Hey, everyone, this is my very first fic on this site. Just read and review, you don't even have to be nice. A review is a review. Love in one of its many forms, and all that rot. But I do hope you enjoy it.
A/N: Nope, none of this is mine, so don't sue me.
Antithesis
The Desire for Power in Excess caused the Fall of the Angels.
John Milton
The wind and surf pounded roughly against the sandy shore, blasting like geysers through the rocks clinging loosely to the coast. The sand sloped back in a grassy bluff where sea oats rippled and frothed in the strong gusts that boiled up and over the knoll. As the rise leveled out it became a silvered plain extending wide and gently rolling into a distant wall of trees. The sky was vast glittering collage of stardust and moon glow crystallized in an opaque darkness. A tiny sliver of moon shone painfully bright, bright enough to burn unwary eyes. Its impersonal radiance caught the thunder and fury of one brave soul on that silvered, flowing pasture.
A horse and rider pounded across the ground, hair and mane whipping madly behind and around them. They moved as one, minus all tack, the rider guiding the great animal with touch alone. As shadows did they appear neither black nor white; the horse a deep rich grey-blue and his rider's black hair was now frosted by moonlight. Her face was obscured by speed and flickering shadows. Her evening gown clung to her curves, revealing their graceful shape beneath the storm cloud colored silk, and her skin shone porcelain white. Barefoot and wild-haired she rode the stallion hard into the wind, toward the beach. She straightened, slowing the horse to an easy lope as they climbed the slight incline and, as they started through the sea oats, to walk. At the top of the bluff, they halted. Brushing her wind-swept hair from her face, she let her dark eyes travel over the vista before them. Home, she thought with a sigh, I'm home. Eyes closed briefly, breathing deeply of the rich salty air, feeling the cut of the sharp breeze across sensitive skin, it was all so familiar, so very beloved. Heat radiated up from the sweat-dampened body beneath her, bringing with it the musky scent of horse and hay. She released her hold on his mane to run slender fingers over his slick shoulder and pat his regal neck.
"Eh, Eidolon, I've missed this," her eyes twinkled as the stallion turned his great head to look balefully at her, "missed you, too, big baby," she added laughingly. Eidolon snorted indignantly, shifting his weight from hip to hip restlessly. She laughed again, this time at his impatience.
"All right, boy-o, let's go, then," she said, tightening her knees against his sides. He whinnied as they plunged down, ploughing through soft white sand. Tiny pebbles and rocks skittered down before the pair in miniature avalanches and, behind them they filled in the trace of their passage. On the beach, she let him have his head. He let out a happy little sound, prancing cutely before becoming quite serious and leaping into a body-stretching, eye-watering pace that carried them over the semi-damp sand just as swiftly as if they'd been on hard, stable earth. The young woman tilted back her head and closed her eyes. She slowly, carefully released her grip on the sharp strands of Eidolon's stiff mane. She relaxed into the quick rolling motion of his gait, lifting her arms over her head and arching her back into each thrust forward. The gown she wore was draped over one shoulder and split to the hip on the opposite side, leaving the others bare in the Grecian style, and with her arms raised her entire right side was bared from hip to shoulder and her left side from the hip downward. She reveled in her near-nakedness and the freedom it afforded her on night rides like this one.
They went on like that for sometime, until the stallion tired; his breath huffing out in clouds of steam and his coat was black with sweat when they finally slowed to canter, then a slow trot and finally a hip-popping, foot-dragging walk. Both were tussled and weary, ready for a hearty meal and a warm bed as she turned them toward home. Her legs had fallen slack on either side of him, feet dangling loosely. His big head drooped and his lids kept slipping over his eyes. The silence of the night reigned perfect and complete. Her own eyes were heavy and her head kept falling forward. Finally, she gave up and slumped forward over his withers, trusting him to guide them home without trouble.
It may have been ten minutes or only one but it seemed she had just drifted off when a persistent vibration in her pocket jarred her awake. Eidolon stopped, resting, as she pushed herself into a sitting position and reached for her cell which had been secretly secured in a fold of her gown. She read the caller ID before flipping it open.
"Mark, what's up?" she asked, struggling not to sound half asleep. A deep masculine chuckle echoed through the receiver.
"Did I wake you, kitten?" replied Mark, already knowing the answer to that question.
"Eh, well, in a manner of speaking…."she trailed off embarrassedly before her eyes narrowed, "So something's going on if you're calling me at this time of night. I don't pay you well enough for you to be running around at… well; it's nearly dawn, damn."
Mark laughed loudly at that. "Yeah, I've been up for about an hour now. I'm not the farm manager so I can sleep in or in your case, stay out all night. But you're right; something's happened."
Oh, really? Are the animals all right?" she asked, brows raising, back stiffening
"Yeah, the beasties are fine but me and the boys stumbled on something at the East Barn this morning…I think you should come down and take a look," he replied, his tone deadly serious.
"I'm on Bone Stretch with Eidolon; I can be there in five, okay?" she asked, already tightening her grip on the stallion and urging him up the bank onto the pasture land.
"Perfectly, see you then, kitten," Mark answered, his voice deepening, roughening on the last word. Her stomach tightened, more with worry and sadness then anything else. She and Mark had had a thing but it just hadn't worked. He still nursed something very close to love and had a hard time keeping it to himself when it was just them.
