TBTT 05. You should have guessed him by now

[moonshadows]

When he comes for her next, she is belly-down on a couch, deep in some torrid trashy romance with the copper tip of her special cable in the corner of her mouth. It's been two days since her things were wordlessly dumped just inside the door of her gilded cage, three since he last visited his acquisition, five since he gripped her hair in a hand that was not clawed and demanded her control amulet from Joshua. He had hoped to watch her unnoticed, to observe his tiger-by-the-tail and judge her, but she turned to him with a brilliant, fearless smile as soon as he slipped inside the door.

"What are you doing?" The words are harsher than he intended, covering confusion with the rage that simmers easily inside him. Her smile does not waver, and he wonders to himself why she is not intimidated by him.

"I was just having a snack..." She removes the copper nozzle from her mouth and sits up. It connects to an industrial electrical cord plugged into a wall. When his eyes finish tracing the path and return to her, she extends the nozzle in a wordless offer.

Confusion makes his brows draw together and he glowers at her. "You...eat..." The words trail off in disbelief.

She scrunches her nose in casual distaste. "There's not much flavor, but it's better than the way food sits. More efficient. Easier to process. Not as good as actual magic, but..."

The stiff, dark-gold curls bounce as she shrugs one shoulder, but he's not watching that. Her words have driven home the reality of his situation, an incongruous proof of truth. He could not have articulated the same ideas, but she has done it for him.

"You never tried it? What do you eat?"

The innocence of the question brings with it a jumble of sharp-edged memory: years of darkness, hunger that was never satisfied with crusts of bread or droughts of clear running water, handfuls of berries or even the lavish feasts he once indulged in. Years of dry heat, choked with ash and vile fumes that somehow eased the gnawing that food never filled. And most recently, an apathy towards the whole conundrum. He'd rather do without than fill himself with something that only makes him feel worse.

"You don't eat?" The shock and horror draw his eyes back to her face. The nozzle is extended again, more insistently, and the look of concern is overshadowed by a lilac tint to her skin that takes him off-guard.

"I have to wonder why you seem to be so concerned with my health." The memory of lilac concern keeps the growl out of his words, but they still retain their sharp edges. She hugs the nozzle to her chest, and he is reminded that although he is ancient, she is barely a child.

"I can't serve you if you've starved to death," she whispers, looking as though she wishes to fling herself at his feet again and rejoice in the slightest touch of his fingertips against her skin.

"You declared yourself my enemy and then delivered yourself to me and declared your loyalty. You understand that I cannot trust you to have my best interests at heart." There is no malice in the words, only a dry cynicism and the memory is a hissing female voice offering allegiance and troops, a gravelly male voice expressing gratitude, a vibrant, cultured voice filled with cold anger - and behind them, the barest hint of a voice so like his own...

She nods matter-of-factly, as though she understood his thoughts. "You've been betrayed before."

The language she has been speaking, the shape of the word, are an unintentional arrow that pierces deeper than he could have expected. Betrayed. A vortex of jagged thoughts previously quiescent leaps up to swallow him, sending him down an eternal corridor of anguish. All composure is shattered by that one word, and he is not aware of what he has let slip until she is pressed against his bare chest, frantic apologies spilling from her lips like the tears that once fell from silver eyes. Instinctively, he reaches to put his arms around her, reassure her that the pain will fade, that he will be okay, but he remembers that his fingers end in wicked claws now, and his arms jerk to a halt before he can accidentally hurt her. He freezes, arms awkwardly held away from her, uncertain as to what to do when his pain is causing her genuine distress, and then-

Hands. Her hands, where no hands had ever had the temerity to venture. Stroking, soothing motion calming the teeth of jagged memory, easing the pain, chasing the nightmares back into the darkness that spawned them. How had he never guessed that those ugly reminders of what he has become could be a source of...peace?

"You have very nice horns." The words are quiet, wistful, sliding into the silence without a single ripple of shock. She keeps stroking, caressing the heavy black curves, filling his mind with cool, soothing reassurance. She doesn't dare do more than gel the broken edges so that they don't cause more damage; his mind is a tangle of weeping sores and razor fragments and the wrong move will cause more damage than she could bear. Already, his pain slices into her, making her bite her lip until she draws blood, but the rhythm of her hands does not falter.

Once the last jagged edge has been swaddled, he gives a sigh and she regretfully withdraws both hands and mind. She can see that he won't trust her for a while, and she dared not change that, but the seed has been planted and she knows how to nurture it. He is still more relaxed than he has been in a very long time, unconcerned for the moment that he stands before her as he truly is, and she can't help but admire it. The blindfold gives her pause, but she dares not ask yet.

"...what?"

The delayed question doesn't faze her. "Your horns. They're much nicer than mine will ever be." She tilts her head, eying the appendages in question. "They could use some oil, though. Bring out their luster."

His eyes open slowly, green glow behind soft black cloth. Hers meet them fearlessly, her expression showing that she is aware of the depths of his pain, and it has not deterred her. Slowly, she relaxes as he has done until she stands before him as she truly is. Dimly, she can sense the turmoil that her appearance would cause him if all the broken bits weren't covered in protective gel. She waits, silent and vulnerable, for his judgment. His mind closes, a bit at a time, until it returns to the mismatched collection of thorned defenses it was on their first meeting. A part of her weeps to be rejected like that, but she knows that in order for him to open to her, she has to let him close her out. His veiled eyes weigh her, his fears against her actions, and one taloned hand creeps up to tentatively touch his horns.

"What kind of oil?" It is a victory, a concession, an acknowledgment, and a denial.  Her answering smile makes his lips - so used to scowling - twitch upwards. Fragile as it is, her concern has planted a seed of hope in him that there could be someone in the universe who would not turn from him in horror. Someone like me, she said. It had been a long time since anyone had cared about him, and she was so young... Maybe, just maybe, this would become the one thing he did in his long life that didn't turn around and strike him down after he gave so much to do what he thought right.

There were ways to test loyalty. He would test her, ensure that she would not turn on him as so many others had. A thought stirred within him, skeletal within its grave of despair, clawing its way to life like the undead minions he once fought to destroy. Yes, he would test her, and if she passed - well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

She is describing the oil, and the cloth, all teenage admiration and awkwardness. The shadow of a smirk crosses his lips, and her words tumble to a halt as her breath catches. In the silence, he hears Yes. Yes.