Chapter Text
The Third King of Illyria was certainly not expecting to find himself with a gun to his head today, much less holding a gun himself. His composed demeanor never wavered, but inside his head? He was shitting himself. What was he thinking?
The blue horned man in front of Daryl cocked his head, wiggling the gun pointed to the blond’s brow.
“And what if I shoot you right now?”
Fear stabbed through Daryl’s stomach. He pinched his lips, resisting the urge to just bolt.
“You’ll lose a hostage, and some ammo.” His grip tightened around the cold metal in his hand. “That’s all.”
“Ohoho, you are good.”
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The Third King sat at the end of the conference table, shaking. How the hell had his plan worked? He could barely remember what he had said. His mouth moved faster than his brain, and somehow, he talked his way out of a hostage situation.
Almost.
Happy Chaos had agreed to let every other official in the room go free— except for Daryl.
“Gotta keep things interesting,” he’d said.
Daryl didn’t find this interesting so much as terrifying. (And hot, but he could analyze that later, when he was hopefully back in the comfort of the castle.)
Happy Chaos had been out of the conference room for some time now. Daryl had given up on his illusion of composure, cradling his head in his hands, staving off a migraine. He thought briefly about trying to find a way to escape, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. He’d already heard about the state of the guards roaming the grounds. He was technically safest here.
He started to think about Sol. How could one man save the world so many times? It wasn’t coincidence, but it couldn’t be fate. Daryl didn’t like it, and he especially didn’t like having his survival in the hands of what could only be explained as one of the two. No amount of confidence in the Flame of Corruption could ease the dread settling in Daryl’s stomach. He could hear slams and rumbles below him in the building, both soothing and worsening his anxiety. The sooner this nightmare ended, the better.
He nearly screamed when an ice-cold hand grasped the back of his neck. The sharp nails dug into the back of his neck and he heard a hum in his ear.
In an almost mocking voice, Chaos laughed, “Would you look at that!”
A bony blue hand raised to Daryl’s eye level. There was a bloodied hole the size of a softball straight through the palm. Daryl tried not to flinch as droplets of inky blood splattered onto his lap.
Chaos seemed to be having fun— Daryl was definitely not.
“They’re bringing out the big guns, huh!”
“So it seems,” Daryl coughed out.
The Third King felt like vomiting as he watched Chaos’s flesh stitch itself back together.
The Original took his seat once more, still closer to Daryl than he would have liked. He smirked. It was just too fun to watch the man squirm. He couldn’t keep his composure forever, he was sure. And Chaos had time. He rested his chin in his hands, fixing his eyes on the other man. He was trying to rub the dark bloodstains off the leather of his belt. That made Chaos frown. Who cared about a belt that much? His gaze flicked to the right, watching the clouds drift by, losing himself in the bright blue of the sky. The uneasy silence was starting to dig under Daryl’s skin, making him almost hope for another of Chaos’s weird rambles. He quickly changed his mind after the terrorist began to speak. So much for avoiding that migraine.