A/N- Definitely my favorite chapter to write. So much emotional turmoil, and I loved the character Mark portrayed for...well, Mark. I cannot express enough how much I thought Teamiplier did an amazing job on this project, and I hope we see more like it soon.
*WARNING* There are mentions of suicide and suicidal thoughts. For those who are easily disturbed by that sort of thing, I advise you take caution if you would like to continue reading.
There is always support. There is always help. If Mark's character in this story is any sort of example, it's that it is never the answer.
Mark's knuckles were white, fingers tense as he gripped the edge of the table. His gaze stayed fixed on the picture frames before him, eyes flicking between each one, always seeming to find their way back to the second one no matter how many times he tried looking away…
Celine by his side, laughing at some conversation that now was unimportant. It hadn't been important then either, but at least at the time, it had felt like there was some meaning to it, some sentimental, love-sick value to the jokes and words exchanged. Now, the thought of the memory captured in the frame gave him nothing but a sick feeling in his gut, twisting the proverbial knife deeper into his stomach and pushing further in…
The first photo wasn't as gut-wrenching, but nonetheless, was of no help to his brooding. The 'gang' as they'd called themselves back then, arm in arm having a grand old time, Mark thought sarcastically. If only he'd known what it would come to, what it would cost him in the end.
Beside it, the picture of William dressed in his usual militaristic attire seemed almost to taunt him, mock him. Mark's eyes narrowed, a rumble of anger coming from his chest. Why did he even have this photo to begin with?! Letting his hatred pour out of him in a great roar, Mark grabbed the corner of the frame and hurled it at the opposing wall with as much force as he could muster.
The sound of shattering glass and the dull thump of the frame itself falling to the ground were the only things that answered his rage. His bedroom wall now sported a jagged hole caused by the corner of the picture frame. Mark stood huffing with the exertion of controlling his anger, staring at the offending mark in spite. His hands threaded themselves through his hair, and he paced a few feet in either direction, a strangled sob threatening to escape his lips.
So empty, this feeling of loneliness, of disregard. Was it that easy to throw him away? That easy to be replaced? Everything he'd worked towards, everything he'd held dear, was now in tatters. The trust he'd placed in his childhood friend, ruined. The love he'd forged with the woman of his dreams, broken and forgotten, shoved back into Mark's face. As if the years of commitment for each other had meant nothing.
Her pity and sympathy had been the final nail in the coffin, trying to mend the hurt while simultaneously, unknowingly, sticking the knife further into his heart. If it had been her intention to end things on a better note, she'd hopelessly failed, he thought bitterly, almost smugly. That had been ensured as she'd left him for the man he'd called friend, without so much as a proper goodbye. Only the swish of her dress skirt as she shut the door, suitcase in hand, mere hours before.
Not even a glance back.
Not even a tear.
Suddenly the bedroom around him, neatly put together and maintained as he'd always kept it, felt much too normal for the occasion. As if it, too, were mocking him. It all looked like Celine had never even left. Had he known better, Mark could've sworn she was on her way up from the front parlor, and before long she'd be back, sitting poised upon the ottoman with one of her books, feet tucked neatly beneath her. His eyes lit upon the vanity, where she could normally be found adjusting her hat, or touching up her lipstick, smiling coyly at him through the reflection.
In his heart he knew, deep down, he missed her. He missed her, so keenly, so desperately, and he hated himself more for it. But Mark could not, for the life of him, hate her, despite trying his damndest. That witch, that vixen of a woman…the way her head tilted mischievously when something caught her amusement…that…breathtaking smile that could strike him still at merely the sight…
Poison wrapped in a pretty package, that's what she was, he angrily reminded himself. Who was she to ruin him this way? To take advantage of his weakness for her, for his love, to use him and toss him aside like everyday rubbish. Could she see how he yearned for her, despite knowing he'd never trust her again? Couldn't she see how much it pained him to lose her?
And worse yet, to that bastard of a man, William.
His friend. The word crossed his mind with the worst of aftertastes, only serving to infuriate him further.
