Looking Through Your Eyes

[Lady Alainn]

"Good. You'd do well to remember that...even if all evidence points to the contrary."

At the words of the dog, the Druid raised her eyes to the knowing gaze of the animal, her expression slightly confused, baffled, questioning. But before she could even think to ask the hound what she meant, the leggy beast was laughing again. Jesting. Pencaliel could not help but smile in return and direct her gaze to the waking cabin on the hillside. Above the clamor of noise, a sharp cry sounded:

"Pencaliel! Malachi!"

Morning light had pressed all the anxieties, fears, and wariness of the night before into the back of everyone's minds it seemed, just as Pencaliel hoped it would. Everyone's uneasiness except one. Beside her, she could feel Malachi stiffen, hesitate, and her steps automatically switched direction towards the dragonkin as the hound continued on to the house.

She wanted to comfort him.

The temptation came on so strongly, so suddenly, Pencaliel almost found herself acting on her impulses. Her hand rose of its own accord, her fingers reaching, aching to soothe away the tension in his stance, but before they could brush against his flesh the memory of the previous evening reared its ugly head. As if the heat radiated from his body all over again, her fingertips burned in a tingling sensation and the scorching smell reawakened in her nostrils. A wave of fear accompanied by a sharp intake of breath curled her fingers into her palm and dropped her hand to her side. She then turned to follow the dog towards the house, unable to face the dragonkin.

No matter how appealing Malachi acted or looked to her at the present moment, that lurked just around the corner, simmering quietly beneath the surface, a significant part of who he was, a force to be reckoned with. Would she ever be able to look past what frightened her? To see the Malachi she had grown attached to without always being reminded of what he was capable of? She desired it, yearned for it even. For the first time since her mother died she felt truly needed. Truly wanted. Truly secure. And it all started when Malachi stumbled into her life. How she hungered to nurture him, comfort him, and rely fully upon him in an expression of her gratitude. How she craved to capitalize on the affection-- yes, affection, there was no denying it now-- growing towards the mystery that was the dragonkin!

Then a thought, a quiet thought, a simple thought, yet so profound that it caused her steps to slow until they stopped altogether, seeped into her pondering. If she saw this power every time she tried to draw closer to Malachi, could she not look to see Malachi every time this power drew closer to her? Were they not one and the same? Both living inside one body, one flesh? Both Malachi? His thoughts, his passions, his past, his present, his future? If this power drove her to fear Malachi because of her fear of it, could she not turn it on its head to allow the opposite effect? To ...love... the power out of ...love... for Malachi?

'Perfect love drives out fear.'

Pencaliel's breath quivered in her throat even as her heart began throbbing in her chest. Her eyes closed. To love Malachi. To accept all of him. But this... this was too much to think about now, too much to process. Did she even want to open herself up to the dragonkin like that so completely? Could she love him? No, now was not the time nor place to contemplate such thoughts. Already she could hear the shouts and laughter of the children running about the cabin up ahead, one of them crying out in glee at having spotted them from a window.

"It'll be all right, Malachi," she said at last, drawing her thoughts to the matter at hand, "but, just to warn you, they might ask you for a story or a song, as a token of gratitude for their hospitality." The elf flushed and glanced shyly at the male beside her before asking in a hopeful voice, "Do you sing?"

 

[Kaisaan]

-------

It turned out that Malachi had no idea whether he sang or not. He'd never been given a reason to sing before, had never tried to and he was hardly going to find out in front of several pairs of eyes. A story was the route he'd gone and even that the half-blood had struggled within his mind to find - or at least to find one that wouldn't terrify the children watching him so intently, the weight of their gazes constant. Every childhood story he knew wasn't suitable for them. Finally he'd just made one up, mostly doing it as he went.

It had been a tale about a King who'd lost his entire Kingdom and who'd cleverly defeated all his enemies, winning back his land and rescuing his family until his whole Kingdom was safe and sound once more. It was silly in Malachi's way of thinking, but the young ones had seemed to enjoy it, their questions about the King and the story keeping him busy through most of breakfast.

Nekia had finally rescued him.

The hound's presence had caused first a hush, as if everyone waited for her to warn them away from the half-blood, but instead it seemed she'd purposely approached him, laid herself down calmly and rested her head on his leg. Somehow it seemed the night before was forgiven with that one motion by the stray and both Malachi and Peni had left with provisions for the road and on good terms with the large family. Though, Malachi doubted that his elven companion could ever be on bad terms with Dillon. Malachi, for his part, was glad to be away from the overwhelming presence of so many individuals, but he couldn't find it within himself to wish not to see them again. Visiting...wouldn't be so bad. If anything, he thought he might now know what it felt like to have....not friends, but allies at least.

It was strange, but not bad.

Nor was knowing that Nekia was following them. Malachi couldn't see her, of course, but somehow, even on the plains, the dog avoided being seen by even Peni. HOW she did it...was known only to the creature, to those that had come before her. It was a magic all their own and they didn't share its secret. But when they were needed, they were always there. They could travel physically with their Malamichii or they could come when the time called for it, but one way or another, they followed. Peni wouldn't know it yet as the canine had left before they had departed Dillon's family, but eventually they'd see Nekia again.

Malachi didn't think it would be tonight, though.

Their journey had been uneventful. Perhaps a bit more tense than when they'd first started out nearly a half a week before, but they'd both learned a bit more about each other since that point and emotionally they were unsure what to do with each other. Yes, some kind of agreement not to give up on each other had been reached - more on Peni's part than Malachi's admittedly - and certain aspects of what the half-blood was had come to light and just what Peni was so wary of had been made known, but that didn't mean they were at ease with each other. Sometimes truths were more hindering than they were helpful - at least at first.

Still, there had been no danger, no mishaps or alarms for that day and Malachi was glad of it. The last thing he'd wanted was to scent fear on Peni again. Getting hit with it this morning had been enough of a dose for him to last a long while. Somehow he suspected he'd be sick with it before long, though. The half-blood had thought he knew what to hate something was. The smell of blood in the air. His screams echoing back at him. Laughter. His father's voice. His own name. He knew what hate was, but never had he loathed something so much as the scent of fear on the elf. It wrenched something within him, brought the urge to both cower and fight to battle in his chest and left his mouth, nose and throat feeling like they'd been touched with acid. He would do anything to make sure she didn't give off that smell again, didn't feel that way again.

Somehow, Malachi knew whatever he did wouldn't be enough, though, and that hurt more than anything else.

With his thoughts racing around in his head most the day whether Peni spoke or not, half his concentration on managing without being able to see - and being extremely careful not to touch the elf as she'd not made it clear whether she still wanted him to keep his distance or not - and coupled with the fact that he'd not slept the night before, Malachi was relieved when they finally made camp. After the fire was going and he knew everything was settled, the half-blood wasted no time in laying down. He declined food - something Peni would learn was typical of Malachi even if it wasn't a good thing - and finally let his body release some of the tension it had been holding, always held when he moved about. Now that he was still, it was safe to let it go as the rigidness faded from his muscles, his wings allowed to rest against his back, slightly splayed in his lack of caring whether they were neatly aligned or not, and gold eyes shut after a time as Malachi's breathing slowed.

 

[Lady Alainn]

Pencaliel settled onto her side facing the dragonkin, her elbow propped on the ground, head resting in the palm of her hand, a piece of fruit gripped tightly in the other. As the stillness of night settled around the little camp her thoughts drifted back to what had been flitting in and out of her head since that morning-- the subject of love. She sank her teeth into the fleshy goodness of the apple and chewed her supper thoughtfully.

In truth, she had been much too absorbed in her own thoughts to be fully aware of the subtle tension between herself and the dragonkin. Perhaps she'd attributed most of it towards the delicate subject matter rolling about in her head. They belonged together. Pencaliel could sense it, the talking hound had confirmed it. But were they meant to.... love each other? Oh, not necessarily in a romantic way, though she couldn't deny that her heart skipped a beat whenever she remembered the sensation of being held in his strong embrace, but in a deep, meaningful friendship way. Could she learn to love both sides of Malachi like that?

Yes. Even if she couldn't, she desired to, and where there was a will, there was a way. Always.

Pencaliel smiled to herself, relieved and overjoyed at finally wrestling herself into an answer. Now, on to simpler matters, less taxing matters, so she could wind down for the night and follow in the wake of her companion.

It had been lovely seeing Dillon again after so many years, even with his severely altered appearance. He'd grown so much over the years since they'd been separated, while she had remained quite the same. Very much still the child. At least so she thought, for it is always difficult to judge one's own growth. A sigh escaped her lips and her gaze fell warmly on the sleeping form of Malachi across the way. Then the corners tugged into a smile as she recollected one conversation she'd had with the elderly man before the adults had all retired for the night.

"I don't mean to be rude, Dillon-"
"You could never be, Cairenn. Ask away."
"How... how were you able to tell Malachi was a dragonkin?"

"The way any blind man would, I presume," the old man had chuckled, "by the smell of feathers! What other higher species do you know of with so many of the blasted things, hm? Besides chickens, of course."

Pencaliel took another bite of apple as her eyes followed the pattern of the dancing flames on the white plumage. The flickering light almost seemed to be laughing at her, mocking her. Taunting her with the fact that they could touch the feathers while she dare not. But they couldn't smell the feathers, could they? At least they had no ability to mock her there. But.... her eyebrow rose and she paused mid-chew as an idea crossed her mind. She could mock them. Just one sniff. What did feathers smell like? She swallowed.

