I can't feel my senses
I just feel the cold
All colors seem to fade away
I can't reach my soul
I would stop running, if i knew there was a chance
It tears me apart to sacrifice it all but I'm forced to let go
______________________________________________________________________________
Not yet…
Please not yet…
Mozenrath clutched right arm tightly, gritting his teeth as the pain washed over him. No one had ever seen the sorcerer like this before, and it was unlikely anyone ever would. His head was bent over his work bench, thick black locks trailing across his sweat soaked cheek. His gauntlet was no longer on his fist but lay across from him on the table, glowing malevolently. Skeletal joints crinkled as the sorcerer grunted out his agony.
It was getting worse.
Heat seared through his flesh and Mozenrath began to whimper. He lost hold of the table top and fell to the floor, tearing the shirt from his writhing body. The flesh from his arm was bubbling as it pulled away from the bone. It was like watching an orange peel itself. Blood poured out on the floor, staining the tiles and Mozenrath felt his stomach lurch. There was a smell. The smell of human fat burning away. It was only through strength of will that he did not vomit.
The coolness of the floor against his back was a small comfort as he waited out the process. It was not until the wax from the candle began to overflow that the agony subdued. Mozenrath lay panting on the ground for a moment, clutching himself tightly until the throbbing went down and he could think again.
He stood slowly, using the bench for support and was forced to stop when dizziness took over. He sank to his knees and gingerly felt up the bones of his arm.
It had started with just his hand. When he first let the soft leather of the gauntlet caress his skin it had taken it’s price. From finger tip to wrist his flesh had been torn off. He thought it was over then. But no, he had discovered that the pound of flesh was only the beginning.
Soon, it began to feed off of him.
He could feel the constant gnawing somewhere deep inside. Sometimes his chest would burn angrily and he would feel a hundred years older in an instant. But it was always incorporeal. He could feel his life force being suckled from his body like a hungry infant sucks of it’s mothers teat. The gauntlet was draining him.
It was worse when Aladdin would take the gauntlet from him. Acting as if in a panic, the blighted glove would drink from him almost instantly. The time when those abominable sprites had buried it in the desert had left a hard paid toll. Three weeks of digging, becoming constantly weaker and more haggard. But he had found his gauntlet. And the moment he slipped it back on, he could feel the leather hum with satisfaction.
And now…
Mozenrath felt past his elbow and up to his shoulder. All bone, still tinted red from the blood that had been spilt. He gagged and did not dare to look in the mirror, afraid of his reflection right now. This was happening too fast. He could feel the hunger of the gauntlet, still wanting to feed off him. Why now? Why so ravenous?
He crawled his way to a chair and forced himself o pull up, sitting against the soft cushioning of the seat. A lean, scaly body wrapped tenderly around his still whole arm and made an odd purring noise. “Master…is alright?”
Mozenrath did not even have the energy to scowl. “What do you think?” he raised his hand and Xerxes hissed at the newly revealed bone. “I know it’s disgusting without your help Xerxes.” He growled and the eel back away, fearing a smack. The sorcerer debated calling him back for a moment, but let it pass. There would be little comfort in petting the long creature.
And there, with the dark, lonely walls of the Citadel closing in on him, Mozenrath let himself slip into darkness.
***
The small child looked up at the forbidding doors, clutching with fright at his mother’s skirts. She made a noise behind her teeth and shooed him off with a flick of her claws, tapping a foot impatiently. Mirage was not one who wished to be kept waiting.
The doors opened and a figure stepped through. Tall, with skin the color of ash, he salaamed deeply to the feline woman and said the usual formal greetings. They talked for a moment, entirely ignoring the young man’s presence. Finally the child peeked up, trying to sneak a look at the tall man.
“Ah. So this is your son.” He said and extended a hand of greeting with a shallow grin. “Salaam little one. Do you know who I am?”
The child shook his head, his black curls tussled by the desert wind.
“I am Destaine, ruler of the land of the black sands.” He said smoothly, his long flowing robes billowing out. “Your mother says I am to mentor you on the black arts.”
“Don’t need it.” He answered in a small but sharp voice. His reward for this was a backhand from his mother’s claws.
“Foolish whelp.” Mirage said dismissively. “Should you feel the need to beat him I would not blame you.”
“Ah but it is the nature of children to question everything.” Destaine said in placating tones. “Such a curious mind could serve him well as a sorcerer.”
Mirage gave a thin smile. “It had better. I did not endure the tribulations of motherhood just to discover that he is of no use to me.” She scowled down at the child, picking himself up from the sands. “Get over here.” She ordered. “Let him have a look at you.”
The boy scowled just as darkly but stood. It was no use resisting at this point. He walked over, holding his head up proudly as the sorcerer Destaine looked him over.
“He is a healthy boy. A bit thin though. Does he not eat much?”
“He gets that from his father’s side of the family.” She said dismissively.
“Ah. And his father would be…”
Mirage gave a warning hiss and Destaine again bowed respectfully. “A powerful sorcerer.” She said when he had made up for his transgression. “I would be sorely disappointed if he did not share such potential.”
“If he has a scrap of magical ability in him I shall bring it fruition.” The sorcerer promised.