The ottoman that stood at the foot of the bed joined the picture frame on the floor, carelessly tossed aside. Next was the waste bin, it's contents scattered as it thudded against the wall and stopped haphazardly on it's pile of neatly folded and stacked clothes that rested on the bed from the laundry that morning now found a place on the dresser, the headboard, the ground, and everywhere else Mark could care to fling them. It did little to sate this boiling hurt that filled him.
Anguished and malicious screams filled his ears, and it was some time before he realized they came from his own mouth, running his voice ragged and raw, until even breathing became painful. His hands acted instinctively, grabbing and throwing anything within his sight. The room around him, in that time, had become a wreck, matching the broken man who occupied it.
And finally, Mark did cry, the tears streaming without his permission down his cheeks and into the carpet beneath his face. His hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into the flesh making small cuts. He barely felt them over the searing emotional pain of losing his beloved, losing his friends, and the trust that came with them.
Never again, he promised himself, will I fall for such trickery.
They must be so happy.
A warm summer breeze came in through the bedroom window, gently tickling across Mark's stubbled chin. He payed the sensation no mind, eyes glazed over and gaze riveted on the courtyard down below through his window. It was midmorning, yet still the middle of June brought with it an early heat to the day. He could feel his skin hot, the beginnings of sweat to cling to his face, but Mark's mind was elsewhere, and he gave it no further thought.
It's not fair, really.
Earlier in the morning, Gerald had tried bringing him his usual breakfast, but he'd sent him away, not wanting to be bothered. Now, his stomach grumbled from the lack of food, finally pulling him from his wandering thoughts. Deftly, he pressed the switch for the annunciator he knew to be stationed in the kitchen and butlers' stations downstairs. Nothing appeared to happen on his end but, he knew, in a few moments time, Gerald would come knocking on his door.
Why should they be happy, while I waste away? He thought to himself in the time he waited for Gerald.
Sure enough, within a minute or so, there was a gentle knock at the door. "Enter." Mark called, barely glancing in the direction that the older butler entered from.
"You called for me, Sir?" The butler offered with a small nod.
"Send for my breakfast." He replied bluntly and without inflection. There was a momentary pause, as if Gerald were about to tell him he'd already tried fetching it for him previously, but the man was too well trained a butler to refuse his Master's order so obviously.
With another short decline of the head, Gerald turned heel. "Of course. I'll bring it immediately." He offered no other words as the door shut behind him, leaving the house Master to his own miserable thoughts once more.
It's not fair. He emphasized in his head, ignoring the strangest feeling that it wasn't him speaking to himself any longer. The pressure in his head that had lingered during the past few weeks in the wake of Celine's betrayal no longer bothered him as much as it used to. It was nothing more than a migraine from all the pent-up anger he was feeling. Nothing more.
It's not fair.
His outbursts of anger immediately after Celine and William's affair had come to light had faded, leaving him seething silently to himself, stuck with this growing hatred and disappointment. William was supposed to have been his friend, his support. After everything Mark had done for him, quite literally paying for all the man's mistakes, time and time again to keep him from falling into a life of imprisonment and shame…and all he gave him was a knife in the back. The actor had risked his reputation and public image for the man, and this is what he received in return?
Celine…she was supposed to have been his rock, the one who kept him grounded when all else seemed too much. His career had nearly left him too caught up in his own greatness to remember those that he cared about. For a long time, he'd been lost to everyone except himself. Celine had been the one to remind him there were better things worth living for. Life was for the living, as she'd taught him. He only had to find the right thing to live for.
Had that all been a lie? Sweet nothings to make him feel better about the fallacy that was his life? It left a bitter taste in his mouth, wondering if anything she'd told him held even a single inkling of truth.
They don't deserve to be happy.
Not after what they had done to him. How was this justice? How was this fair? What great, almighty plan involved leaving a man broken, while the perpetrators lived free of regret and shame? No, this was far from justice. Far from righteousness, and far from acceptable.
None of this is fair.
Damien, the last person he could count on, had only served to alienate him further by insisting they work the matter out in a civil fashion and forgive each other. As if the betrayal could be fixed with a few words and a firm handshake. Mark had dismissed the thought immediately, realizing that the mayor would be of no help to him. After that, he'd stopped returning letters. No doubt they were all filled with the same drivel, urging him to mend the broken relationship.