Shifting herself into a crouch, the elf set her half-eaten apple aside and crept as silently as possible around the fire to the dragonkin, forcing her breath to remain slow and inaudible, even as her heart pounded in her chest and rang in her ears. She was certain it was loud enough even to wake up Malachi, so sensitive he seemed to be to sound. It was too late to turn back now, though. Her nose tingled with curiosity, her fingers itched with anticipation, and she had to satisfy one or the other.

Slowly, she bent over the wing closest to her. She wasn't going to touch him, she reasoned to herself. She wouldn't wake him. He wouldn't even notice. She was just satisfying one of her curiosities before it drove her mad. Only one. He'd never know.

What was the scent of feathers?

Her head lowered, her heart beat picking up tempo with each decreasing centimeter between them. Then, she closed her eyes and breathed in.

 

[Kaisaan]

Malachi hadn't been sleeping. If fact, he had silently decided that he wouldn't sleep until Pencaliel did while they were traveling. It was a safety measure on his part and one she didn't have to know about as far as he was concerned. So it was that while the half-blood's eyes were closed, he was still very much aware of what was going on around him and when Pencaliel moved, while he barely heard her, he did smell her growing proximity. He sensed it, too, as she grew close enough to touch him, her body radiating heat and....something else he couldn't quite pinpoint, but he felt it like a ripple over his skin. He'd felt such before during different times in his life, though, so Malachi easily dismissed it and focused instead on the elf herself.

He could hear her heart pounding, growing far more swift the closer she got and for a moment he worried that something was wrong, though he could not have guessed what it could be.

But now, Pencaliel didn't smell like fear. She....almost smelled of excitement mixed with anxiety. It was strange and part of the reason the half-blood stayed so still was for the simple reason that he had no idea what she was doing. Hearing the sudden inhale, deep and slow, made the unease he felt drain away, however, amusement replacing it. She was sniffing him. Why? He couldn't smell like anything but sweat and dirt. What was appealing about that? Wait....but no, she wasn't inhaling his body, she was.....his wing?

His wings.

Suddenly the heavy sensation he'd get on his back while walking - the feeling of being watched intently - made more sense. She'd been looking at his WINGS! Somehow that was almost surprising to Malachi. He'd grown up with them, had seen them a hundred times over, lived with them. They were second-nature to him, no more significant than an arm or leg, but he supposed to someone else they might appear different than they did to him. Especially to someone who'd not seen a pair of them before. She was curious.

Malachi found a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as warm patience washed over him and a fondness for the elf that he didn't quite understand, but liked and accepted nonetheless. His voice, when it came, was soft in an attempt not to startle her, because he'd certainly not thought she was doing anything wrong. He didn't want Pencaliel to feel she was being invasive or rude. He hardly thought that and if Malachi were very, very honest with himself, he didn't want her to move away at all. He'd missed her touch today. It had been hard knowing she didn't want him near and he would have been alarmed by the swiftness in which he'd grown attached to the female if not for the instinct that told him it was the right thing.

The half-blood didn't know if that instinct came from his father's side or his mother's, or perhaps both, but it ruled nearly more than half of his responses to the world around him. It had yet to be wrong about how things were, even if it didn't always allow him to react appropriately to those things. He hoped now wasn't one of those times.

"Pencaliel, if you want to touch them, all you had to do was ask." He didn't move, didn't even raise his head and his wings stayed carefully still. "I don't mind." Not if it was her.

 

[Lady Alainn]

He'd been awake. He'd been awake all this time! Pencaliel froze, but that is an understatement. Her breath had stopped, her heart had ceased altogether, and she couldn't move even if Malachi had shoved her out of the way. Well, perhaps her body would have moved then, but her joints, her limbs, they'd still have been locked in place wherever she landed. The only thing moving at all was her mind, her thoughts. What was he thinking? How ridiculous did she seem? It was that easy to get permission? Why didn't she ask sooner? Was he aware that she had been smelling him? What...? How...? Where...? Why was he being so understanding and kind when she'd obviously disturbed him? How soon could she touch his feathers? She didn't want to seem too eager, too impatient, but he obviously knew she was interested...

As her mind raced, she gradually gained feeling in herself again and her heart started back up again with a gasp of air. He didn't mind. Unable to contain herself, itching with desire, she shifted her weight off of one of her hands and reached towards the feathers.

Her fingertips tentatively brushed the tip of his wing, then jolted as the feathers shivered and drew back from her touch. She rocked onto her heels, eyes darting to his head, preparing for the dragonkin to move, to growl, to say, "That is enough," but it never came. He must... he must still be okay with it. With her. Right? Unsure about his response, yet unwilling to let this opportunity slip through her fingers, she eased onto her knees again and brought her gaze to his wings. The feathers near the bone had shifted, faintly revealing a mass of bruises in the firelight. That must have been why the wing had jerked, but what had caused the bruising? She had not the courage to ask. No... focus... focus on the feathers.

If his wings were sensitive at the tip, she would explore further up, and so the elf scooted closer to the dragonkin until her knees almost touched his side. Leaning over his back, she hesitantly placed her hand gently on the white feathers. Gradually, when Malachi offered no other protest than perhaps slightly tensed muscles, she grew bolder and stroked them, tracing their outlines, the shafts, running her fingers over the barbs; her eyes growing wider and brighter with silent marvel as she took in the texture, the responses, the shapes.

Lost in her exploration, her fingers travelled higher and higher until they reached the bone protruding from his back. Pencaliel felt her cheeks flush as her fingertips wandered for the briefest of moments over the smooth transition between flesh and bone, then something caught her eye in the firelight and she froze for a second time. Scarring. Absentmindedly, her fingers followed her gaze, tracing the faint lines on the skin of his back until she realized what she was doing. Then they flew to the safety of the bone where she waited a few seconds with baited breath to see if he would pull away now.

But he didn't.

Her eyes flitted to the scars again. They looked... intentional. Her breath caught in her throat yet again as she began to put two and two together. His first appearance in her wood, struggling to avoid her contact, his instinct to coil into himself with fangs barred and claws out, ready to strike, like a mistreated animal. He'd been beaten? Perhaps even... tortured? Slowly, she trailed her fingers from the top of the bone to the tip, biting her lip as they reached the thick scars at the end. The bone was still tender. This was done in the not too distant past. Intentionally.

Before she could catch herself, she was bending over the beautiful but bruised wings, pressing her lips against the marred bone as silent tears trickled down her cheeks and splashed onto the feathers. What had he gone through, this man?

"Oh, Mala," she whispered as her head pulled back, not caring now if the word sounded like war or not. It was his special name. Nothing else. "Mala..." Her fingers caressed the quivering feathers and the tip of his bone, lightly running over the scars as her tears continued to fall. "...oh, Mala. What did they do to you?"

 

[Kaisaan]

Malachi had been unable to help his initial reaction. He healed quickly, yes, but it had been less than three months since the events of his dream from the night before. It was events like such as what he'd experienced then that made him react as he did now. It wasn't simply that his wings were tender, it was that they - his wings, his body - had instinctive memory as to how they'd been treated in the past and nothing about what they remembered was good. It was not gentle or kind. It was not soothing. It was painful and rough, and therefore his wings and the rest of his person had learned to avoid touch. Touch was not a good thing. It never had been.

Not until Pencaliel and even her initial touch had been painful. In a strange way, it was probably better that it had been. He likely wouldn't have let her get close otherwise, twisted as that was. At least the pain that had come with her first contact had been for something useful, good, and he'd expected it. Every touch since then had been....different, though. So much more different than what he knew.

And this was no exception.

There were reactions he could not help. The quivering feathers under her fingers, each twitch or shift was beyond his control as her hand traveled over one of the most sensitive parts of his body. His wings were powerful in one sense, but extremely delicate in another. They could lift his body plus more off the ground, carry him miles if he chose, provide escape and means of attack, but in one fateful move then could be broken, too. Bones snapped, feathers burned or ripped out. So much damage could be done. Had been done. It was a miracle at all that he was letting Pencaliel anywhere near them, especially only knowing her a short time, but to let her touch them so intimately? That was something else entirely, something the half-blood couldn't even explain to himself, nor did he try.

No, he was suddenly very keenly aware again of what Pencaliel was doing. He'd started to relax, far more than he had in a long time, as her fingers traced his feathers, but feeling those same digits on his back brought his own breath to a halt in his lungs. They seemed to leave a trail of fire in their wake, but he wasn't burned. No, it was like a buzz across his skin and Malachi swore it had to be glowing somehow. It felt that way and he knew she felt him stiffen just slightly. It showed in the way her hand retreated back to his wing once more, but Malachi didn't stop her. She'd only startled him as he'd never expected what she'd done.

He had liked it - confusing enough - but the half-blood had not understood why she'd done it.

Her fascination with his wings he could understand. They were big, obvious, soft, some might even say fluffy and she'd never seen a pair on a dragonkin before. The curiosity was understandable. But his back? There was nothing there but scars, incredibly faint but ugly all the same. Whip marks, knife slashes, a few burn streaks and even a brand between his shoulder-blades that was centered perfectly between his two sets of wings, but to Malachi that was nothing of consequence, nothing to be noted. Certainly nothing to be so tender about. That was normal evidence of his existence. That was his life and it was nothing that Pencaliel needed to be curious about, not when it would only hurt her. Hurting him was fine, he understood pain, but if anyone or anything hurt the elf who now had moved on to studying his wings again, that was not all right.

And she was hurt now.

The kiss barely registered as the smell of salt hit his nose. Wet salt. Tears. She was crying. Why was she crying? Had he done something wrong?

