"Expulsion"

By LMC

Rating: FRT for violence, sexuality and coarse language appropriate for ages 13+

Summary: The one who possesses him so thoroughly (portrayed in this author's story "Possession") must now be expelled from him forever.

Author's Note: There are not enough words I can use to thank my wondrous beta, Samantha Winchester.

Part 1: The Change

It should not have happened.

He scowled. It should never have happened. Yet somehow, it had.

Where no other had been able to see beyond the steel-walled exterior that was his persona, she had.

Nothing about it was extraordinary, and that was the thing that confounded him the most.

He had loved once; but she had not been strong enough to withstand his world, nor those with whom he kept company in the privacy of his palace. Tin-Tin's own mother, one so beautiful and so in love with his half-brother, he had once claimed as his own. But she had succumbed to the possessions which she was far too weak to handle and he had learned that hardening his heart, that relying upon Ombakte, was all he had and all he would ever have.

So very many years ago he had made the pact with Ombakte, under the guidance and blessing of the Shadow Chhaya; the pact which would give him everything he hungered for: power, wealth and eternal life. But as the years had begun to pass, as his body became older and his surroundings became mundane; as he began to tire of the endless lines of slaves, of being able to take anyone and anything he wanted; as he failed time and time again to obtain the secrets of International Rescue, he began to question things he had never dared question before.

It was during one such period of time not six months prior that he had taken his doubts and wanderlust and set upon a journey. Aimlessly he travelled by boat, by car and by plane. He had more money probably than the Tracy family did, but he found it did not ease the strange ache in his belly. He even tried a simple murder with his own two hands, without any magick involved. The gas station attendant in the middle of nowhere lost his life simply for being in the path of Radzi Belah Gaat.

Yet even that act, one which used to give him an almost sexual satisfaction, left him empty. It was at that moment, as he knelt next to the lifeless body of the grizzled old man, that he knew he would never take another life again.

It wasn't as though he made a conscious decision to stop killing; it was simply something he innately became aware of no longer desiring. Turning, he looked at the ostentatious black Hummer he'd been driving and shook his head. He didn't want it anymore. He just didn't. The chattel he owned, every priceless painting and statue, every vehicle and slave and even his temple; they had become meaningless to him now.

Abandoning the vehicle where it sat next to the gas pumps, he headed north. The Man of a Thousand Faces had been flying to remote locations, taking boats out into the middle of oceans and seas and had finally wound up on the coast of British Columbia. It had taken him this long to make his way south into Mexico and then back up across the border into the United States. He'd driven wherever he'd felt like, whenever he'd felt like and in all honesty hadn't felt this much freedom in longer than he could remember. Since early this morning he'd been following 180/64 in Arizona toward the Grand Canyon. It had been with some surprise earlier when he realized where he was headed, but he felt drawn to that location. Maybe it was because he intended to throw himself from the tips of the rock cliffs into the depths of the gorge. Perhaps somewhere deep inside he wanted to end it all.

Though he hadn't seen, heard or felt her since embarking upon this strange journey of his, she still was on his mind. But Ombakte bored him. Where once he had craved her seeping into his very blood, now he would lay emotionless and unmoving while she had her way with him. It was no longer interesting, no longer exciting. For the man who'd vowed to have everything, and very nearly did, life had become pedestrian.

But he knew that while he would suffer the same pain as any man who might jump off the walls of the Grand Canyon, while it would be nothing less than an agonizing result, he would not…could not…die. That was one of the things he had once considered a benefit. Now, however, at the age of fifty-three, he found himself staring into an endless future. Like the fabled vampire, he would be forced to witness life after life after life; the never-ending cycle of seasons, years, war, peace, technology, and humankind.

He didn't want to. It was that simple, really.

Belah wanted to grow old. He wanted to experience the aging of his flesh rather than always being healthy, always being strong, always being able to come out of any battle unscathed. What would it feel like to be completely human once again? He had been so young when this commitment had been made. As a teen he had made a pact that he hadn't the foresight to completely understand the meaning of.

A wry smile etched his face. Wasn't that the way of every human being? It seemed all made mistakes in their early years that they regretted when they reached middle age. He was no different; it was the nature of his mistake that separated him from all others.

Many vehicles passed him on their way to the magnificence that was Grand Canyon National Park. Truth was he had never visited the landmark, nor any of the others that normal people took their families to. Because he had never been normal, by any stretch of the imagination.

At ten, he watched his father kill his mother and beat Kyrano to within an inch of his life.

