Nothing makes any real sense anymore, I've decided. If anyone - any one of my enimies could see me now, oh, they would laugh. I can hear them over my shoulder. Hate drives me onward, hate and a sense of duty.
Anything over nothing, I plead to the stars. Please let someone, someone not on her side come out of this alive, and please let it be me...
Nyx. Her name, a surge of blind hate, of power, another of the soldiers I combat fall, then another. Nyx. She, who was more beautiful, more powerful, more graceful, more snide, more tempting, more cruel, more, simply more... than me... Beside her I look a faliure, she never ceases to remind me of this. My errs are always bigger when she is around. She is by far the better necromancer than I, it is her bloodless walking dead that try to kill me and my forces at her call. And I? All I can raise is a small, ghostly, skeletal calvalry...
With each swing of my sword, I hate her more.
She came with but one purpouse. To destroy a threat to her. Light cancels out dark, and I was nearly mortally wounded by the child, so he is a larger - far larger - threat to her than me. And I, ever opposing her, sided with the light this one time only...
She came to kill Harry Potter.
Anything over nothing, I decided. Thier help would be better than none at all.
It's dawn, I've been fighting since midnight. I can't go on much longer, soon this exaustion is going to catch up with me. Heedless of my pain, of my losses, the new day breaks with sick and twisted perfection. I have no time to admire the world awash with pastels. More of the necromanced-gladiators pounce on me, trying to bring fresh blood.
Oh, my enimies would laugh so very hard if they saw me...
I am no longer the powerful dark lord I was. If one gazed upon me, one would see a man dressed in black with fear and fire in his amber eyes, with apprehention and anger on his face, with blood staining his cloak and sword in his hand, with shoulders heavy with eminent defeat...
It is time to go. I can do no more here. Holding off the gladiators as I leap on my horse (a black mare, the only non-skeletal one there), I try to sound the retreat. My voice is too hoarse, and besides, there is noone to call. With a jump Kali knows where to go, and the urgency of getting away from the battlefield. As the unearthly shouts of the risen dead fall away, all I hear is the rythm of her hoofbeats. I know how badly I am hurt, Kali knows also.
That is the last I remember as I sink into darkness, making sure to firmly grip the reins first.
AN:Well!
Isn't this interesting?
Don't you think?
Have you figured out who our mystery man is?
For those that haven't, he's Voldemort.
It's going to make more sense next chapter or so, along with changing tenses...
Oh well...
Tell you all what, I'll give you an incintive for reviewing. Cast your vote: Does Voldemort live or die? I'm wavering myself here now. So I'm leaving it up to the readers.
Well, would you like him to live or die? Say so in that
little box below you! You get to control this story's twists!
^_^ So review! Please?