Malachi felt something close to panic race through him at the thought that he'd done something to harm her - again - but Pencaliel's gentle, steady touch kept him from moving, from surging upward to see what the problem was. No, he stayed, somehow unable to move as her fingertips trailed over the tender newly-healed bone tip, his feathers sent aflutter under her hand as she passed, despite the care she'd shown, still expecting agony at any moment. It was all they knew, all he knew. But he didn't move, not away, not closer, staying entirely still until the elf spoke.

His name.

The panic within him loosened its vice-like grasp, flowing away to leave his body solely to Pencaliel's ministrations. Malachi relaxed cautiously then, but at the elf's last words, he shook his head slowly and moved upward, breaking her contact with his wings gently. And then, just as he'd done in the forest, without thought and without sight, the half-blood pulled Pencaliel into his arms. He seemed to wrap around her then, as if he could shield her from the entire world and soothe every fear, and his voice was a rumble in her ear as it was close to his chest.

"What they did is not a story for tonight, Pen'neth. Now, shhh...it doesn't hurt anymore. I'm fine. I have you now."

 

[Lady Alainn]

The elf trembled as the dragonkin's arms enclosed around her, pulling away slightly in fear as she anticipated the burning sensation from this morning to light her body afire with blistering heat. But the only heat that touched her was the warmth of his body, and that was soothing. Comforting. Intoxicating. Sweet relief pouring through her veins, Pencaliel eagerly surrendered to his embrace, allowing Malachi to curl around her and block out the night, the fears, the pain, the dark, the unspoken demons of the past. Until it was only him, her, and the shadow of his wings as the gentle flickering of the campfire danced about them.

"I have you now."

The words resonated in her little cocoon, vibrating against her fingertips as they clung to him, tickling her ear as he tucked her head against his breast, filling every crevice of her body and soul with its soothing balm. Her hesitancy, her apprehension, her near rejection of him, her current mission to invade his life-- it was all forgiven, and the last, dare she hope it, even encouraged. Pencaliel buried her damp face into his warmth, the tears now ceasing, and let out the breath she had not been aware she'd been holding until now. She did not just want to be familiar with the sight of him any longer, but his voice-- both voices-- his touch, his scent. After all, he knew her by these other senses, did he not? Ignoring the filth of travel that wafted through her nostrils, mixing cruelly with his faint scent, she breathed in deeply.

These... sensations, this secret place, she would walk through any dark place, face any fear, just to find her way back here. Snuggled up to Malachi. Sheltered by his wings. Where she belonged. How soon that resolve would be put to the test, she had no inkling of. How could she when at this very moment bliss unlike any she'd ever known before settled like a thick quilt around her soul and filled her heart to overflowing?

Her whispers were hushed, barely more than faint breaths on a wind. "Yes, oh yes my amadae ka. My Mala. My friend."

Contentment washed over her, unknotting any tense muscles, closing her eyelids in perfect tranquility, shushing the subtle growling in her stomach. Finishing her supper could wait. This... this was far more important. Desired. Her finger absently traced a triangle over his chest as she opened her eyes again and peered up at the dragonkin.

"Mala? What does your name mean? What... what did you mean by it isn't really a name?"

 

[Kaisaan]

He had not thought that simply holding someone could make him feel so many things at once - nor had he known how many emotions he could truly feel at all. Comforted. Strong. Weak. Possessive. Freeing. Warm and trembling at the same time. Calm and yet he knew his heart beat faster than it should have. To have Pencaliel in his arms was all of that and more, and Malachi knew right then that there was no better thing in the world, and if there was, he'd yet to discover it.

He felt his entire body relax when hers did, as if her motions were the puppet strings for his own, and the half-blood brought his nose to her hair, inhaling far more subtly than she did, but gathering her scent to him all the same. He committed it to memory, just as he did her voice, his ears so finely attuned to her unique pitches already that he hardly had trouble picking up the words she spoke into his chest. He didn't understand two of them, but somehow didn't have to. The affection their tone alone conveyed was enough to make his breath hitch and his wings gather just a little closer to her, protecting.

Malachi knew in that moment, irrefutably so - terrifyingly so on some levels - that she was his. He didn't know in what way and he didn't know why it had come so swift and strong all the sudden, but it was true. She was his...and he, in turn, was hers.

Something within him accepted that with ease and the half-blood relaxed into it, and into her touch. And it was only Pencaliel's continued touch, her fingers and her body rising and falling in breath against his own that kept him from going rigid at her question and the sequential memory it brought to the forefront of his mind.

"Do you know what you are in the Old Tongue, Prince?"

The instructor walked around the child slowly, but Malachi was used to that. Hacorai always paced, always circled like a vulture, just waiting for the young half-blood to do something wrong. The child already had two bleeding gashes on his knuckles for some offense today, whether real or imagined didn't matter. He tried to be good, sitting perfectly still without fidgeting, looking straight ahead until his head hurt from focusing on one thing too long and trying to answer every question posed to him correctly, or else remaining silent until told to speak. But even that was difficult. Sometimes questions weren't actually supposed to be answered and sometimes queries he thought he shouldn't speak up about turned out to be the ones that his instructor wanted him to answer. It was always a risk knowing which one was the thing to do.

Malachi took a guess at not answering this question and let out a trembling breath of relief - very quietly - when no punishment came and Hacorai continued.

"Malamichii. Chosen Vessel. Malachi in the common tongue."

The same stick used to break the skin on his hands tilted his chin up, his own dried blood an iron kind of smell under his nose. Gold eyes met pale blue, as cold inside as they appeared to be outwardly. "So you see, Prince, you are not a person. You are a tool, something to be used. A vessel chosen to be useful to our people. You are Malachi. Nothing more. Do you understand?"

Malachi's fingers absently brushed over the knuckles on his left hand, unable to see a specific deep scar there, but knowing it existed nonetheless, the memory of it clear. He'd not answered the way Hacorai had wanted. That particular wound across his hand had been deep and hadn't healed for weeks. He'd not regretted the answer. Though what he'd been told had started to take root inside him years afterward so that now, hearing the question from Pencaliel, the half-blood's answer was almost automatic. Strangely sounding rehearsed. His face was anything but, though, appearing far too controlled, far too blank as if he expected some kind of backlash should he answer incorrectly and had learned to keep himself emotionless.

"Malachi is the common tongue. Among my people, in the Old Tongue, my title is Malamichii. It means Chosen Vessel. It is what I am. I don't have a name." No. No name. A title. His name was no better than 'slave'. He wasn't a person but a possession, something to use, to manipulate and tweak as they saw fit. Nothing more than what he was. There was no who. There never had been and that had been from the earliest age he could remember.

He had no name, not really.

 

[Lady Alainn]

It seemed she couldn't ask anything in regards to him without stumbling across something unpleasant, something abhorrent, and that alone broke her heart even as indignation bristled along her spine and flared in her breast. The void of expression in his tone or on his face as he answered her question alarmed her, and the subtle movement behind her back confused her. What memory had she accidentally triggered this time? Pencaliel listened motionlessly, attentively as he spoke, letting the implications settle into her understanding as much as she disliked his answer. It saddened her and spiked a righteous glow of fury all at the same time; for, being an elf, she found the subject of names to be a very, very sensitive topic.

What kind of people would reduce a person-- a child-- to a mere object?

What kind of mother wouldn't name her pride and joy?

If Pencaliel had felt adequate enough, she would have bestowed a name upon him right then and there. But it wasn't her place, nor did she have the authority or knowledge about this man to fix the heinous crime his parents had committed. Not yet. And that frustrated her more than anything.

Sliding her palms up his torso, his shoulders, his neck, and tucking them around the base of his head with her thumbs braced against his jaw, she tilted his head down until his forehead met hers. She wanted him back, away from the hellish memories of his past that took him from her, and the only way she knew how to respond, to receive any sort of reaction from him no matter how small, was through touch. So she drew him in deliberately, gently, forcefully, lovingly. The tears started flowing again and she closed her eyes to try to hold them in.

"Then own it, Malachi," she finally replied, her tone fierce as she resolved to call him Mala from now on. The maiden needed to accept the meaning behind his full name just as she needed to learn to accept the parts of him that frightened her, but that didn't mean she was forced to like the name she had previously enjoyed rolling about on her tongue. He was Chosen. Not an object to be abused, not a pawn in someone's hand. He was her Mala. A person to be loved. Her Chosen.

The elf continued, her voice softening but no less authoritative as she brought him even closer to her, her nose nuzzling against his in her hopes to drown out the memories. "Take what Fate has given you and make it worthy of you. You are Chosen-- set apart-- but not to fulfill their schemes. You have been called to a much higher purpose."

Just as her blessings came with assurance, a hint of power, so did this claim. How she knew he was destined for a greater good, the Druid had not a clue, but that it could be known left no shadow of doubt in her mind. He was Chosen and Fate had guided him to the little elf. In her mind, it was a fairly safe assumption.

"No man should own another..."

 

[Kaisaan]

Pencaliel certainly did get a reaction from the half-blood at her actions and his attention completely. His entire body shuddered under her gliding palms as his breath hitched, the sensation unlike anything he'd ever known and far more contact that he'd ever received from the elf in the past. Her body pressed against his was different. It was still, a constant pressure and he'd been far too focused on what Pencaliel had been doing with his wings, his mind in too much of a whirl, to pay attention to the true feeling of it.

This....there was nothing to distract him from this, nothing he wanted to be thinking about anyway, and Malachi was helpless to control the goosebumps that rose in the wake of her touch, nor the reactive tightening of his muscles that only lasted as long as the contact did, relaxing once more when she'd passed. And the trail of fire that the elf left over his skin, the faint buzz coming back like when her fingers had traced his scars, he couldn't stop that either, nor the unfamiliar warmth that flushed through the rest of his body. He didn't even know how to try to stop it or where he'd even begin. There were too many sensations, too many emotions to go with them for him to possibly make a dent.