At seventeen he had made use of his knowledge of the dark arts and called forth his first demon. Six months later Ombakte owned him.

Then he'd killed his own father to avenge his mother's murder.

Young Belah, eighteen years of age, blazed his way around the world using the mysterious powers he'd gained through his alliance with the demon world to take whatever and whoever he wanted.

By twenty he was the tenth wealthiest man on the planet. By thirty he was obsessed with defeating International Rescue. By forty he'd amassed more wealth than most countries combined were worth.

It was as he approached the half-century mark that his own personal midlife crisis, if it could be called that, had hit. After yet another failed attempt to steal Thunderbird 1 at a rescue site, and after having a hole the size of a volleyball blasted through his torso by Scott Tracy, he had retreated to his temple to wait for his wounds to heal and curse the Tracys even more than he had the previous twenty years combined.

But it was during this time of healing that he'd realized just how much he didn't care anymore. A dozen new slaves had been brought to him proudly by his slaver, and indeed they were creatures of beauty. One of them even reminded him of Scott a little bit the way his dark hair curled over his forehead, and the thought of pretending it was the man who'd blown a hole in him, and doing whatever he wanted to cause him pain and torture, did pique his interest.

For all of about five minutes.

He remembered sitting there and sighing at all the downcast eyes. Not one of them would ever look directly at him. And of course, why would they? He had trained them all to never look at him. His scientists, his military personnel, the head of his guards, the trainers, his bathers, his sorcerers and witches. Not a single one would ever look him in the eye. How tiresome that had grown.

His many hours alone on the road with nothing to do but think had been both good and bad. Good, because without the constant attention that this or that thing always needed in Malaysia, he could actually string enough thoughts together to begin questioning his life. Bad, because the questioning of his life had led him to a single conclusion: he was unhappy.

Belah snorted aloud as his feet moved of their own volition up the first incline toward the canyon. Great, so he'd figured out he was unhappy. It's not like this was the most supreme revelation. But the fact that he admitted it, if only to himself, was.

So now what?

Sighing deeply, he looked ahead and saw a booth where he supposed you had to pay to enter the national park. He didn't feel like paying to experience something that had been made by nature. He had enough cash in his pocket to pay for each and every car that was lined up down the highway, but that didn't matter.

He left the road and disappeared into the woods. Higher and higher he climbed. He had begun to sweat, and removed his soft black leather jacket, discarding it to the dry ground. His black boots were perfect for this terrain; black jeans protected his legs from any scorpions who might wish to sting him. Dampness became apparent around his armpits and in the V of his perfectly chiseled chest as the terrain became more difficult; the climb more steep.

He felt…exhilarated. And with each step, he began to realize this feeling was new to him. The last time anything had come close to this was longer ago than he could remember. As if trying to order more of this newfound companion into his being, he pushed himself harder and faster. Before he knew it, his next step nearly took him over the edge.

For there he was; standing at the precipice to one of the most incredible natural sights man had known. As far left and right as the eye could see, its magnificently cut depths and the rushing waters of the Colorado River made him feel almost giddy with delight. He'd become so used to the jungles of Malaysia, so used to humidity and rain and the sounds of the animals that dwelt there; this heat, the thinner air, the incongruity of desert meeting river was downright fascinating.

Perhaps he had shut himself away from the world for too long.

He began searching for a way to get down the steep edges but nowhere did he find a suitable place for descent. And so he began walking to his right, placing his feet with an assuredness that surprised even him. It was like he'd been here before; as though he knew every inch of this rock upon which he now walked. The further he went, the more harmony he felt.

Yet another foreign sensation. Harmony. His mother had taught it, his half-brother had lived it. But Belah's life had never been truly harmonious, and it was due to his own inability to see that such a thing was even possible. But here he was, not another living soul in sight, and for the first time he began to think of peace.

Warfare had made him a fortune over the years. Supplying weaponry to both sides of any fight was always profitable, and managed to cause millions of deaths. What did he care for those idiots who insisted upon engaging in hostilities over small strips of land, or what type of god they worshiped, or who was right and who was wrong in their interpretation of ancient documents? If they were brainless enough to let things like that become their death shrouds, then they were too stupid to live, was his opinion.

There was no breeze here. There were no sounds save those very faint ones from the river far below. The sun shone off his bronze skin and he felt its warmth seep into his bones. Yes, this was peace. For all his inexperience with it, he knew it to be so.

