I'm so sorry for being late with updates again. ;O; Lately I'm struggling with uni work and writer's blocks as I find it hard to concentrate on other things than my reports and essays so please bear with me ;O;

Thank you Mau and Rukawaa for the reviews, I'm trying my best to update as soon as I can and of course I will continue the story. It's all in my head already, it just needs to be written down...ha-ha-ha... *nervous laughter*

Ygdor flashed the young demon a severe glance before he left the tent. Vyarad still hadn't woken up and his breath was dangerously flat, his pulse slow and weak. Ghirahim knelt beside the bed and grabbed the cold hand. He didn't have the knowledge of what was happening to the general and it worried him that he remained unconscious and refused to wake up. If his mind wasn't strong enough, it was likely that he would never open his eyes again. The black marks were still there, carved into the pale skin and pulsating with a malicious force.

Ghirahim removed his clothes and let them fall to the ground, then crawled into the bed and lied down on top of his general, pressing their naked bodies together in an attempt to gain the last remains of his human warmth but it seemed futile. Vyarad's body was as cold and stiff as a corpse. The demonisation might not have been complete yet, but the human blood had nearly been replaced. It would only be a matter of days or hours until Vyarad was ready.

A strange darkness filled his dreams that night, a persisting black void that did not allow even the slightest ray of light. It was a weird sensation and a cold one, like a premonition of something evil and disturbing that was about to lure the world on to its own destruction. Even though he was not afraid, because he was a demon, a child of darkness and magic, he shivered.

When morning came and the first rays of sunlight caressed his cheeks and nudged him awake, he finally was able to step out of the darkness that had kept him captivated throughout the night. His body was cold though, and while he kept his eyes shut, he turned around to warm it against Vyarad's, but his hand found nothing but empty bedsheets. Frowning, he opened his eyes and realised that he was alone. He sat up in bed, now fully awake, but even after he scanned the whole tent with his eyes, he wasn't able to spot the general.

Vyarad was gone and no one had seen him leave. Ygdor had sent out a few riders to look for him but they returned a few hours later without a single trace. Ghirahim could feel the unease that was spreading among the men. He knew that it was fear, rather than worry, that pushed Ygdor to do everything in his powers to find Vyarad. They knew nothing about his kind, nothing about the changes their leader had undergone.

Vyarad returned at nightfall. Ghirahim had felt him coming even minutes before the hooves of his galloping horse resounded in the darkness of the night. He smelled the human blood staining his hands even before he saw him standing in the entrance of the tent. His face was still covered by the shadows but even from that distance, Ghirahim noticed the madness in his golden eyes. Like a hawk hunting for the first time, spreading its wings widely before digging its sharp claws into the warm flesh of a living being. Like a reborn animal, he was acting out of pure instinct to satisfy his thirst for bloodshed. Vyarad stepped further inside and gave him a smile, but it was misplaced and made his face look strangely grotesque, like a mask.

"Not even a greeting? Come one Ghirahim, I know you can do better!" He laughed but it sounded unnatural and patronising at the same time.

Ghirahim neither moved an inch nor opened his mouth, he simply kept sitting on the bed, his eyes glued to the crimson tainted hands that were fiddling about with the black cloak he was wearing.

"Have you lost your voice?" He kicked his boots into a corner and looked at the white-haired demon on his bed, who still didn't answer. He approached the bed, his brows furrowing ever so slightly with an irritated twitch. Ghirahim knew that his behaviour was enraging Vyarad but he remained silent and immobile like a puppet.

"Do you think this is funny?" Vyarad rushed forward, his knee propped up on the bed and closed his fingers around the slim, pale neck, gaining a helpless sound from Ghirahim. His face was so close that the latter could see the black blood vessels pervading his golden eyes like the fibres of a delicate spider web in the soft morning light.

"Have you lost your respect? Do you know what I do to those that disregard me?"

The strong fingers applied even more pressure and Ghirahim soon felt nauseous from the lack of oxygen and the smell of human blood. He struggled to free himself but Vyarad's muscular strength outranged his by far, and he pinned him to the bed with only one hand.

Ghirahim closed his eyes as he felt the magic rush through his black veins, swelling and pulsating violently against the hand around his neck. Vyarad now straddled his revolting body in order to keep him down and continued choking him, his mind clouded by the strong desire for blood and destruction. He bent down once more and his lips barely touched the single pointed ear.

"How beautiful you look when you are struggling for your life. Almost as pretty as a dying maiden."

Ghirahim's fighting body suddenly became limb under Vyarad's weight, but his eyes snapped open, black as night, and he jammed his hand into Vyarad's face. Vyarad let go of him with a surprised and painful outcry and stumbled backwards when the purple ball of energy hit him. A dead silence formed between the two while Ghirahim struggled to regain control over his body and Vyarad pressed his hand against his throbbing cheek and eye.

"You son of a bitch," he cursed, "you will pay for this!"

He picked himself up, still cursing, and stumbled out of the tent.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard Ygdor's voice as he welcomed his general to his own tent and Ghirahim knew, that Vyarad would spend his night in the arms of someone else.

