he cries his dragon’s name as he sees her thrown, watches the force of it splintering tree after tree after tree until she skids completely out of sight. he listens for the flap of wings that would signal her return, but hears nothing. aren’t you too big to go after someone like me? he’d quipped when he first saw the beast, but now he knows. she isn’t after meat. she’s after him for his magic.
“Temerou…”
he snarls the word for ‘bastard’ in his people’s language as he feels the hate flow through him, mingling with his fear; black veins surge through his face and neck as the night-dark form of the demon encases him. the sword in his hand transmutes, its blade set ablaze as though by his very rage. he turns, faces the girl he saw passing through, an unreadable expression in his glowing yellow eyes…is he telling her to run without saying a word, or is he contemplating whether to kill her for seeing him transform? it doesn’t matter. that brief moment of attention paid to her, that brief moment of indecision, is a moment too much. he leaps for the monster as it swings close--a being so large it could obliterate the palace he’d trained in with one swing of its arm--and drives his blade straight into one of its eyes.
he has no time to relish the sizzle before she flings him down; he loses his grip on the sword as he tumbles several stories through the air. he barely manages to land on his feet in a flurry of feathers--he hates those great black wings, always coming out when he doesn’t need them and getting in the way when he fights; he rolls over and staggers to his feet, and the beast swings its head around to face him. he reaches for his blade and it comes tearing out of the socket and back into his hand. when it lumbers toward him this time, he speeds right underneath it and the sword rips through its stomach.
she owls in pain. she sinks to the ground no time to stand there and gloat--he whirls around and careens for the back of her skull. but with one toss of her head she bats him to the side. spinning through the air, he springs off the trunk of a tree and lands on the ground.
she pounds the earth with a foot and it quakes, but he’s already seen that coming, and as soon as he hits the ground he’s in the air again. he plunges the blade hilt-deep, this time into the bone of her jaw, and slides down the length of it, her whole body now catching fire--and yet like him, the more pain he’s in, the stronger she seems to become. she seizes him in a four-toed foot--his eyes water as the flames surround him--he strains, his fury against hers as the bones in her fingers crack--she drops him--he ignites his sword once again--
and then she grabs him in her teeth by the arm, and flings him straight into a tree.
he feels his rib crack. he feels fire and terror shooting through his left forearm. when he looks at it, he can see its charred form dangling by a mere shred of flesh. pain sears through him from the burn, from the tear, from the break.
no matter.
His pain is his strength.
he seizes the arm and rips it off, letting it slam it to the ground beside him as he screams. the agony that courses through him heals his broken ribs. the beast opens her mouth, a light of pure magical energy glowing within--but with sheer strength of will he forces it shut. with a yell he pushes her own energy deep into her stomach, bursting open the wound he’d left there--her guts spill out, a reddish glop on the ground, and she howls a howl that flattens the trees around her with its force. only he remains standing, staring up at her, one-armed, defiant.
yet he’s smart enough to know the fight won’t end here. he can sense the same pain magic working within her--it’s a her-- riving her forth as she plows toward him, dragging her organs along in the dirt. the pain from his ribs has subsided. so has that from his arm, absorbed by the adrenaline. only one thing left to do now if he wants that rush…he digs a hand into his stomach, and tears out the magical stone that holds back his chronic pain.
anguish washes over him anew. he can’t tell if he’s screaming or if it’s the demon inside him as he hurtles toward the monster’s doom, but he knows the sound he makes isn’t human. his sword expands, lengthening and widening; a blade that can cut through a building slices deep into her throat. with that one swing he cleaves through her and lands where her long spiked tail has just stopped lashing at logs; he doesn’t even look back as her head slides off her neck and hits the ground with a meaty plop.
and that, he thinks, is what he loves about being a sith. can any of those chicken-hearted light knights do thi--
S H I T!
suddenly the power rushes out of him. where anger once compelled him forth, only exhaustion remains. with a gasp he falls to the forest clearing floor in a faint. his demon form dematerializes around him, leaving anakin skywalker behind.
“ the praying mantis can kill & eat a multitude of creatures , ” he says , the subtle lift in his tone indicating that he was bound to start rambling .
“ ——— but the most interesting fact is that oftentimes the female mantis engages in sexual cannibalism , meaning she'll bite off the head of her mate once copulation is complete , sometimes even during intercourse , actually . ”
( in case more nightmare fuel was required , of course . )
he knows today will be the day. his blade is sharp and ready, and it longs for the taste of tyrant’s blood. but never does he imagine--never can he imagine--that in spite of his plans, his hand will be forced, forced by the scream of a young boy that echoes down the hall.
he can only picture alexandre’s taunting as he runs up the stairs. scream as loud as you wish, said a dead man once in a great house, but no one will hear. from what lotor had gathered of his previous target’s household, however, that man had been wrong. the servants heard. the pokémon heard. and right now in this great and terrible house, LOTOR hears.
still disguised as valor daibazan, he kicks open the door. he sees the child face-down with alexandre derosier behind him. he sees that wicked, wicked man leering down at his victim as he prepares. the aegislash knife in his hand transmutes to a gun--
and he shoots.
where the child’s scream once rang, the gunshot now reverberates through the walls. alexandre stumbles backward. the boy dives under the covers, pulling a pillow tight around his head.
“you…you…”
lotor shoots yet again. blood drips from alexandre’s mouth like water from the roof of a cave; he heaves, lurches, vomits a fountain of gore that pours down his naked belly. his right hand twitches in a movement that could be involuntary, or perhaps he’s reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.
he raises his gun one more time. his image warps as he grows and shifts out of the illusion that his zoroark helped weave--no longer a short blond with sleazy eyes and messy hair, but rather someone with the body of a boy and the heart of a man. tall and regal he is, villainous in his victories, horrific in his heroism, the last line of defense for the suffering, yet unaware of the difference between defense and revenge. last words worm their way to the tip of alexandre’s tongue--slurs, all of them--there are a thousand different things he can call his attacker, and yet the will to say them seems to have dribbled on out with the stuff in his veins.
he readies himself for the final shot, ready to bury the bullet in his head.
meta before i go to bed: ally’s eye injury happened when they were about 2 years old and doesn’t really remember much about it, helen (their foster mother) never tells them the full story- and maybe it’s better that way. despite living their whole life half blind, staring at the empty eye socket makes them dissociate a little???? huge dysmorphia, as even when coming to terms that there’s nothing really wrong with them physically, they never really felt.. comfortable in their own skin.
probably has something to do with their childhood, but it’s why they cover their left eye with their bangs (and usually an eye patch just in case too), so they don’t have to be reminded by others for a while. if they trust you enough they’ll show you if you’re comfortable with it. the scarring being old yet looking so fragile...
tell them that they’re beautiful no matter what okay? ok