The half-blood wasn't even given the chance as his forehead was brought to Pencaliel's own and Malachi found himself praying that she'd believe the hitches in his breathing were due to what he'd told her. What WERE causing them...he could not have said, but whatever it was, it was a powerful thing....and yet it didn't keep him from giving in to what the elf wanted completely. It didn't stop him from relaxing into her touch, into her hold on him.

He was safe there.

And because he knew he was safe, he didn't flinch at Pencaliel's initial words, not like he would have done if she'd simply said them without any kind of physical reassurance beforehand. No, he listened to the meaning behind her voice, to the anger and indignation that surprised him, but didn't alarm Malachi. No, it made him feel all the more...more....wanted, and that was a feeling he never desired to lose. So he listened to the little elf in his hold, his arms tightening about her back even as she brought his face closer to her own, his white hair mingling with hers of an unknown color - at least to him. He stayed there, no other thoughts in his mind but to draw the strength and comfort she seemed to offer so freely.

Her words resounded in his head, a new kind of message filled with light that drove the darkness back from itself to an appropriate distance. It was hope and Malachi only realized he was smiling, the expression so full of relief, when he tasted the salt of his own tears - and perhaps Pencaliel's, too. It was a good kind of cry, though, the kind he rarely had and Malachi's voice was faint when he spoke, but the emotions contained in it powerful, no less so than her words had been to him.

"Wa eero Ne'vei tah Ne'sacu eveta ala remir wa."

 

[Lady Alainn]

He was crying, too. The realization surprised Pencaliel while it also endeared him even more to her, as well as the words so softly uttered through his tears and fluttering breath. Though she did not understand what he murmured, her heart beat faster and a feeling she'd never experienced before stirred deep within herself. It twisted and turned in the depths of her person, like a bear rolling into wakefulness after the end of a particularly long winter. It made her extremely aware of how tightly Mala held her to himself, his warm breath on her skin, the beat of his heart, her fingers wrapped in his hair, his tears mixing with hers, how close their lips were.

A warm flush crept into her cheeks at that last thought and her eyes lowered instinctively, though she knew Mala couldn't be aware of the confusion and subtle pleasure her innocent speculation of what his lips might feel like against her own caused her. Sighing softly, the elf released her hold on the dragonkin, pulling her hands back to herself and her face away from his under the pretext of snuggling against his chest again. As much as she'd wanted to move her head the slight distance it would take to kiss his tears away, something within her cautioned her to save that for another time.

These feelings, the fragile but at the same time secure bond between them, were new to both of them, particularly Mala whose life had held much more sorrow than love, and Pencaliel would rather err on the side of being too cautious in exploring this incredible mystery than risking crushing the blossom from the stalk before it had even finished blooming. And right here, right now he needed time to process, the assurance of her presence, not anything that might confuse him more.

Before long, the firelight faded, the shadows flickering over her grew longer, and her view of Mala grew dimmer, but the maiden stayed where she was, not caring that her supper sat browning on the other side of the glowing embers. She would stay until he should ask her to part.

The elf laid beneath his wings that night-- safe, warm, and heart bursting with this new-found love for her friend. And she would lie here every night, for all eternity, if she had her way.

 

[Kaisaan]

--------

They fell into routine and for Malachi, it was something both completely unfamiliar and even more welcome. He'd never really had routine, had never known what to expect day by day growing up and in the last few months, everything had been unpredictable. He'd been learning how to adapt to his blindness, trying to understand the new land around him and running from those hunting him. There had been no stability, nothing he could rely on day to day and certainly no one to help guide him.

He'd found all of the above in Pencaliel.

They made good time for the simple reason that she was always there, leading him around things that would have harmed him, a reassuring presence he knew he could count on to see what he did not. It helped the blind half-blood relax just a bit, helped his strides grow just a bit more confident - though, he wasn't exactly hesitant before in the first place. He'd just been far more resigned to bruises and tripping. With the elf at his side, though, such things were becoming minimal and Malachi could not say he didn't appreciate that.

More than a physical guide, though, she was just...there. Her voice a constant, the smile in her words warming him effortlessly now. Her touch was addictive so that the half-blood was starting to wonder just how he'd gotten by without it. Curling around her at night was one of the best parts of his day and knowing acceptance from her was slowly bringing out traits in himself that Malachi had not been aware of.

Such as the fact that he liked to hum. He wasn't sure where the sound had come from, but one night Pencaliel had been singing to herself as she made dinner and he'd...simply felt the sound rise in his own throat. Or course his companion had been enthusiastic, wanting him to try actually singing, but the male had shied from that, content to simply hone the humming for now.

Oddly enough, it made him...happy.

That's what it was, why he felt so different. He was happy. Malachi couldn't recall when that had ever happened. Proud he knew. When he'd accomplished a challenge, was the best at something, he felt pride. Satisfaction. But happiness? No. Never that. Not until the little elf had come into his life and even that had taken nearly two weeks of time for him to let his guard down enough to feel. Now he carefully rested in its security, liking it, but part of him very wary of losing it.

Nothing ever stayed good when he was involved. Perhaps it was just because of who he was or it could be the curse his father had laid on him. Malachi didn't know, but he did understand that anything he grew attached to was ripped away from him at some point and Pencaliel...even the thought stirred a terrifying kind of fury deep within him of such an intensity he knew he'd never feel the likes of it again for anything or anyone else. That fact didn't bother him. That Pencaliel might draw away from him if she knew it existed did scare him.

It was something that hovered in the back of his mind, but Malachi tried not to dwell on it too much.

After a week, it was easier to not do so, to simply be caught up in the present moments with the elf. And right now he really needed to be aware of the present. Pencaliel had informed him that they'd come across a gorge. She described it as beautiful, full of trees, a sparkling lake in the distance below, the sky clear and bright above them and Malachi found a smile pulling at his lips imagining it, but he couldn't deny his attention was on something more practical.

Like how they were going to get down.

"Do you see a path, Pen'neth? A way down?"

 

[Lady Alainn]

The days passed much in the same way-- walking along more or less levelled grassy ground, gazing out at the expanse of blue dotted with the occasional puff of white, the frequent brush of breeze cooling the temples, pausing sporadically throughout to rest weary feet before plodding onward, attention almost completely captivated by her companion. Pencaliel didn't want to admit it, but she was struggling with homesickness-- desperately so-- for the fragrant shelter of her trees, the sweet tasting water of her river, and the playful antics of her forest friends. Mala's presence, his every word, his every look, the shady refuge under his fluffy wings, was the only thing hindering her from completely losing her sanity.

But now they were finally here, at the end of the plains. Pencaliel had bounded ahead of the dragonkin as soon as her eyes caught sight of the break betwixt grass and sky, her heart leaping in her chest. Reaching the edge of the cliffs, she skidded to a stop and flopped down on her stomach, wriggling as close as she dared over the drop-off to breathe in the greenness of the wooded crags below. Oh, how she'd missed the sweet smell of trees! And water. Closing her eyes, the Druid strained her ears in an attempt to pick out the sound of lapping water and rustling of tree branches from the howling of wind against the rocky crags.

Then with a squeal, she leaped to her feet again and ran back to Mala. Words couldn't come fast enough as they spilled from her lips. She practically danced around the dragonkin, exclaiming in rapturous delight about the sight of the wind bouncing its unseen hand against the tops of the trees, the faint sound of a foreign bird cry echoing against the rock, the beauty of the lake that peeked out from the trees at the bottom of the ravine. It was breathtaking. All of it. And she wished fervently she could share more of it with the dragonkin than just mere words.

At Mala's question, though, she stopped short and tilted her head as her brows furrowed. Had there been a way down? She hadn't even bothered to look! Setting her hand on Mala's arm in an unspoken communication for him to stay put, the elf pranced over to the edge again. Crouching low, she shuffled to a safe distance and peered down.

"It's very steep!" she called back with a slight frown. "There is a more gradual drop north of here that might have more of a path, but that's a good distance away still. It could take the rest of the day to get there."

Pulling back from her observation post, the elf sat back on her haunches and rubbed her forehead. While it made sense to keep walking along the plains until they got to the less treacherous descension, she couldn't bear the thought of travelling next to the forested area instead of in it. It wouldn't be much for her to scale down the rocky cliff beneath them, her fingers and toes roughened with many years of climbing the thick bark of trees, but for Mala? She glanced back at the dragonkin. Without being able to see, such a feat was not only dangerous but deadly. Hearing and scent did nothing for finding crevices and footholds in rock. But.... her eyes alighted to his wings and widened with comprehension. He didn't have to scale the cliffs.

Hopeful, hesitant, she posed her question, "Do you think you could fly us down?"

 

[Kaisaan]

If Pencaliel was cautious about asking him if he could fly, Malachi was even more so in answering her. He wanted to blurt out a 'yes!' and it showed in his face, a brief flash of excitement that snuffed out just as soon as he restrained himself, the brutal facts crashed over his head one after another. There was no room for wishing, dreaming or hoping in this part of his mind. It was overly logical, trained from a young age to be that way; to look at every situation, every problem, every plan and find the flaws, and then just as thoroughly, ruthlessly, find the solutions. In such a way, Malachi instantly knew the problems in flying.

He'd known them since becoming blind and they'd not changed over time.

