Looking Through Your Eyes

[Lady Alainn]

Pencaliel would have understood instantly what Malachi meant about his father, but Kolmar knew not the extent to which the Sidhe had his fingers embedded into his son. His father? What about his father? Had the looks of someone drawn out a painful memory? Had the enclosed space sent him into the recesses of his mind? The dwarf could not know that the Sidhe had direct access to his son and still punished him through that dark link, for in his short acquaintance with the mismatched group, no one had enlightened him to this fact.

If he had known, rage would have burned in the depths of his belly and fueled his blood for a taste for vengeance. He would have realized that his fondness for the lad wasn't just friendly or out of mere curiosity, but it had grown considerably into a father-like protection for his son. A real father for the essentially fatherless young man. But Kolmar did not know, could not know, in fact. And so Malachi's admission only made Kolmar's brow knit in mild confusion and the great dwarf wondered what could have possibly triggered the male so negatively.

However, even without knowing exactly what had caused the dragonkin to panic, he could see clearly that Malachi was not fine. He had pulled himself together, true. He had regained his fragile hold on himself, again, true. His gaze had lost its ferocity, yet again, true. But even though he outwardly looked as fine as he ever had, there was still something boiling within him and Kolmar could sense it as easily as he could see the feathers shifting along Malachi's wings. The dwarf didn't press it, though, just like he didn't respond to the dragonkin's colourful language. His head tilted slightly in question and his lips pressed into a thin line until one could see nothing but beard. Something wasn't right with the lad, but until he knew what it was, the dwarf wouldn't begin to address it. For the moment, it was enough that he knew something was up. He grunted, a hint of disbelief in its tone, and gave the dragonkin a somewhat awkward but affectionate pat on the back-- awkward only because he did not want it to accidentally trigger any other dramatic displays.

"Well, come on then, lad. I think we all could use a sit-down. Perhaps the storm will move on by the time we're ready to depart. There's nothing like traipsing around the mountain after a good rain. It feels so alive."

So saying, his hand dropped to retrieve the bloody cloth from Malachi and stuff it into a pocket. At that moment, he was very glad he had thought to slip fingerless gloves over his hands to hide the deep claw-marked scabs on his knuckles. It would never do if they both showed up bearing wounds. The three men fell into an easy silence and walked the short distance with purpose to the pub. Kolmar had things to ponder now, Hoomite rarely spoke anyway, and Malachi was obviously ready for a drink.

---

Unlike the ambassador's suite which was an outer chamber with windows to the outside world, the pub was an interior chamber deeper in the mountain's core with no windows and only one dismal little skylight in the middle of the ceiling. The great mirrors positioned along the tunnels between the levels had more important places to bring natural light to and so the light filtering into the tavern was minimal at best. On a night like tonight with such thunderclouds, it was practically nonexistent. The lightning flickered no more than a customer striking a match to light a pipe.

That wasn't to say there was no light, though. Torches surrounded carved pillars, sconces decorated the walls, and large braziers hung suspended from the ceiling shedding light into every corner of the establishment. Lanterns sat at each table and small oil lamps illuminated the booths lining the walls. Even the bar, which was situated at the back wall, had candles spaced across the counter top.

Hoomite ducked into the pub first, his head just missing the rafters even with his shoulders stooped. There were a few patrons here tonight with nothing better to do on a nasty night than socialize and drink until the racket of the storm abated. Laughter wafted over the rafters, tankards clanked and were followed by raucous cheers. Kolmar gently tapped Malachi on the elbow and gestured towards an empty booth on the far left wall. Most of the customers sat at the counter or occupied the tables in front of the bar. A few couples and lonely souls populated the other booths, but they were for the most part empty. Perfect for a skittish dragonkin and an unsociable giant. Hoomite grunted in agreement and led the way to the booth while Kolmar pressed on to order a few drinks from the barkeep.

In short time, the dwarf was back with three tankards balanced in his broad hands. He passed the largest one across the table to Hoomite [who took up an entire side of the booth] and a small tankard of weak cider to the dragonkin before sliding onto the bench with his own tankard of mead.

"To the Druid's health," Kolmar declared gallantly, raising his mug in a toast. Hoomite followed suit. "May she quickly recover and never lose that sweet smile from her eyes."

 

[Kaisaan]

The contact, much as it might have startled the dwarf to know, was actually welcomed by Malachi. It surprised even him so that he could only nod at Kolmar's words, following behind in equal silence, but his mind moving rapidly with thought behind his eyes. Why hadn't Kolmar pressed? He knew the other male wanted answers. The Child might not have seen it, might be able to simply accept the kindness and help, but the Man was far more cynical, far more observant. He knew the way of the world - you didn't get anything without giving something in return. He'd known it upon entering Pencaliel's forest and he knew it even now...though, the resolved belief was not quite as intact as it had once been. In fact...it was more in tatters since meeting Pencaliel than anything else, but he clung to it anyway. He didn't know any other way. That was one advantage the Child had over him that the Man wasn't even aware of yet; the Child could accept the new whereas the man instantly distrusted it.

Such was the reason he struggled with this body's instinctive trust of Kolmar's touch while his mind warned him against it. The whole situation confused him and he strove to push it away for that reason, but it refused to leave him alone entirely and Malachi found himself watching the dwarf closely as they moved into the tavern. It was only then that he looked away and at his surroundings. The strange thing was that as the half-blood observed all around him, he didn't react much more than to draw his wings even closer against his back and avoid touching anyone. The truth was that the noise didn't faze the Man within Malachi. He had experienced far worse in his father's court and during those times he'd usually been part of the entertainment.

No, being tucked into a booth - no matter how awkward the positioning was with his wings - was perfectly fine with Malachi. It kept him from feeling so many eyes on him, though they didn't seem to be looking anyway, allowed him to see all around him and it meant he was not going to be taken by surprise. Kolmar was right as well - here in the tavern the storm was all by nonexistent and he felt one less pressure upon his mind for that fact. Out of sight was usually out of mind for the Child and that side of Malachi quieted down without any true stimulation to rouse it. That left only the Animal for the Man to contend with, but even that side of him was rather disinclined to cause problems, warily watching everything but strangely trusting of the company the half-giant and the dwarf made.

It was the Man, this time, that couldn't quite relax and while he raised his glass in agreement with Kolmar's toast to Pencaliel, he didn't speak and upon taking a drink of the cider, put it right back down again without picking it up again. He wasn't used to this and didn't like it - being unsure of himself, but he felt it now. Keenly.

The lie he'd told Kolmar and the subsequent shame it had brought lingered, and with it's memory came the refusal for the one containing his father to depart. Malachi was unsure which bothered him more for they both seemed to tie into each other. What he did know was that he felt restless with the silence that had come over the three - it wasn't like the comfortable silence that had stayed with them as they'd gone to the lift, rather it was tense, but not hostile. Merely...uncomfortable. Malachi didn't like it and certainly didn't know what to do about it, or what to do with himself during it.

Considering that, it was not surprising that he turned to an old habit, self-damaging and unhealthy as it was, and began to pick at the fresh wounds on one palm with the claws of his other hand. He was hardly aware of what he was truly doing and the pain was nothing more than small sparks of warning, not enough to deter him. In fact, it almost seemed to be the pain he was after. It was distracting.

 

[Lady Alainn]

Nothing slid down the throat quite like Sigurn's Bearded Molly Mead. Brewed from the finest orange-blossom honey in Gladrihaven, the principle seat of the Widegirths, and the golden yeast nurtured in Naazgard's own two-storey greenhouse located on the upper levels, and carefully refined in the Naazgard brewery located in the lower levels, Bearded Molly Mead could curl the toes of even the most seasoned of drinkers and grow chest hair on newling babes. The honey-wine earned its name from an ale-tasting contest held at the world-renowned Harvestfeast Festival and Faire some six or seven hundred years ago in the human town of Darrowdell. As the story goes, the Chief Councilman, the Vice-Chief, and the Chief Councilman's eldest daughter sat as the judges and all of them walked away with a full set of whiskers any dwarf would be proud of-- including the daughter! Of course, the poor lass lost all of her suitors [Men are notorious for their aversion to facial hair on their females] and eventually married a prominent Flatfoot where her beard became the envy of every dwarf woman south of the Kivan Deserts. That, unfortunately, started a trend which still continues to this day among women of the Flatfoot and Fleetfoot clans.

To Kolmar, sipping this sweet nectar in its native home made up for all of the tedious legalities and frustrating rigamaroles in Naazgard, and he now relished in the smooth liquid slipping so easily past his lips and into his belly. One might venture a guess that he owed a great deal to this queen of all brews, including the finely curled chest hairs poking rebelliously from the loose yoke of his tunic. After indulging himself with a long sip, the dwarf finally set the tankard down with a dull, reverberating thud on the thick wood and looked over to see how the dragonkin was faring with his beverage...

...which was surprisingly, and also not so surprisingly, not very well.

Kolmar had picked the least alcoholic beverage on the menu for the lad. Not knowing if he'd ever had a drink before, let alone a stiff one, the dwarf had felt safest selecting a barely tainted, and perfectly harmless, apple cider. Besides, Malachi was hard enough to predict and protect without the help of alcohol. They needed him in as much control over his senses as possible with just a hint of dullness to soothe his ruffled edges. His drink didn't even look touched, though. Kolmar didn't know how anyone could not like the smooth cider. Soft, yet harsh. Mellow, but biting. Thick and yet it washed down so easily. Then again, he supposed there was some sentimental attachment to it on his part. It was the first drink his father had introduced him to as a young lad.

One little corner of his mouth pulled upwards at the fond memory. Ah, young Kolmar, he'd been almost sodden by the end of that evening. Almost, but not quite, for no man had the constitution of Kolmar nor such a belly for strong drink. Kolmar-- the only dwarf to ever best a giant in a drinking contest and still walk away. Oh, he wasn't proud of the title [well, maybe a wee bit] but it was still entertaining to think back on and pull out as one of his many accomplishments. Sometimes it even came in handy, such as when he found himself negotiating with trolls or a stubborn-headed dragon.

Thinking of dragons, just what was the fluffy lad staring so intently at if not his drink? A quick look told the dwarf the lad was occupying himself with--

"Stop that!" Kolmar demanded with a quick elbow jab to Malachi's arm. His lips twisted in a mild grimace at the flakes of crusty blood falling onto the table. Apparently, table manners were not a part of the dragonkin's childhood education. He couldn't fault the lad for that, though. Malachi's upbringing was far from pleasant and animals truly wouldn't know better. But Malachi was not an animal and so these things needed to be pointed out to him. A gentler tone took hold as the dwarf explained, "You're in public, lad, picking like that is unseemly. Actually, there is never an appropriate time to do that. They'll never heal if you keep digging at them."

His blue eyes grew more serious as they regarded the young man next to him. "What other sores do you have, lad? I wonder..." he mused out loud. "What else is in there," he gestured to the dragonkin's chest with a nod of his head, "that you keep digging open? Or do you pick on the outside to ignore that which is festering on the inside? Or is it a little bit of both? Hm? If you need to talk, my boy, I'm always here."

Then his brow unfurled and Kolmar good-naturedly nudged Malachi's arm again with his elbow. "Drink up now, lad! The lot down by the bar look about red enough to start a sing-off and some of them are bloody awful. You'll want something to deaden the noise a wee bit."

 

[Kaisaan]

Surprisingly enough, it was not the abrupt contact from Kolmar's elbow that caused the tense, alert flight or fight response in Malachi, but the dwarf's tone. It was perhaps a good thing that Kolmar voice was so firm and rather loud, though, as it drowned at the swift and instant snarl that had risen into the half-blood's throat. He gold eyes had dilated in seconds, his claws ceasing their activity not because of command but for the very simple reason that they were tempted to twitch from their docile place on the table into flesh instead. The reaction was not thought out, nor a conscious one on Malachi's part - not until Kolmar continued speaking and his logical mind caught up to his instinct. The Man getting a hold on the Animal again....sort of. The inclination to draw blood had not purely been from the Animal. The Man was far more prone to violence, too.

Still, Kolmar was not deserving of such a reaction and Malachi suppressed it, taking a breath and relaxing his hands as the dwarf continued to lecture in his caring, but gruff way. Gold eyes looked away from the piercing dark ones, unsure what to say about what he'd been doing....and then driven speechless still when the other male only continued to speak, this time the topic far more serious than his abused hands. Malachi's gaze snapped to meet Kolmar's as he listened, an intensity and yet unreadable expression having settled over his features. He continued to watch the dwarf long after Kolmar decided to lighten the mood again.

Malachi listened silently before looking back to his drink and picking it up. There was no hesitation this time as he nearly threw the liquid to the back of his throat, neither pausing or stopping until the cider was gone. Setting the cup back down again without much of a sound, Malachi wished in that moment he could truly afford to get completely drunk. Cider was hardly going to touch his threshold when it came to alcohol and this was hardly his first time drinking. Sometimes doing so had been the only way to escape the pain - literally - and he'd learned at a rather young age how to hold his own. The half-blood had also learned that there was a time and a place to lose yourself in the drink, though, and he could recognize the difference.

