Earlier
Sark sat at his desk in a tall, winged-back, leather chair. In his hands he held a gold letter opener, tracing the edge with this finger he closed his hand around the tip and pushed it into his palm, pricking the skin. Striking blue eyes stared intently at the rivulets of blood gliding slowly down his hand.
They'll be blood spilt before this is over and it'll be by my hands, if it's the last thing I do.
Three folders sat on the mahogany desk in front of him, one on top of the other. The folder sitting on the top had 'LAZERAY, A. –LAZERAY, J.' written on the front in large, bold, black letters. They were stark against the mundane paper brown of the folder and stared back at him challengingly. Putting the letter opener on the desk to the right of the pile skilled fingers lifted the top folder, holding it gently. He swung the chair around to the fire roaring behind him. The fire light reflected off his soft features and his blond hair glistened giving him an angelic appearance, only his set expression gave away his true disposition. With a flick of his wrist the folder was flung into the flames. A couple of the escaped leaves of paper fluttered into the fire after the folder and the whole mess was engulfed.
Ashes to Ashes. Julian Lazeray no longer exists and he hasn't for a long time. These people would do best to remember that. However, he may no longer exist, but his inheritance does.
Mr. Sark's eyes didn't linger on the cremation.
I buried him a long time ago.
Instead he swung around in his chair to face the desk once again. The next folder looked exactly the same but for the name on the front. The type was the same but instead it read 'MR. SARK.'. He stared expressionlessly at that folder for a long time. He once again reached with skilled fingers, but this time he held the folder in his hands. Opening the front he was met with a photo of himself. Picking it up it suddenly disappeared into his fist, screwed into a tight ball. Sark's face was still expressionless but his eyes had taken on a deadly edge. They always held hidden depths of danger but now his eyes revealed death, blood spilling over into his iris'. His hand threw the ball fiercely into the fire behind him. He tossed the folder back onto the desk carelessly and it slid to the very far edge. His fingers crossed underneath his chin and he sat like that, bathed only in the fire light, long into the night.
The beast will never be tamed by chains.
Eventually he reached for his glass of '82. Swirling it delicately, his fingers perched on the stem, he lifted the glass to his lips, taking a long drink, savouring the taste. Setting the glass back down he felt the familiar sting of his eyes, brought on by too little sleep and too much intense concentration. He closed his eyes, resting them for barely moments before opening them again, ignoring the fatigue that threatened to take over his body. His eyes finally settled on the last folder sitting on his desk. 'BRISTOW, S. –THORNE, J.' He picked up the letter opener once again, sliding it into the folder, tensing it to break through the barrier holding it closed. The last folder was the only one that remained unopened. As he moved his wrist, starting to rip through the paper securing the folder's contents he stopped. Dropping the letter opener his brow wrinkled momentarily, a slip in his usual collected façade. Resuming his composed demeanor he stood abruptly, walking swiftly to the door, closing it as he left. Sark strolled through his property, entering his bedroom. He dispensed of his clothing without consideration and settled himself into his large, four poster bed. Running a hand through his hair he rested his head wearily back against the pillow.
You can't hide behind money, doors or walls. There are very few people you compromise yourselves by messing with, I happen to be one of them. So does Miss. Bristow. Be careful what you wish for, they might just come to you.
Sark sat at his desk in a tall, winged-back, leather chair. In his hands he held a gold letter opener, tracing the edge with this finger he closed his hand around the tip and pushed it into his palm, pricking the skin. Striking blue eyes stared intently at the rivulets of blood gliding slowly down his hand.
They'll be blood spilt before this is over and it'll be by my hands, if it's the last thing I do.
Three folders sat on the mahogany desk in front of him, one on top of the other. The folder sitting on the top had 'LAZERAY, A. –LAZERAY, J.' written on the front in large, bold, black letters. They were stark against the mundane paper brown of the folder and stared back at him challengingly. Putting the letter opener on the desk to the right of the pile skilled fingers lifted the top folder, holding it gently. He swung the chair around to the fire roaring behind him. The fire light reflected off his soft features and his blond hair glistened giving him an angelic appearance, only his set expression gave away his true disposition. With a flick of his wrist the folder was flung into the flames. A couple of the escaped leaves of paper fluttered into the fire after the folder and the whole mess was engulfed.
Ashes to Ashes. Julian Lazeray no longer exists and he hasn't for a long time. These people would do best to remember that. However, he may no longer exist, but his inheritance does.
Mr. Sark's eyes didn't linger on the cremation.
I buried him a long time ago.
Instead he swung around in his chair to face the desk once again. The next folder looked exactly the same but for the name on the front. The type was the same but instead it read 'MR. SARK.'. He stared expressionlessly at that folder for a long time. He once again reached with skilled fingers, but this time he held the folder in his hands. Opening the front he was met with a photo of himself. Picking it up it suddenly disappeared into his fist, screwed into a tight ball. Sark's face was still expressionless but his eyes had taken on a deadly edge. They always held hidden depths of danger but now his eyes revealed death, blood spilling over into his iris'. His hand threw the ball fiercely into the fire behind him. He tossed the folder back onto the desk carelessly and it slid to the very far edge. His fingers crossed underneath his chin and he sat like that, bathed only in the fire light, long into the night.
The beast will never be tamed by chains.
Eventually he reached for his glass of '82. Swirling it delicately, his fingers perched on the stem, he lifted the glass to his lips, taking a long drink, savouring the taste. Setting the glass back down he felt the familiar sting of his eyes, brought on by too little sleep and too much intense concentration. He closed his eyes, resting them for barely moments before opening them again, ignoring the fatigue that threatened to take over his body. His eyes finally settled on the last folder sitting on his desk. 'BRISTOW, S. –THORNE, J.' He picked up the letter opener once again, sliding it into the folder, tensing it to break through the barrier holding it closed. The last folder was the only one that remained unopened. As he moved his wrist, starting to rip through the paper securing the folder's contents he stopped. Dropping the letter opener his brow wrinkled momentarily, a slip in his usual collected façade. Resuming his composed demeanor he stood abruptly, walking swiftly to the door, closing it as he left. Sark strolled through his property, entering his bedroom. He dispensed of his clothing without consideration and settled himself into his large, four poster bed. Running a hand through his hair he rested his head wearily back against the pillow.
You can't hide behind money, doors or walls. There are very few people you compromise yourselves by messing with, I happen to be one of them. So does Miss. Bristow. Be careful what you wish for, they might just come to you.