While he could easily get off the ground, even from a standstill, landing would always defeat him. He couldn't see a safe place to do so, wouldn't know if he was coming down on flat ground that required a bit of a run to stop or if he'd have to spread his wings sharply for a much more stand-still landing. He wouldn't know when the ground was coming up, when to time his break in descent. And that was just landing. While in the air, there would be no way to center himself, no sense of direction at all. He could be going in circles, get turned about completely and end up miles from where he wanted to be or perhaps nearly exactly where he'd taken off. There would be no way for him to know, not even when he landed.

He was grounded as surely as anyone without wings was and if that had been his father's intent, for that fact to be the cruelest blow, the King had succeeded.

Or had he?

Malachi had started to shake his head, but paused, his brows furrowing and his head tilting as another thought came to him. Pencaliel. His father had not anticipated the little elf coming into his life and she'd been his eyes while walking. Why not while.....flying? His gold eyes flickered back and forth, as if he were reading something, but it was only a very swift, deep thought process that made them do so as he weighed all the flaws and possibilities. In the end he knew he was probably being more impatient and eager than he should have been, but there were enough pros to just outweigh the cons and Malachi felt up to taking a risk.

If only so he could feel the wind once more.

"I could, yes, if you can tell me which way to go and where to land, and how close I am to the ground when we do." For a moment, it seemed the elf hadn't responded at all, but then Malachi heard the rustling of the leaves around her neck, a sound he'd come to associate with nods from Pencaliel, sounds of agreement and he shook his head just a little. She must be very excited indeed to forget that he couldn't see what had to be emphatic nods of assent.

The half-blood only prayed she had truly been listening to him and understood just how difficult this was actually going to be. She'd never flown before as far as he knew and to know when he should land or how fast he should go...it would be better if they practiced, but Malachi knew they didn't have time for that. Though, they weren't really on a deadline. No, they both didn't have the PATIENCE for that. He could at least admit that truth to himself.

Oh well.

The white-haired male didn't give it more thought as he called Pencaliel and then, carefully finding her back and her knees, he scooped her up from the ground. Her soft gasp threatened a chuckle in his throat and Malachi smiled just a little. "I won't drop you. Promise." It was those words that he took a breath as much to steady himself as to get the blood within his body circulating just a little faster as his wings spread, shivered feathers into place and then folded against his back again. The half-blood took off at a run then. He couldn't have known where the plateau ended and the drop started. He didn't have any idea how deep the gorge was or how wide. All he knew was that if Pencaliel could help him land and steer, instinct would do the rest. He'd practically learned to fly before he could walk.

Malachi's steps took him closer to the edge until suddenly...there wasn't another step at all. They were falling then like a rock toward the land below until the male twisted his body in a move so practiced it was fluid as water, righting them as his wings suddenly flared. The wind caught them instantly, lifting them with a stomach-lurching effect into the air, soaring up above the trees and the gorge, and the land below, and Malachi laughed. The sound was rich and deep, and so full of giddy joy that it was almost hard to believe he'd made it at all. But the smile on his face wouldn't depart and for several minute, the half-blood simply flew without thought of landing.

It was only his wings and shoulders reminding him that he'd not exercised them properly in some time and they were therefore out of shape that made him consider the thought of landing and it was with purpose that he began to concentrate on getting lower to the ground. He accomplished this in circles that got lower and lower and tighter as he followed Peni's directions to a safe landing place. The half-blood had just started to break off from his spiralling to head toward said spot, paying close attention to what his companion had to tell him, when the sudden pain came.

It tore through his right wing, wringing a cry of surprise and agony from Malachi's throat. His wings closed in on reflex, dropping he and Pencaliel toward the ground rapidly, but he didn't release her. No, his arms had tightened, instinctively protecting her as well as he could and it was that desire not to see her hurt that brought his pain-hazed mind to awareness as they spun out of control. He snapped his wings open again, jerking to a neck-jarring stop in their plummet and forcing another strangled scream from the half-blood as he felt the weight of whatever was still on his wing pulling at it, veering him off course - not that he had one anymore anyway. He was flying blind, literally, and nothing made sense, eliciting a panic that he was fighting from taking over as they kept heading for the ground.

Or rather the trees.

Malachi couldn't keep them aloft and in a last desperate move, he closed his wings around Peni as he felt branches scrape against him, trying to break his fall, snapping under his weight and momentum until they were hitting the ground in a shower of dirt and leaves and twigs. Malachi felt his head impact with something hard and sharp before he continued to roll, coming to a stop at the base of a tree. Pencaliel had come loose from his grasp, thrown clear, but not taking the brunt of the impact with the earth and for that the male could be grateful.

It was about all he could be glad about, though, as his head held a sharp pain near the temple, warmth on his face telling him that whatever he'd come into contact with had left him leaking blood in a decent amount. His left wing was sprained, sore from hitting the ground first and many feathers had been ripped out violently, leaving streaks of bright red blood down the white of his wings on both sets. The right wing, though, still sported the end of a spear, the rest having snapped off during the crash. It was agony to move it and Malachi could hardly focus on anything but that pain, shaking with it, oblivious to the cuts and scrapes the rest of his body had endured.

But even above the pain, his mind could only think of one thing truly.

"Peni! Pencaliel, are you all right?" He'd tried to protect her. He had. Please...please let her be all right...

 

[Lady Alainn]

At that moment, there was no other sound more precious and enjoyable to listen to than Mala's laughter. In fact, the elf decided it was her favourite sound in the entire world and it was easy to keep herself from joining in--restraining herself to a broad smile and tightening her hold around Mala's neck-- so she could focus solely on the notes of obvious delight. It resonated in her mind and heart long after it died down, but all too soon that rare moment vanished as a much more ugly noise screeched from his larynx.

Panic choked her breath in her throat as things suddenly took a turn for the worse and they began plummeting towards the earth. Something, she had to do something! Instinct took over, guiding one hand to reach out while the other hooked tighter around Mala. A surge of energy flowed from her core through to her hand, acting as a magnet as it drew the wind towards them. It caught some of the branches, tugging them under the dragonkin to try to break their fall. It built underneath them, cushioning in a strange way that only wind can to slow down their descent, but it wasn't enough to stop the inevitable. With a cry of alarm, they crashed onto the ground and Pencaliel found herself tumbling from the dragonkin's arms, rocks digging into her body as she tumbled to a stop.

In moments, the Druid righted herself and crawled the short distance to the wounded dragonkin. "Yes, Mala, I'm all right," she assured him in a quivering voice, ignoring the ache in her shoulder and stinging scrape along her calf. She did not return the inquiry, one look told her he had sustained most of the injury and it wasn't good. Tears gathered in her eyes at the sight of him, her heart breaking with guilt and a twinge of bitterness. He'd just been so happy! So carefree! How cruel Fate was to strip him so quickly and decidedly of any source of joy!

They should have continued walking.

"It's all my fault, all my fault, I'm so sorry," Pencaliel sobbed, her fingers poking and prodding the tender feathers where the shaft protruded to get a feel for the injury. The wound was clean, no splinters digging into the wing as far as she could tell. She wished there was time to mix something for the pain, but if the spear was any sign, something-- or someone-- was out there and they evidently weren't friendly. Rubbing the tears out of her eyes with the back of her hand to clear her vision, she braced herself on her knees, wincing at the forming bruise on one of them, and grasped the broken spear in one hand while the other braced his wing. "Hold still, I'll try to make this as quick as possible."

Memories flashed through her mind of the first time she'd healed the dragonkin as the spear slipped through the wing, slick with his blood. Healing Mala hadn't been pretty then, either. And the pain that followed... Pencaliel whimpered just thinking about the hole that had eaten away at her side. This was a wing. Could she even heal it? She didn't have time for doubt. Mala needed her now. "The merfolk have fins," she muttered determinedly under her breath. "If they can do it, so can I!" The spear jerked free. The Druid instantly flattened her palm against the wound and focused on absorbing.

At first, she felt nothing but a faint hum as the painful energy travelling from Mala's wound latched onto her nerves and wound through her arm and into her body, searching, prying for an outlet. Finding nothing suitable, it began to gather in a mass in her upper back, centered over her spine. Pressure built as if it was birthing a wing inside her flesh, which in a way it was, and her body shuddered with spasms as it protested against the unnatural tension. Was this anything like what Mala felt when his phantom of pain took over his body? Her eyes squeezed shut as she felt her skin split over her spine, a scream eliciting from her throat as the energy of the injury now flowed freely through her, mending his body even as it tore apart her own.

And, as always, almost as soon as it started, it was over. Oh, but how that moment of pain felt like an eternity! Pencaliel wearily sat on her heels, rubbing the tingling palm of her hand, gasping for breath as the last of the wound leaked from her spine and her skin began to smooth itself to normal again. A few moments rest, that's all she needed before attending to the rest of the cuts, scrapes, and gashes. Moving closer to Mala, she reached out a hand to smooth his hair away from his head wound, her fingers trembling but gentle nonetheless against the sensitive area.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated softly, apologizing for the bad idea, her inability to do much to help protect his landing, the pain of healing him. She was remorseful for it all. But he had laughed. Her mind played it over and over again, committing it to memory before she lost it amidst the pain that had followed it. He'd laughed. In fact, she could hear it now. But... it wasn't his. There was definitely laughter, but it wasn't Mala's.

Yellow eyes blinked slowly through the trees. The pair was quickly joined by another, and another. Soon, yellow eyes, hungry eyes, surrounded the battered pair crumpled on the forest floor. Laughter cackled quietly, echoing eerily. Pencaliel slowly dropped her hand from Mala's head to the little knife on her belt, dread pounding in her chest. "Goblins," she whispered in the dragonkin's ear. One of the pairs of eyes drew closer until a short, gangly, bowlegged green creature with wide, pointed ears that looked like they'd recently been chewed on crept into sight. It held a spear in one hand, hoisting it high above his head as his lips parted to reveal broken, discoloured teeth.