Like you can recognize friend from foe? All it takes is a reminder of your father to bring out the demon within you.

The darkness was a mere whisper, but not surprising, hardly that to the Man as he tightened his jaw, knowing very well how this played out; like it had played out nearly every waking day of his existence. His way of handling it was different than the Child's, though. He would not curl up and hope it went away, suffering its abuse. Rather he fought it and therefore brought pain upon himself, but at least he didn't submit, didn't cower in fear. He handled it.

Soft, wispy sounds of laughter ignited at the thought. Like you're handling this? Just what do you think the dwarf would say, do, if he knew just what kind of corruptions lurks deep down inside you? You know the way he looked at you when you killed those trolls. You could taste the fear, the trust that was so quickly gone. What would he say if he knew you can't even keep your father out of your head?

Malachi's claws had found the wood of the table and while he wasn't leaving gauges or lined-marks, the talons were starting to curl into the wood, to leave holes even in the tough material. He was barely holding in a growl and slowly he closed his eyes, feeling the headache developing behind said eyes. Dragons above, he needed a stronger drink.

The thought saw him looking to Kolmar, fully prepared to say just that, but upon meeting the dwarf's dark eyes, the words died on his tongue and he found himself saying something else - blurting it, really - instead as it seemed light sparked in his mind, driving away the shadows for even just a moment, giving him room to breathe. It was in the moment that he understood what he needed to do, no matter how the Child within him recoiled in fear of it and the Man himself was unsure of the idea. "My Father. I can hear him....feel him. He has a dark power that connects him to me, to my thoughts. He's always there, always trying to use me, bring me under his control. When I resist...he brings pain. That's what happened in the lift." Saying it, Malachi felt the building pressure in his skull abate somewhat and the darkness was silent, blessedly so.

What power did it have in the presence of truth, when the lie he'd told was taken out of their control?

Malachi was only relieved not to hear them, but his attention was on Kolmar now and a different kind of tension settled over him in the seconds that followed his statement; a readiness to guard himself should the dwarf react badly and yet a strange kind of faith, of knowing, that Kolmar would not dishonor himself in such a way. It was strange to the half-blood; he didn't necessarily trust that Kolmar was kind to him just for the sake of it, still suspecting the dwarf wanted something in return, but there was no doubt in his mind that he respected the other male a great deal. That was the Man's voice, however. The Child was far different, inwardly alarmed at what might transpire, his fear strong enough that it showed faintly in the gold eyes that regarded Kolmar, dreading being rejected.

 

[Lady Alainn]

The last thing Kolmar had expected was for Malachi to take him up on his offer-- especially here of all places. Not that he minded the dragonkin opening up, he meant every word he'd said, even if they had only been thoughts which had been loosened a smidgeon by the mead. No, Kolmar was honoured, pleased that the dragonkin had decided to trust him. He was merely taken aback by Malachi's willingness to talk so easily in such a public place. In front of Hoomite. Malachi wasn't prone to words, not around Kolmar at least, but maybe something from the compassionate dwarf was getting through to the dragonkin. Perhaps a lifeline of some sort, and the lad was finally grasping onto it to climb more fully into the light.

But the answer came completely unexpected.

Kolmar's brow furrowed and expression darkened at the lad's words, shock being his initial reaction and anger quickly falling in behind. He knew only a few things about the fae kind, and even fewer things about the dark fae. The abilities associated with their magical prowess were not one of them. Around them, the din of the tavern melted into a void so loud the silence hurt Kolmar's ears. Gone was the laughter, the jokes, the clomp, clomp, clomp of a dwarf's boots as he clambered up onto a table behind them to start the sing-offs with a few lines. Malachi's words chilled the air around him, falling hushed and yet like sharpened daggers upon the overly sensitive ears of the older dwarf. They sent a shiver down Kolmar's spine, though not one of fear, just... unease.

If Malachi's father had a direct link to his son, a magical tie into his head, what couldn't he do to the lad? He'd seen the way the dragonkin had cracked in the lift, the brief stint of madness that had tried to take root in his clear eyes. And this was always present? This was the doing of his father? Back at the cave, the nightmare, the clear madness then, had that been him, too?

Torture, chaos, punishment, pain, all of it concentrated on one task, one goal alone: breaking the half-blood. And it never released its hold from Malachi. The dragonkin could never escape it, not if it was in his head. It would chase him wherever he fled, hound him wherever he found peace. Nekia's words from the day before shoved their way into the foreground of Kolmar's thoughts:

"They need Malachi to control and obtain this power. However, he must do it willingly for them, but he refuses and has since he was young. There have been times he has slipped-up, times when the pain and the despair nearly broke him completely, but in the end, he still says no, he still resists."

How long before Malachi would give in? It was inevitable. ...inevitable as long as that link existed between father and son. Even Kolmar could not be sure he could resist forever such a constant threat. And if Kolmar couldn't...

They needed to find a way to snap that connection, both for Malachi's sake and the sake of all that was good in this world. And if they couldn't? No, he would not think about that. It wasn't an option.

As if breaking free from a trance, sound crashed down upon his ears and his surroundings came back into focus. Hoomite hunched across the table from him, the half-breed's craggy features as stoic as ever as he stared into the shimmering, white beverage before him. Then slowly, ever so slowly, Hoomite lifted his mug, tilted his head back, and emptied some of the thick, oozing Frosted Rum. His lips clamped shut, his jaw stiffly working up and down as he crunched on the frozen particles. Munch, munch, swallow. It never ceased to amaze the dwarf just how long it took one of giant kind to make it through a drink.

Kolmar shook his head and turned his gaze upon Malachi next, his expression far softer than it had been while his thoughts had stormed about his head. "Here, lad," he cupped his hand around his tankard and slid the Bearded Molly over to the dragonkin. "I think you need a swig of this more than I do."

Pause.

"And thank you."

 

[Kaisaan]

Kolmar's reaction was not what Malachi had expected....not that he really knew what to expect at all. He'd not planned to speak and even now was starting to regret it. Hadn't he learned well enough that to talk was to draw unwanted attention? If he was silent there was less risk of being singled out. Such a lesson had been learned well enough in his father's courts. There had been hours, a day or two even, when he'd been so subdued he'd felt almost invisible and he'd been left alone. It was those moments he'd striven for, had cherished growing up.

Now it was simply a self-defense mechanism. That he'd broken it was uncharacteristic and it instantly put the half-blood on edge, waiting for the consequences he'd just invited upon himself.

The Child saw the anger and immediately cowered away, so completely afraid that the negative emotion was aimed toward him. The younger side of Malachi was only able to see the threat of such a reaction - not the true intent of it. The Man, however, was far different. He watched the dwarf closely, guarded but not beyond seeing what was really happening in the other male's gaze. The anger wasn't directed at him, something he could recognize, but that didn't mean it didn't shock him beyond words. No, the rage in Kolmar's expressive dark eyes was not aimed AT him, but FOR him and THAT...was something Malachi could barely fathom.

Gold eyes, piercing and sharp, studied the dwarf with clear question in their depths as Kolmar passed the mead to him. He didn't understand why he was being thanked, why the other male was being patient, kind, understanding to him at all. He'd done nothing for the dwarf, had given him nothing. If anything, Malachi had been nothing but trouble for the noble being. Why would Kolmar....reward that?

It was confusing, something the Man couldn't wrap his system around. All he knew was distrust, defensiveness, cunning, aggression and how to follow the 'rules' that would amount in the least amount of pain and attention from those who caused it. He knew how to silently defy those he hated and he knew how to separate the strength within him, the core of who he was from outside forces. What he didn't understand was how to accept kindness, comfort or love. Pencaliel had started to touch on the shield he kept between him and the world, creating little cracks, but the Child had taken over before she'd gotten far along.

Now Kolmar was attempting to do the same, whether the dwarf knew it or not, and the results would be rather interesting.

The dragonkin's gaze finally moved away from the other male, wanting to know what drove the dwarf to his actions, but his tongue still, not voicing the questions. Instead his gold eyes were drawn to the Bearded Molly and it was without hesitation that Malachi raised it to his mouth. It hit his palate soon after and he knew immediately by the taste alone that given enough of this he could be drunk in no time at all. The thought was more tempting than anyone could know. The liquid was smooth as it slid down his throat, but the aftertaste was swift to follow, strong and bittersweet. As he lowered the mug, Malachi's wings jerked, the feathers pulling tightly together and he coughed once, twice before looking down at the drink and taking another swig. He could feel the affect almost immediately; a warmth that curled through his stomach and seemed to flow out from there into his fingertips and toes. It was hardly drunk, not even quite a buzz yet, but Malachi knew it could easily become one.

A hint of a smile touched his lips as he slid the mug back over to Kolmar, giving a slight nod. This time when he spoke it was hardly a lie. "It's good."

 

[Lady Alainn]

Chuckling at Malachi's reaction to the strong brew, the dwarf reached out to protectively wrapped his hand around the tankard lest the dragonkin change his mind about taking another sip. The lad's pale cheeks had pinked slightly with just two shots of the stuff and there was no telling what a third might do. Even he didn't drink too much Bearded Molly in one sitting anymore. Once a dwarf has swung on a chandelier, he really doesn't want to repeat the experience, and Kolmar had seen such behaviour while under the influence of Bearded Molly enough times that he did not want to ever put himself in that position. Or his charge for that matter. Though, to have Malachi loose enough to....

No. As hilarious a picture as a hiccuping bird swinging from the rafters made, it was not wise.

Kolmar hid his snort of laughter by clearing his throat and finished the last little bit quickly before slamming the mug down onto the table. He could not trust such a loose cannon as a loaded dragonkin, nor would that be good for the lad in any capacity. While such a state might have induced Malachi to talk more freely-- and Kolmar got the feeling that the dragonkin's walled dam needed to come down with a good vent soon-- the possible negative consequences far out-weighed anything good that might be accomplished. If they talked, when they talked, the dwarf wanted Malachi coherent and receptive. Bearded Molly was not the way to a well-meaning, in-depth conversation. In fact, it had quite the opposite affect. His own cheeks were quite rosy by this point, and his eyes glazed over with a fuzzy film, but he was no more than pleasantly buzzed. Perhaps also a little off-balance and exceptionally lighthearted-- the perfect state to not wince and grind teeth at the few toneless compositions wafting their way from the bar.

It was no wonder, then, that when Kolmar gathered the two empty tankards to return them, he readily agreed to the insistent inquiries to join in the sing-off with his rumbling baritone.

A couple choruses later, Hoomite locked eyes with the merry dwarf from across the tavern and nodded his head towards the skylight. Kolmar followed his gaze and noted it didn't seem quite as dark as it had during the storm. Still dim, but not the darkness from thick, black thunderheads. Good, they could head back. He hopped down off the table and worked his way past the guffawing and grateful, congratulatory back-slapping of the participating dwarves. Now was a good time to leave, anyway. One always should leave when they've reached the height of their popularity.

He trudged back to the booth and leaned heavily on the table, his gaze directed towards Malachi. "Looks like the storm has abated. Shall we head back to the womenfolk now?"

---

Morning came a little too early for Pencaliel. At least, she assumed it was morning. Her blankets were wrapped so tightly around her body that she really couldn't move. It must have been a restless night. She didn't feel like she'd gotten any sleep and her eyes refused to open much past a squint. Mala was still on her bed, though, so it must not be much past dawn. No wonder she still felt tired-- it was so early!

Yawning, the little elf maid rolled towards the familiar form and snuggled against him. "Good morning," she mumbled groggily into the blankets. "What time is it?"

No answer.

She frowned. He didn't even so much as stir. Wiggling in closer, Pencaliel tried again. "Mala?" Still nothing. He was definitely here, though. His body stretched out across the bed and a wing tip draped over top of her. But something was missing... his warmth. No matter how close she pressed against his body, she still felt coldness. And he was stiff. Growing in alarm, the elf tried to fight her way out of the swarm of blankets.

"Mala!" she shrieked. "Mala, wake up!"

The blankets only wrapped tighter around her, strangling her attempts to free herself. A push here, a shove there. Mala's body lay just as peacefully as it had beside her, no movement, no stirring. Pencaliel rolled this way and that, crying and calling out his name, but to no avail. She fought, she struggled, she landed on top of him, her head just poking out from the covers, coming face-to-face...

...with the lidless, sightless eyes...

...of the pale man's dead dragonkin.

His features were fixed into a look of rage and pain, his forehead smashed in by rock, his lips twisted and snarling in a stifled shout, fangs leering.

She screamed, a bloodcurdling scream, until her lungs ached from the pressure and her voice petered out from the strain on her vocal chords.

Then...

Laughter. Quiet at first, but growing stronger as her cry weakened into a hoarse croak.

