Author's note: An old, old piece in the very first vestiges of mageani fanfic writing. Short, but I think that I get my point across.
Softly Killing
He rubbed his hands. Twisting. Turning. Running one over the other, back and forth, over and over again. Hands. Large hands. Large, rough hands of flesh. He sat unmoving and still, staring blankly at the continuous motion of his dark blue hands.
Such soft hands. So easy to tear. So easy to break. They couldn't be his hands. No. Not these. He was powerful, strong. He couldn't be shattered. Couldn't be broken. He was invincible, all-powerful, unbeatable. A leader. Nothing could stand against him.
His jaw tightened as he shifted slightly forward in the single wooden chair that graced the room. And yet they had tried to defy him. To beat him. To fight against him. The fools. But they had paid the price. A heavy price. Or had they? He bit his lip, wincing as bone pricked flesh. Energy from the wound traced its way through the stubble on his chin.
In any case, he had won. He was the victor. And now he was the law. They couldn't take that away from him. They had taken everything else. But not that. Not… No. They had taken nothing. He had won. Not them. It had been so easy. He had broken them so easily. He had won. It was impossible to even imagine that they might… No. Those blasted sprites were gone. There was no one left to defy him. No one left. No one.
For a brief moment, he lifted his empty eyes and glanced once at the blank walls of the room, stopping his hands to run them quickly through his dark, matted locks of hair. He dropped his gaze. The rubbing began again.
Hands. Such soft hands. So easy to break. So easy to shatter. So easy…
P.S. Due to some reader confusion, this is Megabyte. Thank you.