This is a story I wrote for a character in the Role Playing game; Changeling: The Dreaming. It was so much fun to play someone so nasty and evil, who would murder, lie, kill and commit most crimes, all for the sake of keeping the Lady he loved at a distance safe and her innocence intact. grins Members of House Balor cannot be Seelie, but that doesn't mean they cant fall into a twisted kind of love.
Disclaimer: I dont own anything produced or owned by White Wolf or Arthaus. I dont own Changeling, I just write strange fics.
He could feel the blood trickling down his back. Warm at first, it rapidly congealed as it trickled further. His shirt stuck fast by his lifeblood. He had been shot before; he had the scars over his body to prove that. He couldn't remember too many of them, his mind, more sluggish than it should be. He knew his vision was growing fuzzy around the edges. He couldn't focus his eye. Tainted as it was from his right eye, the curse he bore.
Ahead he could see the dirty refuse covered path he followed. This was a bad part of town to be wounded in, but he had no choice. The Dreaming, curse its fickle ways, had abandoned him when he needed it. His healing magic failed. He could feel the bullet grating in his shoulder joint. His right arm-hanging limp as crimson blood slowly dripped off the hand. He slowly limped towards his objective, two things guiding him. He wouldn't give up. He never gave up, he'd outlive everyone. Then there was Her face, a coffee coloured dream, he wouldn't abandon Her. Fuck them all! Call him what you liked, he was a thief, murderer and worse. He'd committed crimes and violations there weren't even names for, but he'd be damned if he'd let Her walk alone, unprotected. He'd be cursed to be a Boggan if he'd let her be hurt. So he walked, half staggering, moving with ruthless determination towards the safety of the Hold.
The guards on the gate saw him two blocks off. They couldn't miss him. Glamour swirling around him like the frenzied caress of a serial killer. Tainted with streak of black and blotches of numbing grey. The two Redcaps looked at each other and muttering in some tongue, worked out the odds. They didn't care if he made it. They didn't care if he lived or died. Another meal waiting to happen. Yet closer he came. Slowly but…well….surely wasn't the word, but he staggered towards them, a black haired Sidhe with a patch over his right eye. Chain mail, once fine, hung from him in ragged strips. Blood matted most of his shirt; a nasty gash on his head wet his unkempt hair, sticking it to his scalp like some sort of obscene Halloween costume. At his side was a nice blade, in his hand, a gun. Obviously he wasn't going to lay down and die nicely for them, so the smaller one went inside while the injured fool stood at the gateway, gasping faintly as he swayed before coughing violently, a clot of blood landing at his feet. "Get me a fucking cigarette" was the first words spoken, His voice quiet, almost hoarse, yet filled with a dreadful menace that had the 'cap pulling out a cigarette and lighting it before he even realised what he was doing. The gun sliding into the holster with practised motion, the Sidhe took the lit cancer stick and inhaled deeply, pausing his exhale only long enough to spit out another clot. "Tell the Baron." He coughed again "Tell him, this his teacher is here and if he doesn't give me a fucking bed till I'm better I'll cut off his other ear and ram it up his arse"
Then, like an express train roaring towards a tunnel, he could feel himself slipping….sleep beckoned and he couldn't resist it any more. The coldness embedded in his very bones it seemed, slowly overwhelming him as he pitched foreword into oblivion.
A flash of pain, a scream…. his own, as his world was red, gripped by agony and oblivion claimed him again.
It was night when he awoke. He could feel the chill breeze through the window. Rich with the promise of rain. His shoulder was down to a tolerable ache. He could feel the stitching in his back, the bandages holding his arm in place or so it felt like. There were more holding his shattered ribs in place, hell; they even got the wounds in his thigh. The Baron must have gotten a better healer, was his idle musings, to replace the one that tried to kill him. It was force of habit that he reached for the bedside table and his cigarettes. The flare of the match and the first inhale, the rich burn in his injured lung did more to soothe him than any painkiller, as he lay back, mentally cataloguing, running through the faces embedded in his brain. His tribute to the dead. He wouldn't forget them, they deserved that much, and he was alive to remember. "Ok, that's definitely a tick in the plus side column" was all that was muttered. Then he ran through the negatives. "Shoulder, ribs, head, thigh, cursed, old, half crazy, bitter, twisted, cynical, hated, Balor…."ok, the negatives weren't as bad as they had been, time to get up..
He stopped the groan as he stood, fumbling around for some sort of light source before he just held up a match and fumbled for the light switch…..then he paused, a muttered curse springing forth from his lips as he remembered. This fucking prick didn't like electricity…only going to be an oil lamp..So he lit it and let it's muted glow illuminate his clothes…..fuck…they laundered them…the bastards…still, at least they didn't give him new ones….he liked these clothes, they worked…."Hello? New chain mail, even with the rubber over the links…..cocky bastard….."