"Hold still, supper, we makes this quicksie, yes?" it hissed mockingly, lolling its tongue between its teeth at the joke it'd made. Gales of nervous laughter wafted through the trees. The goblin began circling the pair slowly, licking its lips and sizing up its targets. "Little gremlins hungry and we wants the pale ones to feeds them. Now hold still while we cuts off your heads!" With that, it lunged, hurling the spear.

 

[Kaisaan]

Malachi had to grit his teeth a moment before he spoke, her gentle fingers still sending streaks of fire through his wing. It took effort not to jerk away from her touch, to make himself focus on her words, on dealing with this injury logically and not with the animalistic instinct rising up within him, a defense mechanism. "Pen'neth, it wasn't your fault. I agreed to fly. It wasn't your fault." His words shook just as bad as her own, the fear of falling from the sky, adrenaline that had yet to leave his system - keeping shock at bay - and pain affecting his forced calm.

He hated falling, being unable to catch himself. Flightless. It had been a reoccuring nightmare when he was young. To fall and have his wings useless to help him. Malachi had outgrown the dream and his fear, but this...this had been both terrifying and painful for more reasons than one. He could have lost Pencaliel. She could have been seriously hurt. He could have killed her and it was THAT, not the pain in his wing, nor the sick feeling in his stomach, that froze his heart in panic. He could have lost her without warning, so quickly and there had been little he could do to prevent that risk.

Malachi instantly hated it...and he found a frothing rage building within him toward those that had threatened what he had found worth treasuring. Only twice had he cared for someone in his life and the first person had been torn away from him brutally. He'd been helpless to stop it, even more unable to retaliate for it - though, he had in his own way - and now that it was threatening to happen again...

This time the half-blood was not going to be so helpless to make the culprits pay.

As of yet, though, there was nothing to lash out at. Only the little elf he was so fond of before him, only the pain to keep him company and Malachi wanted to tell Pencaliel to stop, that she didn't have to heal him as soon as he heard her whimper. He knew what he was already feeling. He didn't want her to feel any of it, not even part of his pain, but he knew she needed to take the spear out regardless. He would tell her not to do anything after she did that. He'd tell her they could bandage it. That he was fine, that-

All thought cut short as white-hot agony streaked across his wing, down the bone and through his spine, eliciting a choked scream from the half-blood. He struggled to breathe then and never got the chance to tell Pencaliel to leave the wing be as another, new wave of pain swept over him. His vision darkened, threatening to pull him under in the initial moments before relief came and the male shuddered uncontrollably where he sat, beaded in sweat as he dug his claws into the tree he leaned so heavily against. He'd endured worse than this, he knew, but pain was pain and it never got easier to deal with. He just got better at controlling his reactions. But hearing the elf's....that tore into him like great talons trying to rip him apart from the inside out. Her scream rang in his ears, each labored breath like shock through his skin.

She kept saying it was her fault, but Malachi knew that wasn't true. He'd known the dangers of flying. He should have said no or at least explained to Pencaliel, let her truly know what she was asking. He'd known how reckless it was and he'd let her think it was safe. It was his fault.

Even knowing that though, he couldn't bring himself to shy from her tender touch, rather letting his eyes close as he resisted the urge to lean into her hand, knowing it would hurt. The comfort, though, it was appreciated, welcomed even as he knew he didn't deserve it. He hadn't deserved the healing either, but he could be grateful for it, for the fact that he wouldn't be bleeding out, growing weaker with pain and infection and blood loss. Still, he would have taken that over the elf's pain any day. He opened his mouth to tell her it wasn't her fault again, but never got the chance, his ears picking up what her own had.

Laughter.

Now, Malachi had never met a goblin, had never even seen one, but he'd heard of them. They were creatures that caused fear and mayhem, the things that made people look behind themselves in fear when they heard an unfamiliar noise. The half-blood nearly laughed to hear what approached them now, and it would not have been the same kind of laughter as that which he'd released in the sky. It would have been malicious, full of dark mirth and mocking.

These were creatures that went bump in the night. He was born to a race that could make people lose their minds from terror. He was a creature of nightmares unimaginable, and they were threatening that which he cared about? The feral rage that rose up in Malachi was beyond words, every injustice, every pain, every dark thought and memory, every hurt contained in that anger, finally directed at a target after so long locked away. He rose with an ethereal grace, fangs and claws no longer looking so out of place as a snarling roar left his mouth, gold eyes blazing with whirls of nameless color as that same raw power that had shown itself at Dillon's rose again. This time, though, it was used as Malachi flung out his hand at the thrown spear.

It turned to dust in a moment and Malachi knew in that moment that he could have done the same to the goblins. The darkness in them, the coils of tainted energy called to him and the raw power he wielded would have accepted it without protest. He could have made that darkness consume their hosts, he could have absorbed it afterward, could have had his SIGHT back again....but Malachi pushed the offer away, just as he'd done a hundred times before.

He took a far more violent and bloody route instead, but one that wouldn't compromise his soul. The lesser of two evils.

People thought demons were such horrifying creatures, the carnage they left revolting, but Malachi knew those people had never met his own. They'd never seen just how ruthless, cold and terrifying one of his kind could be. Malachi had and he knew that between his father's people and his mother's, he could be the most frightening of both sides combined. It wasn't just claws and fangs that ripped into the goblin raiding party. It was something more, too, something that seemed to get into their heads, their bodies as they shrieked before Malachi even reached them, tearing at themselves in an effort to rid themselves of whatever it was that was causing them such agony from the inside out.

Malachi didn't give such mercy. There was none to be found in him as he whirled like a spirit of death through their ranks. He never struck wrong, always to kill, sometimes to maim before that. He left goblins to bleed out slowly, tore open stomachs, slit throats, cut hamstrings and broke bones all with efficiency that was startling. He didn't miss his marks, the most finesse of details from a thrown spear to a small knife known to him, as if he were not blind at all, something better, stronger than sight guiding every move he made. The screams were not as chilling as his snarls, a sound that seemed to come from Deyes'sheo itself, from a creature not meant for mortal lands.

He didn't let them get close to the elf. That was his goal, but the sheer fury that surrounded him, the thorough ruthlessness he showed for his task was feral at best and demonic at worst. An animal would not have been this detailed. But a demon would have had far more pleasure in the carnage and Malachi showed neither trait completely.

No, he was angry, but not making the mistakes that being overly emotional would bring. In fact, if anything, despite the rage that fueled his power, that caused the bloodcurdling sounds that rose from his throat, he was almost eerily calm in everything he did. Uncaring. The animal-like skill of a Dragonkin and the professionalism of his father's people.

It was this mixture of the two races within him that made the half-blood lethal.

The noise in the forest died down as soon as the last goblin did and all that could be heard was Malachi's low, heavy growls as he crouched in the middle of the carnage. His fangs were still bared, but the energy that had dominated the area in writhing waves, making the air thick and electric was starting to fade away, back into the one who wielded it and with it went Malachi's all-consuming anger. His growls died down then, too, but he stayed exactly where he was, his nose clogged with the smell of blood, his skin and hair, wings and clothes saturated in it. This wasn't the first time such had happened.

But it was the first time he'd felt like fleeing the eyes that watched him, eyes that he wanted more than anything to show approval. He knew, however, that it was a gaze that would not and Malachi's wings folded close to his body, but...he did not cower, did not draw into himself. No. He didn't regret what he'd done.

They'd been willing to harm Pencaliel, to kill her and they'd paid with their own lives. He would not apologize for that. No, he would apologize for scaring the elf because THAT was something he'd never wanted. He'd ache for her touch once more and he'd let the tears come when she finally went to sleep at night for the loss of her closeness - for Malachi knew it was coming.

But he'd not apologize for keeping her alive. Never that. Any pain that came afterward would be worth any heinous act he did to protect her as long as he succeeded.

 

[Lady Alainn]

'Look.'

The elven maiden pulled her arms more securely over her head and buried her head further into her knees, refusing to obey. All around her, goblins shrieked, some ending in high-pitched strangles as their throats ripped from their necks... and the growls of Mala echoed above the din. There was nothing she could do to help, nothing she could do to hinder, both options unavailable as she huddled in one spot unable to move a muscle.

'Look!'

No...

'Will you go back on your word?'

Guilt flooded her. She'd promised Mala she would accept him. All of him. The least she could do was try... try to see Mala through the haze of power. She could try. Lifting her arms slightly, the elf peered through the tiny hole between her arms and her knees. Blood, carnage, a snarling Mala, everywhere. A cold sweat trickled down her neck, her spine, and her gaze fell to her legs tucked against her.

'Look.'

I did!

'No, deeper.'

Deeper? Pencaliel breathed in slowly, the commotion, the slaughter playing out in front of her as if time had slowed down. Her eyes sought the dragonkin, not shying away this time though her arms still locked over her head. Trembles shook her body. She had to look away, the sight... the nightmare before her.... it was too much, too much. The maiden was about to close her eyes again, but the voice persisted.

'Look and see.'

Then, a note played in her head, drowning out the terrifying growls of the dragonkin and the screams of agony from the goblins. It was a powerful note, strong yet dark, laced with emotion. She understood then what the voice was prompting her to do. Closing her eyes, the elf coaxed the note out of her mind and onto her tongue as she uncurled one arm from around her head and stretched out her hand towards Mala.