Damien had always liked to play therapist, never picking a side, always wanting everyone to get along. The childish notion that everyone could be friends had long since faded for Mark, and he couldn't stand even the thought. No, he was alone with this hurt, and he would bear it alone.
Mark must have been lost in his own thoughts for far longer than he had known, as he was torn from his mind by a quiet rap on the door. Straightening his back, which had slouched in his chair at the table, he cleared his throat and called a short 'Enter' to the man waiting behind it.
Gerald had with him a dumbwaiter, a covered silver dish atop it with silverware and a glass of something refreshing. He rolled it over beside Mark and uncovered the platter, revealing the steaming food underneath.
"Here you are, Sir. Breakfast this morning is-"
"Thank you, Gerald, that is all."
Mark hadn't even spared him a glance. The house Master could practically feel the irritation that radiated off of his servant. Strange, he thought, how much he hadn't noticed before Celine had left him. Had the manor staff always loathed him so? Nowadays he began to notice just how much his actions frustrated his hired man, though Mark found he cared not for the man's feelings. After a moment's hesitation, and seeing Gerald was still standing beside him, Mark finally turned to stare at him pointedly.
"That will be all." His tone brokered no further arguments.
Recovering cleanly, Gerald set the silver cover beside the platter and gave another of those disgustingly courteous nods of his. It very nearly set Mark's teeth to grating, the obvious mockery it exuded.
"As you wish, Sir. Call for me should you require anything else." Was the man's curt reply, before he left the bedroom rather quickly.
Mark stared after him, eyes riveted on the back of the door, but his thoughts were lost once more.
I don't deserve this sort of treatment. This sort of mockery. Do they take me for a fool?
Weeks. Then months. Soon it will have been a full year since Celine…Mark's eyes squeezed shut, ridding his thoughts of that woman. Time mended all wounds, as they said, but time wasn't nearly enough to nurse back the broken trust and hurt. He wouldn't allow it. If this misery is what they wanted from him then so be it, he dismissively thought. Let them have their way. There wasn't much left of him to manipulate anyway.
The anger that shrouded him had recessed enough to allow sorrow to take the forefront. Mark had noticed the gradual change, the loss of interest in anything nowadays. Nothing seemed worth the effort. What good was this massive house if there was no one to share it with? The thought of another woman's company repulsed him far greater than the flashes of spite that occurred occasionally, and so he did not even attempt to seek companionship in another. When he was being honest, he admitted that there was no one who could replace her. Celine was truly unique in that way.
The manor staff, what few of them there were now, had taken to mostly avoiding the house Master. Not that he cared or called on them too often to begin with. The residence had never housed a large number of people, even back when his mother and father had possession of it. However, the relatively small staff had dwindled in the time after Celine had left. A few at a time, ones and twos, turned in their resignations to seek more opportune employment. Mark didn't blame them, per se, but the lack of loyalty and concern for his person further aggravated the wound of being abandoned by those he loved.
Only Gerald and Chef remained, and the odd groundskeeper who he hadn't seen in god knows how long. Mark had a sneaking suspicious it had more to do with having nowhere else to go rather than any loyalty on their part.
Gerald had been rather surprised when Mark had called for targets and ammunition for his pistol that morning. "I wish to do a bit of target practice." He'd stated without enthusiasm, barely meeting the man's eye while making the request. It was an unexpected call, Mark had to admit, but the butler couldn't possibly understand what was going through the man's mind.
"Right away, Sir. Will you have them prepared on the lawn?" He referred the the large, open space in the back of the mansion reserved for sports and other entertainment. It hadn't seen use in some time now.
"Yes, that will do just fine."
With another nod, the butler had gone, leaving Mark to get changed.
He found himself in the open air of the lawn, replacing his silken robe for casual trousers and shirt, along with his shooting gloves. The freshly cut lawn was spacious, and was now set with targets about fifty yards further down. The morning sun was warm against his back, though the shade of the trees shielded him from most of the intensity.
Mark was alone, as he'd desired to be. Gerald had been all to happy to leave him to his own devices outside, scurrying away back into the house to allow the Master space. Mark had taken a few shots at the target, feeling no satisfaction when they landed very nearly within the painted, middle bullseye.
After a half hour or pretending to enjoy this little pastime, he loaded another round into the pistol, just one. It was all he'd need.
