The Guardian: Part Two
Pain!
The exquisiteness of it! The marvel of it! Her skin is gone, inside and out. There's nothing left of her but energy, light, and strength. Virh did this, reminding her that she needed him, and she had to laugh because she never had and never would say or think anything different.
Oliver didn't like that she'd sought out Virh. He wanted to be able to solve the problem without turning to that ugliest side of himself. Senkha needed him desperately, but Itzhal had needed Virh. Once he'd torn her skin off, once he'd destroyed her with pain, she was strong enough to expel the last of the shadow magic from Senkha's system and into Oliver's runeblade. The last of the infection went as well, leaving Senkha weak and tired, but no longer in danger of organ failure and death.
Stable.
It wasn't time to wake yet, though. Itzhal could tell that much. She knew that the second Senkha woke, it would be right back again, right back to having no time to cope. Never mind that the past twenty-four years of her life were hell. Never mind that the past week was hell. Never mind that she (and this was a guess on Itzhal's part, as she could only feel the heavy metal braces against Senkha's legs) would probably never walk right again.
No, none of that would matter to the outside world. She'd seen it again and again with Senkha's mentor, Marius. Even immediately after his near-death from having his heart cleaved in two, even when he couldn't walk and Salarous had to carry him everywhere, people still demanded and demanded and demanded of him. Now Senkha tread dangerously close to his shoes, though certainly not with quite as much weight. She had her family to think of and her work, expeditions to plan, people to help and save. It was in her nature, as much as it was in Marius': you've been given a gift, Senkha. Use it to help people.
And even when that wasn't the case, Trouble presented itself on her doorstep like a gentleman caller to a buxom heiress. There hadn't been a week since August that some sort of problem interrupted the flow of her daily life and demanded to be dealt with right away. Dizzy (as much as Senkha hated and Itzhal loved to admit) had complicated matters significantly. No longer could Oliver whisk Senkha away to somewhere quiet and private where they could simply worry about the sensation of moss against fingertips. They'd tried that, immediately after Deathwing ravaged the world, and found themselves chastised by every voice they heard.
So Itzhal saw this all as an opportunity. Senkha's mind was a mess, ravaged by more figurative demons than would be a particularly whorish warlock. If she woke up now and took on more stress, it would only be a matter of time before she snapped and did something that got her killed, and Itzhal's survival depended on that not happening.
It was time to rest and heal. It was time for the wounds of the past to close and knit themselves together. It was time to destroy the imprints of twenty-four years. It was time for Itzhal to do her job.
The exquisiteness of it! The marvel of it! Her skin is gone, inside and out. There's nothing left of her but energy, light, and strength. Virh did this, reminding her that she needed him, and she had to laugh because she never had and never would say or think anything different.
Oliver didn't like that she'd sought out Virh. He wanted to be able to solve the problem without turning to that ugliest side of himself. Senkha needed him desperately, but Itzhal had needed Virh. Once he'd torn her skin off, once he'd destroyed her with pain, she was strong enough to expel the last of the shadow magic from Senkha's system and into Oliver's runeblade. The last of the infection went as well, leaving Senkha weak and tired, but no longer in danger of organ failure and death.
Stable.
It wasn't time to wake yet, though. Itzhal could tell that much. She knew that the second Senkha woke, it would be right back again, right back to having no time to cope. Never mind that the past twenty-four years of her life were hell. Never mind that the past week was hell. Never mind that she (and this was a guess on Itzhal's part, as she could only feel the heavy metal braces against Senkha's legs) would probably never walk right again.
No, none of that would matter to the outside world. She'd seen it again and again with Senkha's mentor, Marius. Even immediately after his near-death from having his heart cleaved in two, even when he couldn't walk and Salarous had to carry him everywhere, people still demanded and demanded and demanded of him. Now Senkha tread dangerously close to his shoes, though certainly not with quite as much weight. She had her family to think of and her work, expeditions to plan, people to help and save. It was in her nature, as much as it was in Marius': you've been given a gift, Senkha. Use it to help people.
And even when that wasn't the case, Trouble presented itself on her doorstep like a gentleman caller to a buxom heiress. There hadn't been a week since August that some sort of problem interrupted the flow of her daily life and demanded to be dealt with right away. Dizzy (as much as Senkha hated and Itzhal loved to admit) had complicated matters significantly. No longer could Oliver whisk Senkha away to somewhere quiet and private where they could simply worry about the sensation of moss against fingertips. They'd tried that, immediately after Deathwing ravaged the world, and found themselves chastised by every voice they heard.
So Itzhal saw this all as an opportunity. Senkha's mind was a mess, ravaged by more figurative demons than would be a particularly whorish warlock. If she woke up now and took on more stress, it would only be a matter of time before she snapped and did something that got her killed, and Itzhal's survival depended on that not happening.
It was time to rest and heal. It was time for the wounds of the past to close and knit themselves together. It was time to destroy the imprints of twenty-four years. It was time for Itzhal to do her job.