Wow, okay.. This was just sort of an emotional vent that I'm refusing to read over because I'm lazy and I'm not sure I want to reread this. :/
Enjoy, I guess?
You watch through narrowed, condescending eyes as he is brought forth. At long last, you have the defiant mutant before you, all but in your grasp. Your eyes narrow further, the darkest pitch black hatred burning in the back of your throat.
He- no, it is utterly disgusting. It's on its knees at the foot of your throne, breathing ragged and slim shoulders twitching and jerking with uneven withdrawls of breath. You've been told it was small, a pitiable creature if such an attachment were available to such a disgrace, but this was not what you expected. Standing at full height, its incredibly short horns would be level with your broad chest.
One of the Imperial Drones standing over him flinches a bit as you demand for him to raise his head. At first, it seems as though it is going to deny, to resist- yet to your utter distaste, he does just as you told him to. Its bangs are clumped and messy, clinging to his forehead in a mixture of drying blood and mud. The taste of scornful bile claws up the back of your throat as his eyes meet yours.
The hideous mutant red embers glow with all of the gentle understanding no troll should ever posses. It's a dispicable quality, going right along with its pity and empathy. Pity. It's written all over the beast's face as you snarl for the Drones to take him from your presence immediately.
It opens its mouth just as the Drones have him in the back of the throne room -they've dragged him across your floor- though before anything could be vocalized, he is clubbed across the temple and limp in their grasp. You let a cruel snicker grind through your fangs as the doors fall closed.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-
A week has passed and you are yet to hear anything of your prized prisoner. Prized insofar as you finally caught the beast that has been a thorn in your side since his birth. You are currently storming your way into the dungeons on a fleeting whim to see what has become of the slave.
A few guards are just exiting the cell you have him in as you enter; fleeing your presence just as quickly. You pay them no mind- not that they'd be worth it, the sniveling grubs. The cell door is still wide open and you take pause in the middle of it, glaring at the figure chained to the wall.
Its clothing has been taken, along with any dignity it may have still had, candy red blood dripping rhythmically from its nose and hands alike. You wait for the chained being to acknowledge you -how dare he ignore you?- before losing your patience and taking a few thunderous steps forward.
Those disgusting eyes finally raise, one swollen shut while the other is partially lidded. They are still soft, still inviting and warm and understanding and everything a troll should not be. You spit in his face, which is equal with your own, given his chained predicament. He takes it as though it were nothing and, had his lips not been split, you're sure he would have smiled.
Smiled.
It sickens you, reignites that furious flame of oozing black hatred as you lean in closer; the hate so deep, so dark within you that you're sure he can feel it. Tentacles writhing about you, grabbing and snatching at his bloodied form.
Still, he looks undetered, blinking a bit as though borderline unconcious. He snaps his head back, hitting it on the wall and jolting back into full conciousness with the slightest mewl of pain.
It was the most pitiful sound you'd ever heard.
Disgusting. The most disgusting thing you'd ever heard.
You can still feel those eyes on you as you turn and storm out just as you'd come in. Your large hands fist at your sides, completely enraged, if not almost detered. The little fuck up felt absolutely nothing even remotely black toward you.
You have to change it.
You will change it.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o
A quarter sweep has passed. The slave has not once slipped your mind- infuriatingly ever-present in your thoughts. You refuse to give in, to go see him, to even make a concious effort at thinking of him. He sickens you more each time he is brought up.
One of the Drones has come into your throne room, head bowed respectively as he tries to relay a message from Her Condescension. You could care less what the broad has to say. The inevitable alliance would weigh far heavier on your mind if it wasn't already clouded over with those horrible red eyes.
The eyes of a mutant.
The eyes of a Sufferer.
You stand up suddenly and the Drone has the guts to look up at you, to look you in the eye in surprise. Just as quickly, you have sent him crashing into the wall. His head snaps hard and he slumps to the ground, blueish green blood dripping down your already blood painted wall. You sneer down at him, suddenly realizing the droplets hitting the ground are actually coming from your own fists.
You look down, ever more infuriated as your rich purple blood drips from jagged claw cuts along your palm.
With sudden desisive anger you throw open the door to your throne room and march down to the dungeon. The Drones are no longer lingering outside of the cell and there isn't the buzz of them conversing as they drift from one end of it to the other. The only noise is the sharp sound of bloodied coughing and raspy breathing.
Forcing open the cell door, you snarl and spit at the limp prisoner. Where as before, there was only a minimal amount of blood, but now it was nearly past the point of reason. He is hanging there, head bowed as he jerked with the force of another cough- ugly red blood dripping in a near-steady stream from his lips.
He closes them, swallowing thickly. It's rather obvious by his struggling that he's attempting to raise his head, to look at you, but he can't seem to gather the nessisary strength. Irate, you grab a fistful of his hair and slam it back, glaring hard at him.
His eyes are full of translucent red tears, wits so far gone he can scarce focus on you. You give him a sharp shake, demanding he look at you, demanding he wake up from his little daze. He blinks a few times, sluggishly though it was, before those breathtaking rubies finally came to rest on your own.
You feel a simultaneous pressure lifted from your shoulders and a need to wretch.
You act on neither of these- or much any impulse, instead staring the troll long and hard in the eye. His gaze is surprisingly steady -no one has ever held your gaze for more than a wavering moment or two- and still, even after all you have put him through, it is loving and pitying.
Pitying.
He is pitying of you.
You scoff loudly, laugh cruel things directly into his face, yet still his gaze does not wander. He's watching you with doeful, distant eyes. He looks like he's pondering, waiting. You continue to laugh, to scorn and voice your hatred, but it dies in your throat as he jerks forward from your grasp and heaves; blood slicking his front. He's coughing and you find yourself lost for a moment, your hand moving from where you'd been holding his head to his slim, shaking shoulder.