The incident that happened that night seemed to have shattered the trust and bond both demons had shared before, even though they still occasionally spent their nights together. Yet at the same time, Ghirahim started to develop a strange fascination towards Vyarad's new existence. He knew that Vyarad needed to learn more about his newly gained magic and how to control it, but even at this early stage, he began to see how powerful the general really was, and how much vitality he possessed.

Weeks passed and winter turned to spring, and with every day, Vyarad grew stronger and his lust for power had reached new heights. Ghirahim still stayed with him even though he often was being treated like a dog rather than a friend or even lover. Whatever reason he had to play the submissive role, he seemed to have accepted Vyarad as his master. He liked to believe that he did it because it was his duty and for the sake of getting rid of all those humans that had caused years of misery and damage, but he couldn't be sure himself that this was the only reason.

They would hunt together, bringing down their preys just as it had been the other way round, months ago in the cold, dead woods and with every drop of blood that was spread, Vyarad felt that there could be more. He often left the camp in the early morning, only to come back in the middle of the night, worn out and sweaty. He never said a word but Ghirahim knew that he went to the temple. The swollen, black, pulsating veins on his throat and cheek were all too obvious; they were part of his demonic appearance.

"I have bad news," he said one night as he sat down on the bed.

Ghirahim lifted his head and looked at him questioningly.

"It seems that the Goddesses got wind of my plans. I heard them whisper when I was on my way back last night."

"I'm not really surprised to hear that," he answered while combing his hair with his fingers.

"They mustn't interfere with my plans. I haven't reached my goals yet."

"I don't think you are a match for the Goddesses."

"Don't play the smart ass, Ghirahim, I know that I'm still too weak to be a full demon."

"You are a full demon but only a demon king would stand a chance against the Goddesses."

"You are cleverer than you look, little demon," Vyarad grinned, "no offence."

Ghirahim cocked his head. "No offence taken."

Vyarad shifted on the bed and moved a little closer. "I've been to the temple last night and I have been offered a gift, an artefact that would give me great power."

He touched Ghirahim's cheek and gently caressed it with the back of his finger.

"You know what I am talking about, don't you?"

"The sword of demise."

"Indeed. I suggest you know the legend."

"It needs a soul in order to wake from its slumber."

"Not just an ordinary soul. A demon soul."

Ghirahim brushed the hand from his cheek and stared into Vyarad's golden eyes. He was neither stupid nor naïve and knew exactly what he was asking of him.

"I know it's a lot to ask. If I could sacrifice any soul, I would have done it already without blinking an eye, but you mean a lot to me, Ghirahim."

He pulled him onto his lap and captured his lips in a soft kiss, his hand rubbing Ghirahim's back gently. "I haven't always been fair with you, I know, but I'm sorry," he whispered, "I often miss the old times, even though you may find it hard to believe."

He placed a few more kisses along his jaw and continued down his neck. Ghirahim was well aware that he was trying to manipulate him but his body acted against his own will and surrendered to the pleasant touches and kisses.

The grass had begun to sprout from the once frozen earth, it hesitantly grew back into the world to greet the early spring sun. Birds were returning to the lands, insects were crawling anew between the blades of grass and spiders were busy building their webs between the branches of the trees, the fibres glistening with small drops of morning dew. The land was awakening from its sleep and regaining new strength, and the Goddesses smiled at the sight of such a vital scenery.

Ghirahim felt nothing of this joy. He barely noticed all these changes, for his thoughts were drifting off, his mind preoccupied with something completely else. His eyes were glued to the back of his future demon king riding before him, but they were shallow and hazy. They rode deeper into the woods, the place darkening again as the path lead them towards the forgotten temple. The dense row of pine trees aligned at each side of the road almost entirely blocked out the sunlight, changing the joyful spring scene into a place of gloominess and unease.

Vyarad's horse suddenly stopped and Ghirahim lifted his head. They had arrived. They both climbed off their horses and Vyarad turned around to give him an encouraging smile. "It's all set up. Come, let's create a new world."

Ghirahim followed him into the depths of the temple. The altar was lit by candles, the black sword resting on red cushions and a few demons were running around the place, making the last preparations for the ceremony. One of the figures, wearing a long, black robe with a cape, walked up to the white-haired demon and held out his hand. Ghirahim recognised him as one of the priests of the old religion. His voice was coarse as if he hadn't spoken a word for centuries, and it matched his wrinkled, old face.

"Take off your clothes and sit down on this cushion. The time is near."

Ghirahim felt a shudder running down his spine but he did as he was told. There was no turning back. He had nothing to lose anyway.

Vyarad took a seat in front of the altar while the priests gathered around them and started reciting the old verses. At first their voices were nothing but a barely audible murmuring but soon they filled the whole room with a hypnotising crescendo. Ghirahim closed his eyes as a sudden nausea and dizziness came over him and he dug his fingers into the soft textile of the cushion. He writhed in pain as he felt his soul being sucked out of his body while the magic he held inside was still fighting, rushing through his veins and pushing against his pale skin to break free and rescue what little could still be saved. But it was too late, for Ghirahim had chosen to willingly offer his spirit to the powerful sword and become its slave.

The dark blade glowed maliciously red in Vyarad's hand as it was taking the demon's soul inside bit by bit, waiting to fully come back to life.

And after centuries of oppression and misery, a new demon king was born.