moonshadows

Strangely, as the afternoon wears into evening, she finds herself less and less worried about the upcoming discussion of what she can do. She busies herself prepping illusions to demonstrate the basics of defense and infiltration, since he won’t have had the benefit of a formal education the way she did. Reviewing like this, preparing to teach her star such a basic life skill, makes the fear of discovery fade under the satisfaction of serving him. When he finally steps into the room, she is nearly beside herself with anticipatory joy, eager to show him the methods of defense. Her excitement startles him, disrupting the irritated anger that had been making him scowl, and at her beckoning gesture he sits beside her on the couch.

“What’s this?” he asks suspiciously, one taloned finger pointing at the mazelike structure hanging in the air before him.

“Standard model of a Nathrezim mind, undefended,” she says promptly.

He stares. Nothing in the unfamiliar shapes looks remotely like a mind to him. “How does it differ from a human mind?”

She glances over her shoulder, staring hard at the door for several seconds, then gestures to the right of the model and a slightly more simple, organic-looking, sparser construct is sketched fuzzily in. “That’s the guard’s mind,” she says. “You can tell here, and here, and over here-“ various sections of both models light up briefly as she gestures to them “-that the Nathrezim mind evolved long ago to take advantage of the inherent abilities sentient minds share, where those abilities atrophied in the human mind.”

Actually, he can’t. All he sees is more or less complex versions of the same incomprehensible sections of maze. “I see,” he says doubtfully. “How do you protect your mind, my Champion?”

If armor plates could be made of lace, they might look like some of the things that now shroud the Nathrezim model. Others look like complex machinery or sections of jagged teeth that interlock. The whole rigmarole covers the model so completely that almost none of it can be seen.

“It’s more complex than it really needs to be,” she says somewhat sheepishly, “especially out here, but my cousins used to bully me a lot. They realized our grandmother wouldn’t punish them for it, and my father’s position was good incentive for them to make sure they could win it from me when I came of age, and they started trying to break me down early, so...” She shrugs. “I got good at defense. Most Nathrezim just use lattices for everyday things, especially if they’re using Control Techniques a lot.”

“Lattices?”

Most of the strange armor vanishes, leaving only the lacy-looking things covering every opening. “Lattices are like wards in that you can reach through them easily, but a foreign touch is amplified and easy to detect, and the whole thing is easy to damage an intruder with. While wards are easily seen through and can be made to respond differently to different people, however, lattices are static and opaque. Any intruder has to thread them like a maze. It doesn’t stop a direct attack, of course, but good lattices make it too annoying to try to sneak in.”

“And the blades you say protect my mind?” He keeps his voice to a neutral growl to hide the vaguely-helpless confusion he feels at this entire subject.

The lace armor vanishes, and a whirlwind of what look like razor-sharp metal shards surrounds the model. The structures can be seen between the flashing shapes, but the thought of reaching through that to get to them…

“I see.” Satisfaction robs the words of their edge. Seeing how his mind is protected warms a corner of his heart with perverse pride that here, at least, he managed to successfully defeat all of his enemies despite not having been given any knowledge in this particular field. Then he frowns, remembering his questions from earlier. “The blades cannot be protecting my mind at all times, unless you are allowing yourself to be hurt when you touch-“

She shakes her head, and the rage that had been rising checks itself. “I can only touch your defenses when the blades retreat – when you’re not so angry or irritated.”

I can keep her out. The revelation that he can maintain the privacy of his own mind at any time if he can learn to control these blades goes a long way towards easing his fears of her slipping inside to learn all of his secrets while he remains unaware of the intrusion. Not only that, but the blades are not his only defense? The rage sputters out, freeing up the mental resources he typically has to devote to keeping it contained. The whirlwind of blades around the model slows, and the blades vanish. Are they formed of his rage, then? He has no doubt that while master of the Black Temple, his constant struggle with irritation and anger would have protected his mind from any enterprising dreadlord, whether he was awake or asleep, but the idea that he has other defenses as well surprises and intrigues him.

“I have…other defenses?”

