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In the eyes of the blind
--there is no fury
Chapter 1 : L'apathie sans l'haine
(Apathy without hatred)
Malachai no longer tugged and worried at the silky white cloth covering his useless eyes. After so many years, it had become as much a part of him as anything else. At the same time as being an extension of his body, it was something wholly apart from it, something not quite of this world. Even as methodical hands washed and changed this cloth, he felt no different. The fabric was still present on the skin of his cheekbones, the soft smoothness would still make itself known on his eyelids. Some time ago, he would have resisted it, but no more.
The tall, lanky frame of his body lay curled up on the big four-poster canopy bed, sun-bleached locks falling over the bare shoulders and the scarred back; scars from long past, avenged and repaid in full. The only sound was the shallowness of his breathing, flat and quiet, as the breathing of one very close to death. The windows were shut tight, heavy drapes drawn to prevent sunlight from entering. After spending almost his entire thirty seven years under the harsh sun of the Kokoma Desert, he found himself longing for a cool, shady repose.
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This shady repose was found in the estate and custody of one Langris Kass, the silent overseer of the duchy of crime passed down to him from his grandfather, Jericho Kass. Cold and calculating, he was not a soldier of the streets but a master tactician. While many of his grandfather's subordinates objected to the reins of power being handed to one so young (Langris was 23 when he was crowned), he quickly made sure that nobody doubted his orders. Of course, news like this spread quickly, and Malachai soon learned of his man... boy, really -- who was taking over the sectors one by one. By then, he was no longer a legend in his own right, shut up inside a small apartment provided to him by the hunters guild and slowly waiting for his final days to come. Once one of Tanrel's best whores, once the man who shed light on the existence of Lhyra, once a bounty hunter with more 200 heads to his name... But one fight in the dark, one slash of a knuckle claw, one hit he shouldn't have missed, and all that was over.
Footsteps on creaky floorboards. How did they get in? A glass bottle rolling into a corner, as if in fear of the approaching figure. A small wave of dizziness as he struggles to pull himself up. A hand trying to brush hair away from closed eyes. A voice, calling out his name. Sharp, distant, but very much here. A voice of authority. "Malachai Le Rouge?" The voice asks. A moment later, he identifies it as male. Probably well-bred. Probably rich. Memories float up.
"I don't have anything for you." Footsteps again. Coming closer, the very slight shuffling sound of fabric rubbing against itself. The figure courches down, as if speaking to a child. However, everything is silent. Eyes regard him for a few moments. They scan over his disheveled hair, his worn-out clothes, his dirty skin. He can feel their cold, piercing gaze. He draws a ragged breath.
"I want to take you home, Malachai." The voice says, right into his ear, accompanied by the feeling of a body occupying the same space as his own. His mind comes up with all sorts of answers to this proposal.
He doesn't have the strength to protest.
Something in him can almost see the man smile... almost.
Carefully, as if he was the king of kings, he is led outside, into the bright sunlight, and into a car. Something is touching his hand. A gloved hand, smaller than his own, but rigid and powerful. Slumped in his seat, he drowns out the voice of his conscience.
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The darkened room is still. Almost nothing moves. Langris opens the door quietly, closing it behind him with a twist of his wrist. His eyes, slightly elongated and accentuated further by slim, frameless glasses, spy his beloved pet resting on the bed. Quiet, thoughtful steps take him to the figure. Taking off the white velvet gloves, he lays them on the table, as well as his glasses. Reaching out a hand, he touches the muscular shoulder carefully. The man stirs, letting out a very quiet groan before turning, rolling over partially onto his back. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but Langris lays a finger to his mouth, silencing him. He sees the man's throat move as he swallows. Running his finger gently over slightly elongated lips, he slides a hand up into the shaggy mass of sun-bleached locks. Even now, they seem to bear the heat of this man's lifetime, the scent of desert sands.
Malachai can feel the hand on his face. Inching it's way through his hair, it slides down his back, tracing over scars and subtle reminders of old days. He lets out a small moan, hardly anything to be heard other than by those who are meant to hear it.. The hand wanders over his shoulders, his spine, carefully turning him over onto his stomach. He lowers his head slightly, taking a breath. Hair falling over his blindfold, he bites down on his lip as the hand is joined by another, now sliding off his jeans. He'd done this somewhere before... he'd been just like this, sometime long ago... He feels a weight around his hips, and hands grasping his stomach. Lips somewhere on the back of his neck, the feeling of skin against skin, the churning in the pits of his body wetness and heat and promise. Things start to get faster. Hotter. Harder. He feels dizzy for a moment, panting, body rocked by Langris' strong, clean motions. Shadows move in his mind's eye, no longer trusting his ocular sences. Soft breaths, quiet moans, his body rubs ever so slightly against the cool, clean sheets. He tries to do what he did before, separating body and mind, but that's no longer possible. In his darkness, touch and sounds and smells take on a wholly new presence. He churns, moaning in spite of himself.