He dressed with efficiency of movement, not hurried, but every movement so sure and precise. Gods below he felt old, as he went to the door and stopped, listening to the sounds of the guards outside before he swung open the door and was walking down the hall before they even realised he was passed them. Their cries cut short by the fact that their tabards we pinned to the wall by a pair of cruelly barbed daggers. "Next time pay attention, or I'll slit your throats" was all he said as he started down the stairs, trailed by the now fearful guards.
The Baron, old for a Sidhe, his hair was silver and stretched down to the floor when he stood. His robes were of the finest weave, spun from the dreams of steel and violence. He stood proud and tall, in his hand a sword of chilled flame was pointed at the throat of a Troll who was on it's knees before him. His judgement about to be declared as the great doors burst open. Framed in the opening stood William, dressed, as always, a malevolent figure in black. Unkempt hair roughly tied back, armed and armoured as he strode in, not pausing to even acknowledge the court, as pathetic fluffs scurried to avoid his boots. He strode straight for the Baron, pausing only to kick the Troll from his path as he stood toe to toe with the other Sidhe. His one eye locked onto the stunned pair, uncompromising as they matched gazes, testing wills before William finally bowed, barely enough for etiquette. "Good to see you old man, you've got older."
The Baron blinked and nodded "and you have not….I trust you found the armour suitable?….and the healing satisfactory?"
William smirked, his one eye cold and emotionless "Aye, and ye have my thanks." Before he switched languages to the harsh guttural Pictish dialect he had taught the Baron 15 years before. "How long was I out?" then he nodded as a figure too close to a week was mentioned "Very well….. I'll be taking my leave….."he reached into his cloak and pulled out a diamond, mundane but exquisite, and tossed it to the baron "you need to flog your guards, they didn't hear me moving around" before he simply turned and walked out. He knew his way, he remembered this Holding when it was new. He needed no guide…..and behind him the court watched his departing form in shocked silence. The legendary bastard, assassin, trainer of the elite and one of the most dangerous men in the house, leaving in silence with the grace of a hunting cat, not showing any sign of wounds that would have felled a Troll. To William, he was grateful for the Chicanery that blocked his pain. He could feel it tearing at the edges of his mind as he walked, but he'd be fucked if he'd show weakness before that incompetent fop.
As he made his way out of the Holding, ignoring everyone, he knew their sort. Mostly petty bullies…beneath his notice no threat at all. His mind ticked over dates. Something was wrong, something important. Something he knew he should remember, amidst the half forgotten faces, the dull throb of his wounds and the dull chill at the core of his being. He made it to the park before he had enough energy to flash himself back to his new apartment. That magus bitch had found his old apartment, had managed to fall pray to his trap and managed to escape. But by the gods, he would not make that mistake twice. This time the apartment was lethal. Forget the simple crossbow, she wanted to come here, this time she'd die. The razor wire mesh was in place, the false panel hid that. The bolts on the crossbows were poisoned now. Screw em all if they thought he would be easy…..then he blinked, as he realised the date….he knew why it was so important…what he almost missed. And his legs almost gave out, as he slowly limped out of the apartment and down to the mall, that banal mismatch of cheap and tawdry, mutton dressed up as lamb, but he still made his purchase and left, pausing his return only long enough to scare the dreams out of a homeless bum, before flashing himself to the roof of his apartment.
He sat on the edge of the roof, one leg cocked, the other hanging over the edge, like a lazy, elegant predatory bird in the middle of the night. He resolved to see Sophia in the next week, make sure she was alright…..he owed her that much, and more… her face swam unbidden into his mind, a moment of respite from the aching, brain numbing chill that threatened to envelop him every day. A moment of weakness, a fraction of a second when his self loathing ebbed, where he glimpsed redemption..respite….hope…..before the weight of the years came crashing down. The hopelessness, the dreams gone by, the boredom, by Dana, the boredom of the years. The Longing for something new…and the ennui of emotionless, tainted only by those rare moments of intense feelings…at least for him.
Who had corrupted who? he remembered first seeing her, sipping her coffee. She'd been nothing but a conquest to drag into the darkness…..and now,…he loved her, she made him feel something….like….like a drink, sweet jeezus he needed a drink. As he looked at his shaking hand, his stomach clenching into knots while he drove off the craving…but he needed her….fuckit, he wouldn't be weak…..he'd deal with this….he did every time…
So he sat there, alone on the roof, the wind whipping through his hair as he stared down at the small piece of cake…..not fancy or anything…so plain and mundane.
He sat there, pledging to himself again, not caring about the tear streaming down his cheeks, the cold ball of despair in his gut….realising he was still alive, another year outlived…another year he had proven them all wrong, he was the worst thing he knew, to stubborn to let go, to scared and tired to go on…just so damn tired….and cold…
"Happy Birthday to me"
A/N: Well, that was fun wasnt it? I know I enjoyed it.