And so he made his way along the gorge, rarely thinking of anything but the new man he was beginning to feel like. The sun had nearly disappeared into the horizon by the time he realized how late it was. And he hadn't exactly thought this far ahead.

It would get cold at this elevation once the sun was gone. He'd left his jacket miles and miles behind him and was well beyond any of the standard tourist stops.

At last he found a place where the canyon sloped downward gently enough that he could make it to the Colorado. As he approached, he heard something that seemed out-of-place in this environment, yet oddly as though it were meant to be here. Walking slowly along the sandy banks of the river, he continued east, drawn to the sound.

It was a flute-like instrument of some sort. Closer and closer he drew, and the melody became louder. Then he saw, as the sun dropped and night was upon him, the soft glow of a campfire. He stopped for a moment. Was he prepared to encounter anyone else? The serenity he'd begun to feel suddenly tightened in his chest. He was about to show his face to people he did not know.

Then again, he reasoned, they probably wouldn't have a clue who he really was, either. That could be good. His stomach rumbled and he wondered if those at the campfire had any food. As if in response, a scent wafted to his nose that made his stomach gurgle in protest.

He decided that he would risk it. At the very worst, knowing he couldn't actually be killed, he'd come away with something that would need to heal if they shot him. And in spite of this his body was still human and therefore required sustenance as did that of any man.

Taking the last few steps through the green scrub that lined the banks of the river, he moved onto the sand and made his presence known. For a fraction of a second, he would have sworn his heart stopped.

Seated on the ground with legs crossed, and a wooden flute held gently in her hands, there she was. Her lips, pursed to continue the music she had been making, stopped blowing as their eyes met. His mouth opened, rapid breathing making his chest heave out and in. He took a step closer as she lowered the flute to her lap and her mouth resumed its normal shape.

Perhaps it was the glow of the fire, or perhaps it was that he was hungry after hiking alone for more than eight hours. Or perhaps it was simply real. Whatever the reason, he thought he had never set his eyes on a sight more beautiful than this woman.

She looked at him a moment more, as though measuring how much of a threat she thought this stranger who had wandered into her camp might be. Then, as if coming to a decision, she rose to her feet in one fluid movement. Her blue jeans were dusty, as were her hiking shoes. Her soft brown leather jacket hung open, and she stuffed the flute into one of its pockets as she smiled. He was unable to move. Her hair was like spun gold; he had never seen the like. It fell in waves well beyond her shoulders. Her lips seemed to taunt and beckon him as she spoke.

"I have some food if you're hungry."

He dipped his head in acknowledgment, still unable to find words as he moved toward her.

"My name is Catherine," she said softly, holding out her hand as she stepped around her small fire.

Not trusting his own voice, Belah closed the distance between them and reached out to take her offered hand. The moment they touched his senses reeled as though he'd been punched square in the jaw. Up close he could see her pink-peach skin, the upturned corners of her mouth, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes when her smile turned into a grin.

"Cat got your tongue?" she asked, making no move to release his hand.

"Cat?" he repeated as though the word was entirely foreign to him.

"Cat. Meow." She cocked her head at him as his thumb moved along the back of her hand, an area which seemed to have transfixed him.

Looking up at the same moment, their eyes met and he heard a small gasp from her. Fearing those eyes, which had done so much damage thanks to Ombakte who dwelled behind them, had frightened her, he jumped back as though burnt, releasing her hand.

"I won't bite," she said.

He almost barked out a laugh. She thought he was afraid of her? He swallowed hard and found his voice still didn't want to cooperate. Perhaps, he thought, he should be afraid of her.

"It's okay. Come on, I have a good canned meal here. Beans and franks, if you can stand 'em."

She opened a nearby knapsack and pulled out a bowl, then went to the fire over which a pot was hanging. He watched as she slowly stirred; saw the heat rising from its contents. The ladle came up and she poured some of this beans and franks concoction into the bowl she held. Returning to her knapsack, she pulled out a spoon, then turned and held it all out to him.

"Come and sit with me. I don't often get company," she smiled.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and thought how infantile his behavior had become. On the one hand, he was still the evil one who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Whereas yesterday he would simply have grabbed this woman and carried her away, now he could only look at her in wonder.

She busied herself with another bowl and was soon seated cross-legged next to him on the sand. The water provided their backdrop; the glow of the campfire warmed his body much as the sun had earlier in the day. The smell of the food became too much and he dug his spoon into it, nearly reaching his mouth before he felt compelled to speak.

