Please don't read this without listening to this song (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMQYNuu1oyQ) either before or after. Music is my main inspiration, and this song is where this scene originated from, particularly the last bit. Thank you.
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The night air was moist and crackling with lightning in preparation for the storm to come. Clouds had completely blocked out light from the stars and moon, creating a perfect black sky broken only by the occasionally lightning flash. Down below, the two clans of lycanthropes were already well into the thick of battle. The mountainside echoed with the pained screams and howls of the warring creatures and the gun reports of human-looking assassins who shot guns loaded with silver or gold missiles at members of their opposing clan. Flesh ripped as easily as paper and blood flowed, streaming onto the ground or becoming matted in fur.
Above all the chaos, standing on a cliff jutting from the side of the mountain, was a small figure watching the two clans he’d hoped to unite tear each other to pieces. He appeared to be in his late thirties. His hair was long and black and blew out behind him in the wind. His skin was unusually pale. A long black cloaked was wrapped tightly around his figure, flowing along his form like raven wings. He had an elfish face with high cheekbones and an almost feminine mouth. His eyes, the only obvious things that gave way to the fact that he wasn’t human, were emerald green and reflected all the remorse he felt to see this violence. The pupils were cat-like slits and the irises filled the whole eye.
He was Pharaoh of the werecats, but he felt like their executioner.
“Come to meet your end bravely, I see.”
A small, smirking Asian woman with wild yellow hair had appeared behind him. The werecat Pharaoh turned around to greet her with a sad smile. “Lemon Drop,” he acknowledged with a nod of his head. “Punctual as always.”
The woman’s smirk turned sour. She hated, absolutely hated that name and the solemn way the Pharaoh had of using it. He hardly ever acknowledged she had a name besides that. Even more unforgivable was when she discovered some of her advisors referred to her by the dreaded nickname behind her back, a nickname the Pharaoh had started! Although she knew it was somewhat fitting. After years of avoiding sunlight, her once-dark hair had turned the color of fresh lemons. Still, that was no excuse to be name calling an authority figure of his equality like nothing more than an ignorant human child. Well, as of tonight, all of that would be last year’s history. “This is an important night,” he said. “As you well know.”
“I do.”
“You’ve come a long way since you were first elected.”
“Don’t try to mellow me with flattery,” she snarled.
The Pharaoh raised his hands in mock fright and chuckled. “I would not dream of it, fair Lemon Drop!”
She lost it. She had waited too long for this to be delayed any longer by mockery, even though it was considered dishonorable by the very people she ruled over to begin an official fight without first taking the proper courtesies. She lunged at the Pharaoh, her body sprouting yellow fur and morphing into a wolf’s in the space of a second. The Pharaoh seemed to have expected this, for there was now a large, black-furred cat there to meet to meet her challenge.
Felix, crouched behind a rock high above them, felt overwhelming panic as he watched his lover disappear underneath the body of the werewolf pharaoh. All he could hear was the pounding of adrenaline in his ears. He ached to ignore his lover’s wishes and slaughter Lemon Drop, High Ruler of the werewolves. He was used to such killing and knew he could do it despite how vicious and deadly she had made herself out to be in the past. The Pharaoh, meanwhile, was a peaceful person by nature and loathed all forms of violence. Felix knew the Pharaoh would kill if it came down to his last life or Lemon Drop’s fifth one, but that didn’t account for the fact that it had been several lifetimes since he’d last fought a life-or-death battle.
The Pharaoh’s cries reached Felix’s ears, bringing tears to his eyes and hindering his ability to aim his sniper rifle correctly. As the tears began to drip down his face, he broke. Suddenly his body was absolutely convulsing with sobs. There was no way he could aim properly now. “Godammit,” he swore. “Godammit, godammit, godammit!” He’d been in far worse battles before, he and the Pharaoh both. He’d tortured victims for information and tolerated their screams without even shedding a tear. He was used to inducing fear in others, even relished it sometimes. His height, six foot three, the blood-red hair he’d kept through all his rebirths, and his mismatched green-and-gray eyes made that a simple task. But now, he’d completely broken down. What was wrong with him?
Of course, he knew the answer to that question. The Pharaoh was on his last life. If he died tonight, there could be no return. Felix couldn’t live if he lost him, he just couldn’t. He’d stay alive long enough to avenge his death, but after that he’d have to take his own life. A world without the Pharaoh simply wasn’t a world he could live in. He'd always been a ruthless beast by nature, even back in Medieval England when he was the human daughter of a rich lord. Even if his intentions had their roots in goodness, he'd seen and done things that would have driven most people mad a long time ago. The only thing that saved him from that fate -- or in some cases, brought him back from it -- was the Pharaoh's love. It was somewhat strange, really. He was everything Felix was not -- peaceful, unpredjudice, forgiving. Felix always wondered, as many others had, why he chose to be with something like him through so many lifetimes and almost exclusively. He'd asked the Pharaoh that question many times in the past, but he would never answer, just laugh it off or change the subject.