Once he's managed to get a bit of a hold on his breathing, you realize what you are doing and snap your hand away from his shoulder as though it scalded you. Your palm is bright red with his blood.
Your stomach churns, though you don't let it show, as you turn and once more leave him.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-
No one has yet commented on the sickly red smeering handprints that trace the wall above your throne. You doubt they would if they had noticed. Though you feel a bit of patience with it- it's been all of a day. The image of your prisoner wretching and writhing, candy red liquid coating him and everything around him, has haunted you without end.
You cannot believe you're going through this again.
You sneer as you enter his cell, disguising the slight surprise that he seems unphased in the least- almost expecting of your presence. You repeat what you'd done the day before, forcing his head up. His eyes are wide, but unseeing; glimmering yet with loving compassion yet chased down and held inside a dense fog. Those eyes you'd come to expect, to think on for hours at a time, are changing.
They're glassy, unseeing. He knows who you are all the same. And he finally does it.
Your gut twists painfully behind your snarl as his cracked lips twitched upward. The scabs begin to ooze once more and you wonder fleetingly just how much more blood he could possibly contain. His exhales are now followed by small bouts of shuddering and the like- coughing, inhale, start, exhale, shudder, coughing, inhale, start, exhale, shudder..
He's smiling at you, accepting and forgiving in all you've done, despite everything. You try to yell, to conjur that yowling hatred that has rested thick in your stomach since you first caught wind of the beast, yet it seems the twisting has cut off all ties with the caliginous feelings.
Instead, you're left with a sickening sense of panic.
You've never felt panic. You've always been in control, always had others to do what you ought not to, always been on top. And now, you're starting to choke up.
The slave is gradually losing what little tension he'd withheld, slumping into your grip. His smile has faded a bit, but you feel it is still there. You know it is still there. He licks his cracked lips warily, trying to clear his bloodied throat. It's obvious that it doesn't help.
You find yourself yelling again, thumping his head against the cold wall before releasing it. You've taken a step back, fists pounding the wall around him, though not making contact. You're aboslutely furious, and, no matter how hard you try, you cannot say any of it is placed ont he slave before you.
You really aren't angry with him.
He had seen this coming, you realize with another hard hit of the wall beside him. That was why he hadn't given up, why he had never once lost his patience with you. He knew you wouldn't be able to handle it. In your life, it has always been hate for hate and lust for lust- but what is the outcome of love for hate?
Sudden small bursts of what bits of his sermons were relayed to you echo in the back of your mind and you roar in pure anxious anger. He hasn't moved, hasn't said anything, yet you know exactly what is running through his head.
You grab hold of his chin, glaring hard into his unseeing eyes. He can't see you, but the notion is still obviously there. You're yelling again, yelling and screaming and clenching your fist- even going so far as to draw back, but you get no rise from him. Not even a flinch. You fake the punch nearly three times before you give up, dropping your hand to your side in a slight show of exhaustion.
When had you become so tired?
The slave has closed his eyes, listening through ribboned ears as you curse and stomp and try as you might, you can't help but feel you're no longer the superior. He won. He won and he never raised a hand to you.
Finally, once you've widdled away your stamina logn enough, you fall silent; panting and growling int he back of your throat. You seem to miss a small detail about yourself, though whether it be through destraction or through denial, you'll never know. He notices, however.
In an instant the slave has stilled you, caught you completely off guard, earned your eternal abhoration- or, at least, you'd like to say. His bloodied, beaten lips ghost your painted cheek, whisking away the first of many violet tears to come. The hitching in your breath suddenly becomes apparent and you've just as quickly forced yourself from the dungeons.
The door to your Throne Room remains locked for the rest of the week.
o-o-o-o-o-o
You can no longer ignore him. Today is the day you told yourself you'd look forward to- the day of his public execution. It had been set far off purposely, leaving plent of time for torture and the like. You'd hoped to break him, to competely shatter everything about him and rebuild him to join you. He had persistance and determination to a lefal point- just the sort of loyalty your current Drones seemed to lack.
There is a thick crowd gathered about the wall where he has been chained. Said chains are burning hot against his wrists, creating the heavy scent of burning flesh. It wafts back to even you, standing off in the rear of the group and remaining unnoticed, and you feel your royal stomach roil.
He looks even worse than he had the night before. His mouth is hanging open, eyes closed, body convulsing with each breath. He's too far gone at this point, you realize with a swallow. Why it affects you, you really shouldn't care to find out.
You've always been in control.
Always until now.
He never broke, never kneeled at your feet or promised his undying loyalty. He remained strong, even in the face of his execution, and even you have to give him recognition for it. Often, when you have an execution such as this, there isn't the torture involved pre-death. You've always had the option to toy with, the option to stop, to spair them.
This is the only time in your life you've considered using it, but, even if you did, he wouldn't make it to morning. He's practically dead up there and that upsets you more than you let on, even to yourself.
There are announcements being made, followed by a brief countdown and shouts of incoherent Alternian. The mob-goers are just as riled for this as they would be at any sports event. The sickness in your gut grows. Upon reaching one, you feel your eyes dart away. There is a horrible moment of silence, of true, unbroken silence, and you know it's over.
The crowd erupts in joyous bouts of cheering while you force your eyes back to the troll. He's hanging from the skin meltingly hot chains, blood leaking down his legs and falling from his toes. Such a frail, almost feminine figure the troll had.
You turn completely, making for your castle, your Throne, the familiarity and cruelty of your echoing chambers, for the hatred of those around you.
Anything to bury the sickening pity welling in the pit of your stomach.
R&R?