Hello there!
I'm back for another chapter!
There is a possibility that I might have dwelved into murderous mindset to produce this chapter. I hope you thoroughly enjoy it.
Bren, have more!
Giggly, :D
Dommie, there you go papi :*
I hope you like it :)
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Fairy Tail. I do, however, own the rights to this story and OC characters that might appear in the future.
Chapter XXVII: The Beast Within
X—X
The sky was red. Red as the color of passion. Red as the roses that lined up his path. Red as the ladybug that flew around the wild daisies. Red like the Northern Cardinal that dared sing at the top of his lungs. Red as the fox plushie that rested atop her pillows. Red as the cherries she loved to eat.
Red as the blood dripping down his fingers.
He cocked his head as he looked down at the deformed face of the man, woman, person below him. They had attempted to run from him, but he had broken both shins. Then, they had attempted to crawl away, and he had let them. For a little bit. To see the tentative glimmer of hope in their eyes as they reached further and further away.
But of course, what they chose to ignore was that they were dead the moment they dared step in his path. The moment he looked at them, they signed their deal with Death.
The cries had been short-lived. Despite enjoying hearing them wail, he did not want them to warn Rogue and Yukino of his location too fast. He wanted to take his time. He wanted them to suffer. He made sure the cries of pain never escaped their lips, that they never got that release.
Where was the satisfaction in the pain if they never got to announce it to the world? Scream it at the top of their lungs, an ache in their chest to relieve the tear of their flesh? The melody of the screams was something he kept himself from hearing. They were just in his way, hired under the pretense of guarding without knowing what their backs faced. They were simple pawns in the game.
And so he did not make them suffer too much.
His goal was him. He who had dared take her. He who had dared touch one minute orange hair. He who dared harm a single inch of rosy pale skin. He who dared hurt her. He who he did not know the face of, nor the name. But he cared not for the identity of the man. He only cared to feel his blood in his hands, smell his fear of him.
You should want to know his name.
I care not for his name.
What if he has a family? A wife that loves him dearly, a daughter that is his world, a son that is his pride?
They have done nothing to me.
But they will come for you when they find out you killed him.
Let them come.
Do you not think you should simply... get rid of the problem before it even exists?
… that is a valid point. I'll consider it.
He walked over a charred body and walked through the rock archway. He meant not to burn that one. But he was the one who called him a monster and shoved a torch in his face. What was he supposed to do? Act scared like he was a dragon slayer in medieval times, being regarded as a monster faced with pitchforks?
Ah. As if a measle flame would scare him.
He entertained the man, he admitted. Flinched when he saw the flame, and shrieked when he pushed a holy object in his face. But enough was enough. And one dislocated shoulder, one broken trachea, one smashed spine, and one ripped-off forearm later, the man lay in flames. He was not sure if it was the blood loss, the carbon monoxide, or the flame itself that killed him.
And that annoyed him.
Next time, you should use your powers. You can control how they go then.
...good idea.
He walked inside the building. Greystone, old, smelled of humidity. Moss grew in the cracks. The hallways were large, dark and empty. He followed the scent of blood inside. His stomach twisted and churned as he recognized one of the scents, but was also pleased to learn another male, older, permeated the smell.
Good mate. Did not go down without a fight.
She did not go down period.
Good mate.
Is she... still alive?
What if she is not? Will you hurt him?
Yes.
Will you bleed him dry?
Yes.
Will you break him?
Yes.
Body and mind?
If I have to.
Answer the question, boy!
"Yes!"
He is up ahead. Do not let me down.
The room was large. The walls were made of stone, darkened by time and humidity. The gravel of the ground crunched when he stepped inside. There was no natural light inside, the room being kept alight by candles in the natural stone shelves dug into the wall. His nose twitched and the hairs at the back of his head stood, and he looked ahead.
Three altars leaned against each side of the room, and one at the end of it. Altars of blood, bones, and flowers, each with pictures of people in the middle, and what he assumed were personal objects of them. He counted seven on either side and eight on the one at the end of the room. Tche, what the hell was this?