With a triumphant snarl, Lemon Drop finally pinned the Pharaoh down. He writhed and twisted, shrieking obscenities that came out as cat yowls. Then they were choked off, as Lemon Drop clamped her jaws around the Pharaoh’s neck.
The fight that decided the fate of both clans had lasted just thirty seconds. In just thirty seconds, the werecats had lost the greatest Pharaoh their clan had ever known. Lemon Drop’s body heaved, and the Pharaoh’s head was thrown over the cliff, his feline countenance frozen in a look of righteous defiance. Felix watched his lover’s head go over the cliff through tear-fogged eyes, and sanity as he knew it completely collapsed.
Lemon Drop raised her blood-drenched muzzle to the sky and let out a howl of victory powerful enough to be heard even over the fighting. It ceased almost immediately, and soon five, ten, thirty, and more werewolves had joined in the howl. It carried all through the mountainside, even to some human dwellings, whose inhabitants covered their heads with their pillows and wondered what it was. Every single werecat felt impending doom on the eve of that howl, for their Pharaoh had been beloved by almost everyone of the clan. He’d preached the word of goodness and peace not because it would make him popular, but because he truly believed in it. Yet he led them to battle when necessary, as on this night, and fought proudly along side his clan. Nor did he allow power to go to his head, for he socialized often, even gambled and drank in the bars along with everyone else. Indeed, no one would forget the night he’d had too much wine and sang karaoke to “Oops! I Did It Again”.
The moment swept them up as easily as dust in a hurricane, and the next someone looked, Lemon Drop was no longer perched on the cliff. Nor did she appear when an ear-splitting crack of thunder made the clouds give way and release their torrent of rain, or as the lycanthropes began to pick up their dead and head off. In fact, the werewolves were so caught up with celebrating that it was three nights later when Lemon Drop was declared missing, and by that time it was too late.
___
“You can’t do this to me!”
“What’s stopping me?”
“You know what will happen when they find my body?”
“I know very well.”
“And you don’t care?”
“Not anymore.”
“You don’t even care what your darling…ah, what was his name? Luxor would think?”
Slap. “How dare you mention him to me!”
“Oh, you should have heard his flesh tear when I – “
Snap. “SHUT UP!”
“Oooohhh…God that hurt…”
“Have you forgotten who I am? Do you know what you’re dealing with?”
Silence.
“See how long you stay that way. We’re not leaving each other for a long time. Any pain you’ve ever felt in the past will be nothing compared to what I do to you now…”
___
The room was small, somewhat cramped even. The concrete floor and walls had long smears of bloodstains splattered across them, the freshest ones gleaming in the light from the fluorescent light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Weapons ranging from swords and knives to powerful handguns, polished and shining, lay neatly arranged against one wall. Felix sat on the floor in front of a short stand of mahogany wood, writing a note on the last page of his current diary, a large burlap sack and single red rose beside him. Finishing the note, he closed the diary and laid it on the stand. Then he opened the sack and took out a large picture of the Pharaoh. The frame was made of pure silver so that no werewolf could lay hands on it. After balancing it on the stand so that it leaned against the wall, he opened the bag again and took out several colored candles. He set them up carefully around the picture and lit them all, filling the room with warmth and mixed herbal scents. Then he removed a handful of various precious jewels, just a fraction of the legacy he’d created during his lifetimes. He spread the jewels carefully around the table. Finally, he picked up the rose and placed it in front of the picture.
Felix stood up and pulled on the chain to turn off the light. The room was immediately filled with a flickering, orange glow from the candles. The light of the fire reflected beautifully off the jewels and the glass frame of the Pharaoh’s picture. Now, for the first time since his death, Felix felt his throat grow tight and tears spring to his eyes. He fell to his knees in front of the memorial, letting out a moan of anguish, and began to sob. He’d done terrible things to Lemon Drop, things he knew his lover never would have asked for, but he couldn’t have let her kill him without seeking the most horrible revenge possible. This was another reason why he couldn’t allow himself to live any longer. He’d shamed the Pharaoh in a way he couldn’t repent for because he’d had to do it. He’d done it out of love, but it didn’t matter. If he were still alive, the Pharaoh would hate him right now.
“I’m sorry,” Felix moaned through his tears. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”
After about fifteen more minutes of this, he dragged himself over to where his handguns lay, and selected the one that would kill him the quickest. Without any delay, he put it to his temple, and allowed his trembling finger to pull the trigger.
.
.