moonshadows

He’s lucid enough to know that he’s still asleep, that he didn’t actually wake up to the scent of damp earth in his nostrils. He knows that this is a memory, a dream, a nightmare. He hasn’t been returned to his temporary cell. Sheets, not roots, bind his arms and legs. None of that stops him from swallowing a whimper when the green-gold shape of his brother enters what passed for his field of vision back when his demonic eyes were still new. Of all the memories his subconscious could torment him with, this is one of the worst. Briefly, he considers playing along, expending some of his anger at the perfect target the memory of his twin makes, but it would be like handling hot coals with blistered hands. He hurts, and rage only makes the hurt worse. He’s tired of hurting. The memory will play whether he acts out his part or not, so he tries to ignore it…but he can’t.

“Back for more, brother?” he hears himself smarm.

Pompously, the memory of his twin announces, “There’s been a trial.”

“Why should I care?”

“Because it was yours.”

Repetition has robbed the words of none of their edge. His dream self sneers, “So what did this trial decide?” but he’s too busy bleeding at the reminder that he wasn’t even given the courtesy of being there when his fate was decided, and the stinging uncertainty that he’d never know which way his twin had argued, or how vehemently.

“You’re to be imprisoned until either the demons come back, or you stop being a danger to everyone around you.”

This time, he does play his role. “What did I do?” he begs the memory of Malfurion, anguished at the possibility that he could have hurt someone he cared about in one of his fits of insanity, pleading for the answer he knows he won’t get. The raw, uncertain panic distracts him from the knowledge of where this memory leads, and the next words hit him with all of their original force.

“You’re a monster, Illidan!”

He wants to howl in wordless denial at being so cruelly rejected by his brother, his twin, his other half, his only flesh and blood. Silently, his mind cries out for some kind of relief, some scrap of pity in the universe, something to spare him the rest of the memory. He almost doesn’t see it, except that the slender, void-dark form steps defiantly between his dream self and the glow of his twin’s soul.

“He’s not a monster!” the image of his Champion declares, hurling the words at the memory of Malfurion in a defiant challenge, daring him to do his worst. The lines of her body speak of her willingness to fight in his defense until no breath remains in her body – and then resurrect and come back to keep fighting. The break from the way this nightmare usually goes is startling, enough so that he finds himself awake, tangled in the bedclothes.

In all the fuss over how she’d known that being called a monster genuinely hurt, somehow he’d overlooked the fact that his young Champion had been ready to strike down, in his defense, the people who had been kind to her. People that he would be meeting tonight. People who he could not just terrify into obedience if his temper started slipping, not if he wished to continue bathing in his Champion’s adoration. Even if she did not turn from him for that, he would not be able to look her in the eyes. Already the irritation crawls through his thoughts like scuttling vermin he cannot reach to squash. Once, the simple act of spending a few hours in the company of other people would not have been a gauntlet of psychological torture, something to be endured or avoided. Hadn’t he spent hours discussing magic with young Kael’thas, or the history of his people, or the current state of the world? Hadn’t he spent long nights reminiscing with Lady Vashj about the cities that no longer were, and listening to how the naga had been born from the drowned ruins of Zin’Azshari? What had gone wrong?

Groaning, he presses the heels of his hands to his eye sockets, once again feeling the lines of embroidery that cover the silk. This had always been the worst part; coming back to himself after a period of insanity and wondering what he’d done, trying to discover how much damage had been inflicted on his reputation and if anything could be salvaged. A chuckle whispers through the dark room. How fortunate for him that he chose to invade the mountains when he did; if he had not, he might have been too far gone for his Champion to fix even this much. There is no doubt in his mind that he is significantly more stable than he had been a month ago, not when he is able to objectively look at those recent memories in the same way that he views the memories of Outland, when his stability was nearly nonexistent. For that matter, even the fact that he can examine some of those memories without being overcome by regret and rage for what had transpired back then hints that he is actually regaining his sanity rather than just holding onto what little of it he has left. Maybe…

He takes a deep breath and stands, wings spread slightly in an unconscious gesture of challenge at odds with his unclothed state. Maybe he can do this after all. He will have the benefit of the good mood that follows having his horns oiled; that should at least negate the anxiety he’s already staving off, both about tomorrow’s trip to the delta and the minefield of tonight’s social interaction. With a bit of effort, he puts the whole thing out of his mind for the time being. It will be hours before he has to face that particular trial, and worrying about it will only make his Champion’s job that much harder.

And, whispers a corner of his mind, maybe she’ll see what’s wrong, and fix it.