey kokey. I know it's been forever since I last updated anything remotely to do with Riddick and I'm sorry. Portents of Fate has come to a screeching halt so I'm giving it a wide birth until inspiration strikes me. I'm not sayin I'll never finish it but it just wasn't flowing like the Job did and I was trying to force it…it just isn't working at the moment.

So, I've had this fic in my mind for a looooong time. Since I heard the song (where I got the title from) by Rob Dougan, you know the Matrix one. It's such a beautiful song and the lyrics are so poignant, they just seemed to fit Riddick and Kyra down to the ground and so here I am trying my hand at a new fic.

It has nothing to do with the Job or Portents and is based on what happens in Chronicles. This prologue goes through Kyra's feelings as she watches Riddick getting battered by the Lord Marshal (cough, Jerk, cough, cough!).

Tell me what you reckon. I know it's short but this is only the prologue. After my assessment with the examiner next week (coz I failed part of my course :slaps self in head:;) I should be getting a lot more of this out and I may even find the inspiration I need to sort out Portents. Wish me luck!

Happy Reading,

Gem

xxx

Furious Angels.

Prologue: Kyra's Sacrifice.

Kyra watched as the Lord Marshal's assault continued upon the man that had never before met his match and she knew what she had to do. She knew it deep in her heart, with every fibre of her being, and she was aware that if she faltered at all, for even a second, not only would she die, but so would the man who had captured and owned her heart since the first time her eyes had glimpsed him chained and restrained aboard the Hunter Gratzner.

There was nothing that she could do to change the fact that she held the key to the moment, that she had the next move in her slender, scarred hands. No smart-assed plans to get around what she was about to do. What she had to do.

An immense and blinding clarity pierced her mind as she stood observing the clash between the two colossally powerful men, neither of which even had the vaguest notion that she was still there. That she was the solution. That she could, was about to put pains to their warring. Was about to bring both the gifts of life and death in one single, final act of altruism.

She took a deep breath, her pale jade eyes flickering, matching the swiftness with which the two men fought, watching the moves as if she knew what the next would be, observing their dance of death and waiting for her cue to cut in and take the lead.

She was going to die…

She was going to die for him…

Kyra's memory reeled back in time suddenly, years flickering backwards like someone flipping through the pages of a book until it stopped upon her remembrance of a conversation she had overheard between Riddick and Imam concerning Fry's last words. They had thought she had been asleep, though she had rarely slept in the aftermath of their crash and escape from hell.

Fry had told Riddick that she would not die for him. The blond docking pilot may have been telling the truth before she was ripped from Riddick's arm but equally she could have very well have been lying through her teeth. Kyra hadn't been stupid back when she was Jack. Young. Naïve even, but not dense enough to remain oblivious the glances shared between the convict and the surrogate captain.

Riddick may have believed that she had not died for him, to save him. Instead his conscience found it easier to assume that she had instead died to save the girl that Kyra had once been and the Holy Man. But at that moment, when Kyra glimpsed the struggle of wills taking place before her on the slick, jet black, mirror-like floor, she knew instinctively, almost as if the Fates had whispered it in her ear, that Fry had not been the right one. Fry had not been the one that was supposed to die for him. She had not been permitted to die for him. Only she, Kyra, was to perform that...Only she was able to give him that gift. Only she was meant to die for Riddick...the man she loved. Perhaps Fry had loved him too, but it was of little matter. Fry had not been the right one. She never would be the right one and Kyra both loved and hated her for that fact.

Not that she was scared of dieing, no. She'd overcome that fear many years previously. There were many things in the Multiverse far worse than death and she had come to know all of the well. But again she was not stupid. She was barely nineteen years old, not counting those lost in cryo when her growth had been slowed to a minimum. Sure, she'd spent most of her teenage years in Crematoria, but that didn't mean that she didn't have dreams, aspirations. More important to her, though, was the notion of never seeing him again. Riddick. Never able to see his face, his sweeping dark eyebrows fixed into a perpetual scowl to intimidate all who dared to look him in his silvery eyes. Never able to hear his voice, a deep thrum within the very air itself, seeping every where unbidden.

Now she was being dramatic, and if she was perfectly honest with herself she knew deep in her aching heart that she would give her life every single time if it meant that Riddick would continue to breathe. She would. She would do it.

Slowly, as Riddick and the Lord Marshal gained and lost ground to each other, almost equally matched in every way, Kyra nodded to herself, swallowing hard at the dry lump that choked bitterly in her throat. She observed their movements as if she knew what the next would be, like the Fates were again whispering into her mind, and her body began to tingle.

It began in the pit of her stomach at first. An icy buzzing that made her vision waver and her head swim while her body moved of it's own accord. Her fists clasped around the ornamental spear, fixed to the wall behind her and the frigid buzz spread up through her chest to her heart. Slowly she turned, clasping at the weapon in her fists so tightly that her knuckles shone like sun on the snow and her palms stung in protest of her fingernails that dug deep into the soft skin. Her heart beat louder and fast with every moment she made that took her closer to the fray. It shuddered against her ribcage painfully, like a hellhound of Crematoria waiting to be released for the hunt, and the blood thundered through her veins so ferociously that the sounds of the world around her, the yells of Riddick as he was thrown to the slick, mirror-like, jet black floor, the noises of the Necromongers cheering their leader onwards, died in her ears, replaced only by the rushing of her own blood.

She was going to die…

She was going to die for him…

-ooooo-

There you have it. Please let me know what you think!