"I see someone has been a very naughty, wicked little girl," a voice oozed from outside her cocoon of blankets. But they weren't blankets. Her beautiful, new nightgown had been torn into shreds, long strips of silk binding her wrists to an iron ball on the floor, allowing very minimal movement. Slowly, her surroundings made impressions on her mind and tore away the safety and comfort of the green, forest-like bedroom. She wasn't in Kolmar's house at all, but a cave. And creeping towards her with a paleness that somehow defied the darkness of his heart, was the pale man.

What had happened? Where was Mala? Nekia? Kolmar? How had the pale man gotten into the city past the dwarves? What was she doing here? It was too real, too much like the last time for her to dismiss it as merely a nightmare. Only this time, Pencaliel knew Mala had not betrayed her. If anything, it meant they had stayed too long in one place and the pale man had found them. He had found her in her little bedroom and slipped her out while everyone was occupied and no one had noticed...

Fear threatened to take root in Pencaliel's heart at the mere sight of him. She could feel her body shrinking into the numb, comatose state it had slipped into the first time she had awoken in this situation. No, not again, he could not play her like that again! The Druid strained against it even as her wrists strained against their restraints. With great effort, she twisted herself off of the body of the dragonkin, and because she had nothing to brace herself with, hit the harsh, stone floor hard. Pain flared up in her side but she bit her lip to the keep the whimper lodged in her throat. Rolling fully onto her stomach, the elf inched her body to her knees and faced the pale man squarely.

"What do you want?"

The pale man laughed, his voice dripping with a poisonous honey. "Want? I would think that would be obvious by now. I want Malachi to be a good little boy, but you are being a bad, bad influence on him. Just look at what you did here... tsk, tsk, tsk... is that any way for a child of the light to behave?" As he spoke, the pale man crouched down next to the body of the dragonkin and ran the tips of his fingers down its cheek. "He was my favourite, this one. So obedient, such a slave. Malachi could have learned a thing or two from this one, what a dragonkin should feel towards a Sidhe. How to be a proper Scatha." The fingers wandered the short distance to Pencaliel's wrists, black tendrils swirling around the digits as they travelled to the faint remnant of her bracers etched into her tan line.

Shivering at the contact, Pencaliel could not stifle the whimper that came this time and yanked even harder against her restraints. "You can't get away with this! You can't touch me! I belong to the Creator!" Even as she spoke, she could sense the wildness overtaking her again, her muscles steeling themselves for the spasms of pain that were surely about to come.

"If you belong to Him, then tell me, child, how could you be so very wicked as to kill my pet? Hm? There is a darkness in you, isn't there?" His fingers changed course and settled on her waist to continue their walk up her side, first the one landing on her soft flesh peeking through a tatter in her nightgown and scorching her nerves, then the second following with a deep, penetrating sear that pierced through bone, back to the first for a lover's stroke. Pencaliel wanted to tear herself away, even just to twitch her muscles voluntarily, but his pale, violet eyes hypnotized her into a stone-like captivity.

"You remember these feelings, don't you?" he continued with a smirk. "You enjoy the pain. You want more caresses. It whets your appetite, doesn't it? You naughty, naughty, girl. So filthy. So dark. You even killed a man of your own free will. Such a cold, terrible, dark beauty..."

She leaned into his touch, a quiet moan on her lips. She couldn't help herself. His words coaxed and caressed her even as his fingers delivered agonizing shoots of pain. And... it made sense. He made sense. Why would she have such feelings if she were a true Child of the Light? They were all wrong, all so very wrong... Pencaliel gasped and cried out as another jolt of pain brought her to her hands and knees. However, it also brought her to her senses.

"No! I was cleansed!" the Druid shouted back, jerking away from him once more. "I was cleansed after! He knew! He knew and He told me...!" she continued backing as far away from him as possible. "He told me I was still pure! I AM a light! You cannot snuff me out! I have faith! You cannot touch me! I have faith! I AM Faith! I have faith!" Reaching out with her magic, the Druid grasped the energy from the stones beneath her and yanked herself free from the iron ball even as she infused the stone with tremors to knock the pale man away.

"I have faith!"

---

In the bedroom, safely tucked away in Kolmar's house, the little elf rolled about on the stone floor at the end of the bed. The quilt on top had bunched into a lump on the one side. Her sheets had wrapped around her wrists and her nightmare of a fight had carried her over the foot board of the bed, holding her captive in them. "Faith!" her thick, sleepy, panic-induced voice called out from underneath them as she struggled. "Faith! ....faith!" One good yank saw her free of them.

"Faith!"

 

[Kaisaan]

Listening to Kolmar sing had been far more entertaining, distraction and soothing than Malachi would have every assumed it could be. He'd watched the other male through rather tranquil eyes, looking for all the world like a lazy cat in the booth, chin on his arms and golden gaze intent. He wasn't without tension, aware of everything going on around him, alert to any potential threat, but he was quiet, stable for the moment. When it came time to leave, however, he was ready to do so, longing to check on Pencaliel and to sleep. He was far more tired than he'd expected to be, but considering the day he'd had....it made sense.

The half-blood nodded his assent to the dwarf and then blessed the other male when they headed not for the lift, but the mountain path. It would be dark and wet, but it wouldn't be confining, wouldn't be underground and he was appreciative of Kolmar's thoughtfulness on the matter. He'd opened his mouth to say so - or rather just to say thank you and hope the dwarf knew what he meant - as they came outside, but it never made it past his mind into speech as the feeling struck.

It shot through him like electricity, intimate with familiarity, painful as it streaked down his spine and exploded through his head. A shrieking whisper, a powerful knowledge he could not give origin to, but he knew it. Knew and didn't challenge as gold eyes shimmered with light, glowed with it even as his pupils dilated and his body grew tense like a coiled spring, head jerking upward. As if he'd been called by a whistle, the half-blood bolted moment's later, an arrow shot from a string. There was no explanation, no warning, no awareness of anything around him. There was only the need to get to his destination, a driving force that cared not for rules or protocols or company. It sang through his mind, through his blood and like a tether, it pulled at him, leading Malachi up the mountain path at a speed that was almost terrifying in its intensity and abandon to safety.

His wings flared as he came to the first set of steep steps, intending to fly, but a strong gust of wind nearly knocked him into the stone of the mountain at his side and without pause he gave up the idea, folding the white appendages tightly to his back and instead racing up the abandoned mountain path once more. The dark didn't hinder him, but the slippery stone caused him to fall repeatedly in his haste. It didn't stop the half-blood, though, nor did the pain of what would be severely bruised shins, knees, hips and ribs slow him. When blood finally broke his skin, presently covered by his leggings, he didn't so much as look down, a possessed creature in his determination to reach his goal.

Pencaliel.

Her voice, her scream, her distress echoed within him like a heartbeat hammering through his entire being. He had to reach her. Protect her. Tear apart anything that threatened her. For once in his lifetime, all three of his selves were in agreement; Pencaliel was all that mattered. In that moment there was such clarity the likes of which he'd never experienced before and later Malachi would reflect on that, but for now it was an obscure fact that didn't matter.

His little elf did. He didn't need the rumbling mountain to tell him that.

--

It was the scream, bloodcurdling and shrill with terror, that woke Nekia from her light sleep. The book she'd been reading dropped to the ground as she sprang from her chair, looking first for the danger, quickly finding none. She hadn't expected to, though. She would have sensed its malevolent presence long before it could harm Pencaliel and it hadn't been pain from the young elf in her cry, but fear, horror. There was only one reason for that.

A nightmare.

Knowing such a thing helped the Angel to calm and she approached the bed with every intention of soothing the Druid, waking her if necessary...but found herself stopped. It was not a physical presence that stilled her body, nor an audible voice, but rather a message passed silently between servant and Creator, for only Nekia's spirit to hear.

Not yet.

Nekia appeared stricken, her eyes taking in Pencaliel's struggling form, her body jerking forward as the small Druid took herself off the edge of the bed, hitting her side on the way over. The Angel flinched, nearly able to feel the other female's suffering as she continued to struggle and her own voice was a plea.

Let me help her! Please. She is suffering!

She will suffer far more if the poison is not drawn out. The words were not cold, not indifferent, containing so much love and pain both that Nekia shuddered with it, knowing she only got the smallest possible glimpse of the Creator's heart. It was enough, though, to still her once more, to assure her that obedience was best and the Father of All had a plan, had a purpose. It was only as Pencaliel started crying that one word that Nekia thought maybe she understood and only now did she get permission to approach the distraught Druid. Settling on her knees, she gently attempted to wake Pencaliel up, a hand on her shoulder, shaking lightly. She was fully ready to catch the little female, to hold her if she woke needing it.

"Pencaliel? Little Druid, wake. You're in no danger. You are safe. Wake now."

 

[Lady Alainn]

"That isn't enough to stop me! Not this time." The pale man rocked on the balls of his feet with the tremors, his arms held out for balance, amusement on his face. "If you are light, what am I still doing here? No, you are a wicked, naughty little girl and I know how to take care of those who misbehave. Yes, I do."

Pencaliel crept backwards until she backed into the cave wall. The pale man moved towards her, chuckling as he closed the distance. His lavender eyes blazed with maddening, crazed laughter. "You thought you were better than you actually are, didn't you?" he whispered. One hand stretched out to clasp her throat. "Hiding behind the Creator's touch, you forgot mine. We can't have that, now can we? No, we can't. Is his touch really so much like the Creator's? Or is it like mine? We share the same blood, you know. It should remind you of mine. Mine was first, Druid. Mine was first, mine corrupts, and now..." The grip around her throat constricted as his fingers combed through her hair. "Mine will be the last as well."

As if she weighed no more than a leaf, the pale man lifted her up off the ground and walked her back to the center of the tunnel. Pencaliel gagged. Her hands wrapped around his, her body shuddering with revulsion at the touch, but knowing she had to if she were to claw her way out of his grip. Light reflected briefly off one of the cave's walls. It became more clear then where she was. It wasn't a cave. Stone, yes. Dark, yes. But down below, through the hole, the skylight, she could make out her bedroom. They were in the lighting passages of the mountain. She had been in safety and he could still reach her here. She struggled.

"You're never safe from me, Pen'neth. I will always be behind you... watching, waiting. Malachi may be a disappointment, but he does do this one job right, my little spy. You don't think his father keeps me abreast of where his son is at all times?"

The Druid froze, sheer horror etched across her features. The pale man leaned in again, his smiling lips brushing against her ear as he held her close. "Every time he looks at you, I see you, too."

The fingers loosened their hold.

"Wake now, little Pen'neth."

---

Insistent banging on the door had kept Yuubi from immediately rushing towards the source of the scream. Snatching a candle from a drawer in the side table, the housekeeper paused only long enough to hold it up to a wall sconce. Once the candle flickered to life, she hurried to the front door, which was now vibrating with each solid thwack against its thick hide. Muffled shouts barely rose above the banging. "Hold on, hold on!" the grumpy housekeeper hollered back. She felt along the side panel of the door for the spare keyring and flipped through them with trembling fingers to find the right one. "I'm coming, hold on!"

"Open up in there!" came a commanding voice. "By the authority of King Hachan, I command--"

Yuubi threw open the door and held her candle high upon the five elegantly dressed Hall Guards. Four of them had their halberds brandished and aimed for another blow against the door. They immediately drew back as soon as the housekeeper's head appeared and looked to the fifth member of their party, their commanding officer. Yuubi pivoted to face him, thrusting her candle to shed more light. "Here now, what's this so late?" she demanded, a bit perturbed at the gouges on her beautiful door and even more annoyed that she had to deal with boys playing soldier instead of helping the dear little elf maid. "Your racket will wake up half the floor!"

"I must ask that you step back, madam, and allow us to search the premises to locate the source of the disturbance," the officer replied. "For the safety of his Highness and the members of Court--"

"There's no danger here," Yuubi interrupted him a second time, not caring that protocol demanded her to surrender to his request. When the mother bear inside her riled up, not even etiquette could stand her down.

"Madam, you are housing a suspected spy and a dragonkin spy at that--"

"And he is not here, he is away with m'lord. I am not at liberty to discuss this house's matters without m'lord present. Now, good night, gentlemen." Yuubi made to close the door but a halberd planted itself firmly against the wood, curling yet another gash into the splintered surface. This only succeeded in emboldening the elderly woman even more.

"Madam, you must step aside."

One of the footsoldiers spoke up, "Sir, I do remember watching Lord Kolmar departing with the dragonkin in question. They have not been reported as returning yet." The officer frowned, clearly unprepared to have his excuse for storming the ambassador's suite torn out from under him. If the dragonkin was not present, he had no authority to break into the house without a more substantial cause.

"That's right, now off you go before I report you for vandalism! Come back when m'lord is home." Yuubi slammed the door in their faces, knocking the halberd free from the wood in the process. "Honestly, like tightly wound springs they are these days!" she muttered to herself, locking the door and replacing the keys. The candle was quickly snuffed out and placed back in the drawer. "As if the poor boy could ever be much of a threat in this house." So saying, the housekeeper took off for the guest wing, not sure if she should be glad that all was quiet or worried.