It sounded softly at first, barely more than a whisper on her lips, but as the faint outlines of the dragonkin imprinted on her mind, she strengthened it until the outline glowed in her thoughts, radiating with a heat similar to that of the power she'd witnessed at Dillon's house. Whimpering against the glare, the heat, Pencaliel cowered against the image in her head, but kept her palm trained on Mala and struggled to keep her voice steady. She would look and see. For her Mala.

Beyond the glow, she began to distinguish colours as the form of the dragonkin moved with an uneasy amount of elegance, fluidity, and accuracy for his handicap. The colours blended together, yet wove in and out of each other, flickering along the outline of his body. She couldn't exactly see the power that coursed through him, but now she could see what fueled it. His emotions. Though an utter terror, the man before her had Mala's emotions flaring from his core. Red... Rage. Black... Pain. White... Love. Yellow... Fear. Blue... Sorrow.

'You must accept it all.'

I accept--

Then a Darkness more terrible than anything she had ever known filled her mind. As the dragonkin's face turned towards her palm, his features still livid with emotions as he tore through another goblin, the Druid's sight travelled through the glow as if it parted like curtains upon a stage and into the fiery eyes of a blackness that would put even the demons of hell to shame. The nightmare entered her head and it clawed its way through her senses, filling her nose with the stench of carnage, her ears with the shrieks of horror, her mouth with the taste of blood, and her sight with an empty blackness worse than death.

Pencaliel screamed but no sound came, choking on her own breath as her Second Sight cut short and the air rushed into her lungs. Flinging herself onto the ground and throwing her arms over her head, gut-wrenching cries poured out as shudders wracked her body. Mumbles incoherent, rushed, sobbed, fell from her lips, "I can't do it, I can't. Oh Mala, my Mala, I'm sorry. I'm such a failure. I can't. Forgive me, I can't. I'm so sorry..."

The bloodbath was over now, the sound of silence broken by her weeping. He was waiting, she knew it. Waiting for her response. Any response. Pencaliel struggled to push herself up onto her elbows, her tears still falling freely. Everything, everything within her cried in pain. Her head, her body, but most of all her heart. She'd failed him and it was this pain over all the others that brought her to this heart-breaking decision.

"I... I can't do this, Mala," she managed to say at last. "Not to you. You're... You're better off without me because I can't..." Pencaliel drew in a tremulous breath and pushed herself the rest of the way onto her knees, slowly removing her necklaces of leaves and laying them down on the forest floor. "Take these, they will help with your wounds. I'm so sorry, Mala, my Mala, I'm so sorry. But I can't... I just can't... Forgive me..."

Sobs broke off her words and blinded her vision. Not knowing what else to do, not wanting to stay, not wanting to hear, knowing even one more look towards the dragonkin would rip her heart in two, Pencaliel stumbled to her feet and ran.

To where? She didn't know. She didn't care. She just knew she needed to flee that grotesque nightmare within him before it consumed her. Before she had a chance to fail him again.

 

[Kaisaan]

He didn't hear her. Not clearly. Her voice was consumed by the roar that had filled his ears as something he could not comprehend slammed into his body like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. It was a power he did not know, had never felt, but where he faltered to understand, to act, his power, wild unto itself, didn't hesitate. It drew the unfamiliar power in, absorbing it, and Malachi felt it expand within him, filling every space, consuming, building with pressure behind his eyes until.....he saw light.

I can't do this.... You're.... You're...

A sobbing kind of gasp left his lips as his mind surged toward what appeared to be salvation, a glimmer of hope. The light brightened into colors as he sought it, gave in to the power swirling within and around him and Malachi blinked, catching a hasty glimpse of trees, the green overwhelming and then the red of blood before his gold eyes caught sight of something else entirely, something that made him still completely.

Take these......help with.....wounds...

Eyes. Eyes of a rich, earthen brown, wide like that of a fawn, shining with tears. Pencaliel. Malachi knew her immediately without doubt or hesitation and he felt heat glow in his chest, a mysterious emotion trying to rise....until it was snuffed out completely as the vision, the sight before him changed alarmingly, sickeningly. Suddenly those eyes were full of stark terror, flooded with tears and a shrill scream of agony tore through his head, sending pain blooming through every nerve in his body, tearing him apart just as surely as Pencaliel was being unraveled, thread by thread. Horror washed over him as a familiar face came into view, smiling cruelly as pale fingers stroked through blood-matted brown hair, a black glow thicker than pitch curling about those digits, seeping in the elf's mind. Another scream tore through his mind before everything went black once more.

Malachi struggled to breathe, to bring anything into focus, to understand what he'd seen, what he was hearing, but everything was garbled and mixed, making no sense at all. His heart pounded in his chest and his chest was tight with cries of grief and horror he'd not released. He shook with fear and aftershock, and above it all he knew something was happening with Pencaliel RIGHT NOW. Something she was saying - or was she doing? - and he fought to understand her, catching only a few words, as he'd been subconsciously doing from the beginning.

I can't... I just can't...

The words were salt in raw wounds and the half-blood reeled, lurching back as if struck, but he knew she was already gone. The sound of her feet fleeing was like a cruel stab with each footfall.

She'd left. She'd....promised. He wasn't alone. She'd promised. But she was leaving. Why...why was she.... He'd done this. He'd....he'd made her leave. It was his fault. He'd driven her away. Malachi had promised he wouldn't hurt her and he had. He'd driven her into the hands of his people. That was what he'd seen. They were going to find her, torture her, ruin her like they'd ruined him. And it was his fault!

A guttural, soul-wrenching sound left Malachi, a noise he couldn't have described if he'd tried, but when his mouth opened and his throat worked to call her name, to warn, he found the noise caught within him as pain immediately raked hot talons over his body. He choked on a scream, laughter within his mind drowning out any outward sounds. The darkness of the voice he hated more than anything surrounded him, a hissing whisper and touch that chilled his heart as it coiled around him, cutting off the dying light within him. Doing it's best to extinguish it completely.

Did you think you could protect her? She will know agony because of you. She will curse your name and despair of the day she met you. You are cursed and you shall remain cursed until you obey!

The words caused spikes of searing heat through his head, running like fire down his spine, but it was the words that made Malachi sob, his body beyond fighting the physical pain on top of the emotional flogging, arching with a wordless cry, shuddering as the black waves took over his wings completely.

Please...please, I will. I will do whatever.....whatever you want, please just.... Please, let her go...please... He didn't care anymore. There was no more fight in him, nothing but the consuming need to save the little elf that had brought him such happiness, that had shown him there was light that could reach even him. He knew, in that moment, that he'd become a spawn of Deyes'sheo and worse if it meant she would be safe, that the light would not go out of her rich brown eyes. He was breaking and the dark presence within him knew it, smiled maliciously as it answered, voice nothing but a cruel whisper.

No.

That one word made Malachi cry out, sound finally breaking from his throat. Everything started to crumble within him then as his father continued, pressing every advantage, ruthless in his lesson. She is poison to you and we will lynch her from your system. You are alone, Malachi. You will understand that and then son, then you will obey.

NO!

It was a scream, a roar of desperation and horror, grief and rage, terror before Malachi felt everything fading away from him, even his father's malicious laughter as he slipped into a darkness far more consuming than his blindness as his body gave up the fight with consciousness, unable to endure anymore.

 

[Lady Alainn]

Legs trembling, the elf could barely keep herself stable enough to run. The bell in her ear tinkled mockingly, speaking of joy and giddiness when all she felt was spiraling down, down, down into a black abyss, completely out of her control. Unable to handle the sound any longer, her hand shot up and yanked the silver bauble from her ear tip, throwing it as far as her sapped strength could muster. Blood leaked from the tiny wound, dribbling along the outer fold of her ear and down her neck. Finally, at a loss to see for the tears, at a loss to breathe for the sobs, Pencaliel's foot caught on a tree root and her body sprawled across the forest floor. Pained seared her ankle, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil raging inside. She buried her face in the warm earth to blot out her agonizing scream from any nearby ears.

"MALA!"

'Go back!' cried the voice in her head.

"NO!"

Her ankle throbbed, hinting that she'd likely twisted it or worse. Pencaliel laid there a few moments longer before raising herself on shaking elbows. Reaching out her hands, her fingers dug into the earth to act as anchors as she slid her body along the ground towards the nearest tree. Protection. Because she was alone now.

'GO BACK!'

Pencaliel ducked her head against the throbbing pressure the voice brought and paused in her slow and painful movements to press her hands firmly against her ears in a futile attempt to block out the insistent voice. Go back? Oh, how she yearned to obey! The ache in her heart had grown heavier with each step that had taken her farther from the one it loved, but now she hardened herself against it, pulling into mind the horrifying creature she'd witnessed inside the dragonkin, focusing on that which drew her breath short and encouraged bolts of fear to shoot through her body. Death. He carried Death. And she was a bearer of Life. He was birthed of darkness. And she, birthed of Light. Only the blindest of fools would say they belonged together. The Druid, though naive, was not a fool.

'You'd do well to remember... Even if all evidence points--'

"You were wrong!" she lifted her head and screamed to the tree tops, tears streaming down her face, her bitter cry blocking out the words of the hound resounding in her head. "I was wrong! What does a dog know of destiny? What does an elf child know of love?!"

Her breath caught and she choked on a sob, dirt. The elf continued her crawl towards the tree until she was able to pull herself up against it and slump her body against the gnarled trunk for support. A moan issued forth from her throat-- low, mournful, regretting. Pencaliel grasped the tree bark with one hand and laid her forehead against it, closing her eyes against the world, letting the consequences of her actions slowly reveal themselves to her. How much had she hurt him? He had just been starting to open his heart, to allow himself to feel, and she had taken the spear from his wing and stabbed him through the back. What had she done? What would he do now? Would he finally give in to the demands of his inner demon? Had she jeopardized everything with her selfish fear? She had to go back... She'd promised him! He was not alone...

