moonshadows

Late that night, unable to sleep with the incessant swarm of anger, pain, and self-doubt louder than ever, he returns to his office and rewinds the security feed. He watches, strangely envious, as she uncovers the plate of cookies and squeals with joy. She eats a few in rapid succession, comments of ‘still warm’ and ‘so good’ slipping out between bites. Despite her fatigue, she hugs herself and dances around a bit, and when she stops, she is facing the recording device. She used seemingly random motion to hide the fact that she knew where the watching eye was concealed. Clever girl.

“Thank you so much! These are my favorite.” The words are in the language of his people.

He pauses the recording and just gazes at her smile for a long minute. He is unaware that one finger is caressing her image on the screen until he sees the talon at the end of it and realizes he has let his illusions slip. They are restored with a snarl as he looks around to ensure that no one who may have seen that lives to speak of it, but the office is empty. As it should be. Anger and irritation surge through him, each one feeding off of the other. He recognizes this spiral of dark emotions and knows from long years of experience that only physical exertion will break the cycle.

He goes to the gym.

With the Warglaives of Azzinoth dancing at his command, slaying imaginary foes, he is able to think again. He’s not a fool; he knows that something happened today. How long had it been since he’d been granted a respite from his hatred, his pain? Sometimes, back in the beginning of his torment, dancing with his blades would provide that release – but that hadn’t worked in thousands of years. The memory of hands on his horns is dragged roughly forward, examined for hidden fangs.

Yes…that was a brief respite from his self-torment. Nothing like he experienced today, whatever that was, but still… He frowns, blades slicing unseen foes. Both times, her touch brought relief – but not simply physical contact. No, nor did it happen when it was he who initiated it. Is it something she is doing – to him?

For the space of a breath he is filled with terror that she might betray him, panic struggling to push her smile out of the deepest parts of his mind. He clings to the memory of her flawless interrogation, holds tight to protect his fragile sanity as he slices the fear and panic into imaginary ribbons.

He wonders what will happen the day the storm finally sweeps him away into the sea of madness that has tried to reclaim him for more than ten thousand years. What will he do to her? Will he make her a prisoner in truth, and repay his jailor’s “kindness” on her innocent flesh?

Will he kill her?

The rhythm of his wardance falters. He stops, eyes closed tightly, as though by doing so he could squeeze the thoughts out of his mind. Slowly, he begins the motions again, focusing solely on the movement until the blades again whirl at his usual speed.

If these brief moments of freedom from himself are something she is doing, then she is valuable to him as more than just a student. For the first time since the door of his prison closed behind-

Whirl. Cut. Block. Slice. Turn.

For the first time since the door of his prison closed, his blind eyes have caught a glimpse of freedom. True freedom, not just the ability to change the location from which he struggles with the shackles of hatred and pain. If she is doing something to bring him temporary relief, then he will let her keep doing that and let the repression which has served him so well deal with the rest….until he is free, of course. Then, there will be a reckoning and she will be held accountable for her actions. But until then…

He chuckles, the sound echoing down from the ceiling to be swallowed up by the rubber that coats the floor. Until then, he will turn a blind eye to whatever it is she may be doing.