---

Pencaliel jerked awake as her dream body fell through the skylight and slammed onto the ground. His hands, his hands were still on her! The elf maid shrieked, a snarl almost breaking loose as she kicked and clawed against the hand on her shoulder. Backing up, she crouched on all fours and faced her opponent... only to be struck down with the face of the Creator. Love poured out from the grey eyes, showering her with a warmth that chased away the last icy breath from the pale man's presence.

Caliel.

Her breath caught on a sob. She wanted to go to Him, to throw herself into His arms and have Him hold her and tell her how everything would be all right... oh how she ached for that brief contact! But another equally powerful emotion stayed her, fear that if she felt it again the pale man's words would be true-- that Mala could be more like him than the Creator.

Then the vision broke, the grey eyes took on other hues. Brown and blue. The face stretched and refined itself into that of the guide's. Tears poured out then, and the elf wrapped her arms around herself, bending over until her forehead touched her knees.

"He isn't here, Pencaliel. It was just a dream, just a nightmare."

Pencaliel looked down at herself through her blurry eyes, her mind now able to take in the perfectly new nightgown and freshly bathed skin. Her wrists only had a small amount of rug burn on them, no doubt from the bedsheets. And the dragonkin, the body was not here. She touched her side and crowed with pain.

"That was there before, wasn't it, little Druid?" Nekia murmured. No doubt the pain from that bruise had triggered the vision. "It is the remnants of Mala's injury, nothing more."

"But... but it was so real," the maid whimpered. "And I'm so filthy... so filthy..." Her head jerked up and her heart slammed into her throat as the door opened and Yuubi's head popped in.

"Yuubi, would you mind heating up some broth and a glass of milk for Pencaliel?" Nekia asked before the dwarf could say or do anything that might upset the elf more. "She just had a nightmare." The dwarf bobbed her head with a few expressions of sorrow that the poor lamb should have had such a terrible dream and left right away to see to the broth and milk, glad to be of service in such an important way. Nekia turned back to the Druid.

"He was here, in the skylight," Pencaliel whispered. "He found me. And... and I killed... I killed! He... he touched me... Oh, Nekia, I wanted it! I don't know why, but he knew... and I felt..." A fresh wave of tears broke out. "Oh, Nekia, I'm broken! I'm so wicked!"

 

[Kaisaan]

Nekia listened to the words that poured from the little elf's mouth in a broken stream, feeling her heart wrench painfully within her chest and she had to remind herself to breathe, to remain calm. To trust. Sending up a brief prayer for strength, for wisdom, for patience, the Guide moved quickly toward the bed, knowing her swiftness probably startled Pencaliel, but also knowing the sooner she got the little one stabilized, the better she would be able to rationalize with Pencaliel, talk to her and have the Druid comprehend her words. Coming back toward the smaller female, Nekia slowed her body and knelt before the trembling leaf that was the elf, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, shushing Pencaliel softly, but careful not to touch her overmuch before drawing back again.

The distance didn't last too long as Nekia shifted without thought, the large, scruffy dog taking no hesitation to wrap around the distraught Druid, curling against her back and coming to setting her head in Pencaliel's lap, fully ready to have her fur grasped and held on to tightly. It was what Pencaliel needed; something to anchor her to the present and Nekia knew her voice alone couldn't do that. It didn't stop her from speaking, though, words soft within the elf's head.

"He was not here, little Druid. I have been in this room with you since you fell asleep. There has been no one but me, I promise." The canine's head nuzzled gently against Pencaliel's hand and her brown and blue eye looked up into fawn-brown, just as earnest and comforting as the humanized Nekia could be, but far less threatening this way within a dog's face. Comforting. Like the forest creatures the little elf had grown up with, trusted and had found family in. Nekia knew such things without questioning how she knew, already understanding the answer.

If Pencaliel would not speak with the Creator, would not accept His embrace, then He would simply use a vessel, speak through another mouthpiece and Nekia was very willing to be an instrument. The Maker of the Universe never left His children to suffer, silent and deaf to their pain and anguish. He always heard, even when they didn't even realize they were screaming.

"It was only a dream, a memory, Pencaliel. Only your fears whispering darkness to you. Nothing more." The hound raised her head then, but was careful not to dislodge any fingers tangled up in her fur, her face coming much closer to Pencaliel's and it seemed, in the lighting of the room, that there might have been a hint of gray in her eyes. "He touched you, but he did not corrupt you. He can not take that which you would not give and you belong to the Creator, Pencaliel. You killed, yes. Many have. Mala has. Kolmar has. And now you, but that does not make you wicked, nor filthy. It does not make you of the darkness. To kill is wrong, it always has been, but it is not unforgivable and you've been washed clean. That sin no longer exists, not in any time of history and not on any plane of dimension. It is gone, erased and it can't be rewritten into your song. He has made it no more."

"I once told you that to be forgiven by the Creator, to be healed is not a one time event, that you'd need to keep returning to Him. I told you there would be days where the anger and the fear would be all you'd feel, and there will be times when the memories would overwhelm you and be stronger than your reality. This is such a time, Pencaliel, but it not a darkness that never ends, that I promise you. There is still light and laughter, happiness and safety in the world." Nekia touched her nose to the elf's cheek before curling her body more securely around Pencaliel, keeping an ear open for Yuubi's return so she could warn the frightened female of the dwarf's arrival before it came.

And she listened for the half-blood surely on his way.

"You are not wicked, little Druid. You are sinful, yes, and you are not beyond the touch of darkness that lurks within every living being, but that does not make you a creation of evil. It does not give any force of Night the authority to claim a Child of the Light. Your darkness responded to darkness. It has happened over and over again in history, Pencaliel, to everyone. Mala has felt its touch, responded to it many times, but that does not make him wicked, nor evil. Just as it does not define you. You were forgiven that, will be forgiven again, will always be forgiven. You will stumble many times in your walk, little Druid, but you will rise again, too and you will keep walking, and the Light will not depart from you." She knew the words were not enough, that Pencaliel would have to see these truths for herself, but they were words filled with light and warmth, truth nonetheless and they would settle in the Druid's mind like stones in a lake, never to be dislodged, always present, shimmering just beneath the surface of the chaos. Reminders. Nekia wished she could do more, but knew it wasn't her role to fill.

She was only to guide.

 

[Lady Alainn]

No one had come in?

Pencaliel did not quite believe that. The dream-- the pale man-- had been so real. Too real. She could still feel the effects of his touch on her side.... His fingers wandering up-- She shook her head violently and clung to the blanket Nekia draped around her shoulders. The pain had come before, it was only bruising! Only bruising left over from healing Mala. She had taken too much into herself and not let it all out. She'd been too weak to do such a significant healing session. It was only Mala's bruised rib. Mala hurt her-- No! It was her fault, her doing, it WAS NOT THE PALE MAN and he would NOT poison her mind again!

Suddenly, warmth resonated within her and the Druid peered down to find the dog curled in her lap. Wave after wave of soothing tremors beat back the tangled webs of darkness in her mind, lapping up against its small fortress, retreating, washing up again farther this time to erode more of the stone, and back. More, more, she needed more of the radiating Light! Pencaliel bent over the dog, wrapping her arms securely around the canine's neck. Gradually, the outward shivers subsided and only the inward quivering remained. Doubts still flew wildly about inside, fear still expected the worst to be true, but with her fingers firmly entrenched in soft, brown fur, the elf could begin to let the words of Light sink in and stay.

Only memories. Only her greatest fears. The fuzzy, sluggish state of her mind during illness had kept the touch of darkness at bay, unable to break through the film, and it had only pushed through at its first opening now that she felt so much better. It had only overwhelmed her; her fears, her memories. Nothing more. The longer the Druid focused on that simple fact, the more it rang true within her, and the vision she had so clearly believed in before now frayed a little around the edges. It did not unravel yet, but it definitely frayed and faded as she listened to the soft-spoken words of the Guide.

Memory.

The pale man had made it very clear that he wanted to erase any good thing the Creator had given her. He wanted to erase the memories of His touch now, not because he had control over her, but because she was afraid of losing that feeling. Secretly, deep down afraid that Mala couldn't protect her all the time. That she would be alone again.

Fear.

'You killed, yes. Many have. Mala has. Kolmar has. And now you, but that does not make you wicked, nor filthy. It does not make you of the darkness.'

Shock rippled through her system as those words hit her ears. Kolmar? Kolmar had killed people? But, but he was good! There was no shadow of darkness in him! Not like Mala, who'd been born with it. Not like her, who had been so cruelly exposed to it. Everything about the dwarf was noble and good and he shone with a Light so brightly that he almost rivaled Nekia. Almost. If he... if he could still shine with the blood stains on his hands, then she...

'If you belong to Him, then tell me, child, how could you be so very wicked as to kill my pet? Hm? There is a darkness in you, isn't there?'

No, no, the pale man was right. She had darkness! His touch, his agonizing, seductive, overwhelming touch! How could she explain her reactions to that? How could she be pure when it only made her feel so filthy? Still made her feel so very wicked.

'I told you there would be days where the anger and the fear would be all you'd feel, and there will be times when the memories would overwhelm you and be stronger than your reality. This is such a time, Pencaliel, but it not a darkness that never ends, that I promise you. There is still light and laughter, happiness and safety in the world.'

Trembling, the Druid moved her fingers to curl around Nekia's head and brought her forehead down to rest upon the hound's. The battle raging inside, darkness lashing and twisting, light parrying and thrusting, was almost too much to bear. But Pencaliel knew, somehow, that this moment, this pivotal moment, would define how she fought the infection within her soul. Would she cower from it as naive little Pencaliel had cowered in that cave? Too paralyzed, too afraid to even whisper in protest? Or would she stand? Fight? Refuse to let fear rule her any longer, refuse to let that piece of darkness be the opening through which such evil could torment her?

'You are Faith.'

Had she given her purity? Her light? No. Natural wickedness was not the same as being wicked. When one embraced the Light, it flooded, shining so brightly that the darkness could not have presence. And Pencaliel refused to let even a spec of shadow corrupt her flame-- all but the fear. That had cupped its hands around her little flame long enough! If she could but grow past it, fight through it, her light would shine even more brightly than it had under the flourishing light of her mother! Fear was her weakness, the only chink in the wall against the darkness. The pale man had preyed upon that, coupled it with her expressions of love, and sought to corrupt her from the inside out.

But she would not let him.

Such thinking was all well and good, and necessary, but to believe in her decisions and act upon them without faltering, that was another matter entirely. And the pale man's touch, he hadn't actually been the first to make her body respond in some of the ways it had. A small whimper escaped her throat. She knew it had to be bad, it had to be wicked, if the pale man had used it. But yet....

Her mind went places she did not want it to go, laying before her facts and feelings that she could not ignore. Shudders overtook her again and the little elf curled further around Nekia, as if making herself as small as possible would make the obvious go away, far, far away. Yet it would not leave her alone. The awful, horrible conclusions sailed through her head, laughing and shrieking in its delight that it found one truth she could not ignore. One truth that could still prove the lies of the pale man.

"Sometimes..." her voice, hoarse from screaming, timid from uncertainty, thick with emotion, and muffled from the fur she was buried in, echoed this fear before she knew what she was even asking. "When he touched me, I felt... I'd felt it before. Once... once or twice... Sometimes Mala's touch felt like that, even when I didn't know... didn't know it was wicked. Is that... is that because he is Sidhe? The darkness in him touching the darkness in me?

"Is Mala... is Mala..." she could hardly continue, afraid of the answer, but needing to know it at the same time. "Is Mala bad for me?" she finally whispered.

 

[Kaisaan]

In any other situation, Nekia might have laughed at Pencaliel's question. Malachi, bad for her? It was amusing really, the very idea, but as it was, the Angel did not laugh or even smile but rather she rumbled a soothing, soft growl in her throat even as her mind answered the questions the little Druid desperately needed to know. The poor little elf, so confused about everything, so unsure about what was of the light and what could only be of the darkness. It was apparent this talk had been a long time coming. Nekia was only grateful Pencaliel was coming to her about it instead of simply drawing her own conclusions and weaving a tangled web that would have hurt them all. She prayed for wisdom, for the words to say even as she started speaking, knowing she needed to get this right the first time.

"No, little Druid, Mala is not bad for you. Not hardly."

Nekia slowly raised her head then, encouraging Pencaliel to release her neck or at least loosen her grip, and then the Guide changed her form once more, sensing that she might do so now, that the smaller female wouldn't flinch from her now. She slowly wrapped her arms around the small figure, pulling Pencaliel into her lap and putting the Druid's head beneath her chin, slender fingers starting to card through the fly-away brown hair so unsettled by her nightmare. She held the elf as one might a little sister and now Nekia's voice was soft in the room, not merely in Pencaliel's head.

"There is no darkness in Mala that is his own that wants to touch you, Pencaliel. In truth, it flees from your presence, you are so bright. No, little Druid, it is not that he is a Sidhe that you react the ways that you do to his touch. It is because he is male and you are female, and the Creator made such to be one." She frowned a bit, shifting slightly so her legs were in a more comfortable position as she thought how to better explain that without making the little maiden in her hold wiggle with complete, uncomfortable embarrassment....but then, maybe that would be good. At least she would know for certain that Pencaliel understood what was going on.

