A Shadow of Myself
Aug. 1st, 2007 11:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunWritten for the ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
writerconuk BannerGrab challenge based on bogwitch 's banner.
Requirements-
Characters to be included: Illyria
Preferred rating: Not fussed.
Season/episode: Not picky.
Must Have: a betrayal
Can't Have: first person writing
writerconuk BannerGrab challenge based on bogwitch 's banner.Requirements-
Characters to be included: Illyria
Preferred rating: Not fussed.
Season/episode: Not picky.
Must Have: a betrayal
Can't Have: first person writing
They swarmed around her, their frail shells and mewling cries an offering to her majesty. The white haired one had taken her “hunting” many times before this in an attempt to appease her. Like so many before him, he had failed.
How could the cracking of a single neck appease one who had previously been the ruler of universes? Whole races had fallen before her, she had command legions, and the sound of death had been her greatest delight.
Still, she conceded as a many-tentacled being collapsed under her hands, this battle was intriguing.
The traitorous leader (Angel, her other mind supplied) had foolishly overreached himself. His attempts to bring down the winged reptilian would surely fail. He swung mightily but the swings were weak and his dust would soon coat (the ashes in your mouth) the surrounding structures.
Her pet was acquitting himself without the hubris that marked his leader. Still, Illyria could see that something was different about him. His white hair a beacon in the overcast space, he fought with no sound. The whoops and howls she had become accustomed to long vanished.
He fights for the kill, she noted as her fingers penetrated the chest cavity of her foe. His weak soul no longer seeks the pain.
She stood there, the wetness of the rain mingling with the lifeblood of her adversaries. A lone figure weaved in and out of the melee. She blinked, once again uncertain about the messages her sensory organs were delivering.
“It will be over soon,” a familiar voice whispered dryly. “Striking a deal with the devil is so much easier the second time around.”
She whirled around, intent on destroying the impostor who spoke with that voice. Her hands closed around air, and she tilted her head in confusion at the nothingness behind her. Had he not been there, right behind her?
(Ssh, don't fret. Just fight. Save them. Save them and it'll all be over soon.)
The words twisted around inside her, pushing her towards the battle. She fought efficiently, killed cleanly. Illyria, God-King of the Primordium, and she bowed to no one.
Except that she could still see that shimmering translucent figure. It meandered around the bodies of the fallen, stopping to press a kiss on the white-hair's (Spike, she heard the word spoken so softly it seemed a trick) forehead. Gentle delicate fingers wrapped around the other vampire's hand, lending strength to lift a sword grown too heavy to wield.
The sounds of battle faded, the confined space filled now with the twitching dying remnants of war. Soon, too soon, the strife would begin. Former allies turning on each other to rend and claw for the scraps of what remained.
“Have you really learned so little?” That voice again, coolly fascinated and precise. “I see that none of my words made it past your hard shell.”
She did not make the same mistake. She stayed as she was, eyes focused forward. Phantoms with false voices did not frighten her.
“I have lived for eons and power is always this way,” she replied, and as her words floated away, she paused.
The words were hers, but the voice was not. The shell's voice (Fred, I'm Fred. Remember?) had superseded her own, rising and falling in strange intonations. Illyria could feel the voice now, her other mind, pushing and tugging at the fleshy frame around her.
“I agree,” the voice (It's Wesley, sweet Wes with his glasses and his stammers and his voice that sounds like cherry lollipops on your tongue) said soothingly. “Power is always this way. But, love is not. Love is patient, love is kind, love does not seek to aggrandize itself.”
“Love,” Illyria snorted in a voice not her own. “Love is weakness. Love killed you, soaked in whiskey and stinking of sorrow. Love is a foul pestilence.”
(No, her other mind Fred disagreed, love is a gift. Love brings vampires to fight for justice, love gives a good man the strength to kill what he should cherish, love conquers death.)
Illyria lurched violently, hand pressed to her midsection. The shadowy figure coalesced before her, its eyes burning brightly. She shuddered, staring at the face of her shell.
“You,” she rasped. “You are dead. Gone. Swallowed by the force of my awakening.”
(Nope. I'm here and that's my body you're wearing. The power of love, remember?)
“I told you,” and now Wesley was really here, running a finger across her cheek. “Deals with the devil are easier the second time around. Granted that the Powers might not appreciate being called a devil, but the facts remain the same.”
“Facts,” Illyria sneered as the heat spread from her midsection to encompass her body. “Betrayal is always a fact. I should never have believed your human lies of love and friendship.”
(Not a lie, no, Fred crooned sweetly.)
She could feel it now. The tearing and ripping sensation that pulled her from the shell and sent her hurtling back towards prison. Towards oblivion in the Deeper Well, and the fever dreams of a captured God-King. Visions of betrayals and plots, the sound of a cracking neck and the laughter of a pretty pet all wrapped up in the puzzlement of human love.