He'd decided that this was the best course of action and, perhaps, it would also be the final slap in the face to his 'dear' friend William. If the bastard wanted Mark to suffer for the rest of his life while he sat back and watched, well, Mark wouldn't give him the damn satisfaction.
Looking behind him, he saw that the trees at the edge of the lawn blocked him from the mansion's view. No one in the house would be able to see him, and that was how he'd wanted it. A quick glance at his surroundings also ensured that the wily groundskeeper wasn't anywhere near. In this case, it was a good thing the man was such a recluse. The last thing he wanted was someone trying to help him.
A pity, he thought as he lifted the pistol to the side of his head, that the last thing he saw wouldn't be the mansion that had been his home for as long as he could remember. The last thing he held a care for.
Mark wasn't sure if he felt the bullet or not, as a sensation of pitch blackness and a bitter cold were the next things he registered. A darkness so deep, he couldn't be sure if his eyes were open or not. He felt like he was floating, then again, he didn't feel as if he had a body at all anymore. Had he any physical form anymore?
After some time, the darkness persisted still. The resignation of accepting his fate gave way to a small amount of confusion. Surely, this wasn't heaven? The church promised pearly white gates and fluffy clouds, not an emptiness so abysmally deep that he wouldn't doubt if it went on forever.
Of course, there was a distinct possibility that this was the widely feared domain of Hell, the punishment of the most wicked of men. Though he'd expected a bit more fire and brimstone. Eternal damnation wasn't as dramatic as he'd feared, it this was what was in store. In fact, it was almost quite pleasant. Besides the nagging sensation that he was not alone, Mark could get used to this feeling.
Suddenly there was a faint glow beginning from somewhere. He tried pinpointing it exactly, unable to do so in all the oppressing darkness, until he looked in the direction of what he assumed was 'down' and saw a faintly, ethereal form of his body. His fingers and hands moved, and he experimentally flexed them mechanically, reassuring himself that it was still him.
The glow, now recognizable to be colored blue, was coming from himself. Where his limbs had previously been clearly defined in life, now they faded and feathered away at the edges. He had no definite shape, no defined features. Much like a smudge ink line. Not long after these revelations, his feet felt a sturdy ground beneath them, and he took a few tentative steps forward, fearing he'd fall off this unseen platform.
What is this place? He mused to himself, but his thoughts almost seemed to ricochet in the air around him, audible to even his own ears.
Immediately after he voiced the thought, another glow began. This time, though, it did not come from him, but the space in front of them. It molded, shaped, and manifested itself in the form of two figures. At first, they were unrecognizable. Featureless shapes that shifted and changed in the darkness, until they slowed, tightened, and began to show details.
Mark took a step back, horrified to see the two people he thought he'd escaped from. Celine stared at him with that tiny smile he knew meant she was laughing to herself to something she found amusing. William stood beside her, but his eyes were riveted on her alone, paying Mark no mind. That was almost worse.
Even in death, they ignored him, disregarded him. It was maddening. As he watched William turn to Celine, mockingly kiss the same lips that Mark had, the hatred that had rested mainly dormant beneath his sorrow began to bubble, rise from it's sleep. Perhaps this was Hell, a perverse version of it. He'd prefer the fire and brimstone over an eternity of watching this bastard relish the fact that he'd stolen his wife. Anything but that.
This isn't fair. He thought again, and once more the thought reverberated the space around him, a distorted version of what he'd said becoming audible.
What did I do to deserve this?
You don't deserve this. He thought to himself. For a moment, Mark wasn't sure that had been his own thoughts, but it sounded just like his voice bouncing around the emptiness. His own voice echoed it. It must have been him.
He took everything from me.
He doesn't deserve anything.
That feeling of being watched, of someone standing there somewhere in the darkness intensified, the air almost seemed to compress with the pressure. He could feel the tightness that had been plaguing his head the past months return. No one else was standing in the darkness surrounding him, however.
"You bastard! You betrayed me!" He finally yelled out, pointing an accusatory finger at William. The military man gave no indication he'd even heard Mark yelling in the first place.
"Is this what you wanted? For me to suffer in agony for the rest of my days?" His voice sounded hollow, empty, and yet full of the outrage that had gripped him for so long.