But then...would it make her awkward around Malachi - yet another dancer in this dance that neither partner truly understood? If Pencaliel behaved so differently around him while he didn't understand why, that could be damaging, to both the Druid and the half-blood.

She'd have to tread carefully, at least at first.

"Pencaliel, what you feel when Mala touches you or smiles at you, or any other kind of affection is not bad, I promise. I know it is confusing, what I tell you, because you feel that the Sidhe did the same things Mala does, but such is not true and I will explain why." Nekia took a slow and careful breath, nearly begging for wisdom now, though she knew it was already granted her. It just felt like she could use an extra helping right now. "You are a young elf, but old enough to marry, old enough to be considered an adult. With such maturity comes changes to your body and your mind. Young men, any man, could be of interest to you as a potential mate, a spouse. That does not only mean a connection for your soul, your heart, but also your body. The Creator made your body to react to a male in a positive way, to want to be touched, to like it. When you react this way to Mala, it is not evil. It is natural and completely what the Creator designed you to do."

The Guide paused then, placing a gentle kiss to Pencaliel's hair before running her fingers through the brown tresses, softly down the blanketed back before repeating the process, comforting, assuring the elf wordlessly that she was loved, safe. "What the Sidhe did was try to corrupt that. Evil does that, Pencaliel. It takes what is natural and beautiful in the Creator's eyes and attempts to mar and twist it into something grotesque and hateful. You reacted to the Sidhe because you couldn't help it and he knew how to touch you, how to get a reaction from you. That does not make you evil, but him. He used something wonderful, beautiful and sought to make you recoil from it, to never know the joy it could bring. I assure you, little Druid, it was not him you wanted, even if he could trick your body into thinking so, but a deeper craving still to be loved and touched by the one you loved. He tried to poison that."

Nekia couldn't only hope, pray, beseech the Creator that he'd not succeeded.

Slender fingers finally came to find Pencaliel's chin, tilting the elf's face a bit so mismatched eyes met fawn-brown. The Angel smiled gently, but her expression was firm, knowing what she spoke was truth, without doubt or hesitation. "Mala touching you, showing you affection, is not the same as what the Sidhe did. He did it out of malice, out of nothing more than selfish desire and the glee of hurting you. That is evil and that is wickedness. It is he who is filthy. Mala harbors none of those desires toward you. He cares for you and longs to see you happy, safe. Pencaliel, when he touches you, makes you react, I promise you it surprises him as much as it does you. Mala knows far more about these affections than he will ever say, but he's never experienced them, just as you have not, not truly. He would never do anything to harm you this way, nor does the thought even cross his mind."

------

There was a small tugging in his mind, a warning of a kind, but Malachi didn't heed it. He barely comprehended it. All he could hear was the continuing, haunting ring of a scream that he couldn't have possibly have truly heard in his mind. All he felt was the adrenaline that continued to make his heart pound against his ribcage and his body keep moving long after it had given protests to his brain about the state it was in. Bruised, scraped, dirty from falls and wet from them as well, his limbs shook with the climb that had taken he and Kolmar an hour to complete downhill that morning. Fatigue pulled at him, robbing his lungs of the proper oxygen, but still the half-blood pushed himself.

She needed him. She'd been so scared, in such distress. She needed him and that was all that he cared about. Everything else was background noise, nothing more, nothing less.

Looking up, Malachi was finally able to see his destination. How he knew it was the door he was looking for was beyond him, but he felt he recognized the bench, the terrance well enough. It was Kolmar's. It would lead him to a room with skylights, to a hall, to rooms. To Pencaliel. To his scared little elf.

Licking the blood from his split lip - his teeth had connected when he'd slipped and his jaw had hit a step, leaving a nasty shadow of a bruise there as well - the half-blood put on another burst of speed that his muscles shrieked at him for and his vision spotted in complaint about. They were ignored completely as he kept his gold eyes fixed on his destination.

Nothing else mattered.

 

[Lady Alainn]

Pencaliel snuggled willingly into Nekia's lap, surprising herself at how eagerly she could want that interaction even after all she had been through to break that desire. Something about the soothing, constant motion of fingers through her hair lulled her into a state of calm and there was no room for her fears to attack her. Nothing to distract her from the careful explanations pouring forth from the Guide. Nekia had been right about one thing. Though the elf maid understood some of it, most of it, the subject left her decidedly pink and squirming as just talking about those feelings had stirred some of them up again. Nothing vulgar, though, nothing wicked, just enough to identify themselves so she could tell them apart from the ones that were.

And that was, surprisingly, okay.

Not even the reappearance of Yuubi startled her, the door opening just when Nekia said it would, the offered wooden bowl a welcome sight against the cold that had plagued her since falling into the nightmare. Bringing the bowl to her lips, the elf maid blew lightly on the broth to cool it before tilting it back to drink it. The warm liquid slid down her throat and a heat penetrated her body, curling her toes and flexing the tips of her ears. Though it did not stop her trembling completely, it did bring her a fuller sense of peace and calming and the cold that sat just outside her inner flame now turned back and retreated into the eternal depths of darkness. She finished it quickly, pausing only once to catch a dribble on her chin with the hem of her blanket. When it was all gone, Pencaliel handed the bowl back to Yuubi and beamed up at the worried brow of the elderly housekeeper.

"Thank you, Yuubi. I feel much better now." Indeed, her voice had strengthened and her eyes did not betray her fears quite so openly anymore. But the skylight, the stone, it still pressed upon her mind and the Druid knew then that staying in this room to try to go back to sleep would be futile. Lavender eyes, even if they did not paralyze her anymore, still blinked down from the hole up above and caused her to double and triple take. "If you don't mind, I think, I think I'd like to go outside now."

"But, my dear! The storm! It will be so cold outside," Yuubi broke in, her brows deepening in their worry. "It still might be raining, and you could get sick again."

Get sick again? Pencaliel did not want that! She turned to the hound-woman, knowing full well that if it truly was possible for her to worsen that the Guide would tell her. All she saw, though, in those mismatched eyes was encouragement. The Druid looked back at the dwarf. "I'll bring out my blankets, I promise. I just... need to go outside and get some fresh air. Besides, I quite like the smell of rain. It reminds me... reminds me of home."

Knowing that the little one had made her mind up, Yuubi could offer no more protests and reluctantly allowed the Druid to leave her room. "Poor little thing, she had quite the scare, didn't she?" the housekeeper clucked to the Guide. "I had best go put the milk on a warmer. The little lamb will probably want it before she goes to sleep again."

---

Blankets wrapped securely around her shoulders, Pencaliel hurried through the Guest hall, walking a brisk pace across the stone, running when her path fell under a sky light. She'd felt so sure of herself with Nekia right there to assuage her fears, but now that she was alone again, whispers stirred in the back of her mind. She cast an anxious eye towards the next skylight and zipped around it, dreading to walk under it lest she see those eyes again.

The house was so quiet, so eerily quiet except for the pitter-pattering of her bare feet on the stone. It was quiet during the day, too, unless one was in hearing distance of Yuubi, but not so devastatingly quiet as it was at night, with no friendly light pouring from the ceiling. Pencaliel huddled deeper into the blankets, pulling them up around her head just a little bit more as if she could block out the whispers that way. They weren't coherent words, not yet, she wouldn't let them talk to her, but they could be. If she wavered even in the slightest with her resolve, she knew they would come again and try to trick her.

No, something else! She needed to think about something else or they would come through. Leaving the guest quarters, she arrived at the main room and paused for a moment to reorient herself. There was no sunlight shining to mark the outline of the door to the terrace. Let's see, they came this way, she looked that way... right! That hallway was the one she wanted! Pencaliel now broke into a run. The shadows cast by the flames in the braziers started looking a little too much like hands. Hands coming to get her...

'Think about something else!'

But what?

'Mala.'

Her cheeks flushed. Just thinking his name brought back everything Nekia had said and caused her tummy to knot itself up inside. And butterflies. So many butterflies! Pencaliel caught her breath and slowed down her pace, her breath not able to keep up with the running and the hammering of her heart. The pale man had tried to corrupt them, to turn her aversion of them into a tool to wound Mala, but those feelings were good and beautiful. Something inside told her she shouldn't act fully upon them just yet, but they were still right. Whatever they were. The male and female attraction thing Nekia had tried to explain to her. She still didn't understand quite how that all fell in with kissing yet, but if Mala was figuring all this out too, they could work on it together one step at a time.

And here she was at the door already. Good! Outside! She could hardly wait to get away from the skylights and breathe the fresh air. Grasping the heavy handle firmly, the Druid yanked it open... and shrieked.

The first thing that registered was the tall form, the pale skin. A male reaching for the door on the other side as she had reached it on the inside. Momentum drove him forward even as Pencaliel lept back. The pale man! He had found her! It hadn't been a dream! It had all been real! He had crawled out of the lighting tunnels and was now going to take her away--

He had wings. Glowing sunbeams just as startled as hers.

Dilated pupils slowly refocused, rich brown taking control of the round eyes once more as she choked on a second scream. White hair, gold eyes, brown tunic, it was Mala. Only after that realization did her heart start back up again, and with it came the blush of a conscious maid. She sagged against the door frame, eyes closed and forehead pressed against the stone, needing the structure to take her full weight as her shivering left her so weak.

"Mala," she breathed, quivering. "It's you. It's only you."

 

[Kaisaan]

The shrieking figure of Pencaliel had been the last thing Mala had expected to see upon opening the door into Kolmar's dwelling - a door he'd not even touched before it was swinging inward, revealing the one person he'd been desperately trying to get to. Her reaction caused his heart to stop, jumping into his throat and his lungs to seize even as he nearly fell forward and then at the same time tried to scramble back again. His flared wings were the only thing that saved him falling completely as he finally managed to take two steps back, wide, dilated gold eyes far slower to lose their fear than Pencaliel's brown.

He found he could barely breathe and could not have said whether it was the combination of running so far only to be robbed of air completely or the state Pencaliel was in that made his vision flicker black before coming back again, made spots float at the edge of his sight. He knew he swayed, but also knew the little elf was not likely to see it in the darkness only broken by the torches inside at her back. The half-blood shook, terribly so with fatigue, adrenaline and confusion, all three working to cloud his mind as he tried to understand what was going on. He'd known Pencaliel was in distress, that she'd needed help and yet she stood before him, clearly shaken but in no danger.....screaming at his appearance. No..no, startled by him.

She was merely startled. Her words proved as much.

The Man was furiously fighting off the Animal who wanted nothing more than to approach the small elf, to assure itself that she was all right and the Child who was terrified he'd done something wrong, had been too late somehow, had been the cause of the distress in the first place. The Man knew better than both of them, only having to take one look at the Druid to understand that touching her was not wise, no matter how he ached to comfort her, to still her trembling. He also knew this had nothing to do with him. This was something else, something he couldn't fix....and while he hated the fact, he could accept it. Grudgingly. Maybe.

No, what he was struggling with most right now was breathing. His heart still raced, pounding against his ribcage and that was something Malachi didn't understand. The danger had passed, right? Pencaliel was standing before him, hale and while clearly not all right, also just as clearly not in pain or terror. So why couldn't he calm? Why did he still feel as if he needed to seek out whatever had alarmed her so badly, whatever had made her terror so strong it had reached out to him, and kill it? Why couldn't he breathe? The world seemed to tilt, to spin as he stared ahead, at Pencaliel but not truly seeing her and Malachi felt his vision start to darken completely, felt his body about ready to give out.

"Malachi!"

Nekia's voice, clear as anything within his skull startled and with that reaction came a gasp of air....and then another and still more as he gasped for each lungful, taking another step back, two as he regained his equilibrium. The pressure on his chest seemed to loosen its vice and his heart finally started to slow, each thump almost painful, just as each breath was, but he was able to think again, to see and gold eyes finally moved, flickering truly to the little elf who leaned so heavily against the door frame. She appeared almost wraith-like, wrapped in a blanket, pale nightgown moving in the wind that blew by. She was so very pale anyway, her fright having leeched the color from her cheeks, all but a bright hue of pink across her cheekbones. Malachi wanted desperately in that moment to reach out and feel for a fever, to gather her close and make sure she was warm enough, to card his fingers through her hair and reassure her that everything was all right now. That she was safe.

And he couldn't. For her sake he couldn't and it hurt, far more than anything else on his body did. For Pencaliel, however, Malachi knew he'd suffer anything and he carefully kept distance, moving slowly so that she had room to leave the doorway when she wished without fear of getting close to him. She didn't want to. He could see that clearly and though it made the Child and the Animal whimper and cower, it made perfect sense to the Man and he let her have her space.

