Watch The Blood Fly
1/1
The cold body fell to the floor, blood soaking through the back of his pure white coat. His killer, a tall, spiky-blond haired male with unemotionless lavender eyes stepped casually into the dim, unlit room. His deep violet cloak protruded slightly behind him, flaring out at the ends. His black top and beige, creamy colored pants made him stand out in the darkness as he slowly continued making his way into the room.
"One by one... I'll eliminate them all, send them to the darkness..." his dark, somewhat warped voice whispered the words that flew gently from his mouth as he produced a hauntingly beautiful artifact from behind him. Its golden surface gleamed lightly, despite the lack of illumination, and it was in the shape of a rod. Grasping the rod tightly with both hands, he pulled out what seemed like a spear-like weapon from within the rod. He then stopped at the bed inside the room, staring down at a dark-skinned man with a strange tattoo design showing on the left side of his face. The blonde scowled at the sight, although it quickly turned into a psychotic, toothy smirk as he lowered the spear to the other man's forehead.
"Rishid..." his eyes gleamed with the sight of madness. "The seal you carved in your face kept my hatred in check... my loathing held deep inside of me..." he inhaled sharply, biting his lip. He could feel the small trickle of blood decend from his lower jaw. "As long as you're alive, there's always a chance that you'll eventually awake... and return me to the darkness." He hissed, gritting his teeth as he continued, "And send me back to the place that traps me from reality..."
The pupils in his eyes seemed to shrink as he lowered the rod again, so the tip just grazed Rishid's forehead, but not enough to draw blood just yet. He smirked again, letting his free hand ball into a fist, his tanned knuckles turning white.
"Now it's your turn to be in the dark... forever..."
The smirk on his face grew and a evil chuckle escaped his lips as he proceded to life the rod high, and end the charade, but was halted by the sound of his name being called over an announcement for another duel; he was the next participant. He scowled again, but shook it off as he laughed darkly to himself again, turning his back to Rishid as his cloak flapped softly and followed him out the door.
"I guess I'll keep you alive for a while longer..."
---
That particular moment in the past ran through the mind of Malik Ishtar as he stared blindly into the dark sky, the dark violet and black shades mixing together and seemed to form a shadowy image that clouded the light, blocking everything that seemed to give the world a slight tinge of hope.
Malik sighed, his spiky blond hair flowing in the heavy breeze as his eyes cast downward at the now abandoned city below from atop an intact building. The streets were littered with bodies and some torn limbs, and deep red puddles were splattered all over the cracked, dirt-lidden roads. Several buildings had been broken apart, if not completely demolished.
He licked his thin, somewhat contorted lips, which allowed some of the blood around his face to be cleaned away. The rest of his body was covered in the red substance, covering him from head to toe. His hair, his clothes, even his Millennium Rod were stained with it, but Malik didn't seem to mind. His goal had been achieved...
...slightly.
He made it a vow to wipe out the remainder of the population that dared to question his motives of becoming a pharaoh. Which just so happened to be almost everyone. And that led to what was pictured right now.
His past was dark, yet brief. He was born out of anger, rage, sorrow, revenge, pain, every emotion that would cause someone inner and outer grief. It just so happened to be a boy by the name of Marik Ishtar, who shared his appearance if it wasn't for the fact that his hair was tamed, falling down on his shoulders, and his eyes, though the same shade of light purple, were softer, kinder, more inviting it seemed. Malik's eyes drove fear into people's hearts, they were bloodshot most of the time, filled with a sense of something evil. That was probably the reason why he felt so... alone.
He was born out of hatred, and he felt hated. He had been brought to life by anger, and he felt the same towards many. Revenge fueled him, sorrow amused him, pain excited him... but what else was there to feel? Remorse? Contentment? He didn't know.
He did know that wrath was something he specialized in. It was just something he was born exeptional at doing. He also knew that, truthfully, he didn't exist. He had been vanquished from Marik's soul around ten years ago. He had felt anger beyond belief, yet he refused to do away with him. If Marik died, he died along with him. The only reason Malik kept his lighter self alive was because it meant his life was on the line, too.
A low growl made its way from his mouth as he unleashed a string of curses to no one in particular, only to wince shortly after. He reached a hand behind him to touch his back. When Marik was ten, he had a carving cut onto his back because of the destiny of his bloodline. In turn, when Malik was born shortly after, he had also inherited the scar.
He cursed to himself again, pacing down the winding stairs as he narrowed his eyes.
"I'll prove myself and my goals to them all, especially him... those foolish beings have seen nothing yet."
He kicked down the door and began walking to his next destination, where he knew a certain identical person would be.
---
Malik breathed heavily, staggering down one of the streets of his current location. He stopped at a cracked, destroyed building, his hand grazing the surface of the crumbling brick wall. More blood had settled on his hands, dripping of his fingertips. A bloody hand was placed on his chest, as it heaved in and out in an uneven pattern. His black top was now ripped in many places, revealing his tanned, toned chest, although it was bruised and slightly cut up. A quiet, yet evil laugh managed to sound through the air as it came from his lips. He ran his other hand along the side of the building's wall, five small lines of blood faintly appearing as he traced along the surface. Malik's hair was dishevled, falling in messy portions on his shoulders. His eyes were unemotionless as always, but darker than usual... lifeless.
The Millennium Rod clattered on the floor as it fell out of his grasp, falling down to one knee as he whispered.
"...he's dead..."
Malik smirked lightly one last time before exhaling a shaky breath as his body fell to the ground, a small pool of blood flowing from his motionless postition. His eyes were closed, his skin was pale, and his body was still covered in blood. His faithful weapon rolled away some inches before stopping right next to the identically cold form of Marik Ishtar.
