Title: Roommate Exchange
Fandom: Harry Potter, Pitch Black/Riddick
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling. Pitch Black/Riddick is produced by Universal Studios.
A/N: Yet another crossover nips my heels. *sigh*
The sound of the body slamming solidly with the throne room floor seemed to echo about, reverberating in the ears of all present. Heart thumping dully in the aftermath of a bruising battle, Riddick backed away from the chilling form and slumped into the empty throne. Kyra. A tear of pain blossomed, but did not fall, as he closed his eyes. A noble death. The sound of rustling drove his eyes open in anticipation.
The sudden supplication of that crowd of at least a hundred Necromongers, all regrettably able to take him down in his grieving moment and yet not taking the opportunity, floored him completely. He had little time to think on things except one, the catch phrase that had amused him when the Lord Marshal presented him with a bloody dagger that he had plunged into the colder than average body of that hulking soldier. That same dagger that now lay broken off at the hilt, buried deep within the Lord Marshal's skull. He had not thought much of the phrase before, thinking it was a recruitment offer and not a sacred pledge of their medieval society. Riddick snorted as he gazed upon the silent masses, presenting arms and bared necks. Whispering out, he snorted, "You keep what you kill."
The tumult of emotions roiling about inside of him ravaged against his need to look as nonplussed as possible before this zealot race of warriors. It would not do to invite another spat of warring this soon after a rumble as massive as a change of command. The quirk of being able to take command through a single person coup sung with the inner-Furyan sense of bloodlust.
Riddick straightened in his seat, unaware of what he should do. This façade of obedience, and façade it must be, shook the foundation of his entire existence. He wasn't an Alpha wolf with a pack. He was the disenfranchised leavings of a pack too afraid of what they had created so left him to struggle through every trial that crossed his path alone. Perhaps he could jump ship in the dead of night, escape the trappings of his earned position. Somehow, he didn't believe that would work.
The sound of practiced strides ricocheted from a connecting hall, drawing Riddick to observe. Dame Vaako, the woman he was certain would gladly rend his head from his shoulders, headed a troupe of females laden with trays and baskets. The soldiers slowly ascended from their supplicant stances and began to depart, only the most adorned remaining. The Dame bowed low, not curtseying, at Riddick's feet. "A feast to recover your strength from your protracted battle, Lord Marshal." All the accompanying ladies presented fruits and cheese, the most fragrant cuts of meat, and the richest wines Riddick had ever encountered.
Riddick snorted. "And how would you have me killed, Dame Vaako? You were practically panting at the idea of your beloved chopping off the head of my predecessor." She rose swiftly, stepping back to her husband's heel.
"It would be of no honor for her to poison you, Lord Marshal," the commander that had been sent to retrieve Riddick, Lord Vaako, spoke. "An assassination would grant no one your position. And would not be fruitful for the journey to the threshold."
Riddick wasn't sure of what to make of this man. He had returned to the previous Lord Marshal with news of his own death but even when he could have taken charge of this entire society, be the top banana, he had slipped down on bended knee. Riddick rather thought this man could be of use to him. "I'll take your word for it." A dagger was still going to be situated underneath his pillow, that was certain.
Thankfully none of the generals or other political sorts seemed exactly eager to begin torturing Riddick with daily affairs. Yet. A brief feasting, in which Riddick carefully tasted the offerings for any hint of drugs-whether lethal or otherwise, eventually led to a quiet request for one of the lingering courtesans, likely unattached, to assist him in finding his chambers. The slightly giggly girl was only too happy to oblige.
Worn out from the day's fighting, not to mention the thought of having to herd the bat shit Necros, Riddick wearily opened and closed the doors to the Lord Marshal's quarters. He grinned wryly at the many varied locks the door had been fitted with. Anyone trying to force it would have a better chance with the surrounding walls. Sliding, twisting, and pushing, he activated a random half of the assortment before surveying the rooms that, for the time being, he would call home.
Dark, cluttered, dreary, and drab. It looked as if the rooms had lacked real cleaning and up-keep for years. Riddick shook his head. Later. Sleep beckoned him and he had no desire to disappoint.
A rustling sound came from deeper into the rooms. Riddick frowned as he prowled further inside. A gothic looking bedroom set with a pristinely made bed laid hidden behind one of the walls. A corner held an empty manikin, obviously meant to carry the Lord Marshal's armor when it wasn't worn.
The rustle started again, this time from behind. The ill-kept living area he had just passed through stood clear of clutter, weapons now neatly displayed across the previously barren walls. "Who's there?" Riddick called, unnerved at the change. Where are you hiding, little mouse? Sniffing the air held no clues.
The slightest masculine giggle sounded right behind him. Riddick twisted, the dagger he had claimed from the throne room for his protection swiping out into the empty air. The en suite bathroom Riddick had barely noticed in the bedroom now looked cleaner than it had.
"Who are you?" Riddick asked the shadow he could not quite locate. A whisper of cloth forced him to turn. Another whisper in a different corner made him frown.
A slightly dark chuckle that seems to come from every corner of the room issued in reply. "I am the Master of Death. I am not dead, I am not converted. I cannot die. But I can walk in this world and that of the UnderVerse with no harm to mine. And you must be the new Lord Marshal. Congratulations, I think, may be wrong in your circumstance." Another reverberating chuckle rang out, this time more pained, weary.
Riddick growled, angry, "You'd be right about that! But I don't talk to ghosts, so show yourself. Or are you afraid of the big, bad breeder?"
Another chuckle rang in the corners of the room, this one light and humorous. "I like you, Riddick!" The second syllable caught as it was released, popping out like a hiccup. That honeyed voice continued on, "No, I'm not afraid of the big, bad breeder. I prefer them that way. They tend to make the cuddliest of teddy bears."
Riddick laughed, halfway between manic killer and hysterically insane. "What makes you think I go soft?" he asked. "I pleasure myself in bringing others death. I shed no tears for the departed."
"And yet you still mourn loss," that voice replied. "You can shield yourself in bravado but I know you are just, of a sort. You kill those well on the path to being as bad, or worse, than yourself. You thrill in the chase as much as the kill, perhaps even more so. But you are not without values. Saving children is a noble penance." Silence blanketed the room momentarily before the disembodied being sighed. "Aereon inferred that you are a lonely being, last of your kind. Perhaps I could aid you in abating your misery?"
Suddenly, the shadows dissipated from a corner that, now Riddick thought about it, had not a single shadow to its name. Before him stood an enigma of a man. An uncannily sharp mind in a young body. The boots this ethereal specter wore drew to mid-calf, tied at the top and made of a leather not of any beast Riddick had ever met. The trousers were similarly odd. They shimmered in his ultraviolet vision in a scaled pattern dissimilar to a snake, but reptilian for certain. His top looked to be somewhere between a tunic and a waistcoat, crafted of a suppler leather than that of the boots. The bare patches of chest and arms held a hint of darkened skin, a peachy-gold tan that the palest of skin gets.
The chin was chiseled and bare, cheekbones moderately high. Dark hair cut short in a close crop. But the eyes stood out the most on this mysterious figure. Ancient, far older than he appeared, almond-shaped pools of emerald fire radiated from the orbits, urging Riddick to fall deep into their depths.
He shuddered at the absolute power and energy that encompassed the room from this magnificent creature. It had been so long since he last experienced something so exquisitely breathtaking. "Damn," he whispered.