He was out of energy to do anything else as his wings sagged behind him, trailing the dirty ground. It wasn't going to make him any less mud-covered and streaked than he was already, though, and it wasn't his focus anyway, his gold eyes never leaving the little elf. "Are you all right, Pen'neth?" he asked softly, the concern apparent, but at least the longing contained in his voice, the near overwhelming desire to DO something, was dampened somewhat. The little elf didn't need to be worried about him, not when she was the one in need. He didn't want her to worry for him. She was far more important and he didn't care what had happened to him, why he hadn't been able to breathe, hadn't been able to break away from the grip of panic that had come over him. It didn't matter to him. Pencaliel did.

She always would be.

Backing away another step, feeling it was all he could do - put distance between them - the only thing that might assure her, make things better, Malachi bit at his lip, a fang piercing the already damaged lip. He didn't appear to notice the resulting blood or the sting of pain, far too focused on the elf maiden. "I didn't mean to scare you. I can go, get Nekia if you wish. Or I can...can..." There was a swallow, a hard one before Malachi seemed to make himself stop completely, something hopelessly resigned about the way he looked down and his wings seemed to fall even more. His voice was quiet, unsure even as it didn't sound childish in the least. No, this was the Man....admitting he had no idea how to make this better, what Pencaliel needed from him. He wanted to help her, but knew she didn't want contact, didn't want him to approach. He wasn't sure where that left him.

"Just tell me what you want me to do. Please."

 

[Lady Alainn]

In a way, the state of the weather outside mirrored Pencaliel's own state of affairs within. Though the brunt of the storm had passed, the lesser clouds had not yet decided to move on and continued drizzling a steady stream of rain as they were just opaque enough to refuse starlight to shine through. So, too, was her inner storm, as even now her stars insisted on poking through the haze. However, the bright little lights had not yet pierced the darkness, and that was evident in the way the shivering maid shrank further into herself-- a slightly sour expression crossing her face at Mala's question, and more specifically, what he called her.

Pen'neth. Why did she have to pull that name into her nightmare? It was Mala's name for her and now... now it only left a bitter trail where previously it had brought smiles.

"You're never safe from me, Pen'neth. I will always be behind you... watching, waiting... Every time he looks at you, I see you, too."

Gold eyes bore into her, overwhelming her, and through it, the hint of lilac from her imagination. The whispers were real now, curling about her ears and racing down her spine in uncontrolled shudders. Pencaliel grasped the door frame with both hands to try to keep herself steady. Then, above the harsh whispers, another voice emerged, reminding her of a different memory. By the lake, after they had been reunited, Mala had admitted his father's eerie connection to him might have been the reason the pale man knew to capture her to begin with. She knew she had a very active imagination. It wouldn't take much to stir up such a vivid dream, for her imaginings to run into that small hole of darkness and rip it wide again, allowing the pale man's previous work to come back to the present. To try, once again, to turn her against Mala. The pale man didn't want her, not really. He wanted what she could do to the dragonkin.

She refused to give him the victory.

Her mouth opened but no sound came. Was she all right? No, no far from all right. But what could she tell him? What should she say? It was so much easier to talk with Nekia. The Guide knew it all. Pencaliel did not have to voice anything with her; she could talk in riddles and Nekia just knew. But not Mala. He didn't know. She didn't want to tell him. Talking about it would make it... make it... real.

But right now, Mala needed some kind of assurance from her. Huddling here in her blankets, not even having enough willpower to make herself look at him, was only making things worse. Only damaging him. She couldn't talk, not yet, but she could force herself to make eye contact. She could reestablish that connection, regardless of how weak it was, and at least assure him that he wasn't the problem. Breathing in deeply, Pencaliel opened her eyes and tilted her head just enough to take in the dark form of Mala, even managing a wavering half-smile.

His new clothes looked positively filthy. Even the dark colour of the fabric could not hide the streaks of dirt and splashes from puddles. Kolmar's kind gestures ruined in the course of one night, what would he think of them? How ungrateful must they appear? Mala really needed to go inside and change, to have Yuubi treat his clothes before the stains set in. It was logical, it was practical, and a good reason that wouldn't hurt his feelings. She really ought to insist, but at the same time, she couldn't tell him to leave her. The elf didn't know why she knew that would be so dangerous right now, but she did. Perhaps, perhaps it was the look in his eyes. Concern, yet something more than concern. Pain. At this moment, the dragonkin stood as fragile as herself.

She ducked her head again and took in another shaky breath. Oh, how she longed to run to him! To bury herself in his arms and just forget the world until she felt in control of herself once more. But her body physically wouldn't let her, not with the whispers swirling around her head and the initial shock of Mala's sudden appearance still flooding her system. They also couldn't continue standing here, though. She would collapse any second now and from the looks of it, Mala would not be far behind. Only, if she gave way, that would torment him further with the indecision of whether or not he should catch her. No, right now was a bad, bad situation and they needed to go somewhere together. That much was clear. And the Druid would not, could not go back inside, even to save Mala's clothes. The nightmare still felt too fresh, the lavender eyes in the skylights too real. She needed to close the door on those thoughts and find some place to sit down.

A quick glance around in the darkness gave her a vague image of their surroundings.

"Sit... you can sit... there, on the arbor bench." A shaking finger emerged from the mound of blankets to point it out, her hand limp, but not quite void of all strength yet. She waited for the request to process, for him to act upon it, before shuffling after him with what little strength she had left. The door clanged shut behind her. Oh, how her side ached! It ached so badly from the abuse of tossing around in the bed, the screams, and lastly, the running and the panting. But in a way, she was glad for it. It distracted her somewhat from the nightmare. Wearily, Pencaliel crumpled onto the bench beside Mala, making sure one of her blankets covered the stone enough not to snag her nightgown. They couldn't both ruin their gifts in one night.

Her gaze then turned away from the dragonkin, intently focused on the darkened shapes of the mountain peaks in the distance and the drip, drip, drip of the rain as it splattered onto the stone floor from the level above. Just to prove the pale man couldn't win, she scooted a little closer to Mala. That's when it dawned on her that he shouldn't be here. If he'd been in the house, he would have shown up sooner. But what was he doing outside? And why was he so out of breath?

"Where were you, Mala?" The question wasn't accusing, nor resentful, merely Pencaliel's curiosity fueled by a desire to get the attention off of herself. "What are you doing out here? Did you go somewhere with Lord Kolmar? Were you running?"

 

[Kaisaan]

The moment her fawn-brown eyes met his gold once more, Malachi felt a fear he'd not been entirely aware gripped him flow away like water, leaving him feeling weak and almost light-headed. He'd known, some part of him had at least, that it wasn't his fault; that whatever had befallen his friend, he wasn't to blame, but just as intense had been the dread that he was wrong. It was the fear that he'd done something to bring about this distress, had done something to be denied her contact, had messed up in some way that was unforgivable. The reassurance of her gaze was enough to mostly silence the dark whispers and the smile, while nothing close to what he knew the joy within Pencaliel could bring about in radiant beauty, was enough to tell him that the elf he was so fond of was still within the despondent maiden, still intact.

Knowing such stilled the tremors deep within if not the subtle shaking without. That was far more due to exhaustion and adrenaline leaving his system than anything else, though, and the moment Pencaliel told him to sit, his body was moving. It only registered to Malachi's mind a moment later when he was nearly to the bench anyway, what she'd said. Somehow, just knowing she'd not sent him away, knowing she was staying near him put Malachi more at ease, his demeanor relaxing marginally - far less likely to shatter upon a slight impact.

It seemed as if finally letting his body still was all the permission it needed to let him know just how much he hurt. His face ached from the multiple times he'd landed on his chin and his lip was swollen, the taste of blood still on his tongue. His legs stung, throbbed really and he knew he'd be stiff with pain in his left hip come morning, that he'd find breathing a chore with the bruising he'd done to the tissue around his ribs. It was his feet, though, that really hated him at the moment. They'd suffered a great deal of abuse in their time seeing as he didn't wear shoes, but he'd never quite asked them to race up water-slick stone steps in the dark. They were hardened, calloused from years spent walking barefoot, but even their toughness had not held up completely in his mad dash up the treacherous mountain path. He knew they bled and if he were to go inside Yuubi would have a fit about the state of her floors come morning.

As it was, he'd left Kolmar and Hoomite down below. Had they tried to follow him, he wondered? Had they back-tracked, used the lift? What had Kolmar told the Guard about his absence? How much trouble had he created for the Lord who'd been so tolerant and understanding up until this point? Had he gone one step too far? The questions circle within his mind, nearly deafening when coupled with his thoughts on Pencaliel's questions.

The answers were simple enough, ridiculously so, but the reasoning behind them were not. To tell her about the storm, the fear that wracked the Child at even the barest hint of thunder or his father's attack in the lift? How could he explain the three parts that made up himself? How could he hope to make her understand the varying reactions of each? Could he truly find the right words for any of it? Malachi didn't know, but he did know very well what the little elf was doing. She was sincere in her concern, her curiosity, her desire to know what had befallen him in her absence, but she picked a moment when such wasn't important at all - not in the face of her own fear, the troubles that plagued her like the dark clouds above, lightning strikes that brought pain and thunder that deafened her to the help around her. Much like himself and the irony of the situation was not lost on the Man even if the Child could not yet understand it at all.

He found just the act of thinking, just the time to do so, to truly catch his breath was all that was needed to center his emotions, reactions. Pencaliel needed him. She needed logic and comfort, understanding and safety. She needed him to not need her, but rather to be there solely for her sake - even if she'd never admit it. Malachi saw it, the Man did, and his gold eyes pierced the shadow, the mask the Druid had tried rather unsuccessfully to wrap around herself. All the same, he answered her. She needed to believe he was all right so that she didn't have to be. Malachi had never blessed the darkness around him more than he did right then as it hid the bruises on his flesh and the blood staining his clothes. It left nothing more than the glimmer of his eyes and the form of his body near the Druid's own. It left only the soothing tone of his voice and his presence. He could only hope that in some way it would be enough.

"I was with Kolmar, yes. He and Hoomite took me to a tavern at the lower levels of the city. I did not like the storm and Kolmar sought to distract me." He paused then, not in hesitation, but out of a desire to reach across and touch the little elf, to assure himself that she was all right, for his next words brought the fear and desperation he'd felt creeping back into his mind and Malachi was hard-pressed to fight it. Somehow he managed to keep it out of his voice all the same. "We decided to walk back up the mountain path, but I ran it instead. I had to. I knew you were in trouble, scared." It was here, and only here, that Malachi looked away, something of uncertainty, of the Child slipping into his tone for even the Man was not entirely sure about this. He understood the power, had felt it before, but it still shook even him and it scared the Child even more. "I felt you. I heard you scream. I can't...I don't know how to explain it, but I had to get to you."

Nothing else had mattered. It still didn't. Not the pain in his body making him reluctant to move, unable to fully relax, not the whirling of his own thoughts, nor the potential repercussions of his actions tonight - nothing but Pencaliel.

And just like that Malachi was done talking about himself. He'd never wanted to in the first place and had only done it for Pencaliel's sake, and now, for the same reason, for her sake, he wasn't going to let her attempt distraction again. Whatever had caused her such distress, such pain and terror that he'd felt it from a power that had been dormant for some time now, that rarely showed itself anyway - whatever it was, it was eating Pencaliel from within and he couldn't allow that. Malachi didn't know how to fight it, but if his little elf told him...maybe he could learn how. Maybe he could do something to help her as she had already helped him.

Malachi didn't touch her. Somehow he knew better than that, sensed it, respected it, but he didn't have to. His eyes had always been enough to capture the Druid and the half-blood had known such for a long time now, the Man and the Animal more aware of it than the Child, but even he knew the power in his gaze. It was the power of a Sidhe and perhaps the draw of a Dragonkin, but wherever the lure came from, Malachi had never abused it and he didn't do so now. But he used it because he could not use hands to direct her gaze to him, but he needed her to look, needed her to hear him.

He could help her if he only knew how.

"What happened, Pencaliel? What has scared you so? What weighs so heavily on you that even the skies weep on your behalf?"

The words were soft, gentle in their sincere longing to alleviate the anguish that gripped the little elf. Malachi could endure anything against himself, but not Pencaliel. She mattered more to him than anything else in the world and to see her suffer was to slowly poison his heart, killing it little by little. And yet, he knew it was nothing compared to the pain she felt. He could see it in every line of her body, darkness or no. It was a sense, a feeling he could almost reach out and touch. Would that he be able to do just that! To reach out and soothe the fragility and heartache he could clearly see etched upon the little elf's soul. It came through in her eyes and Malachi would have given anything to see the light and laughter come back to them instead.

 

[Lady Alainn]

Between the constant, steady rain and the quiet tones of the dragonkin's voice resonating beside her-- bringing a warmth with them that she couldn't explain but soaked up anyway-- Pencaliel found herself lulled into a semblance of stability. It wasn't quite peacefulness, not yet, but her head poked out a little higher from her fortress of quilts and her shivers gradually subsided into a faint tingling along her spine. Night time had never been her favourite part of the day, for that was when the evil creatures like spiders and bats emerged to conquer her wood, but here and now the darkness served a purpose she'd never known before. It concealed her just as much as it concealed everything else. Everything except what the flickering firelight from inside the house illuminated with its faint orange glow. A wilting rose trying to cling to life as much as it was clinging to the arbor overhead. The insignia etched into the smooth, massive column straight ahead, which held up the rest of the mountain. Her bare toes like little pumpkins peeking out from under the hem of her nightgown. She wiggled them, the dancing shadows on the stone floor bringing a bit more of a smile to her lips.