Thick, toothy slabs cover the Nathrezim model haphazardly. He frowns again; he may not know what the openings in the model are or what they are for, but he can see that if these rough, thorny things are his defenses, they are not fully protecting him. The rage rises again, and he absently sends it flowing through its usual channels, faintly aware that the turbulent emotion is swirling around the outside his mind. No doubt the blades are protecting his mind again, and a part of him is darkly pleased that his rage at least serves a constructive purpose, but it’s not enough to distract him.

“Why do they not protect me fully?” he snarls, feeling as though his mind has betrayed him in some new way.

“I don’t know,” she says calmly. “I’d guess that since you weren’t trained, you created defenses that you can still work around while they’re up. They’re barriers rather than gates – either they’re up or they’re down, but they don’t open.”

He is silent a long time, the blades whirling around him hiding his thoughts from her.

“I was not trained,” he says slowly. “What would it take to train me?”

She winces at the implication of where his thoughts have been. “Standard training on Control Techniques is three years, Advanced is another two, and Specialized is two more.” Her hands curl into fists against her thighs. “I left before I could finish my education; I’m three weeks short of being certified in Advanced.”

In other words, even if I asked, she could not teach me as much as I wish to know. With great effort, he keeps his temper in check. This isn’t her fault; she should not suffer his rage at this new blow Fate has dealt him. He reminds himself forcibly that there are no dreadlords on this world save him and his Champion. There is no threat to the security of his mind. He ruled the Black Temple with no training in these “Control Techniques”, and whether they had ulterior motives or not, the dreadlords under his command were unable to use their precious techniques to control him. No, he did just fine without utilizing whatever demon abilities being half-Nathrezim has granted him. He does not need to learn how to use them in order to keep his mind secure.

That’s what his Champion is for.

“Can you teach me how to create gates rather than barricades, and how to open them at will?”

She jumps slightly. “I can do better than that, Kal’shan. I can create them for you and show you how to put them into place.”

“And you can show me how to operate them?” He makes it a challenge rather than a question, daring her to say no at her own risk.

She looks mildly offended. “Of course.”

He stares thoughtfully at the model of his mismatched defenses, then opens his mouth to ask her if she could sneak inside them and closes it again, question unuttered. Whether she can or can’t, to ask would only bring attention to what else she can do, and he does not wish to spook her. He will have to find another way to ask.

“You have been inside my mind,” he says slowly, not looking at her, dulled claws digging into his palms. “From what you could see, why would the Illidari dreadlords not have attempted to use Control Techniques on me when the blades were retracted?”

The Nathrezim and human models open up into what looks like the first floor of some freakish citadel constructed out of alien machinery. The human model is considerably messier, with half-constructed or abandoned pieces and debris littering the corners, but no doubt the machinery would still identifiable if he were trained in such things. Then a third model appears, and it looks like the machinery has been wrecked, abandoned to the elements for a century or three, reconstructed from the wreckage, abandoned again, set on fire, wrecked a second time, and rebuilt using the twisted, ruined fragments that remain atop the rusty, charred debris that covers the half-rotted plane passing for the floor. He can feel the edges of panic nibble at him in subconscious recognition even before she says, “That’s what your mind looks like.”

Is he really so broken? But of course he is – didn’t they see to that? Didn’t she do her best to ensure it? Despair tugs at him. What arrogant fool’s quest has he been on, thinking that he could ever regain his sanity when his mind looks like that? By the stars, what kind of monster was he, not driving her away for her own safety? How could he let her waste her life in misguided service to him?

Her hand on his wrist jolts him out of the dark, destructive spiral his thoughts were taking, and he remembers her silent assurance that she knows, and doesn’t care. Of course she knows how broken he is; she probably knows better than he does thanks to her training. Can she fix him? The claustrophobia savages him, reaffirming his decision to not let her know he suspects anything. If he does not know how close he is to freedom, if he fools himself into giving up all hope, it cannot be wrenched from him when she cannot undo ten thousand years of damage. The fear curdling in his belly speaks eloquently of what he might do to her in a fit of despairing, panicked rage if she fails him in this way. No, he has to trust that she can, and have faith that she has faith in herself.

