Gambler
Banned
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2009
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“Beg for me,” I said again. “Beg.” Sooty snow caught in my wispy hair, matting it to my head. The woman crawled along the ground, unable to push past the pain. Her hands covered her abdomen. Blood seeped through her fingers, closing the spaces and sealing the wound. Her body was wracked with sobs. She was afraid. I could taste it.
“Please,” she murmured breathily. Snow dampened her platinum hair. Her eyes were red from the tears. Where the snow touched her face, it melted, only to freeze moments later. She crawled on her side, propelling herself with legs long numbed from the cold. I could imagine her vision closing in from all sides as she died from hypothermia and loss of blood.
I looked down at the knife in my hand. It was a wicked thing, a butcher’s tool. The blade was small, only four or five inches of steel, but was serrated towards the hilt. Pieces of flesh were caught on some of the spikes and blood dripped from the tip. I had stabbed her with that knife. I could remember the resistance as I drove the blade home into her stomach, ripping through her entrails with ease. My gaze drifted from the knife back to her face.
Her eyes were rimmed with tears, livid with fear. She knew that she was going to die, and she was afraid. There was something else hidden in those golden eyes. Hatred. She knew that I was the one who killed her, and she hated me for it. Her fear was a primal instinct, the drive of an animal to survive, but the hatred… that was human. She rejected death, defied its hold on her, because of that hatred. I could see the truth of her strength, evident only with her dying breaths. I was the focus of her hatred, the focus of her power.
“Let me live,” she said, voice gaining strength. Her breath came in gasps and her heartbeat slowed to a crawl. I could feel the cold sapping what was left of her strength. I could see her life pouring out of the sieve opened in her abdomen. Yet she refused to give in and allow death to take her.
“What makes you think I have the power to ‘let’ you do anything?” I asked. “Am I a god to have power over life and death? No, I think not. I am only a man.”
“You are a murderer,” she hissed. Her golden eyes met mine, and for the first time I saw true pain there. There was fear and hatred, but they worked only to mask the pain. She knew me. She knew me. “How could you?” Her voice was pitiful, the strength fading with each syllable.
“I want to hear you beg,” I said again. Any semblance of strength fled from her at the repetition. Her anger burned out, the embers crumbled in the snow. “Pathetic,” I voiced, watching the tension leave her body. Resignation was all that remained in those dulling eyes. I was tempted, momentarily, to end her life then and save her the suffering. I didn't act on the impulse, content instead to watch her spirit dwindle as she died.
She mumbled something incomprehensible into the snow and sobs wracked her body again. The ice was thickening on her face, solidifying her to the ground. Tears no longer fell from her eyes. They froze on the lids, stealing the comfort of darkness from her last moments of life. I wondered what she had said, but doubted she would have the strength to repeat herself.
“I…” she panted, forcing herself to face me, “hope… you…” She fell silent, her body slack from the effort. I frowned, disappointed. For a moment I had hoped to see that last spark of defiance before she died, to watch as her hatred lent her strength. There was no hatred left in her. She was merely a dying husk, one whose spirit was having trouble accepting the reality. Even with the denial she was unable to muster the strength to defy me. Pitiful.
“Burn,” she breathed, and the full force of her hatred hit me like a hammer. She caught me up in a maelstrom of hatred, tossing my body into the trees. I grunted as I fell to the ground, dull aches of pain blossoming along my back. “In hell,” she finished, ripping her hands away from her stomach. I was too far away for her to physically reach, but that wasn’t what she had in mind. Her strength gripped me by the soul and ripped the will from my body. I could feel her hatred as she stole from me the very essence of control. Her hatred subsumed me.[/size]
He sought Elyra once more, unable to put his troubled mind to rest. He thought only to see her one last time, but the beast had other plans. The beast wanted Elrya’s death. He wanted to watch the life fade from her golden eyes and taste her fear. He thought to feed upon her fear as she died, but instead he was met with hatred. The raw, burning passion of one betrayed, of a lover spurned, of a woman’s wrath. Elyra’s power devoured him, ripping every ounce of will from his body. No longer was Hasdrubal a man. No longer was he a beast. He was a puppet.
Hasdrubal the man had been her lover, Hasdrubal the beast her murderer, and Hasdrubal the puppet her acquiescent guardian. She was his master in every sense. Their lives were tied by her hatred and her will became hers. The bond forged by her hatred sapped the life from Hasdrubal, giving Elyra the strength to survive. Hasdrubal carried her to safety, using his power infuse her with heat to stave off hypothermia.
Elyra feeds off her own hatred, funneling it through Hasdrubal and magnifying it with his. With him as her scion, Elyra began to live off the hatred. Power, raw and refined, was his gift to her.
