The Black King
Chapter 1:
AN: Should not be doing this. ButI am. So bite me. Okay. First E/T fic. No flames please, I really hope you like it.
Disclaimer: Will thumb-wrestle for Eriol...
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Love and peace,
Kurai-Tenshi of Doom
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"It's no use; the Black King is already upon us. There is no way we can save the whole village. Many will perish." Seika heard the report, but her chief advisor made it sound so…final. "You must escape now your highness. If you do not, the legacy of your people will die in this purge this tyrant is seeping into our land." The man was taking great many risks to speak as such, but then again with a female ruler, a youth no less, it was felt the advisors made all the real decisions. Seika's timid features wrinkled slightly, ironic for the land she ruled being the only one strongly opposed that she should have such docile ways and looks, being faced with this decision. She couldn't abandon her people.
The cries of anguish below from her soldiers fighting so hard to protect her meek fortress gave her the decision. Her once-timid brow straightened and she looked the ruler her father had been fabled to be. Her eyes were liquid fire as she glared at her chief advisor. The man stepped back, reminded in turn of the recently deceased king. "I will die, for leaving my people to suffer as such could give me no greater pain. I only hope and pray for my survival, but if this is my time I shall go with my head held high." Her voice thunder mimicking the approaching storm just a mile off.
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Tomoyo was a young peasant girl lucky enough to have been gifted with an education. The rest of her village's girls had mocked her and laughed as she had apparently wasted her childhood being taught how to read and speak other languages and learn of the world. Her whole childhood had been a torture for her. Ever since the Plague had taken her mother, she'd had almost no way to continue her education, so she settled for teaching herself. At the age of sixteen she took up a sort of questioning process and attempted to answer her own questions. It had made her more introverted then anything.
She had been long-since distanced from the rest of the villagers, working only in the bakery helping to mold bread all day and coming home soaked in flour and reeking of cooking oil, but having mayhap found the reason for existence, or why her village seemed so much like a farm-pen with animals that had an animalistic mentality, and were set on only accepting their own species, which she was not. Quiet and shy, her small appearance and mannerisms echoed all the lack of self-esteem she had. Although she prided herself for being a learned girl and not having the same mindless goals of marriage and children as all the other girls, now women, in her village, she sometimes thought she would give it all up just for a friend.
She never spoke too loudly, hardly spoke at all in fact, and always wore her too-long out of fashion hair in her face so as to block out all other humans from speaking to her. After hormones had affected all the girls-now-women in the village as well as the boy-now-men, Tomoyo had been even more forsaken when all the boys had started to stumble around her, or make stupid small-talk that never really lasted. She had stolen all their hearts, even coated in grime, flour and smelling horribly, with somewhat matted hair. It was the inner glow, slightly tarnished, but still there, her hope in all things living. Her love for life and the world that attracted their attentions'. Of course having a very thin waist, with lush curves and nice full breasts with a tawny stomach and skin as white as snow didn't really avoid their attentions' either.
But Tomoyo could care less. Who wanted all those scrawny little-minded, chauvinistic men anyways? Plus they all seemed inbred to her, which didn't help. Her mother had been a wild gypsy carrying Tomoyo in her teens' and had settled here for reasons she never mentioned. Tomoyo didn't know who her father was; she didn't care. She had a general suspicion for the male race anyways. They meant so little to her. As other girls' were being married off, Tomoyo was out getting her useless education, the only girl among five boys, and then after her mother's death when Tomoyo was fourteen working to support herself on meager food and little living comfort.
Lack of food had only improved her hour-glass figure, and as her ebony hair had grown longer she had tangled it purposefully, even rolled in some gunk to stop people form looking at her. She still had no idea why, not realising the impact puberty had on people her age.
The day of her eighteenth birthday, her village was attacked by the feared ruler of the neighbouring China known as the Black King. His name served him. He left no survivors and took all he wanted by force. His men raped and plundered until they got all they wanted. Tomoyo heard the cries of battle on the edge of the village. The other villagers were trying to flee into the forests, but were hunted down. Tomoyo heard the begging for mercy, the pleas for help, and the cries to a God that had long since turned His back on those who suffered.
