Introduction
Maybe he won't do
it... Maybe he'll just kill me... Oh please, let him just kill me...
The young looking man, slender in body and face, framed by torn and
dirty clothing, was half-carried and half-dragged by two green-skinned
creatures who towered thickly over him.
He was weak from his long imprisonment, usually dark skin now pale and
sickly, long white hair thin and matted, green eyes sunken and bloodshot,
blinking repeatedly even in the hall's dim light. His long, pointed ears were drooping, as his back and shoulders
had come to do. Over time, he had
ceased to know or care if he still had spirit left. Now, he knew he still had some, because he was afraid.
Afraid that his death would not be swift.
One of the guards dug its massive claws into his arm, not deeply at
all compared to their length, but still painfully. "Carry your own
weight!" he snarled, stained fangs bared, long scales lifted in an angry
crest behind his head. "It is not wise to keep Lord Mactar waiting. Not for you, anyway." The other guard could be heard licking his
lips with a black, snaking tongue at that comment. The prisoner had long learned that resistance or reply was
useless, and tried to force his weary legs to walk with the demonic guards'
long strides.
Soon, his dim yet fearful eyes saw a large double-door ahead,
painted with blood of various ages and shades.
Two thin red demi-demons slithered their heads through the handle-loops
and pulled the doors open, into the throne room. The walls were cold, grey stone, glowing from the light of a
large fireplace along the right-hand wall.
Perched upon the burning logs were small serpents and other unnamable
creatures, a few thirstily lapping at the flames. Crowds of demi- and full-blooded demons stood surrounding the
aisle the elven prisoner was being led down, along with a few of his own kind. He looked into their eyes, trying to see if
any of his comrades were left within their bodies. But his gaze was only returned by black sockets containing a thin
point of fiery red light, their bodies merely shells possessed by the dark
lord's army. He shuddered as he
imagined that fate.
He then turned his eyes forward, up to the throne as the guards
stopped and bowed, pulling him down with them.
He held his head defiantly upward however, even as his eyes betrayed his
fear. Lord Mactar was smiling at
him. It was not a malicious, evil smile
as he expected. No, it was a warm,
friendly, inviting smile. This induced
immediate confusion within the prisoner.
Mactar was handsome in looks, tall and fairly thick in build, well
muscled and solid of face. His hair was
black and close-cut, except for the bottom part which nearly reached his
shoulders, and a gathering of it above his forehead. His eyebrows were thick above red irises and bright blue pupils,
over a noble-looking Roman nose and a clean-shaven, pale white face. The smile did not show his teeth, and the
prisoner found himself wondering what they looked like. Clean and white? Normal? Blood-stained fangs? What was to be expected of the living lord
of Hell's army?
The delicate, elf-like man kneeling before him waited for a change
in the face, when he realized that his normal talent of gauging someone's
personality seemed not to work on this being.
He had no idea what to expect, and it added to his feeling of
helplessness and uncertainty.
Finally, the lips parted, showing flawless, unstained white teeth,
and Mactar spoke in a pleasant medium tone of voice. "Hello there, friend. I'm quite pleased to see you out and
about. Quite pleased."
The prisoner opened his mouth to speak, found his throat too dry,
and licked his lips a few times, swallowing hard before trying again. Even then, his voice was ragged from lack of
use. "I... I've not been..
t-treated.. like a f-friend..."
The poor man already knew his fate would be bad, knew from all the
varied stories he'd heard. He knew how
the dark Lord met his victims was always unpredictable, but the outcome was
always unpleasant. There was nothing he
could do, so he may as well go down saying all he could. As the tyrant looked taken aback, he forced
himself to boldly continue. "And... and taking over my world... k-killing
and possessing my peop-ple... That's what you did... Y-you're no friend of
mine."
"I'm not?" the high-powered being asked, appearing hurt
and surprised. He sighed and shook his
head. "That is a shame. A sad shame. You've hurt my feelings.
I'll bet you feel bad now."
