poor old micheal finnegan: apple cider#17, pomelo#1
Pomelo 1: The best of prophets of the future is the past.
Apple Cider 17: We know every step of the way.
Rating: T, violence but nothing really bad.
Verse: Of Light and Darkness.
Toppings: Butterscotch.
Characters: Marik Brightheart, the Old Man.
Warnings: Death, violence.
Marik Brightheart, the Sword of Noon, King of the Northern Kingdoms, Speaker of Light, the Flame that Banished Dark, lay on the ground dying.
If this was his death, at least it was a good one. He had done what he had needed to.
Pain and darkness were closing in on him. His vision darkened, his fingers seizing at air as an automatic reflex.
"Marik."
The voice was aged, and he knew it. His master. He turned to him, blood running from his mouth.
"Master."
His vision went black briefly, but he fought it. He would be saved. He would be saved.
"Master. I know you-take me back. The healers can-"
"There is no need."
He stared.
"No."
The dragon's body cooled, and his blood pumped out onto the ground, scarlet beneath his armor.
"You will die a hero. And you have done your duty. There is no more."
His duty?
"No...you may still live." The old man frowned.
And-
"No-" he croaked, but the power was already flooding towards him, and then he stopped thinking.
The body of the land's king lay on the ground, weak, life gone completely.
The old man looked down at it.
Another death done for his master.
Had the man lived, he would have lived too long. The old man knew what happened to Pieces.
They were too important. He was the only one important enough to his master-and besides, one like him could not be thrown away.
He would have to clean the rest of the pieces from the game board until his master's next game.
The next would be in the castle. The queen was still waiting for her husband's return...