Disclaimer: I did not create/do not own Riddick or any of the characters from PB or TCoR. I can only take responsibility for my original characters (unfortunately :)


"Shut down the icons and land."

Having issued the guttural order, Riddick rose from the throne. Ignoring the horde of prostrate Necromongers filling the basilica, he crossed the short distance to where Kyra's body lay. He gingerly cradled her in his arms, stood, and left the room. Just before he exited the great hall, he motioned the closest congregate with a jerk of his head. A mere waif of a girl, she scuttled over, shoulders cowed in fear.

"Where's the Lord Marshall's room?"

At the sound of his voice, she cowered even further, but she raised a thin arm and pointed up the stairs to indicate a pair of gilded double doors. He turned, taking care not to jar his precious cargo, and moved to walk away.

"My Lord?"

Riddick's head turned sharply at the foreign address. The girl practically shrunk in fear, but she ventured,

"It is customary for the new Lord Marshall to address his people. Do you not wish to –"

"No."

With that, he was gone.

Bewildered, the congregation remained for several long moments, casting furtive glances toward the stairs. When it was realized that Riddick did not intend to return, they slowly began to rise, filtering off to perform their part, if any, of his orders.

Vaako was the last to leave. He trudged slowly up the stairs, the massive weapon and his dark mood making the climb all the more difficult. As he reached the landing, he replaced the axe and turned to find his wife lying on the floor in a dead faint.

Kyra lay on the opulent bed as though sleeping. Riddick rested on one knee by her bedside, his forehead grooved with wrinkles as he studied her pale face.

"Not for me."

A deep sigh gushed from his chest as he gazed upon the chamber's lavish furnishings. Paintings adorned the walls and every spare corner held some expensive artifact. The room was a veritable museum of fallen worlds. As Riddick's silvery gaze came back to Kyra, he noticed the painting above the bed. It was a portrait of Zhylaw, stern and larger than life.

Riddick's eyes narrowed, matching stares with the harsh glare of the last Lord Marshall, and his hand came to rest upon the hilt of his ever-present shiv. His breathing picked up as he mentally relived the day. The Lord Marshall, the man who had killed all he knew without a thought, had not deserved to die so quickly. The thought made the blood boil in Riddick's veins.

With a roar, Riddick catapulted to his feet, ripped the painting from the wall, and ferociously gored the canvas. Splintering the frame with his bare hands, he sent it crashing to the floor. His next target was a delicate vase, undoubtedly rare and worth thousands. In seconds, it was reduced to mere shards. Every artifact within the room met the same fate. Wrath unabated, Riddick furiously looked about for something else to destroy.

His eyes came to rest upon the bed, and he plunged the blade into the mattress, goring it from head to foot. Only then did he pause, sinking down until he was in his original pose. His hand strayed again, this time to the tightly woven style that was Kyra's hair. Gently, his fingers freed the strands from their prison. None of it was her; the tight coif and the dark clothes were so contrary to the fiery person he had known.

She wouldn't want to be buried in these.

He pulled his blade again, placing it this time at the neck of her tunic. He made an experimental slit in the material, preparing to cut it down the middle. Then in a sudden, halting move, he pulled the shiv and flung it at the wall behind him.

The whoosh of the blade ended in the sound of metal through flesh and a piercing scream. Panting like an enraged bull, Riddick charged across the room to finish off the intruder. The weapon had gone completely through her right arm, impaling her to the wall. Ruthlessly, he yanked out the shiv, ignoring her second scream of pain and pressing the bloody blade against her throat. Despite the pressure on her windpipe, the young woman managed to force out a whispered,

"Wait – please."

Slowly raising a placating hand, she reached below the blade to pull down the neck of her mockodile tunic. Riddick's eyes flashed as they reflected the light of a glowing blue hand print. At the sight, her eyes widened in fear, but she continued to plead for her life.

"Please – Brother…"

She thought of you as an older brother.

The thought came quickly and unbidden to Riddick's mind, and he abruptly stepped back. At the sudden loss of pressure, the young woman slumped to the floor.

"You got the wrong guy."

"But – "

"Get out."

It took some effort for her to stand to her feet, but she did, holding her bleeding arm to her side as she moved toward the door. After several tries, she opened it enough to slip into the hall.

Riddick looked down at his blade, wiping it on his pant leg as he sat back against the bed. He couldn't even grieve in peace. Looking across the demolished chamber, he made his decision. In the morning he'd bury Kyra, then he'd self-destruct the ship and blow them all to Hell.