The ground, had circles drawn on it. One bigger circle, drawn with what he assumed was chalk, with four small stones with a symbol carved, one in each cardinal point. He saw a flame, a wave, a sprout and a swirl. The circle inside it, smaller, had different charms on the ordinal points. Thanks to Levy and Ivy, he knew those symbols to be spirit, brimstone, blood and salt.
What is going on?
Look.
What is the meaning of this?
Look, boy!
He looked down and his heart shattered.
A bloody, beaten-up young woman was in the middle of the circle. She lay on her side, arms cradled to her chest in a half-fetus pose. Her left hand was bloody, her right leg twisted at an odd angle. He noticed she cradled a dark blue vest to her heart, flinching and tugging it closer to her.
Her long, fire-orange hair was splayed around the gravel floor, messy and dirty. But without life, without its usual glow. Her eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and hazy. A trail of blood dripped down the corner of her mouth, but her nose had long stopped bleeding and the scratch across her forehead had coagulated.
His perfectly imperfect woman. His little phoenix. His morning light. His best gift. His light at the end of the tunnel. His heart palpitation. His adorable snort of a laugh. His melody. His kindness, pure and unaltered. His happiness in every corner of the world. His obsession with white lilies. His sour sugar-coated chocolate bar with a strawberry milkshake.
She lay defenseless, on the dirty ground, seemingly lost in her own mind. The small elevation of her chest was the only thing keeping him sane, but the wheeze of every exhalation worried him. He shakily moved closer to her. He tried to reach out a hand, but his arms were frozen. The whimper he heard within came out of his lips.
She bleeds.
I know.
She hurts.
I know.
She is broken.
I know.
She is not here.
I know.
She falls apart every second that passes.
I know.
She is dying.
"No!"
"Who are you?"
He turned around to see a tall, middle-aged man. He looked basic, like every other face in the crowd. But he had a blood-stained vest with a proud golden embroidery of a crest on his right breast. A crest that he recognized from a faraway past. A crest he had once seen glowing over a playing board.
Kirst.
Once on a rainy day, when they were recounting their first thoughts of each other in the first few meetings, he had asked her how had she immediately known the family crest. And she had wormed into his embrace and explained to him that she had met an old man dying of an unknown magic illness in the hospital. And despite the doctors' and her best tries to save him, she could not.
He had told her the stories of his large family while she tried to cure him. Shown her the crest, and told her all about the bloodline runes he had placed upon his most valuable objects. She had entertained him, smiled, listened to his stories, and kept him company when she had realized he had no visitors other than his adored grandson.
And one night, when she came to visit him, he told her he finally knew the diagnosis. A tissue deteriorating disease that came from exposure to very dark, very powerful magic without the proper protective magical aura necessary. He told her that the continuous usage of magics that were not his own had damaged every fiber of his body, and it was only a matter of time before he took his final breath.
"He asked me to shorten the waiting time." she had recalled. "He did not want to feel his very life fade."
"What did you do?"
"I asked him to speak to his grandson. I visited him that same night and he said he had not changed his mind, but that now he was ready."
Kirst.
And from the look of it, the infamous grandson.
"Who are you, and how did you find us?"
Sting had spent a long time thinking of what he would do to the person who stole his love. His heart beat faster, the blood rushed through his veins. He sought vengeance, he thirsted for it. As he cocked his head to the side, his eyes cold as ice, fully in Dragon Force form, he imagined thousands of ways to make him suffer, to break him. He wished to break every single bone of his body; he wished to drain the blood out of his veins; he wished to see the light of life slowly fade from his eyes.
And maybe after that, when he was satisfied, he wished to haunt him in Hell, because all of the suffering he could inflict upon a dying body would never be enough.
"You."
A/N: Welp. Hope ya'll don't hate me.
Let me know your thoughts on this new story!
Lots of love from this weirdo,
LoneeWolf :)