"See ya," she murmured back, her voice low and her tone taut, and then she hung up. Slipping the tiny device back into her pocket, she looked about. Eidolon had stopped again, just past the sea oats and had been contentedly nibbling on them while she spoke. Now she clucked with her tongue and gave a perfunctory tug on his mane. They started off parallel to the beach, Bone Stretch, at a healthy trot.
"I wonder what he's got waiting for us, boy-o," she whispered to her horse as they bumped rather lethargically along the road.
Connor's body felt like it was on fire; from right shoulder to right hip, pain radiated in an ever-present pulse. He couldn't move without pain, his eyes were dry and gritty and his head throbbed dully. Even still, he forced open his lids and dragged his gaze around, searching. An agonized groan came from somewhere to his left and he lolled his head toward it. His brother lay in the same slumped, sprawled position against the wooden walls and appeared about as beaten as Connor felt. Blood flowed freely from a gash in Murphy's forehead, caking in his soft brown hair, and one of his eyes was discolored and swollen shut. His bottom lip was grotesquely puffed-up and blood had trickled from the corner of his mouth and dried on his chin and throat. His black tee shirt was filthy, covered in blood and dirt, and barely hanging onto his torso by a thread. Murphy's right arm had blood encrusted on it to the elbow from a bullet wound in his bicep. His jeans were just as torn and crusty and on his left thigh was another bullet wound. Connor couldn't see beneath the shirt but, from the way Murphy held himself, it seemed as if there was something serious under it.
"Shit," groaned Connor, his accent thickened by pain and frustration. Murphy rolled his head toward his twin.
"Ya can fucken say that again," he replied, a grimace crossing his features as he spoke and shifted uncomfortably. He laughed rustily and pointed a finger at Connor.
"Yer pretty face, it's not so pretty anymore," he said. Connor grunted and made a rude gesture.
"Ah, fuck ya," he growled, "ya don't look so pretty yerself, brother." He gestured to Murphy's face. Murphy frowned and struggled to lift a hand to his gory face. He winced at his fingers touched the scrape on his cheek and the bleeding cut on his forehead.
"Jesus Christ," he murmured as he stared at the blood on his fingertips. He lifted his one good eye to the room they were in, scanning it. Squinting hard, he scowled at the plank walls, weathered and darkly stained. On shelves and hooks hung riding tack in various states, filling the room with the scent of leather and saddle soap. Hay was scattered on the rough floor and bits of sweet feed and oats were sprinkled about.
"How the fuck did we get here?" Murphy asked, turning to look at Connor who was holding his head in a hand, his face wrinkled in concentration.
"I'm thinkin' the question yer wantin' to ask is 'Where the fuck is 'here'?'" replied Connor as he struggled to a sitting position against the wall. He let his breath hiss out slowly as the pain in his side flared bright for a few moments before settling back into radiating steadily. At the sound, Murph turned and stared at his brother.
"Ya all right?" he asked, the frown on his badly battered face growing stormier.
Connor raised his eyes to glare at Murph from beneath his brows.
"Do I fucken look all right, you fucken shit?" snapped back his brother. "Geez, Connor, yer such a dear in the mornin'," rejoined Murph breathlessly as he stiffened against the pain that seemed to be everywhere when he tried to move.
"So do ya remember gettin' here?" Connor tossed a glance at Murphy and shook his head carefully.
"No, the last thing I remember is fallin' on my face in the grass somewhere," Connor braced a hand against the wall behind him and bent his left leg tight under him, "you?"
"No, I remember seein' ya fall and then everythin's a blank," answered Murphy as he also started to lever himself off the floor. He grunted harshly when he finally straightened to his full height. He hobbled over to Connor and draped his brother's arm over his shoulder, taking some of his weight. They swayed there for a moment, balanced precariously.
"Well, forget the 'how' and the 'where' let's just get the fuck outta here," Connor gasped while they stumbled toward the door. It was only a few steps away but it seemed to take a hundred years to reach it. By the time, Murph was reaching for the knob both boys were panting with exertion and drenched in a cold sweat. His shaking fingers grazed the cool metal but as he tried to grip it, it slipped from his grasp. The door was pulled open from the outside, rather abruptly.
"Fuck," whispered Connor, his eyes widening as he took in the men on the other side.
"Good morning, gentlemen," drawled the dark-haired man standing with legs braced on the other side of the door. He smiled slowly, rather evilly, at the beaten and startled look on the pair in front of him.
"I'm glad to see you're still with us," he said, smirking into the inky moustache tracing his upper lip as he hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his neatly pressed slacks and jerked his head at the group over his broad shoulder.
"I'd like you to meet a few of my associates." As if on cue, the group of men behind the dark man organized into two groups of two on either side him. Unlike him, they were dressed like farm workers; worn and stained denims, cotton flannel that'd seen better days, and scuffed leather work boots.
All the boys could do was stare.
Good Afternoon! Yes, a cliff hanger and, yes, there's more but, alas, I must finish it and college gets in the way of my life therefore I will continue to write and post on a regular basis if, and only if, there is interest in more. So...make like a tree and...REVIEW