But those lidless, cold, yet blazing eyes... How could she forget them? How could she accept him knowing they were there? Inside him? Him for all she knew? How could she accept and love a demon, even one who sought the Light?

"I couldn't, Mala, I'm so sorry, forgive me," she whimpered into the back of her hand. "I was wrong, I'm so sorry. I tried. Oh my Mala, I tried. Please, please forgive me." Her fingers tightened their hold on the rough bark, drawing blood as it caught and tugged on the skin of her fingertips. "I love you..."

'Go back....'

She... should go back. She had to. Before it was too late, before... Suddenly, she was shivering as the air around her cooled significantly.

--

So distraught was the maiden, her ears did not catch the approaching footsteps, nor did her senses pick up the chilling presence until it was practically upon her. Confident footfalls crunched leaves under thick boots, crooked bat-like wings stretched wide, covering the little elf in a hellish shadow. Clawed fingers scrunched and tugged at a wad of fabric, the crinkling leather sending another shiver down the elf's spine. Pencaliel turned her head slightly to blink bleary, red eyes in the direction of the noises. A gasp caught in her throat. A dragonkin stood grinning before her, but oh so unlike Mala!

"What's this?" his voice rasped. "A little elven Druid far away from home? And right where the Master said to pick her up as well. My, my, my."

The male's shoulders stooped, giving him a hunchback look, his charcoal grey skin was littered with pale scars. Some appeared quite fresh while others had seen many, many decades. Black, leathery wings hung off-centered from his back, one large one riding where it should while the other one was much smaller and bent at an awkward angle from his upper back where it dangled limply. The ugly creature smiled widely, stretching the fabric in his hands until the elf could see it was a bag. Panic quickened her heart.

"Just hold still, my pretty, and we'll get this over with. No sense in mussing up your hair, is there?"

She struggled, was easily overpowered by the hardened muscles of the other, and her world went black.

--

When her eyelids fluttered open, the first thing that struck the Druid was the coldness, then the fact that her silver bracers had slid down her arms to her wrists and were cutting into her flesh. Lastly, she realized she was lying on stone and it was dark except for the glow of a torch. She sat up quickly, her eyes widening and taking on a form of wildness as she took in her surroundings. Stone, stone everywhere. Chains hanging from the ceiling. Shackles binding her wrists to the floor. Her bracers, gone. She gasped, running her hands frantically over her body and finding only bare skin. Everything... everything was gone. Even the studded gems in her ears.

Pencaliel closed her eyes as her head hung forward, her hair spilling over her body to cover its shame. This was... just a bad dream. A nightmare. Any minute now, Mala would be shaking her awake, and she would be curled up against his chest where it was safe... warm... This was just a bad dream....

"Wake me up, Mala," she whimpered. "...please..."

Door hinges groaned from somewhere nearby and she winced at the grating sound. Familiar footsteps approached, the heavy footfalls thudding on the cold, stone slab floor. She didn't raise her head, didn't flinch. This was a nightmare, and she'd be home soon.

Raspy laughter echoed in the room and a hand slipped under her chin, jerking her head up to meet the cold, blue eyes of the dragonkin. Fingers that had long forgotten how to be gentle stroked her jaw as a thumb pressed over her bottom lip. She shuddered.

"You are awake, my pretty, this is no nightmare. And soon, very soon you will wish you were awake. Enjoy your peace while you can, eh? Would you like to meet your host? He comes to greet you, little elf."

 

[Kaisaan]

Kontaro was an expert, the best in what he did and such was not a secret, not from his kin nor from himself. He could break anyone physically, emotionally, spiritually, take them to the very last threshold of endurance and then keep them there until they cracked and splintered under the pressure before easing them back again...only to repeat the processes over and over again until they were nothing more than clay to be molded into whatever shape he desired. He was the King's favorite, respected and feared. Everyone knew if they wanted a Breaking done right to come to him.

And yet he'd been unable to accomplish his task with Malachi. With physical pain he'd been able to bring the Prince to the brink, but emotionally, spiritually....he could not grasp what drove the half-blood. He'd failed for far too long with that one, the only tarnish on his flawless record and now... Kontaro was getting another chance and working with far more substance.

He was nearly giddy with the mere thought of what was to come.

Breaking the elf would be ridiculously easy. Sheltered, naive, innocent - those were the easiest to shatter. He might not even use his more patient techniques with her. There was no need to keep her mind intact, no need to ease off the pressure when he found the fault-line that would wreak chaos upon her. No, she was a means to an end. This was Malachi's lesson, not hers. She was just the tool to achieve it.

If they broke the elf, they'd break the half-blood.

He chuckled at the thought even as he entered the cell, the smile upon his face anything but friendly. Kontaro was a pale creature, silver of hair and deathly light of skin. His eyes were the palest shade of amethyst, almost translucent, and he was tall, well-toned, even handsome, but the darkness that slunk around him coyly like a sinister pet was sickeningly thick, choking off any light that tried to enter, whether it be physical or spiritual. His voice was charming, however, almost soothing if one didn't know better, meant to wrap around the thoughts, to coax willingness of any kind from a victim. He used false gentleness to inflict pain.

He approached the elf now and made a tsking sound, coming to a fluid crouch before her, not even looking at the dragonkin that skirted out of his way. He'd long since broken that creature to his will. Long, pale fingers touched Pencaliel's cheek, uncaring if she jerked away or not, smiling regardless. "Pencaliel, yes? Or do you prefer Pen'neth? Malachi did tell us you were ridiculously fond of the name. What did he tell you it meant?" He chuckled, standing and circled around her slowly, letting his eyes wander her form freely. Oh, he wasn't interested, not in the least, but for her to think he was would cause such delicious damage with minimal effort on his part. Maybe, depending on how she reacted, he'd use that later in more force.

"Don't worry, little light, you're not the first person he's manipulated so cleverly. Don't take it personally. He's very good at what he does."

-----

The first thing Nekia realized as the half-blood started to wake was that his eyes looked....clear, focused. They flickered, moved, found her and the hound swore in every language she knew within her head. Oh no.

When she'd come across Malachi, upon the black wings, darker than a night without stars or moon, like a blotch upon the landscape, Nekia had felt a chill creep along her spine. But she'd hoped. The canine had prayed that when he woke, that the darkness would fade or that at least the half-blood wouldn't be so far gone as she quietly feared. Such hope now fizzled as those gold eyes saw her, giving testament to just how far the winged one had fallen after such a hard climb to get to where he'd been in the first place. If he could see, then Malachi was actively using Deyes'moro and Nekia felt dread settle deep within her.

Was she truly too late?

No. No, she couldn't be! This....the Creator help her, this had to happen. The horrors that she knew were coming, were taking place, they had to come about, to bring the ultimate light and salvation for this land, but....oh, she'd never thought it would be this bad! She'd longed to come, to help, to prevent this, but she was a creature bound by Fate. She could know Time, see glimpses of the Creator's infinite plan, but she could not change it. She was blessed and cursed with this burden, called to a higher purpose. It was not always easy to bear.

Nekia could only strive to play her part well, to send those she was given down the right path.

Malachi was not going to make that easy, though. Nekia could tell that much as he rose with a sound that sent her fur standing on end. Stars, he was closer to the edge than she'd thought he'd be. Covered in dried blood, bodies littered around him, his fangs bared, body radiating tension and his gold eyes - dear Creator, his eyes! - piercing her with a malice and darkness colder than winter - he appeared every bit the nightmare his people were trying to make him into.

"Malachi--"

Nekia got no further than his name - she'd sensed she wouldn't - before he was lunging at her with a sound like Death itself. The Guide knew then that there would be no reasoning this time, no soft words and gentle touch to bring him back to awareness. His mind had shut down, purposefully so. It had drawn into itself in protection, in rage and grief, and it would be nothing less than knocking something - even just a goal - into the half-blood's mind that would bring him back to some semblance of humanity.

If she did it right, that was. One blow, one breath, the wrong way and she'd send him tumbling down into the chasm of darkness he was leaning toward so heavily. The Deyes'moro already had its claws in him. Nekia had to try and pry them out one by one. It was time for the first talon to go.

Malachi's body hit her own with a bone-jarring impact and the canine was sent rolling, but when she stopped, when the half-blood's body followed her own, coming over her prone form....it was not a dog that brought legs up into his chest. It was lithe, mottled-haired woman with dark brown skin and mismatched eyes that sent Malachi sailing over her head even as she rolled over backward and into a crouch with a growl of her own in his direction. The half-blood lay dazed for a moment, surprised, and Nekia took advantage of it, standing.

"Do not test a power you do not know, Nephirim! Get up!" she snarled, power lacing her voice, approaching him, her mismatched eyes blazing with light into the molten gold that contained only shadows. "Is this what you are to become? A servant of Deyes'sheo? Fine! But if you do nothing else for the Light, you will do this! You will save her!" He'd risen by this point, growling and Nekia slammed the half-blood back against a tree with nothing but her hand on his chest, holding him there without effort, her own fangs showing to match his deadly set.

"Will you truly leave her to your people? Will you abandon Pencaliel to your father, let him hurt her, turn her into a creature of dark despair, will you let the laughter in her heart fade? Will you stand by and witness the innocence be stripped away? Will you allow a Light of Heaven to die?!"

A roar of rage answered her, no words, but Nekia smiled, understanding the message clearly.