Disclaimer: I don't own them, they own them. I'll rent them if they are willing though.

A/N: Holy Moly it can't be me!

LOL yeah, it's me. No, I have not given up on WoD or any of the other stories I am working on. I just had this thing pop in my head and it's been a year since I had this kind of inspiration, I just had to get it out there while it was fresh in my head. I hope you all like.

now back to what I'm supposed to be working on. LMAO

Enjoy!


The match was over. He had won. The taste of blood, his blood, was fresh on his palete, yet his relished it, for it was the taste of victory, a taste he would enjoy again in a weeks time, when he would, once more, reign as Champion.

He truly had no need of such accolades. No shinny golden belt was needed for those around him to know he was the top dog in and out of the yard.

No.

What the title meant, to him, was bait. Bait to the salivating throng of men around him, patting him on the back and wishing him luck. He could smell their need. Their need to gain what he would soon hold. And it was that need that would drive them to him, once he, once more, was the owner of that which they desired. And then he would get what he desired. Combat and souls.

True he could have both, anytime he chose, but often then not, it was the scarps of this mewling throng, the bottom feeders and clawing wannabes. Those, not yet able to make the mark and stand tall above the others. No. Those foes, were nothing, mere sips for his ever present thirst to crush those around him.

Ah, but to hold the belt, to be the Champion, that drew the true cream of the crop. The ones with strong souls, seas to quench his thirst.

He passes on, ignoring their jealous glances and false benedictions. In a few days the looks will be stronger and the benedictions even more false. He comes to his sanctuary. Ignoring the wishes of the men of medicine to see to the still flowing crimson river. He'll relish it a bit more, before seeing to it himself. For now, he wishes to be away from all. He stops for a second before entering. Something has caught his eye in the shadow, he smirks, what a foolish place to hide from the Lord of Darkness. Still, he is tired and truly could careless if some fool wished to observe him; if they persisted he would deal with them later.

A day has passed and he has returned to his private refuge to ready himself for the coming week and the prize that awaits him. A knock at the door, brings a smirk as he rises. His sibling was due over, yes, but he rarely knocked, treating his abode as if it was his own at times. The only time he showed the courtesy of knocking was when he wanted something. He guessed it would be a request that he step down and allow the younger man a shot at the title. Not much chance of that.

He opened the door, yet his eyes, set at a high more fitting for the, expected, other man, had to drift down a foot or more, to meet the those of his previous night's opponent. Slight surprise and confusion took hold of his features as he met the request of the shorter man and allowed him egress. He escorts the other man into his living area and offers a seat and drink. Both are refused as he is bombarded with the same request he was expecting to receive once his younger brother arrived. He delivered to this smaller man the same answer he had prepared for his muscular sibling, and like he expected from the much taller man who would arrive soon, the pintsized brawler refused the answer as final.

With adamant passion and gut-deep fervor, he was waylaid with reasons why he should step aside and allow the smaller man to have his shot at the title win. The Latin Pugilist even offered a deal, to give him first shot at gaining the title from him, once he acquired it. But conditioned deals and impassioned please, fell dead on ears that never were turned to them from the start. The denial of the other man's request was repeated, and to place a finality up his words the larger man proceeded to escort his unwanted guess back to the portal to the outside. He knew his colleague was fuming at being thwarted so effortlessly, but it meant nothing to him. The other man should know one as cold-hearted as he, would not be swayed from a course with words or pleading. No. The match was his, as was the belt. No other outcome would be tolerated.

Open opening the door, he is met by another form, yet, once more, this was not the person it should be. And as he wonders if he would ever open the door to his brother, his brain exploded into searing pain, he is impacted from behind. Turning suddenly, he comes face to face with the smaller man, holding a shirt metal cylinder. Surprisingly the one thought he has, is where the man could have hidden the weapon. That is, also, all he has time to think as he again experiences another bludgeoning pain from behind. This blow sends him to his knees; he has only a second to look behind to see more enter his refuge, his home before his is made to experience pain, as he has never felt before. His mind screams to him, to get up, to fight, to question why he would turn his back on someone that clearly wanted what he possessed. None of these requests or questions are answered. He lowered his guard and he paid for it.

Rapidly, all ordered thought was deserting him. The pain had long since stopped being recognizable as pain. All things stopped being recognizable, as he drifted away from knowing, from the world he had settled into. He was moving back to the one place he never could escape. The place he has been sent to far to many times as of late.

Yet this time, he wonders if he will return, or if, finally, the trip will be one way.

One last coherent thought sparks in his batter brain, before the light fades; Brother, it should have been you.

Darkness.