But then something interrupted her field of pleasant thoughts. A strong pull, a desire not of her own to lift her head. Before she could help herself, Pencaliel found her eyes arrested by Mala's golden set. Set within the pale face, they blazed. Orange bathed his cheek, defining his jaw with a sharpness that defied the softness in his eye. He whispered and she cowered, shaking her head and trying desperately to tear her eyes from his. Terror reared its ugly head again, stripping her bare before the dragonkin. "No!" Look away! Look away! He could see! The pale man mustn't see... "NO!" It'd been a dream. It was just Mala. He wouldn't let anyone hurt her. He wouldn't let them see her through him.

"I...I can't... I..." whatever else she'd mustered fell away, her voice not strong enough to slip past her trembling lips. Her breath barely filled her lungs, panic beginning to build in her system. Why couldn't she look away? Mala's eyes... they were like... they were like magnets. They were trapping her! Smothering her. She couldn't breathe. The pale man trapped her, not Mala. Mala would never trap her. He'd never hurt her. Not on purpose. 'Let me go.' Her lips moved but no sound came. The elf tried again, this time faltering. "Please... plea... let me go... please..."

The pale man could see her. He had her trapped. Pencaliel could almost hear his laughter ringing in her ears. He could see her and he was using Mala! That's why she couldn't look away. That's why she grew so afraid again. He could see her and he was laughing! "No, no, no, NO!" And then suddenly, madness settled in, tearing all sense of sanity from her mind. Down onto the ground she fell, her arms thrown over her head, her elbows scraping against stone, huddled under her pile of blankets. Excited pitches, muffled from the mound of quilts, quivered from the little maiden. "He can see! He can see!" Her trembles overtook her body again as she rocked back and forth on her knees. "I killed him and he's coming!"

It was dark, so dark. She couldn't even feel the ground underneath her. It was all nothingness, all darkness and she couldn't escape, as if she'd been completely swallowed and lost in the belly of despair. Her face was wet. Was she screaming? She couldn't tell, but she knew she was slipping. Tumbling backwards, away from the light. She didn't want to! Nekia would tell her to fight, but how? There was nothing to grab onto, nothing to steady herself. Pencaliel could feel herself spiraling down, down, down. "No!" Her fingers weaved into her hair, gripping and tugging on the roots as she continued to rock. One lone thought poked through, a thread of sanity amidst the chaos: "I had faith."

And that's when she saw the sword. Engulfed in darkness, somehow the blade shone bright before her. It led upwards, up towards where the light used to be. Instantly, the Druid knew it was meant for her to grab onto. It would lift her out. She'd be safe again, away from the nightmare gripping her so securely. But it would hurt! It would cut into her skin and drain her blood!

'And drain the poison.'

"I'm scared," she whimpered aloud.

'You need to rise above or you will drown.'

"He can see me!"

'No more than before. Tell Mala. He needs to know or this will happen again.'

That's what this was. A trigger had been activated. A fairly violent one considering she had yet to gain a foothold from her nightmare. What had given her the upper hand before? "Faith!" Her voice came a little more strongly now. "I have faith!" Then she cried out in her native tongue, "Calel! Calel, me bael!" Pencaliel lunged for the blade, squeezing her eyes shut against the swiftly following pain as she drew herself out from the darkness, one bloody hand print at a time. She was ready now. Ready to relive. To face it. To fight.

The Druid sat up slowly, wiping her tear-stained face on the edge of a blanket. She didn't turn around, not yet, needing to get the first words out before she lost confidence. Before she could cower from the pain she knew would come. "When... when I left... It was because... I didn't want to hurt you. But I did. And... and I felt so guilty. I turned to go back, but... that's... that's when the pale man... his slave found me." Tilting her head then, the maid met the dragonkin's eyes briefly before lowering them to her hands, her body screaming to be picked up and cradled though no word on that subject left her lips. "He dragged me to the cave and when I came to..." her hand wrapped around her wrist, remembering the cold chain. She shuddered. Maybe she wasn't strong enough to face it yet after all.

 

[Kaisaan]

Malachi heard the first 'no' clearly, but it didn't truly register, the meaning not quite sinking in until Pencaliel said it again, louder, far more frantic and he knew his own eyes widened in surprise, in the beginnings of fear as she only continued to grow more adamant in her panic. It appeared to him that she almost couldn't breathe, could barely think as her mouth moved and all traces of the calm he'd held on to started to evaporate in the face of her distress. It was the last words that brought the pain, though.

Let her go.

The Dragonkin could have wept and screamed at once, panic clawing at his mind just as he could see it overtaking Pencaliel's. Let her go? How!? He wasn't holding her! He wasn't touching her! He'd tried, he'd tried so hard not to upset her, not to touch her, to not hold her like he'd desperately wanted to do and somehow he'd done it wrong anyway, had failed badly enough that she was rolling away from him, hitting the stone beside the bench. Malachi's heart jumped into his throat, threatening to suffocate him as he watched the one person he cared about more than life itself shrink from him in fear, deny him all manner of comforting her. He could only watch, feeling shuddering tremors roll over him even as they did the Druid. He didn't dare to speak, to move, to hardly even draw the breath his lungs were already screaming for. He didn't know what had scared the little elf so much, but he was desperate not to do it again because whatever he'd done, he'd hurt her.

He'd hurt Pencaliel and the pain that lapped at his own system seemed just punishment for that.

The Child was in an absolute frenzy; terror, guilt and hurt radiating through his mind, a scorching heat the Man was hard-pressed to fight against....because the Man was scared, too. He'd thought he'd been doing the right things, had been helping and to know that he'd only made things worse....it was no wonder the stability he'd known for the past few hours was shattered, the three parts of himself at war once more, but none of them truly wanting dominance....because none of them knew what to do. It was a state Malachi had not found himself in since he was the equivalent age of sixteen and Kontaro had started force-feeding him the Darkness. No part of him had wanted control then. He'd only wanted to escape.....like now.

But that wasn't what Pencaliel needed and unlike when he was younger, Malachi knew he had something outside of himself to fight for. Her. She needed him...even if he'd made everything worse. He could do better. He could. But first he had to understand, to calm and the first one was going to be next to impossible as it was. It was natural, then, that in the absence of anything else to go on, that Malachi would latch on to the words that had most left the little elf's trembling lips.

He could see her?

The Dragonkin didn't understand.

He who? Who could see her? His father? No, surely that was not what had terrified her so for Pencaliel had known such information for a time now and had never reacted like this. Who did she think could see her? And why did looking at him seem to trigger the response? The inner question brought cold dread to tickle within Malachi and he knew, did not imagine, that he could hear the faint laughter that whispered through his mind. A shudder wracked his body, something the little elf would thankfully not see, and the half-blood tried desperately to ignore the uncanny thought that he already knew exactly what the maiden spoke of - that he was truly the cause of her distress, and always would be in some form or another. Him. Not his actions, not his words, but him. Such was not simply the fear of the Child, however, but of the whole of Malachi, all three parts, and he would struggle to fight that fear.

But not now.

Not when Pencaliel needed him so very badly. He could pretend, couldn't he? Pretend like nothing was wrong. He was good at that, wasn't he? Like a skill forgotten until desperately needed. He'd been able to wear a mask a long time ago, hadn't he? Before the blindness, before coming to this world across the sea, before Pencaliel and Kolmar, Nekia....that had been his defense against everything. A mask. A face no one truly saw, emotions no one knew, needs never met and so buried until he could almost fool himself into believing they didn't exist anymore. No, Malachi knew he couldn't go back to that, not entirely.....but he could slip back into the mask. It was ridiculously, shockingly easy, too easy and yet once behind it, he could make himself calm by convincing himself that he was, that the face he put on for others made him so because such was what he wanted them to see.

Pencaliel needed calm.

She needed steady. She needed someone who wasn't falling apart at the seams, someone to comfort her and bring her back from the abyss. Malachi couldn't do that unless part of him wasn't truly here, the part that was abused and damaged - the majority of himself, the parts that the little elf knew so well and had been working so hard to repair. It was the only way he knew to do it, the only thing he could think of that made sense as the fear and dread, and hurt rampaged through his system. The mask at least partitioned them, kept them separated from the outside world, shoved them away into the recesses of his mind and kept them from his actions. It was within this state that Malachi was finally able to process the words she'd spoken about her capture and the pain that flared at hearing them was captured and pushed away, just like the fear and he finally moved, bending to simply scoop Peni up from the ground, damp blankets and all. It was what she needed. How Malachi knew that or where the knowledge came from, he couldn't have said in that moment, far too distracted and jumbled to care. He only knew that she needed and where everything else was uncertain, that was enough. Perhaps if she'd been in her right mind, observant and calm, the Druid would have noted the difference in the Dragonkin immediately as he brought her close, but as it was, she was not likely to suspect anything at all, in desperate enough need for comfort, stability and strength that she'd latch on to them when they were given without further question. Only afterward might she look back and question how it was the white-haired male was able to provide those things.

Malachi brought the maiden into his hold, cradling her in his arms as his head came to rest on her own, the warmth and comfort felt from that gesture alone real enough even with the mask. He no longer shook, no longer struggled to breathe. There was nothing but a steady heartbeat in Pencaliel's ear and a deep, firm voice when he spoke. Malachi took a breath before doing that speaking, the words coming without thought, something directing them even now. "Shh, I know. I know it's hard, but I've got you. You're not alone, Pencaliel. You don't have to face him alone, but you must face him, you must tell me what happened. I'm right here and he can't hurt you. You're not alone."

He never wanted her to be alone again.

Pencaliel was not him. She was different, deserved far better and she should never have had to face being alone, she should never have been hurt to begin with, but in this Malachi could truly help her, could truly understand because nothing she could say would shock him. No evil committed would he not understand. He'd lived through them already, knew the pain they brought, the fear, the humiliation and grief. He knew them better than he knew anything else.

No, Pencaliel would not be alone as she walked this memory, as she faced it because Malachi could walk it with her, and for the little elf's sake....he would go to hell and back if that's where she'd gone. Without hesitation.

 

[Lady Alainn]

Deep down Pencaliel truly wanted to be held, needed the security Mala's embrace could offer, but the moment his arms encircled her, she only wanted out. Her body stiffened of its own accord, hunching over to prepare itself for the inevitable fire that would soon burn in her veins. For, if the pale man could control Mala's eyes to find her, couldn't he also use Mala's hands to hurt her? Her eyes squeezed shut.

Nothing happened, though.

The only heat she felt was that of Mala's body radiating through the blankets. Maybe it was a trick, the pale man giving her a false sense of security before the pain began. She whimpered at this thought, her shoulders rising sharply with each hiccuped breath as Mala's forehead came to rest comfortingly against her. It would come, it would come, it would come! ...but it did not. Instead, the only sensations she felt was the constant thudding of his heartbeat under her ear and the slight shiver along her spine his breath upon her head brought. Both, in their own way, necessary and soothing. She allowed herself to relax just a little; her chin not quite so tucked against her collarbone, her knees not quite so curled into her chest.

Then, and only then, did Mala speak-- when the tips of her ears had stopped quivering long enough to listen. One solemn brown eye popped open, then the other. They flitted back and forth to search his golden hues, her head tilting back against his shoulder to get a better view. He looked like Mala. Just Mala. Only Mala. Concern, determination, tenderness, a hint of desperation from his desire to help her, strength, it was all Mala. Nothing sinister in his gaze, nothing dark lurking in the corners, just purely Mala offering to walk this difficult road with her. Pencaliel closed her eyes again and let her head fall against his breast with a deep, weary sigh. Her entire body followed suit in sagging with relief, so completely limp that it was only Mala's arms about her that kept her from slipping through to melt into a puddle on the ground.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay, Mala, you can come. I'll go and you can come."

Where should she start though? At the cave? But would he truly understand? Would picking up there let him understand fully her rage? How she could call him such a vile name after all he had done for her? No, it wouldn't. He needed to know, he needed to follow her journey from the very beginning. When she first laid eyes on his bleeding body in her forest. How grateful she had been when he decided to stay with her though many spoke ill of her wood. He proved himself different from anyone else she had ever met by being the first to ever accept her invitation. He garnered her trust with his sparrowspeak, though it had wavered the following morning when she realized he was the one her mother had warned her about: the dragonkin who would come to devour the Darkness and set it free from its bondage. This was the reason she'd wanted him gone, because he had stirred the dark beast to awakening. It had nothing to do with who he was. She had enjoyed his company, taciturn as he'd been, and easily reciprocated the trust he had shown her by putting his own desires aside to keep one lonely elf company.