They shouldn't be happy. The voice echoed again, and Mark agreed with all his being.
They have no right!
You've been betrayed.
My own friend betrayed me…stole my wife…left me with nothing.
You should do something about that.
Do something about it…what could he do? He was stuck in this empty void. Finally the images of Celine and William faded away into nothing, leaving him alone once more. He was grateful, not wanting to watch the sick bastard of a man lay another finger on his wife.
You should make sure they aren't happy.
Yes…they shouldn't be happy together. But I'm here, and they are out there.
There is always a way.
Mark paused, eyes glancing at the darkness around him. He hadn't gained everything he had by giving up. Nothing worthwhile ever came without a hard-won fight. And at that moment, he'd never wanted anything more than to have his revenge against the one person he thought he could trust above all else.
He should suffer for all he's done to me.
The party was in full swing. The booze from the cellar ran free, his guests more than a bit drunk at this point. Mark watched in satisfaction as Damien successfully did a keg stand over at the bar in the corner, Benjamin and Abe holding his legs to prevent him from falling. The two men holding him steady looked anything but steady themselves, stumbling and swaying to either side, their eyes glazed with alcohol as they cheered him to keep going.
A friend of Damien's, the district attorney whose name escaped him in that moment, was leering at them from the bar stool, swaying precariously in their own chair. Mark couldn't tell if they were angry at them or trying to see better through squinted eyes. Either way, it was amusing to see the attorney, who looked so astute and put together just hours previously, disheveled and a drunken mess.
The chef, predictably, had stayed mostly in his kitchen. He brought out appetizers and hand foods to be enjoyed throughout the night at Mark's request, never staying in the room for more than a moment. Once the first guests began to pass out from too much alcohol, Mark knew he'd likely clean up the mess in the kitchen and head to bed.
Just as well, he thought.
William was enjoying his own drink from his flask, alone at the poker table. Mark debated whether to approach the man quite yet, finally dismissing it. He wasn't drunk enough for what he had in mind. The further he was lost in the fog of alcohol, the better. It wouldn't do to have the man walk away preemptively.
Though, it took everything he had not to strangle the man where he stood. Maintaining the easy-going and unruffled facade all night long wasn't easy. Especially with how at-home the bastard appear to be in the manor. Mark had hoped the sheer hatred he harbored for him would somehow perpetrate itself in the atmosphere, making William uncomfortable. However, it would appear that was not to be.
He had been pleasantly surprised to see that William had even attended at all. He had half a mind to believe it was simply because he knew Mark would be irritated to be in the same room as him, or there was always the off-chance that he no longer thought about the transgressions of the past. Perhaps he simply didn't care either way.
Holding a glass of booze that had yet to be touched, Mark stood beside the suit of armor beside the door. He partook in some of the celebrations, gambling away with his 'friends' and laughing when Benjamin came up broke within a half hour's time. William had stayed on the opposite side of the table, barely even giving the host a glance. All discussion he participated in was directed to others, never to him directly.
Finally, as he'd predicted, the others began to drop off, one by one, into the deep sleep only a drunkard could manage. The chef had signaled to him some time ago that he was done for the evening, before turning and disappearing down the hall to his quarters. Only himself, Abe, and William remained awake. The both of them were caught in a rousing discussion on some trivial matter, and Mark remained at the poker table, pretending to be lost in thought, or counting his winnings for the evening.
William let out a bark of a laugh, and Abe slapped the table with his hand, upending the glass of brandy that he'd been drinking from, spilling the liquid along the bar counter. They continued reeling and laughing about nothing and everything, not a care in the world. Their words were too slurred to truly decipher, but Mark waited patiently. There was that eager tendril of satisfaction, worming its way through his stomach, ready to pounce when the time was right, but he held it in check. Now was not the time. Yet.
Before long, even the detective couldn't stave off the weariness that excessive alcohol brought, and his forehead hit the counter with a thump. Deep snores following afterwards.
William payed his passed-out friend no mind, taking yet another swig from his flask. The action nearly had him toppling over himself on the stool, but he managed to grip the counter before that happened.
Smoothing down his robe, Mark stood from the table and approached the bleary-eyed man at the bar.