“Even if one of them got through your defenses while you were asleep,” she says gently, “he wouldn’t have been able to do anything constructive. You have to know what something is and what it does before you can change how it works.”

He turns and gathers her into his arms, eyes closed, face buried in her hair, unable to face the ruined mess that is his mind. Worthy servant that she is, the hand that is not trapped between them goes to his horns and slowly, slowly, the motion soothes him enough that he can lower his pathetic barricades and welcome her into the devastated realm of his mind.

Why were you not dismayed to see this the first time we linked? Shame at her seeing how much of a broken mess he is colors his silent words.

I learned about you in my History of Ancient Victories and Defeats class. You’re called the Doom of the First Azeroth Assault because you turned against the Legion after you were supposed to have been a brain-broken puppet and gone crazy on your allies, causing chaos by turning on them before dying of your mental wounds or being killed. She pauses. They didn’t record your name, though, so almost no one knows that the one who took out Tichondrius and became Lord of Outland is the same one who doomed the first attempt to conquer Azeroth. That’s probably why there were any Nathrezim foolish enough to think they could control you secretly if they pretended to join you.

Her devotion warms him like sunlight on his wings, admiration sparkling from her presence in his mind. Somehow, even damaged as he is, she still thinks he is awe-inspiring and worthy of respect. Knowing that she still holds that misplaced hero-worship for him eases some of his pain. No wonder you have been so patient with me.

The hand trapped between them twists until she can lay it flat against his chest. I told you, you don’t have to hide from me.

There is no response he cares to make to that, so he simply holds her and lets her devotion soothe him.

“When do you want your new defenses?” she asks quietly, nudging him out of the pleasant haze he’d fallen into.

Something in her diffident tone makes him think she’s been waiting for this opportunity. Well, if she knew how broken he was already, and is really so devoted to him, might she not have prepared a set of defenses for him already – just in case?

“You have them ready now, don’t you?”

“…yes.”

Do it, he commands silently.

Her presence melds with his as it did when they were playing with the lightning. Guided by her wordless thoughts, he dismantles the crude barricades that had been defending his mind. The fear of being defenseless is thwarted as new gates and barricades are erected as soon as each old one comes down, and her gentle presence whispers to him the secret of opening or closing each one. As much as he thought this would make him feel helpless and pathetic, when the last of his new defenses are in place, he feels…secure. The satisfaction she’s radiating doesn’t hurt, either.

“Were my defenses worrying you, my Champion?” he murmurs, amused at how pleased she is with her work.

She ducks her head against his chest. Yes, she says inside his mind, brazenly unapologetic despite her shy reaction.

The subject of her potentially infiltrating a human mind at his command is a can of worms he has no desire to deal with tonight. “Sleep. Tomorrow morning will be spent overseeing preparations for our trip. I want you packed and ready to go before our bonding session so that you get enough time to rest properly between dinner with your grandparents and leaving at dawn on Week’s Dawn.”

Her excitement sparkles in his mind as she withdraws. “Yes, Kal’shan!”

==================================

He lies awake for a long time, fidgeting with the strange constructs that now guard his mind from intrusion, wondering if they will obey her as easily as they do him. If he has made it easier for her to do whatever it is that she does to him, rather than more difficult. After seeing the horrendous devastation that passes for his mind, however, he swallows the shame and fear. He has to trust her. He needs what she can do, if she can do anything at all to help rebuild his shattered psyche. If he’s even worth the effort of putting him back together.

Irritably, he rolls out of bed and pads over to the scarred and scored section of stone wall, but stops before he can vent his frustration on it. In two days, he will not have the luxury of this release. With a growl, he flings himself back into bed and tries not to brood about how much the trip to the delta is going to erode the little patience he has. Will his Champion turn away from him in horror if he loses control and kills a hapless flunky with his bare hands?

A bark of quiet laughter echoes in the still room. Knowing her, she’ll probably think he’s that much more amazing for such a display of strength. Imagining her look of admiration eases some of the tension knotting inside him, and eventually, he sleeps.