(The lyrics are from Abysoss's "Masquerade in the Flames, Another Black
Friday", which I do not own.
Warning: This chapter contains material, or reference to, that may be
offence or unappreciated by some audiences, if you are of high discretion,
please don't read for yourself as well as me.)
Mozenrath lay in his bed, reveling in the not so unpleasant ringing in his
hands. They were a proof of work, of successful work. He had spent the long
hours until night had made it too dark to see fully exploiting his
necromantic abilities.
He smirked.
Destane said he was a natural.
The worries of earlier melted into an unnoticeable gray that swirled in
twisting patterns on the ceiling, taunting the light thrown by a candle into
play.
They had drug up that Allah forsaken corpse up and up again, until the
process of reanimation was a mere flick of the wrist, until every step
flowed seamlessly into the next, dragging Mozenrath along with the taboo
rush. But it didn't stop there, there was so much more to be taught, so much
more that Mozenrath quested after it like a starving man. By the goddess
that blessed his birth that steely day, it felt good.
Every accomplishment, every surmount over obstacles was an addictive rush
that quickly faded into a need. To be the puppet master and not the puppet,
to be the conquering and not the casualty. And to spit into the face of his
bastard birthing and prove his worth to none but himself was something so
deliciously irreverent it only proved to enflame the young sorcerers pallet.
He slid into a content sleep, body exhausted.
Flames of cold slithered up his mind as a satisfyingly black, dreamless
sleep melded swiftly into an oddly real nightmare, riddled with flashbacks.
They stopped after a while and Mozenrath's unconscious grimace faded, his
nocturnal tossing subsiding, that is until his nightmare recharged with a
vision of that woeful corpse's gaze of diluted despair, robbed of human
emotion, distorting until it looked like Amin's, like Shasta's, the girl
from so long ago that had provoked his temper, a faded memory, patched more
by feeling and substance. He heard over and over Amin's dying scream, and
someone else's.
It was a younger male's voice, spirited, that affected him like a dream he
hadn't had, to be forgotten until the morning he woke up from it.
The screams however grew to such a feverish pitch they blended into
indescribable chorus.
Mozenrath thrashed and fought the pain it caused, growling feral in his
sleep.
He stopped stock still when Ahhmal whispered.
"Mozenrath".
He shot straight up in his bed, panting like a wild man, equally wild eyes
searching the room cast in dying candlelight.
He came to find Destane perched lightly on the edge of his bed, turning to
the sound of his name.
As seemed to be his natural state, Destane was amused,
"I didn't scare you, did I little kitten?"
Mozenrath's heart beat in his chest like some trapped bird, but he still
managed a half glare and mumbled,
"No master".
Destane raised an eyebrow in Mozenrath's direction, how quickly his
prince-ling changes his countenance toward his master!
But he'd let it pass, for the evening was ripe for….changes.
" Nightmares, little kitten, are only that, nightmares, the villain of
children."
He rose fluidly,
"Come little kitten, I can tell by your expression you wont sleep again
tonight"
Mozenrath scowled after the receding frame for the resurrection of that
stupid pet name, feeling slightly betrayed, then rose, resigning with a
grumble that Destane was right.
His bare feet padded oddly upon the smooth cold marble flooring of the
hallway beneath him as he followed Destane.
He stopped suddenly with a gasp as an ice-cold plunge feeling came over.
He remembered the sensation, reviving the memory of that fateful trip Ahhmal
and him had taken back to his Castle.
"The dungeons are calling our names,
inviting us to a masquerade in the flames…'
He shook himself clear of the feeling, yet the longing to return to the
safety of his room sprung up, making his chest clench relentlessly.
Something was wrong.
A hand placed itself on his shoulder; he turned to find Destane, more by
aura than anything else, as his face sought deceptive refuge in the dark.
"Little kitten…" Destane murmured, pulling the youth disturbingly close.
"Once again lust will spread its wings
and carry us through the northern winds.
Open the gates,
to where it's all supposed to end…"
The black ice of the wall behind Mozenrath seeped its touch through his
shirt as he was pinned against the wall, his shocked expression of no
concern to his master who leaned in to do what only a lover would, a kiss
unwanted.
