moonshadows

She’d like to think that he’s holding her for mushy teenage fantasy reasons, but the whirling storm of blade-thoughts protecting his mind says differently. Whatever’s going on behind that barrier, it can’t be good – not with how tightly he’s holding her. She’s not objecting, though. She stopped getting hugs from her grandmother when she was five, and physical contact was scarce after that.

I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. She wafts gentle reassurance at his mind, diffuse enough that the bladestorm barrier doesn’t just shred it. I’ll never betray you. I’ll never leave you. She relaxes against him, letting him feel her trust in the lines of her body. I know what it’s like to have no one care enough to touch you. His arms shift slightly, from clinging to holding. You are the star around which my whole world revolves.

After what seems like an hour, the blades suddenly slow to a stop and retract. In a flash, she is inside his defenses and frantically checking his mind for new damage. Several new barricades have gone up, and inside them is…fear? He’s isolated the fear-juggernaut built from the ruins of past hopes, the fear that he somehow ruins everything he touches, and trapped it behind jagged walls of bitter self-loathing. On the one hand, she’s dreadfully impressed by his ability to improvise a coping mechanism with his mind so broken. On the other hand, seeing how much he hates himself makes her want to cry for him. Aside from the barriers, however, there doesn’t seem to be any new damage. She pets his sense of responsibility like a dog pierced with crystal shards, brushing at one of the bleeding parts with I’ll never leave you. It whines slightly in confused relief.

She wants to pull that fragment of broken dream out, to patch the hole with I’ll never leave you and toss the fragment behind the barrier along with his fear, but she’s afraid to make too many changes at once. He’s already proved that his mind doesn’t follow the normal rules. She almost pities any dreadlord who might have feigned servitude to him in attempts to infiltrate his mind and reverse the positions of power. Almost, except that the thought of another dreadlord trespassing on his mind brings with it that internal shift to I would do anything that makes her feel like she could be a weapon for him to command if only-

-well, she’s not entirely sure how that thought was going to end. For now, it’s enough to realize that she feels very territorial about his mind. Even though there are no other Nathrezim on this world, and virtually no chance that any will come here, the haphazard defenses of his mind make her nervous.

New plan for the week, she thinks. Design a set of defenses to construct and place around his mind.

She slips out of his mind again as he releases her and steps back. For a moment, he seems to be bracing for something, but she tilts her head in a silent question and he relaxes again.

“I will not return for two days.” The words are not quite an apology. “I have informed my ministers that the process of bonding a tame demon to a new master is lengthy, but that it is nearly complete. In two days, my cabinet will assemble and you will accompany me before the meeting. You will be introduced to each one. I expect you to be silent and reserved, in keeping with the fiction that you are, indeed, tame.”

Her demeanor shifts, and she looks up at him demurely. “Like this, Kal’shan?”

“Yes, like that. You will remain in these rooms for a while longer, leaving only under my orders, until you are no longer a curiosity. However, Joshua can bring you anything you may need. I will send him by in the morning.”

Elation makes her face light up. She beams at him, like he’s just given her some priceless treasure, and he wonders what she has planned – but the abnormally good mood he’s somehow maintained makes it hard for him to be apprehensive. As unusual as it is for him, he trusts her. He needs to get going, though, if he’s going to have any chance of examining this afternoon’s events before they wear off.

One hand drifts up to tentatively feel the surface of his horns. They do feel smoother and, presumably, more attractive to one who is accustomed to such things. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“How often should horns be oiled?” he asks idly. He does not miss the expression on her face; she has the look of someone seeing an opportunity too good to pass up, and grabbing it with both hands.

“Once a week.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Two days,” is all he says.

She watches calmly as he dons his disguise and leaves, but once the door has closed behind him, she flings herself onto the couch and presses a throw pillow against her face to muffle her groan.

Two days. What’s she going to wear?