TBTT 25. The ocean is extra salty today

[moonshadows]

In the rubber-floored room, the only sounds are his harsh breathing and the Warglaives of Azzinoth slicing through the air.

She took the bait, as he expected she would, and wasted no time in doing…whatever it was. Perhaps he should be concerned about what else she may have been doing while he was drifting in mindless peace, but the temporary relief is too tempting to give up without solid evidence that she is doing anything harmful.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made a deal with a demon, he thinks with the slightest hint of bitterness. At least Tessa doesn’t seem to want anything from me.

It’s…endearing, watching her youthful enthusiasm, and even in the privacy of his mind it is a struggle to admit that. After ten thousand years of the slightest hint of weakness resulting in more torments and abuse, the desire to deny any affection is nearly as strong as the desire for affection. That train of thought is cut off abruptly before it can wake anything in the pile of slain hopes. She doesn’t look at him in horror or disgust; that’s more than enough for now.

He returns to his self-examination, gently prodding at the things he’d done his best to wall away. There is a curious reluctance to think about his imprisonment past the acknowledgement that it occurred. Much better, much more preferable to even that much resulting in a flood of memories and pain. He doubts it will last, however. That thought brings a surprisingly sharp stab of despair. He’d become so accustomed to being in constant emotional torment that he hadn’t realized until just now how heavy that burden really was.

He doesn’t want to go back.

All the old claustrophobia comes rushing back and he pours himself into the routine, forcing himself to concentrate on each movement until the panic recedes. He is not in a cage. Except that of his mind, a little nagging voice whispers. He is not being tormented by a cruel jailer. Except his past, the voice whispers.

The warglaives come to a stop. Only his panting breaths break the silence. The wistful longing for functional tear ducts returns, and with an effort he pushes it away.

He doesn’t want to go back. This glimpse of freedom is a greater torment than any he’s endured simply because he knows it won’t last. Sweeter than the long-vanished waters of Eternity, and more heady than the rush of power they brought. Once a week, she’d said, and he did not miss the eager look on her face. As though he’d unwittingly played right into her hands.

Could he do it?

The question of whether or not he will allow her to…oil his horns…is dismissed. For even this brief a taste of freedom, he would personally lead an army of demons back to the forest he once slew them to cleanse. No, the question is whether or not he can face six days of torment and agony for the promise of temporary relief on the seventh. The effects from this session haven’t even worn off, and already he wants-

No.

The blades begin their deadly dance again. This will not defeat him, not after all the other enemies that failed to. He smiles grimly, remembering bitterly cold winds and an equally cold blade that nearly took his life, but no – he survived, where no other victim of that blade did. He may have lost the fight, but not even the little human who would become the Lich King was able to defeat him. He will not be defeated by himself. He is the master, not his pain, and his oh-so-eager Champion will be the weapon with which he slays that particular foe.

Yes…she will be a fine weapon, but he will have to be very careful. He trusts her, but he will not, absolutely cannot, surrender the slightest bit of his authority over her. Not that she seems to want him to, with how happy she seems any time he exerts it. A minion who is not only loyal, but content to remain a minion? Certainly not something he’d ever expected Fate would hand to him.

He chuckles. Maybe his continued torment has softened the cold heart of Fate and he is being rewarded at last? He can’t think of any other reason why she would have inexplicably chosen him. She’s already shown him more kindness than he deserves, and every indication is that she will continue to do so, and happily.

If he ever has the opportunity, he will be sure to thank her grandmother for chasing her away. The Legion’s loss is his gain, unworthy as he is of her devotion. His lips curve into a bitter smile. Ah, he may not deserve her, but he will fight to the death should anyone try to take her from him. As if in response, he can feel the whatever-it-is that she did wearing off. The determination is easily turned against his usual irritation and anger, and smothers the despair as his thoughts once again fill with jagged edges and freedom recedes.

There is much to be done before he sees her again in two days, and after that, only four more before he lets her…oil his horns. He endured ten thousand years of Warden Shadowsong’s tender mercies; he can endure six days until Tessa’s gentle hands wipe those memories away again.