“See that you do. I shall be checking up on things from time to time. To see how his progress is coming along.” Mirage glided across the sands, her green power surrounding her frame. “See that neither of you disappoint me.” She vanished into the air with an exclamation of power.
The moment her presence was gone Destaine rolled his eyes. Entirely ignoring the boy he headed back to his stronghold. The child, now confused as to what he should do, turned to look at the space where his mother had been. Left with little alternative, he followed this new man into the blackness between the doors.
***
The next day, he was hold up in the library again.
Xerxes flipped around for a few moments. He sniffed the books patiently as his master tossed one to the side and absently selected another from the pile. Xerxes peeked over his shoulder, trying to discern what his master was looking for this time. The little eel, although intelligent for his species, was not good at drawing conclusions. He knew something was causing his master to feel pain. He knew there was a sense of desperation in the air. He did not understand what it meant. He just knew to be loyal to whatever his master wanted.
“Xerxes.”
The little eel screeched, surprised by the sudden noise in the deathly still library. He came closer to his masters reach. “Yes master?” He said, eager to be useful.
“Be productive and have the mamlucks fetch me something to eat.” He said absently, mind engrossed in the book in front of him. The little eel flipped and nodded, heading out the door. “Oh and Xerxes…”
The gray creature turned.
“If your going to continue annoying me with your presence, don’t both accompanying one back.” The voice was sharp as a razor. Xerxes muffled a screech and hurried out the door, eager to be out of blast zone. Mozenrath adjusted his position on the plush chair, managing to brood and look interested at the same time. His eyes scanned the pages again, looking for something only he could discern.
The hand of Ahiraman. Made as a counter to the hand of Ahura Mazda. Fueled by the power of the Shadow himself, it is able to imbue it’s wearer with command over the manifestations of death.
He had read over this passage multiple times and it gave him nothing new. He tossed the book aside and passed on to the next one. Again, nothing. It took several before he scanned through something he had not seen before. He had read the book before in its entirety, but had somehow managed to overlook this particular passage.
The gauntlet of Ahiraman is a source of incredible power. However, it comes at the highest of costs. Over time it will demand more and more from its wearer. If worn by a human of unremarkable magical ability, it will drain life force, rapidly increasing their physical age by 1/3rd. If worn by a sorcerer or other practitioner of the arcane, it will drain the life force by 1/6th before it begins to feed off the flesh itself. This will of course drastically shorten the natural life cycle of it’s barer…
Mozenrath subconsciously clenched his fist.
Towards the end of the life, the gauntlet will begin to strip it’s wearer of his physical flesh and sinew. It’s bearer will be transformed then into a true servant of death itself. Something caught forever between the Veil and Void.
Mozenrath felt a sort of grim humor as one of the mamlucks entered the room.
Click…scrrrrrrrrap. Click…scrrrrrrrrrrrap.
“Just put it on the table.” Mozenrath said absently, burying his face in another book. There was a moments pause as his eyes skimmed over the pages when the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle. He looked over the edge of the book.
“Oh. It’s you.”
The mamluck that had once been Destane stood in front of him. His yellowed eyes decayed in their sockets were looking at the young necromancer with the glow of the dead. His skull was tilted on the spine, giving him a look of uncharacteristic contemplation.
“Put the food over…there.” Mozenrath raised an eyebrow as he looked at the weathered hands. There was no tray or plate. Or any sign that the mamlucks had come to bring him food. He stood up. “Has whatever left of your brain rotted away entirely?” Mozenrath sneered. “Go bring me food!”
The mamlucks head tilted further. The stitches on his mouth pulled and strained. A sick upward turn of his mouth created a leftover smile on his green face.
Mozenrath felt something in his body run cold. A spurt of fear shot through his as he lifted his gauntlet and surrounded the mamlucks in a blaze of blue fire. “Obey me you fetid corpse!” he snarled.
The mamluck of Destane whimpered and shivered. It bowed it’s head an shuffled off towards to the door.
Mozenrath pulled back to recover his aplomb. Something inside him shook for a brief moment, but he stored it away in the same place he had left memories from nearly a decade ago.
Destane is a mamluck.
He obeys you.
He can’t do…anything…anymore.
Calm.
He took a deep steadying breath and made a mental note to have Destane stationed at the far end of the Citadel for a while. He looked back down at the book and the rough illustrations. The creature on the pages were gruesome, disturbing even for his mentality.
Mozenrath stared at the gauntlet. He had not put it back on since his arm had burned up to the shoulder. He could feel the will of it tugging on him, angry at being ignored. With a sneer he pulled the leather back over his hand and felt a burning sensation lash at him. Just as suddenly it dissipated.
Mozenrath clenched his jaw and bore the sensation. There has to be a way. He demanded of himself. He had been though far tougher problems than this. He had found a way to release himself when that damned princess imprisoned him at Dagger Rock. He’d regained his magic after Khartoum has destroyed his power. He had even found his way through the endless slime and grit at the center of the black sands.
No matter the challenge I’ve always risen to it. No matter how dark it’s become I’ve thrived! He told himself forcefully. Every spell, every curse had a counter curse. Each spell has a reversal. It was just a matter of finding it in time.
All Good Things by theredlass
Author's Notes:
NOTE: Head cannons firing. Rated M for heavy implications. R/R