TBTT 60. Moving right along

[moonshadows]

The next three days pass without incident. She spends the mornings making sure his rusted machinery is oiled and delving into the cache of memories his responsibility-construct broke into, piecing broken and fragmented recollections back into some kind of stained, damaged whole. After the morning meetings is their time sparring in the gym, and he is grimly silent as they fight, mind still on the tasks of the day. After that, he dismisses her to her quarters where she works frantically to get her dress uniform completed, and only reluctantly puts the cloth and thread aside to sleep. She does not question or comment on his distant silence; after everything he’s been through, the potentially accidental admission of weakness would be a horrible blow to him and she’s more than content with just the fact that he’s not avoiding her.

It’s not until the evening of the fourth day that she actually finishes her dress uniform and can take advantage of the extra hour that has been allotted to her in the gym. She tries on the uniform first, of course, and admires the sleek black silk with delicate red patterns traced over every inch, the emerald-green highlights and the glint of gold trim, the undeniably alien red sash embroidered with gold runes proclaiming her status to anyone who can read Nathrezim. Satisfied, she changes into her preferred workout clothes and steps into the Twisting Nether.

The gym feels empty without his presence to fill it. She warms up and watches herself carefully in the mirrors, comparing her motions to the memory of his, repeating individual motions until they feel more natural, beating the lessons into her muscles through repetition. Just before her hour is up, she puts her practice glaives away and looks around, feeling foolish even as she reassures herself that she is alone. A frantic beating of her wings follows, and for a second her heart soars thinking that she’s lifting off – but no, it’s just her hopeful enthusiasm. She’s subconsciously rising to hoof-tip. Disappointed, she stops flapping and sighs at her reflection.

She feels his arms around her before she sees him in the mirror, and twists around until she can press her cheek shamelessly against the warm, firm plane of his chest. His fingers caress her hair, then her horns, in silent reassurance and she can’t quite hate that she’s so pathetic in the face of that physical contact.

“You truly can’t fly?” Bafflement softens the harsh incredulity of the half-question.

“Most Nathrezim can’t,” she murmurs, disappointment blunted by the joy of his touch. “Too heavy. Those who can are very powerful, respected and feared for the ability.”

He is silent, digesting this information. Did any of his so-called loyal dreadlords ever fly? He can’t remember without digging into things best left undisturbed, but it doesn’t matter. He recalls all too clearly how the tears ran down her face as she confessed her fear that he would reject her, and her conviction that she was a failure for not living up to what was expected of her. The ability to fly would be exceptionally desirable to one who had been smaller and weaker for her entire life, certainly. No wonder she threw herself into the art of the warglaive so enthusiastically, and yet…she had passed up the chance to strengthen herself more in order to complete the uniform he had not quite commanded her to make. She was putting his wishes before her own desires, even knowing that he was…not stable. He holds her tighter, grateful for her devotion even though he is certain he does not deserve it.

“When you are stronger, I will teach you.” The little ‘oh’ she utters, and the way she trembles in his arms, make him think suddenly of seeing her beam at him as they soar together over – but no. She’s just a child. “Until then-“ he releases her and gently grasps one wing, guiding it through the correct motion. “This is the stroke you should practice.”

Blushing furiously, she nods.

“Sleep now,” he says firmly. “I am meeting with the head delegate in the morning, and I want you well-rested for that. I think he’s hiding something, and I would have you listen closely to his thoughts as I question him.”

“Yes, my Kal’shan,” she says crisply, straightening up as though about to stand at attention.

He turns to go, then hesitates as if something had just occurred to him. The phrasing had taken him a while to work out – how to best fish for information without revealing his ignorance. “Have you been spending the mornings listening to my thoughts?” he asks with seemingly mild curiosity.

She shakes her head. “Your mind is defended by whirling blades. I wouldn’t be able to get through that if I tried; no one would.”

Interesting. “This is not usually the case, then?” He frowns when she shakes her head again. “How does one normally defend one’s mind?”

“Lots of ways,” she says promptly.

He pauses, thinking about the Illidari dreadlords. “These blades – would they stop an outright attack, or merely discourage a more stealthy attempt?”

She looks shocked. “I’m not going to attack you to find out!”

The chiding tone makes him smile briefly. “Perhaps tomorrow, then, you can tell me about the ways Nathrezim minds can be defended. Tonight-“

“I’m going,” she interrupts with a sheepish look, then steps forward and hugs him. “Good night, Kal’shan.”

Reflexively, his arms go around her. “Sleep well, my Champion.”

He forces himself to release her and watches as she fades into the Twisting Nether, frowning absently at the empty air where she had been before summoning his blades.