Power had gotten the better of one of them...
...but wrath had done the rest.
"One by one... I'll eliminate them all, send them to the darkness..." his dark, somewhat warped voice whispered the words that flew gently from his mouth as he produced a hauntingly beautiful artifact from behind him. Its golden surface gleamed lightly, despite the lack of illumination, and it was in the shape of a rod. Grasping the rod tightly with both hands, he pulled out what seemed like a spear-like weapon from within the rod. He then stopped at the bed inside the room, staring down at a dark-skinned man with a strange tattoo design showing on the left side of his face. The blonde scowled at the sight, although it quickly turned into a psychotic, toothy smirk as he lowered the spear to the other man's forehead.
"Rishid..." his eyes gleamed with the sight of madness. "The seal you carved in your face kept my hatred in check... my loathing held deep inside of me..." he inhaled sharply, biting his lip. He could feel the small trickle of blood decend from his lower jaw. "As long as you're alive, there's always a chance that you'll eventually awake... and return me to the darkness." He hissed, gritting his teeth as he continued, "And send me back to the place that traps me from reality..."
The pupils in his eyes seemed to shrink as he lowered the rod again, so the tip just grazed Rishid's forehead, but not enough to draw blood just yet. He smirked again, letting his free hand ball into a fist, his tanned knuckles turning white.
"Now it's your turn to be in the dark... forever..."
The smirk on his face grew and a evil chuckle escaped his lips as he proceded to life the rod high, and end the charade, but was halted by the sound of his name being called over an announcement for another duel; he was the next participant. He scowled again, but shook it off as he laughed darkly to himself again, turning his back to Rishid as his cloak flapped softly and followed him out the door.
"I guess I'll keep you alive for a while longer..."
---
That particular moment in the past ran through the mind of Malik Ishtar as he stared blindly into the dark sky, the dark violet and black shades mixing together and seemed to form a shadowy image that clouded the light, blocking everything that seemed to give the world a slight tinge of hope.
Malik sighed, his spiky blond hair flowing in the heavy breeze as his eyes cast downward at the now abandoned city below from atop an intact building. The streets were littered with bodies and some torn limbs, and deep red puddles were splattered all over the cracked, dirt-lidden roads. Several buildings had been broken apart, if not completely demolished.
He licked his thin, somewhat contorted lips, which allowed some of the blood around his face to be cleaned away. The rest of his body was covered in the red substance, covering him from head to toe. His hair, his clothes, even his Millennium Rod were stained with it, but Malik didn't seem to mind. His goal had been achieved...
...slightly.
He made it a vow to wipe out the remainder of the population that dared to question his motives of becoming a pharaoh. Which just so happened to be almost everyone. And that led to what was pictured right now.
His past was dark, yet brief. He was born out of anger, rage, sorrow, revenge, pain, every emotion that would cause someone inner and outer grief. It just so happened to be a boy by the name of Marik Ishtar, who shared his appearance if it wasn't for the fact that his hair was tamed, falling down on his shoulders, and his eyes, though the same shade of light purple, were softer, kinder, more inviting it seemed. Malik's eyes drove fear into people's hearts, they were bloodshot most of the time, filled with a sense of something evil. That was probably the reason why he felt so... alone.
He was born out of hatred, and he felt hated. He had been brought to life by anger, and he felt the same towards many. Revenge fueled him, sorrow amused him, pain excited him... but what else was there to feel? Remorse? Contentment? He didn't know.
He did know that wrath was something he specialized in. It was just something he was born exeptional at doing. He also knew that, truthfully, he didn't exist. He had been vanquished from Marik's soul around ten years ago. He had felt anger beyond belief, yet he refused to do away with him. If Marik died, he died along with him. The only reason Malik kept his lighter self alive was because it meant his life was on the line, too.
A low growl made its way from his mouth as he unleashed a string of curses to no one in particular, only to wince shortly after. He reached a hand behind him to touch his back. When Marik was ten, he had a carving cut onto his back because of the destiny of his bloodline. In turn, when Malik was born shortly after, he had also inherited the scar.
He cursed to himself again, pacing down the winding stairs as he narrowed his eyes.
"I'll prove myself and my goals to them all, especially him... those foolish beings have seen nothing yet."
He kicked down the door and began walking to his next destination, where he knew a certain identical person would be.
---
Malik breathed heavily, staggering down one of the streets of his current location. He stopped at a cracked, destroyed building, his hand grazing the surface of the crumbling brick wall. More blood had settled on his hands, dripping of his fingertips. A bloody hand was placed on his chest, as it heaved in and out in an uneven pattern. His black top was now ripped in many places, revealing his tanned, toned chest, although it was bruised and slightly cut up. A quiet, yet evil laugh managed to sound through the air as it came from his lips. He ran his other hand along the side of the building's wall, five small lines of blood faintly appearing as he traced along the surface. Malik's hair was dishevled, falling in messy portions on his shoulders. His eyes were unemotionless as always, but darker than usual... lifeless.
The Millennium Rod clattered on the floor as it fell out of his grasp, falling down to one knee as he whispered.
"...he's dead..."
Malik smirked lightly one last time before exhaling a shaky breath as his body fell to the ground, a small pool of blood flowing from his motionless postition. His eyes were closed, his skin was pale, and his body was still covered in blood. His faithful weapon rolled away some inches before stopping right next to the identically cold form of Marik Ishtar.
Power had gotten the better of one of them...
...but wrath had done the rest.
♠ ♠ ♠
Yep, my second one-shot. Yeah, I know it's a little intense to me because I've never written something like this. But oh well, I like it. Yami Marik rocks. I hope you liked it, too!