It was this trust that encouraged her to stay when he frightened her at Dillon's. She would face his darkness just as he had faced her forest. It was the least she could do. And the more she spent time with him, the more she began to realize just how in need of a friend he was. She needed a friend, too. It was this acknowledgement that led her to the decision to love him, to choose to love him in a way only a trusted friend could. Out of that love came an even stronger understanding that he had grown to be a significant part of her life whether she wanted it or not. He was her stability, her family, the only thing she had to hold on to since leaving her forest. He became the reason her feet could continue to move one step at a time away from all she held dear.

Walking down these more tranquil memories, Pencaliel's voice gained in confidence. Her body even gathered enough strength to seek out one of his hands and cuddle it securely against her cheek. It wasn't until the being of darkness inside Mala clouded her thoughts that her words began to falter. She explained how she had used Second Sight during his fight with the goblins to try to focus on his heart beneath the scary exterior, but had glimpsed too far [or his father had risen to the surface enough to be seen]. It was the hunger, the complete, absolute blackness, the sickening evil that curled her toes with the worst fright she had ever experienced and threw her into a panic.

The little maiden had known she couldn't love a demon. No matter how hard she tried, she could never love evil. Because she thought that was the heart of Mala, the true, raw, unchanging dark heart, she'd ran from him. It was better to leave him, she thought, before he could love her. Hurt him a little bit before she left him later on and hurt him a lot. She didn't know how he felt about her at that point, how much damage could already be done with her leaving. Even after she left him, she questioned herself, hated herself, tore out her darling little earring in her frustration with herself, decided to go back because she cared for him... and then the pale man had left her no choice.

By this point in the story, Pencaliel could only keep going. Her words flowed without thinking, one memory following the next like debris floating along a fast-paced river until it tumbled over the edge of a waterfall. But she wasn't floating alone. Mala held on to her and would keep her from crashing onto the rocks below. He was her anchor. Had always been, even when he'd been hanging over the edge himself. It was this knowledge that had Pencaliel diving into details rather than skimming the surface. Abstract ideas became concrete fact. She walked into the cave, Mala's hand firmly in her own, and followed the path to the crude room where she'd awoken.

The stone, the cold, the chink of metal as she shifted and sat up, her absolute horror when she looked down and found only bare skin. She related in full how she had been petrified with fear, how Mala's demon had seemed like nothing in comparison, how she wanted so desperately to wake up in his arms and find it all a nightmare. The words, the looks, the touches, the shudders, the screams, the agonies, the Druid voiced them all in broken rhetoric, leaving nothing out. How he'd had her strung up by her wrists like a dirty rag and made her feel like one, his lilac eyes drawing hers to them to force her to watch him maliciously rape her with just a gaze. A ghost of a touch. One small little lie regarding Mala's purpose with her. It had been so easy to believe, the pale man's word. He'd exploited every weakness, pulling doubt through the tiniest of cracks. She hadn't known Mala very long, and it had all sounded so plausible...

Every horror she witnessed in that cave came to the surface and it played before her as if she were living it again. Between moans and groans, cries and cringes, she faltered through her tale. When Pencaliel couldn't find a word to describe the torture or the way she felt, she fell silent and Mala stepped in with a quiet word, naming that fear, giving her something solid to hold on to and file away with the rest of her fears. With each feeling, each sensation, each touch named and catalogued, the elf could begin to process them and start the journey of working through them. Conquering them.

Then came the final day. Her spirit practically broken, her body even more so, the Druid had wanted nothing more than to curl up and die. Mala had abused her, used her, discarded her, and would destroy everything she held dear. She'd been a fool. She'd failed. She no longer knew anything but pain, inside and out. Only, pain was such a pathetic word to describe her desecration and despair. When the dragonkin slave had come, the elf had been so far removed from herself that she hardly knew he was there at all. Until his lips fell upon her and a fear greater than any the pale man had introduced to her consumed her: that of losing her first kiss.

In that instant, the Druid had snapped. She paused here and explained to Mala how elves treasure their purity, the importance of a kiss and how it identified life partners. It was the most intimate of the Signs of Affection and was only to be exchanged on a wedding day. By claiming her first, the slave would have claimed her as his own and defiled her in the eyes of her people. A defilement even worse than what the pale man's touches had done to her in awakening male and female feelings that Nekia had just told her about. After clearing her throat and taking the time to duck her head and blush, Pencaliel sobered and confessed what she had done out of a rage so dark, she shuddered to think about it.

It had consumed her completely. Within that rage she could not think, did not know, could only act. That feeling burning within her scared her now more than anything else ever had. It was ugly, it was powerful, and it was inside her. Fueled with grief, hate, and anger, she had somehow accessed the power of the earth without her bracers as a catalyst-- something she didn't even know she could do. And when she saw Mala at the cave's entrance... so dark, so feral... the darkness within her that had killed one man and laughed then feasted on the lies the pale man had told her and the cutting betrayal she felt from the man she'd tentatively tried to love...

"I'm so sorry I called you that, Mala," Pencaliel whispered, turning her tear-stained cheeks towards him. So much had she been crying that her eyes were red and she couldn't wipe the liquid from her nose onto her blanket fast enough. "You didn't... you didn't deserve it. But I didn't know... I didn't know... I thought... I hated myself so much... so much darkness... But you came anyway. You came to save me... I left you and you came..."

Crawling up higher onto Mala's lap, the elf maiden buried her head against his neck and hugged it tightly. "I love you, Mala. I love you so much!" Once more, she broke into sobs and pressed her body against his, knowing there was more to the story than this but needing to vent the tears before she could continue. It wasn't just the painful memory of feeling that way towards Mala, but the whole of it. Pitying herself for the trauma she'd been through, aching for the trauma she'd put Mala through. What had taken decades for the Sidhe to penetrate, she'd broken in less than a week. Oh, if only she'd known then everything she knew now!

But she didn't and nothing could change the past. Nothing could change but how she viewed it.

After the wracking sobs subsided enough for her to talk again, the Druid slid down and resumed her position curled against Mala's chest. They were coming to the light at the end of the tunnel. There was still another tunnel yet to get through, but for now she focused on the bright light ahead: her visit with the Creator. Pencaliel relished filling Mala in with all the details of that beautiful hour she spent on the shore with her Calel. The way His arms had enfolded her and given her such peace after the turmoil, how His eyes had looked down on her with such love, the lessons He taught her, the glimpse of Mala's heart He'd given her, the name He'd called him, the mission He had explained in part to her, the gift He'd bestowed. How He had reawakened within her the love she had felt for Mala.

Again, the Druid didn't leave anything out, even going so far as to tell Mala why she had decided to give him her gift of a first kiss. His lips had proved worthy of receiving it, especially since she never wanted to give any other creature of the darkness a chance to take it from her. The other meanings behind it, the claim of a life partner, it didn't have to mean that if he didn't want it, but they weren't exactly betrothed or married so it was a little awkward in that regard because it had been premature... Pencaliel stammered, blushed again, and hurried onto telling him why she had been sitting in a mud pile when he'd gotten back from his flight after leaving the lake. The ugliness within her, the anger, the bitterness, had surfaced for a moment and with it had surged her power.

The second tunnel loomed before her now. Her nightmare. Pencaliel let out another whimper and pressed as hard as she could against Mala, as if she could disappear completely if only she was buried enough in his embrace. She wasn't aware of his bruising, wasn't aware of any of his condition as they sat together in the orange-bathed darkness. All she knew was that he told her he would walk with her, and the little maiden needed every assurance of his presence before stepping foot into the next wave of torment.

 

[Kaisaan]

She spoke and he felt his heart break and mend in turns. His Pen'neth was far more than she could ever appear to be, so much better than a mere mortal could know, so very precious and bearing far more strength than she could comprehend. Malachi listened and he wondered at hearing all she had endured, what had driven her decisions. He realized then what he'd always known, something that hadn't needed confirming, but affirmation appreciated all the same; he was blessed. From the moment he'd met the little elven maiden he'd been blessed by her very presence, by every touch and every smile. Blessed to know her at all.

Pencaliel spoke of all her doubts and fears, but Malachi could see nothing but her virtues, nothing but the Light that surrounded her even now. It was all he'd ever seen.

That Light soothed the frayed parts of his mind that managed to slip past the mask he bore so naturally, so fluidly, and Malachi allowed it to do so because the Druid needed him. His arms were security around her and his wings were a shelter as they curled before them, keeping the drizzling rain from reaching the elf, but allowing the glowing orange of the torches in the hall beyond to still be visible, a comfort in the darkness. Malachi didn't question, didn't speak but to offer words, phrases to the maiden when she stumbled. He didn't do anything but listen.....and follow.

There was a buzz across his skin, a warmth he'd felt before, but had never had need to identify. It was a power he knew and yet didn't understand in the least, guiding his mind into a state where he started to clearly see what Pencaliel was describing and when she slipped her hand into his own, it was not just support and comfort that passed between them as the half-blood felt himself jolted, pulled until he saw the scene Pencaliel was describing before him in all its detail. Her mind had drawn in his power, showing him the cave, the memory as the little Druid was facing it and Malachi felt pain, a distant sensation, in his left palm. Claws biting into flesh. Horror washed over him, followed closely by fear, but rage was the most potent, last but certainly not least as he watched his tormentor harm the one person he'd come to love in his life.

There was nothing he could do, though, and that perhaps was the cruelest kind of torture. Malachi could only watch, and he did so. Silently. Neither giving in to grief or anger, only holding Pencaliel far more securely, only letting feathers brush against her face as they shifted, only offering a stable port in the storm that wracked her. What he felt didn't matter. What he wanted didn't matter. Not when Pencaliel needed him. Her body pressing against his own was enough to make it hard to breathe past the pain it caused, the pressure upon battered ribs and chest excruciating, but not a sound left him as his head came to rest once more against the elf's own, fingers that were willed from shaking moving back through her hair where it was free to do so.

She was all that mattered.

To know she'd found comfort after it all, when he'd been so incapable of giving it to her, was a relief that he'd never even known he needed and every part of him, from the Animal, to the Child and even the Man, relaxed just a little upon hearing it. The Creator was a mystery to him, an entity, an idea, a concept he was terrified of even as he was drawn to curiosity, to the desire to understand. It was a constant tug-of-war, though, and no one part of himself could make a decision on the matter. The Creator had sent Pencaliel to him, had given him sight, had nullified his curse.

But the Creator had allowed him to be taken from his mother. To be tortured and abused his entire life. The Creator had let him be born to Darkness. The Creator had not stopped any of it.

He hated the Creator....even as he longed to trust Him, to love Him, to serve Him.

Malachi didn't know what to think of Him, only able to be grateful He'd seen fit to help Pencaliel, regardless of His feelings toward Malachi. The half-blood would accept that for now and not complain. No, he would listen, listen as his little elf continued, finally revealing what had scared her so badly, what had worked its way into her thoughts and her spirit, into her heart, whispering lies that brought horror and terror upon her in waves. Pencaliel spoke of her dreams and suddenly Malachi understood.

He understood with a clarity that was sickening. It made his stomach roil to contemplate, made bile rise to the back of his throat, nearly making him gag because she was right. Kontaro could easily know where they were......because Malachi's father could easily find out.

Pencaliel was in danger and he was the reason.

Her nightmares were just that, yes. Just thoughts of her imaginative mind, fears given form and logically worked out within her subconscious, but....that didn't make it any less capable of happening. They were valid fears. Not realized fears, but plausible all the same.

Malachi did not say that to Pencaliel, though. Not right now, not when she was so scared, so brave to face that fear, relying on him to calm her, to comfort, to walk this road with her and lead her back to the light at the end. To safety. He would not tell her what she feared could come true.....but neither would he deny it. Malachi knew he'd only comfort, because that was what was needed and he would do anything for Pencaliel no matter how her words had terrified him deep down inside where he shook and gasped for air, for some semblance of stability when he knew he'd find none. He never had, had he? Not truly.

But he could help Pencaliel find it. He would.

Her voice had finally stilled, somehow leaving the air around them cleaner, the ghosts of the past fading away to mist, the fears slowly draining away, exposed in the Light where they could not survive for long. It was peace that settled over the little elf, over her aura, extending outward to try and caress the half-blood and he let it to a point because it came from Pencaliel....but he didn't yet know that peace, couldn't, not yet. He did not begrudge the Druid such, though, and Malachi held her close, as close as she wanted even if it made him see black around his vision and caused his voice to stay quiet, not enough pain-free air making it to his lungs.

It barely registered as important.

"He is not here, Pen'neth. He does not see you. He can't." Kontaro could get information from his father, but not sight. He could not see what the King saw. Those violet eyes in the windows were lies. "You are safe from his eyes, I promise. Nekia is here and Kolmar. They will let nothing touch you, nothing harm you."

His nose nuzzled into her hair, his shallow breath released against her scalp, warm, reassuring, soft. Just as his words were. "I won't let anything happen to you. He won't touch you again, Pencaliel. I won't let him. I won't let any of my kind hurt you again."