okay! so I hope you enjoy this, I cooked it up on a friday night when I probably should have been studying for midterms. Ah but what do grades matter? Anyway hope you enjoy! I own nothing, its all biowares, or beamdogs; im honestly not sure anymore.
His arms were shaking as he held the swords aloft. His stomach was in knots. He could feel the sweat beading on his skin. The geas was beginning to claw at the back of his mind, he could feel its magic begin burning at his soul, pushing him to strike the final blow; the gaze of his intended victim a wall before his blades, rendering him paralyzed. His breathing was pained and sharp. He was losing feeling in his fingers, his knuckles white from their grip.
She stared at him, her face solemn. Her eyes had dark circles around them and the whites were bloodshot. She hadn't slept in days. Fresh scars marred her dirty, ashen skin. Her clothes were ripped and ragged and her gear practically scraps. Her nails were dirty and torn, her hair greasy and matted with dried blood, only partially her own. She looked nothing like the girl he had traveled with this past year, nothing like the girl he had fallen so deeply in love with.
Her eyes had always had a pain within them, but now that beautiful spark, that joy and life that had danced with in them, was gone, replaced by a look of broken defeat. She looked more dead than alive.
And he was the one who killed her.
He had knowingly lead her directly into the arms of her would be murder. And when the bastard couldn't handle what he had bargained for, he was left to clean up the mess; to exterminate what was left of the one he had so deeply come to love.
He should have remembered his training. He shouldn't have let himself get so close to his quarry. No, he should have never let the rage over his sister's murder cause him to agree to that thrice damned deal without knowing the conditions. If he had kept his wits about him, if he had bothered to think, he'd have never pledged himself to that cold-blooded bitch.
Never make deals with the dead for the sake of the dead.
He had thought nothing of the geas when the vampiress' brother had placed it on him; he had worked under strange contracts before. He captured the group for the mage with ease and thought nothing of it. He had listened to the screams as the madman had "experimented" on the sisters he had captured and pushed away feelings of hesitation, consoling himself knowing that these were Tamoko's murderers. They deserved the pain. They had stolen the breath from his beloved sister's lips.
It wasn't till later he found out it was his sister's supposed lover that had stolen her life away.
Why hadn't the elf sent him away when they had escaped Irenicus's prison? Everything would have been so much different if she had. He could have left. He could have run away. He doubted that the vampiress or her brother were really much interested in him apart from anything but a moderately useful tool anyway.
But she hadn't. And despite his best efforts, despite how much he tried, he couldn't keep his distance. He enjoyed the groups' company, their jokes and laughter. These were good people. And he was leading them to the jaws of a monster.
He had always had a gregarious nature, but his training had taught him to keep himself distant. Yet when he spoke with her, he soon found himself sharing more of himself than he had with any other.
It was these talks he both enjoyed and loathed the most. When she talked of growing up in the great library of Candlekeep he could almost smell the book glue and old paper. When he told her of his home in Kara-Tur, he could feel the spring breeze, laden with the scent of fresh sakura blossoms, rustle his hair; and the curse of the geas hardly even a back thought. But it was still there, and he could feel it and his guilt like a lead weight in his belly, making him sick.
She called him a friend.
She said she cared about him.
She believed he was a good man.
He was never a good man.
If he was a good man, if had had any decency at all, he would have kept to himself. He wouldn't have comforted her when she awoke screaming from her nightmares. He wouldn't have sat with her and listened as she whispered her fears in the afternoon sun. He wouldn't have held her so close in the firelight, her delicate features given a silvery glow as the half-moon rose before them. He would have pushed her away when she had so hesitantly brushed her lips to his.
But he had held her. He had listened. He had fallen for her in that silvered landscape and he had kissed her back under the moon's spell. And he had pulled the noose around his own neck as he did.
He could never be a good man.
She came to him the next night as he ripped himself apart inside. He should have pushed her away, he should have run away. But he sat with her in the dark and spoke with her in soft tones while the fire burned down and the stars danced through the sky.
He shouldn't have held her, clung to her, so desperately as the moon fell away and the sun rose. He shouldn't have kissed her hair and whispered his adoration to her as she rested so innocently in his arms.
He should have pushed her away, he should have saved her the pain. And yet whenever evening began to spread in the sky and the cool of night began to fall over them he would pull her close to him, and hold her softly as she pressed her soft lips to his.
He would have given anything to regain his indifference that he should have, that he needed to have for her. But he couldn't deny either of them these things. Even with the pain of geas. Even with the pain his betrayal would cause them all.
Just knowing what the geas would ultimately force him to do was excruciating; a mental pain that all too soon became a physical matter. Yet still he returned her soft touches and whispered words. Still he held to her like a lifeline.
She trusted him. It had be all too easy to slip her the mad mage's drug; a tea to help her seasick stomach and the act was done. One single steaming cup and he may as well have driven his sword into her heart. There was no more avoiding it once they had reached the island. When they slipped into the storm lashed asylum, he had felt like his world was ending.
He had lingered behind the group, hoping that the wizard would deal with the group and leave him out of their end. But the bastard had waited for him. He couldn't bear to look at her as he joined the man who had cursed him, his master. He felt like a dog. He could hardly even bare to breathe as the wizard spoke of his betrayal; the pain and confusion in her voice as she begged him to explain was enough.
How could he ever explain to her why had done what he had? He told her that the torturous death Irenicus was promising him if he didn't obey, that geas terrified him…but the look of broken betrayal nearly brought him to his knees.
He was glad the mage activated the drug when he did, He couldn't bear to see what he had done to her any longer.
He was never a good man.
The bastard wizard Irenicus had forced him to carry her unconscious body into the prepared room; just the sight of it made him sick. When the wizard began the spells, when she awoke just soon enough to scream as her soul was being ripped from her, he began to shut down.
Was…was it wrong of him to wish that the wizard's spells would have killed her? Was it wrong of him to wish that she wouldn't have to be left a soulless shell? Was it wrong of him to pray that she wouldn't survive this, so he wouldn't have to be the one to take away that last scrap of life from her and leave her to nothingness that awaits the empty?
So he had waited, hoping that the brutes that the vampiress had managed to scrape up from the bars and dirty alleyways would be able to finish the group off; they all looked like they'd been through hell anyway. But as the mercenaries fell to the small group, he could feel the geas begin to twist in the back of his mind, pushing him to do his master's bidding.
A good man would never be able to do this. A good man would ignore the curse, damn the consequences. A good man would fight for his love. A good man would protect her. A good man would let one of the others in the group end him before he could hurt her more.
A good man would have never got in this situation.
"I'm…sorry…" he choked. The blade of his katana was at her neck, its razor sharp edge that he had so lovingly cared for biting into her skin, sending a crimson trickle trailing down her skin.
Her gaze stayed locked and the tips of her lips pulled up into a slight smile. A single tear rolled down her cheek, leaving a smeared trail behind it, and splitting on his katana blade. "I know," she murmured.
His grip tightened. His muscles clenched. The pain burned in him.
She had always believed he was a good man.
who needs happy endings?
Hope you enjoyed it. Please review, I always want feedback, both positive and negative, so I can write better for all you lovely people.