She heard all this from the hole she'd dug under her small hut. She'd peeled away the type of thin wooden flooring and grabbing only her mother's ivory locket, given to her by Tomoyo's father is what her mother had told her and a few pieces of some bread she hid under the floor placing it back over herself and curled in the fetal position, listening to her people being massacred above her. She was in a simple shift, having just been dismissed from work for the day with full pay on account of her birthday. She had been cleaning up what little she could.
Her eyes remained dry, although inside her something else was breaking and crying out, something more or less like her sanity clawing for freedom from consciousness, so she listened to it and eventually passed out in the hole, shivering from the winter cold.
When she woke, there was still fighting but an odd dream had given her a new disposition. She straightened herself and stuffed the stale and slightly moldy bread in her mouth before she pushed herself out of her prison, like a butterfly from its cocoon. Madness had taken her now; it was obvious in her blood-shot eyes and shaking frail body. Deep, deep black rims decorated her normally breath-taking emerald eyes. (AN: Don't think that's what colour they are, but I don't care if it's right, I like green eyes!)
She stumbled and fell, her mother's locket clattering out of her hands. Outside, among clashing swords and horses neighing she heard screams of the dying. She let her normally elegantly-held hands claw across her floor and pick it up, cradling it to her chest. She stood again, needing to use her ratty old hole-filled table to keep her balance as she threw open her door.
All her resolve melted, and her mental state took the plunge into the deep, yet waking, oblivion of madness. She walked out into the throes of the battle between blood-thirsty warriors and some few knights and villagers fighting merely for survival.
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The Black King yanked his sword from another soldiers dying body. He'd told his men to try not to kill all the villagers, but apparently they'd lost their control again. All of them would receive either death or lashings that would make them want death. He faced back towards the edge of the village and saw something that made him blink, pause then rub his eyes, smearing blood from his sword and hands onto normally white skin. Like paint on a canvas.
A girl. A girl was walking amidst his battle. A blood-haze hung ominously in the air, making it hard not to inhale the crimson sheen, and a white vision of a girl walked though the midst of it. It was sheer luck that she hadn't been slain.
She wore a simple white shift, which was now crimson at the ends and with a wide-eyed glazed stare she moved in a straight line for the fortress it looked like. She was mad. He saw that now. If not temporarily, then she had snapped for good. He thought for a moment he himself had snapped, for with her white attire and black looks she looked like some kind of angel fallen into Hell itself. He saw one of his men galloping on one of the still alive horses straight towards her, and knew his intention. Plunder and rape had not been instruction he'd given, but they did them anyways. At least this man saw her too, which meant she was no augury only in his slightly crazed mind.
He kicked his horse, the mighty black stallion Zeus, forward across the battlefield. It was a race against time. Why he was pursuing her, he could not fathom, but her pure etherealness had amazed him from afar, and seeing something so apparently angelic up close was too good a chance for the cold-blooded king to pass up.
As he neared her, he bent sideways to scoop her up onto his saddle. All who saw him thought him to be his horse's name, the great and powerful thunder God, Zeus. The man pulled to a stop, but with the momentum he fell from the horse. Maybe his neck cracked, who cared? The girl was his only focus now.
His arm looped around her waist, and when he felt the amazing softness and frailness to her, he almost dropped her for fear she may break in half. But instead he yanked harder and her whole body jerked up like a rag doll thrown by an infant. Then she was on his lap, in his horse's saddle, legs dangling over the side, head resting on his opposite leg. Although he didn't mind the nice soft body on his lap, he decided to move her.
He had her sitting up now, her head lolling against his chest. She was limp, but still conscious, if not by much. Her glassy eyes seemed smoky, but for a moment right before she fell forwards in a dead faint they cleared and she whispered in a raspy voice that would be so soothing when cleaned up a bit:
"The Plague has arrived…"
Then she slumped forwards and he was grasping a seemingly fainted girl in a shift that was riding up in a very tempting manner. He reminded himself that anything inappropriate would be a horrible crime even the Black King would not commit. It was very hard.
As his men lit fire to the village and slaughtered the advisors and eventually the young ruler he re-positioned the girl and decided to bring her home with him.
Eriol Hirigizawa turned his black foreboding stallion around and rode off into the deep forest as the rain began in great drowning bursts and the thunder made a declaring, but mournful cry against the dimmed stars.
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AN2: Love is always welcome, but not hate. No flames, but constructive criticism is nice. Thanks, any questions, just ask.
Imagine,
Kurai-Tenshi of Doom