"No, not one bit," the prisoner replied. Although a very tiny part of him did, so
convincingly did Mactar convey sorrow.
"Oh, but you do," the black and silver armor-clad
enthroned gently insisted. "I can
see it in your eyes. You feel guilty
for disappointing me." His
eyebrows then creased slightly, and his smile became a smirk. "Guilty enough... to hurt
yourself."
The prisoner stood. And
blinked in confusion, looking down and around.
He had not tried to stand. He
could barely have risen had he wanted to.
Yet here he was, standing as if he were healthy and willing. Then, his feet began to carry him, rhythmically,
to a nearby table from which the crowd parted.
Upon this table was a sparkling silver knife, harboring a four-inch
serrated blade. His eyes widened with
terror.
"No!" he screamed, his body carrying him calmly toward
the weapon, feet falling one after the other. "No, please! What are you doing?! Why can't I...
No!" His step faltered a bit, his
face tightly squeezed as he struggled against Mactar's mental push. But he felt the dark lord push back, and his
steps again fell in natural sequence as he drew near the table.
"Stop! STOP! PLEASE, DON'T DO THIS!" he screamed as he
stood next to the table.
Mactar's evil smirk grew even darker, along with the tone in his
voice. "Oh, don't be foolish; I'm
sitting way over here. It's your own guilt making you want to hurt
yourself. You really shouldn't do
that... Apologize and I'll forgive you, that's all. No need to act in such haste."
The panicking man's hand slowly raised and was approaching the
knife's handle. His breathing was fast
and harsh, sweat pouring down his face as he tried to resist the force
compelling him. "No... YOU
apologize! You're KILLING my people!
STOP BEING A COWARD!" His hand
gripped the handle, and the blade was now approaching his own left shoulder.
"STOP IT! YOU MONSTER STOP!
STOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!"
The blade was being drawn through the flesh of his shoulder and
across his pectoral muscle. The hot
blood poured outward, darkening what clothing was left around the wound. He pulled the knife away, then moved it into
a downward stabbing position. "No!
NO! AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!"
He had plunged it into his right thigh, to the hilt, feeling and
hearing the metal scraping the bone. He
collapsed to his knees after removing the blade, the blood beginning to pool on
the floor. "YOU MONSTER! MONSTER! YOU'LL BURN IN HELL!
HELLLLLLNNNNMMMMGH!" The knife was
now plunged into his own belly. He
jerked it out, then proceeded to randomly, cruelly slash and stab himself
repeatedly, blood splashing and pouring upon the cold stone beneath him. The air was filled with his screams and
sobs, as well as the jeering of the surrounding demon horde.
"Are you elves all masochists? Do you enjoy hurting yourself?"
"What a crazzzzy creature!
Look what it'sssss doing to itsssself!
Hahahaha!"
"Lord Mactar will forgive you! Just apologize! You're making a big deal of nothing!"
"Don't hurt yourself!
We love you! Why are you
throwing your life away?!"
The elf's tearful eyes began to cloud over, his cries becoming
weaker and weaker, though his knifing actions remained as strong and savage as
ever under Mactar's control. The sight
and sound of the bitter creatures around him, the smell and taste of his own
blood, began to drift away into foggy darkness. For a few moments, images of his life passed before him: He and
his sister as children talking to chipmunks, playing hide-and-seek in the forest,
putting flowers in each others' hair, then later re-attaching the blossoms to
their stems and healing them to continue growing. Then, he saw her smiling, reassuring face, framed by hair as
white as his normally was, her honey-toned skin clean and unmarked by the scars
it had carried before her recent death.
Her soft voice echoed in his ears.
"You're about to be freed, Onii-sama. Come with me. We'll never be apart again."
"...Nee-chan..." he whimpered.
The blade plunged into his heart, and he left his body on the
floor, in the pool of crimson. Left the cruel laughter of Mactar and the demons
behind forever.
.
.
.
"Find
out who he gave his immunity to," Mactar commanded the court loudly,
"And bring them to me!"