"William, my old friend." He bit back the gag that threatened to show, forcing his disgust back so all the drunken fool saw was the smile he stuck on his face. "It's been too long, too many years, hasn't it?"
"By God, Mark, what is it you want? Don't you see I'm busy?" He gestured in front of him in a mocking salute with his flask, his words slurring liberally. He tried bringing it to his lips once more, but Mark grabbed it and placed it on the counter.
"Can't a man be happy to see his dearest friend again?"
Unable to take back the flask that Mark had stolen, William's gaze swung over to look at his host. The note of confusion and suspicion was plainly evident, and Mark chuckled. "I know we left things on a…sour note, but it's been years, my good man. Time mends all wounds, as they say."
The suspicion did not leave his eyes as William spoke. "If I recall, you've never been one to forgive and forget. Might I remind you of the debt you so kindly left me with?"
Mark tried not to let the eye-twitch come across as too obvious. He'd hoped William would forget about that small detail while this drunk. For the numerous poaching fines and instances in which he'd resisted arrest, Mark had paid for, chalking it up to the inconsequential cost of friendship.
Then, after the bitter betrayal he'd been served, Mark had added up all the expenses and tacked on an interest, sending a collection letter through his lawyer for William to pay. It hadn't gone over well, suffice to say. No doubt, William had some deep-seated anger against him for that. Still, it was him that had gotten himself into all the trouble to begin with. But now wasn't the time for that.
Collecting his thoughts, Mark nodded as in reluctant agreement. "I admit, I haven't been the most forgiving of friends. And I'm sorry. I was angry, and confused. I lashed out. You didn't deserve that." The last few sentences were said through his teeth, barely making them sound genuine.
Still, William's drunkenness found him unable to distinguish the tone so much as the words themselves. He sat for a long moment, swaying minutely in the stool. Mark waited, knowing that to push would only aggravate the man further. Best to let him bring his guard down, to feel a bit more comfortable.
Finally, William shook his head dourly. "An apology is a bit late in coming, you know. A few words won't fix years of harsh living."
Mark smiled devilishly, finally having latched onto a point he could work with. "That it won't. Which is why I've come to an idea. A way for us to resolve all this bad blood between us once and for all."
The suspicion returned to William's eyes, as he glared uncertainly at Mark. "An idea?"
Mark nodded enthusiastically, the smile on his face a bit more genuine than it had been. "Yes, and it's quite simple. The perfect way to tie up loose ends and restore our friendship to what it once was. How about it, friend? Care to settle this?"
William was quiet, wondering what it was, but also wary of what Mark might have in mind. The host knew the man was cautious, slow to trust, but also an eccentric. He couldn't resist a good adventure, a good chance at a rousing story. Or, even better, a chance to beat Mark his own game, to show him the fool at the end of it all. And that was what Mark was counting on.
It seemed the years hadn't changed the military man much, because after a few more seconds of internal deliberation, the man grudgingly stood, all the while reaching out for the flask still in Mark's hand. "I suppose it's best to nip things in the bud, isn't it old chap?"
"That it is." Mark replied with contentment, helping the man to stand and leading him towards their destination. They stepped over the passed-out bodies of their friends, all snoring decidedly, not to wake until late the following morning.
"What the devil was this party celebrating to begin with?" William asked suddenly as they stumbled their way closer to the hallway.
"Just a gathering of friends, new and old. Does a celebration require any deeper purpose?" He remarked offhandedly, but the answer hadn't satisfied his drunken companion. He paused, but Mark forced him to keep walking.
Their shoes clicked evenly, or unevenly in William's case, as they crossed the tile of the hallway, finally lighting upon the stone steps of the wine cellar. Even while as far gone as he was, the Colonel still held a deep recollection of the house. It had been his home for many years after all. A low chuckle escaped his lips, spotting the stairs and remembering a memory.
"That old butler Gerald, how he used to chase us out of the cellar. Remember the time Damien got himself drenched in your Father's best red? Bully! He was grounded for weeks afterwards."
The man's rambling words made Mark smile thinly, humming his agreement while pulling him carefully down the winding steps. William's voice echoed faintly in the cellar room beneath. The light was dim, but still lit up most of the small space.