How could the cracking of a single neck appease one who had previously been the ruler of universes? Whole races had fallen before her, she had command legions, and the sound of death had been her greatest delight.
Still, she conceded as a many-tentacled being collapsed under her hands, this battle was intriguing.
The traitorous leader (Angel, her other mind supplied) had foolishly overreached himself. His attempts to bring down the winged reptilian would surely fail. He swung mightily but the swings were weak and his dust would soon coat (the ashes in your mouth) the surrounding structures.
Her pet was acquitting himself without the hubris that marked his leader. Still, Illyria could see that something was different about him. His white hair a beacon in the overcast space, he fought with no sound. The whoops and howls she had become accustomed to long vanished.
He fights for the kill, she noted as her fingers penetrated the chest cavity of her foe. His weak soul no longer seeks the pain.
She stood there, the wetness of the rain mingling with the lifeblood of her adversaries. A lone figure weaved in and out of the melee. She blinked, once again uncertain about the messages her sensory organs were delivering.
“It will be over soon,” a familiar voice whispered dryly. “Striking a deal with the devil is so much easier the second time around.”
She whirled around, intent on destroying the impostor who spoke with that voice. Her hands closed around air, and she tilted her head in confusion at the nothingness behind her. Had he not been there, right behind her?
(Ssh, don't fret. Just fight. Save them. Save them and it'll all be over soon.)
The words twisted around inside her, pushing her towards the battle. She fought efficiently, killed cleanly. Illyria, God-King of the Primordium, and she bowed to no one.
Except that she could still see that shimmering translucent figure. It meandered around the bodies of the fallen, stopping to press a kiss on the white-hair's (Spike, she heard the word spoken so softly it seemed a trick) forehead. Gentle delicate fingers wrapped around the other vampire's hand, lending strength to lift a sword grown too heavy to wield.
The sounds of battle faded, the confined space filled now with the twitching dying remnants of war. Soon, too soon, the strife would begin. Former allies turning on each other to rend and claw for the scraps of what remained.
“Have you really learned so little?” That voice again, coolly fascinated and precise. “I see that none of my words made it past your hard shell.”
She did not make the same mistake. She stayed as she was, eyes focused forward. Phantoms with false voices did not frighten her.
“I have lived for eons and power is always this way,” she replied, and as her words floated away, she paused.
The words were hers, but the voice was not. The shell's voice (Fred, I'm Fred. Remember?) had superseded her own, rising and falling in strange intonations. Illyria could feel the voice now, her other mind, pushing and tugging at the fleshy frame around her.
“I agree,” the voice (It's Wesley, sweet Wes with his glasses and his stammers and his voice that sounds like cherry lollipops on your tongue) said soothingly. “Power is always this way. But, love is not. Love is patient, love is kind, love does not seek to aggrandize itself.”
“Love,” Illyria snorted in a voice not her own. “Love is weakness. Love killed you, soaked in whiskey and stinking of sorrow. Love is a foul pestilence.”
(No, her other mind Fred disagreed, love is a gift. Love brings vampires to fight for justice, love gives a good man the strength to kill what he should cherish, love conquers death.)
Illyria lurched violently, hand pressed to her midsection. The shadowy figure coalesced before her, its eyes burning brightly. She shuddered, staring at the face of her shell.
“You,” she rasped. “You are dead. Gone. Swallowed by the force of my awakening.”
(Nope. I'm here and that's my body you're wearing. The power of love, remember?)
“I told you,” and now Wesley was really here, running a finger across her cheek. “Deals with the devil are easier the second time around. Granted that the Powers might not appreciate being called a devil, but the facts remain the same.”
“Facts,” Illyria sneered as the heat spread from her midsection to encompass her body. “Betrayal is always a fact. I should never have believed your human lies of love and friendship.”
(Not a lie, no, Fred crooned sweetly.)
She could feel it now. The tearing and ripping sensation that pulled her from the shell and sent her hurtling back towards prison. Towards oblivion in the Deeper Well, and the fever dreams of a captured God-King. Visions of betrayals and plots, the sound of a cracking neck and the laughter of a pretty pet all wrapped up in the puzzlement of human love.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2007-08-02 03:34 am (UTC)betrayed by ghosts who want very much to be alive and togehter,
I like it.
no subject
on 2007-08-03 01:15 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-02 07:35 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-03 01:16 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-02 04:02 pm (UTC)All those unearthly wraiths.
no subject
on 2007-08-03 01:19 am (UTC)I like to think that Fred, and the others were there in that alleyway, propping up their friends in that final (or maybe not so final) battle...
no subject
on 2007-08-04 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-02 11:00 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-03 01:19 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-04 12:16 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-04 03:45 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-08 12:22 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-09 12:02 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-14 11:49 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-08-14 12:31 pm (UTC)