moonshadows

When the world fades back in, he feels like he should hurt all over – but he doesn’t. Not even his head, which should be throbbing with residual dull pain from the battle with his shattered sanity. It’s been a long time since he had an episode this bad. He doesn’t remember how long, exactly, and he is disinclined to go prodding his wounded recollections to find out, but he remembers that this was not an uncommon occurrence back before his imprisonment. How many times had he lost awareness, locked inside his mind, struggling to force the pieces into some kind of order – and woken up on the floor, or in his borrowed bed, in the company of what he assumed was a beautiful woman under orders to care for him with feigned tenderness?

For a moment, the vertigo returns. He can feel body heat beneath his cheek, and a female hand clasping his. Is he back in Zin-Azshari? Have the last ten thousand years been a hallucination? Then he realizes that the other hand is stroking his horn, not his hair, and remembers where he was when the fit took him. Where he was… and who he was with. He can feel panic trying to stir within him, but it seems to be as relaxed by her hands as the rest of him. With the intoxicating lack of pain lending an alien sort of freedom to his thoughts, he can admit to himself that he trusts his Champion fully. There is a nagging buzz of fear that he shouldn’t – but right now, he can’t remember what reason he could ever have to hide his weakness from her. The fear is dismissed, banished back with the memories of Zin-Azshari, and he turns his strangely effortless thoughts to the question of how to proceed. He marshals his will, ready to keep the conflicting thoughts separate through brute force, but there is no resistance.

He will act like this never happened.

Oh, he won’t deny that something occurred, but he will not display any shame or offer any explanation, secure in the knowledge that she will not pry. Yes, he’ll just get up and-

He doesn’t want to get up. He’s rather enjoying this experience.

“That’s…really soothing. Thank you.” Another time, he would have been surprised to hear gentle gratitude coming out of his mouth. Right now, it doesn’t seem to matter.

“My grandmother used to stroke my horns, when I was little. Before I failed to grow into my father’s power.” Her hand tightens slightly in his. “I know what it’s like to have no one that cares enough to touch you.”

Briefly, he entertains curiosity as to what it would be like to have her this relaxed under his fingers. To play at courting the way the Highborne did, to try his hand at the intricate social dances he was always excluded from, either by birth or by the curse of his eyes. To make the grand gestures that never seemed to impress Tyrande, and watch them have their intended effect on Tessa.

Thinking about Tyrande brings the usual flood of bittersweet emotions, but somehow they’re…gentler. With his Champion’s hand running up one horn, thoughts of Tyrande don’t lead to rage at his brother and he merely drifts in the flow of memory rather than being battered by the rapids. The current brings him inevitably to the truth he’d always turned away from before, knowing that acknowledging it would kill the hope that had nurtured him during his imprisonment: that he will never win Tyrande’s heart. Even numbed as he is, that truth is a dagger in his heart and the pain it brings tears at whatever his Champion has done to spare him the agony he should have been feeling. The hand trapped beneath his chest tightens into a fist and he struggles to keep his breathing even. He will never have Tyrande’s love. The dream he’d fooled himself into believing is a lie, and has been since before the Well was destroyed. Has everything he’s done been pointless? What purpose does his life have, now? He reaches for the rage that has sustained him so many times in the face of despair, but it’s not there. The pain rises, threatening to drown his tattered sanity and smother the will to keep the farce of his existence going.

I like your eyes. The memory of his Champion, dazzled by the orbs of shame that had horrified and repulsed everyone else, emerges out of the tide of despair.

I’m afraid you’ll reject me. Once again he watches as tears run down her cheeks. If the mere thought of not being able to serve him brings her to tears, what would his death do?

No. I won’t let that happen. I’ve ruined too many lives, I won’t ruin hers. The pain recedes, forced back by sheer will. The hypnotic spell of relaxation woven by her touch is broken; he can feel her start as he releases her hand and lurches up onto his knees.

She looks…concerned. Worried. Well, he supposes that seeing him fall to his own instability is reason enough for that. The grim scowl on his face can’t be helping matters, either. As gently as he can, he cups her cheeks with both hands. She doesn’t move, still worried but trusting him completely. At least one of them does; he hasn’t really trusted himself since he had his own eyes. His head dips closer to hers, and he pauses. What, exactly, does he think he’s doing?

He closes the distance and brushes his lips against hers ever so lightly.

I’m making a promise.