He stepped away from William, letting the man stumbled a few steps towards the back of the room. Grabbing a bottle of one of the wines on the rack, he inspected the label through squinted eyes, chuckling to himself over some internal joke. He looked back at Mark, seeing the small smile that lit on his face. The host could almost read the question in his eyes. He straightened up, watching the drunk peer blearily towards him.
"Well, Mark, what is this fantastic idea you have? A drinking game? I'd call you a damn cheater if that's the case, waiting until I'm already drunk to start…" His sentence trailed off, noticing Mark hadn't moved in the time since they'd reach the cellar. He only continued to smile thinly.
"I rather thought we'd let fate decide." He answer cryptically, reaching behind him and clasping his hands together. Though, unseen to William, he carefully reached through the small slit he'd made in the back of the robe so he could reach the pistol strapped to his waistband. His fingers grazed the wooden grip, but he stilled, addressing the drunk again.
"This way, there can be no cheating and no doubt as to the result." He knew that would gain the man's attention. He hated being cheated against. Mark raised a brow, recognizing the irony.
"Well, then, tell me what this idea is! Let's have at it!" He gestured enthusiastically, ready for whatever challenge Mark had prepared for him. Feeling a rush of satisfaction, Mark pulled the gun free, which was prepared beforehand precisely so no bullet would fire. He pointed it straight at William, and before his drunken reflexes could decipher what was happening, he'd already cocked back the hammer and was aiming it at his forehead.
There was a stale click as the hammer hit against the empty chamber, the air around the two men growing deathly still. William's eyes had widened, and he flinched with the expectation of being shot. The bottle of wine had slipped from his fingers, shattering on the stone floor between them. When nothing began to hurt from a bullet wound, he took several shuddering breaths and a few paces backwards, staring at Mark with a mixture of astonishment and rising anger. The shock of what had developed left him speechless.
Mark held his hands up in mock surrender, pistol still in his right hand, laughing good-naturedly. "See, my friend? All is forgiven. The money, stealing my wife from me…everything." He stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on William's shoulder. "A rousing game of Russian Roulette was all we needed to resolve this. After all, if fate had wanted you dead this night, you would be."
The Colonel opened and closed his mouth several times, bewilderment snatching all the words he wanted to say before he could say them. Laughing again, Mark wandered over to the wine rack and placed the pistol on it. Holding it up to inspect the open chamber, he showed off the single bullet loaded into it, before shielding it with his body. While he waited for William to speak, Mark snatched the rest of the bullets in the pocket of his robe and loaded the rest of the chambers up, snapping it shut afterwards. With his luck, the Colonel would think it still only contained a single bullet.
Finally, the shock wore off enough for the drunk to say something. "You were going to shoot me!" He cried with indignation, and Mark felt himself being pulled by the neck of his robe, whirled to face the drunken man before him. "You were going to kill me!"
"Relax, William." He said placatingly, slowly pulling the man's hands off his robe. "I've taken my shot, now you get to have yours. Fair is fair." Speaking slowly as if to a young child, he stepped back and reached for the same pistol he had just been holding. He dramatically spun the chamber, the metallic whiz it gave the only sound in the room besides William's heavy breathing.
He reversed the gun in his hand, holding it by the barrel to offer to the drunken man. "Now, have at me, old friend. Let's be done with this business and chat afterwards over some fine brandy, shall we?"
Reluctantly, the distrust and anger slowly subsiding from the William's eyes, he took the gun being offered him. This game was familiar to him, he'd participated a dozen times before, and more than once, he'd also used it to settle disputes. Most of a more trivial nature, but if this was what Mark wanted to do, then so be it.
He himself spun the chamber, as Mark knew he would. He wasn't a man to let someone else decide fate's outcome with their own hands. He liked to do it himself, as he always had.
The host took a step back, giving space for William to aim the gun at his head. It wobbled and swayed in drunken grip, but this close, he was unlikely to miss regardless. The sound of William slowly cocking back the hammer was the only thing between them, and all Mark could do in that moment was smile.
So it begins.
A/N- So many feels this story gave me. Mark is definitely a master storyteller, and I really want to see what he'll hit us with next. This series is dedicated to those who wanted ore than what we were given, and wanted to bring these amazing characters to life, to see them fleshed out and explored. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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