The Inspiration Of Clow Reed.
Challenge: 52 Card Pick-up
Card: Power
Canon: Probably not.
Rating: PG
Genre: Um... creepy?
Words: Short
Notes: I came up with this after listening to a certain Guns 'n Roses song.
She had told him that it was a bad idea.
He knew it was a bad idea, himself. But he never really, truly applied himself, unless it was under intense pressure.
Like this.
He had spent his life until now in the shadow of his parents. One of the greatest magicians in England, and one of the greatest sorceresses in China, and anything that he did paled in comparison. People stood in awe of power, and he wanted power. He wanted to be recognized as a magician in his own right, wielding the elemental powers of the universe, be the most powerful in the world.
The offer had been impressive. Immortality. Destiny. Foresight. Skill. The potential for riches beyond imagining.
And above all else...
But he had to remember whom he was dealing with. There had been countless stories, all of them ending in disaster and damnation. Oh yes, occasionally there might be a time when the wily mortal uses cunning and luck to outwit his foe, but these stories tended to have a final, chilling moral twist:
The devil always received his due.
And here he was, seated before him, more beautiful than all. Hair of pure silver, raiments of white, and eyes colder than bitter winter. Did he have that expression on his face, that secretive, knowing smile, the day he made his bargains with Theophilus and Faust?
Did he have those magnificent wings, fairer than any angel?
Between them, a pack of cards. They would take turns, and the one who receives the card of the devil would lose.
If he won, immense power would be his.
If he lost, his soul.
Draw.
Card: Power
Canon: Probably not.
Rating: PG
Genre: Um... creepy?
Words: Short
Notes: I came up with this after listening to a certain Guns 'n Roses song.
She had told him that it was a bad idea.
He knew it was a bad idea, himself. But he never really, truly applied himself, unless it was under intense pressure.
Like this.
He had spent his life until now in the shadow of his parents. One of the greatest magicians in England, and one of the greatest sorceresses in China, and anything that he did paled in comparison. People stood in awe of power, and he wanted power. He wanted to be recognized as a magician in his own right, wielding the elemental powers of the universe, be the most powerful in the world.
The offer had been impressive. Immortality. Destiny. Foresight. Skill. The potential for riches beyond imagining.
And above all else...
But he had to remember whom he was dealing with. There had been countless stories, all of them ending in disaster and damnation. Oh yes, occasionally there might be a time when the wily mortal uses cunning and luck to outwit his foe, but these stories tended to have a final, chilling moral twist:
The devil always received his due.
And here he was, seated before him, more beautiful than all. Hair of pure silver, raiments of white, and eyes colder than bitter winter. Did he have that expression on his face, that secretive, knowing smile, the day he made his bargains with Theophilus and Faust?
Did he have those magnificent wings, fairer than any angel?
Between them, a pack of cards. They would take turns, and the one who receives the card of the devil would lose.
If he won, immense power would be his.
If he lost, his soul.
Draw.