"Thank you."

She grinned. "You're welcome." Catherine looked him up and down. "You don't look like someone who's meant to be out here wandering the Canyon. Are you lost?"

Chewing and swallowing what he found to be a unique and almost heavenly taste in this beans and franks of hers, he met her eyes. "I was…" he responded, voice trailing off.

"But now you're not?" He shook his head, shoveling two more spoonfuls into his mouth. "There's plenty more if you want it." Gesturing first toward the pot, she then began to eat her own meal.

He emptied the bowl, and moved to get more food from the fire. They finished the meal in silence. When the utensils and dishes had been placed to the side, he stretched his legs out in front of his body. I should tell her my name.

The thought startled him. Well, what did it matter? This lone woman here in the middle of nowhere wouldn't know him, wouldn't care. He could tell her to call him Belah. Yes, that's what he would do; he would tell her his name.

"I am Radzi."

His eyes widened. Why on Earth had he given her that name? It was the name his mother had chosen for him, his true given name, and the name that only his half-brother and Chhaya had ever dared call him. He had banished it from use after his mother's murder. Now it was a forbidden sound that even he refused to acknowledge, so why had he told her this deeply buried word? A line of sweat appeared over his upper lip.

"What an unusual name," she said, looking up at him. "You seem embarrassed."

Embarrassed? Him? Was she kidding? But why did he feel like…why did he feel that…? He looked into her eyes. "Nobody knows that part of me," he said simply.

"Why do you keep it hidden?"

"I must to survive."

She reached out and placed her hand upon his arm, then swept her other hand out to indicate their surroundings. "Nothing here threatens your survival."

"No," he agreed, feeling as though his skin where she touched him was on fire. She was wrong. Something here was threatening his survival: Catherine herself.

He swallowed hard and tore his eyes from hers. He took in the small tent she had pitched but saw no other signs to indicate who she was or how she'd gotten here. Catherine followed his gaze. "I hiked in from the road."

Whipping his head back to look at her, he wondered how she had known what he was thinking. Awkwardly he rose to his feet, tearing his arm from her hand. He was on dangerous ground. Something was happening, something wasn't right; something that terrified even him…yet begged him to allow it to consume him…was closing in on him, making him feel claustrophobic, like there were walls that threatened to crush him.

"Radzi, are you all right?"

"Don't…call me that!" he whispered fiercely.

She, too, came to her feet and took a step nearer. "But you told me to."

He turned to look at her as she came nearer. "You are not afraid of me," his thickly accented voice proclaimed in wonder.

"No. Should I be?"

He nodded once, then shook his head, then just lowered it altogether. He was confused; everything was a jumble in his mind. A thousand voices screamed from his past, from the depths of the underworld, from his endless future. Squeezing his eyes shut, he balled his fists, almost physically battling that which threatened to overwhelm him.

And then he felt her again. Felt her body close, felt her hands reach out and touch the insides of his elbows. He shuddered almost violently. Slowly his eyes opened as her fingers ran down his arms and disappeared into his much larger hands.

"You've been hurt," she said softly, raising her eyes to meet his. "Badly."

If only she knew. If only she knew that he was the one who had hurt others so badly. If only she could see into his mind. She would be scared. She would be frightened.

"You've hurt others," she said and his eyes widened. Could she read his thoughts? "Come back to the fire, Radzi, I won't hurt you."

"But I may hurt you." There. He'd said it. He had no idea how to talk to people; how to really talk to them. He knew how to bamboozle, order, chant, incant and utter the most evil curses known to this realm. But he had not a clue how to have a normal everyday conversation.

Catherine pulled him back to the fire and gently prodded him to sit, which he did. She sat next to him, their legs touching, keeping one hand on his left arm. "You won't hurt me. If you wanted to hurt me, I'd be dead already. I'm not even half your size, Radzi. I'm no match for you."

He knew it as soon as she'd uttered the words. That was the problem! She was a match for him. The realization hit him with such force that he expelled every bit of air in his lungs.

"You're really fighting some serious demons, aren't you?"

His eyes moved to hers so fast he was sure he'd gotten whiplash. "How…?"

She smiled. "It's okay, just sit here and look into the fire. It's mesmerizing. It's tranquil; peaceful. It will help relax you."

Stunned into silence, he turned to face the fire as suggested and stared into its flames. The last time he'd stared into fire was at the Gates of Hell. He shuddered again. He simply could not forget who and what he was. Yes, this woman was in danger.

But so was he.