Mozenrath's power kicked up inside him in panic, in alarm, his muffled
protests unheeded.
Destane grinned wickedly from where he was thrown by the force of the boy's
blast, a red trickle the only luminance on his face.
"That's right little kitten, why don't we play…"
Five minutes into the fight and the fury and indignant shame in Mozenrath
flared to life, throwing everything he had into this fight of desperation.
He watched with the eyes of a rabbit cornered as Destane danced around his
offence, pupils strained to see in the impregnated dark as the echoing
throne room rang with soft laughter. Cocking an ear into the darkness as
Destane grew quiet once more to see if his blast had made its mark, his hand
suddenly flew to his face, a bleeding cut that souvenir of a missed, yet
fatal blast.
"And let us all in...demons, whores, witches and fiends.
Swoop through the frozen landscape
of red memories almost forgotten,
In rapid re-run:
a crimson river of rich wine let loose on tiles. "
Destane smiled across the youth who had thought himself private enough for a
quick pause of gasping breath and bent knee, hands crackling as they fought
to keep lit.
He must have let loose a laugh because he saw clearly his apprentice's head
snap up, eyes searching for the source of the sound, backing up, a
half-hearted attempt to recharge his powers in the works. Destane leered in
a rather crude manner, wiping the sweat from his brow. Were Mozenrath in
better conditions and not fighting on a prayer, he may have actually
subsided Destane's attempts, but he was half asleep and now exhausted, and
all that remained was to come in and claim what was his.
"Hideous silhouettes flicker in the candlelight,
shapes of evil, we are all born of dayfright.
Ever since the banquet I've waited for her burn,
might she be here, can this be the night of her return?"
Mozenrath turned his cheek into the wall, refusing to face the ghost of a
human that withered away his spirit above him, at first he had fought with
only the physical will in his body, but after a busted lip and black eye,
and a threat of something more, he resolved himself to ignoring the
depravity inflicted upon him. He shuddered as lips touched his skin,
recoiling further into his only defense. It was wrong, oh so wrong. He
didn't want this, this…
A hiccup of a sob escaped his throat, betraying his stoicism's security,
leaving is ego shuddering at the sound mocked him, bouncing off so many wide
eyed walls.
The gentleness of the unwanted touch at first confused him, fueling the pain
that threatened to break him. He squirmed away as hands slipped under his
clothing soaked with sweat; face aflame with shame and the knowledge of
damnation.
"There, right before my eyes she stands, my dark witch.
Dressed in her funeral shroud, as black as pitch.
Carved symbols in black, scars that never heal.
All over my body, for a thousand years I bore her seal.
Come forth and lick the blood from my nasty wounds,
still so young though she's older than the moon.
Carved symbols in black, scars that never heal.
All over my body, for a thousand years I bore her seal."
He promised himself he wouldn't scream, he promised himself he'd never give
him the satisfaction, but the ragged, dirty thing refused to stay locked
within him and stunning the Citadel until they subsided to gasps as any
innocence he ever had was ripped from him, beneath a constant chorus of,
"Little kitten, little kitten…"
"She chased the moonlight out on the fields,
a dance most somber and seductive.
She told me twisted stories from her past,
and said: - "take this stake and end my life, but do it fast".
Blood-drenched feathers against what's once been raped,
beautiful, innocent but still not too old
for what it is shaped.
How can you die right before my eyes?
I always thought you were one of us,
one of the immortals.
By the time the violent interweaving settles into a too close for comfort
collapse against each other, Mozenrath's eyes are unfocused, drawing into
himself as he mourns, the physical pain refusing to die even then, too tired
to lick his wounds, pity tainted even unto himself. He was dead now, dead to
anything that comes from saving yourself for the one you love, for waiting
till you decided, for having the choice to. He'd been robbed and ransacked,
pillaged, and shamed.
It was his fault.
It was his entire fault.
"Open the gates,
to where it's all supposed to end,
and let us all in...
Open the gates,
to where we once were supposed to sit
Dean