A/N: Well, if Zoi took the time to review an extra chapter just to keep me going, who am I not to do so? Besides, I was bored. And I rather like this chapter, if I do say so myself.
Plans Revealed
Hours later, dragon-Malchior returned, clutching a stolen meat pie in his talons and wearing a frighteningly wide smile. According to village rumors, a certain wizard was going out of his mind with worry for his mysteriously missing fiancée. Why, if he had known how amusing the results would be, he would have kidnapped the chit ages ago. Not only was she indirectly providing Rorek as a source of vast entertainment, but she had an amazing amount of power within her, and was totally unaware of the fact. This would make his work much easier, especially if he could manage to tap that hidden reserve for his own purposes.
Of course, the girl will fight me at every turn, Malchior thought as he alighted on a barely visible ledge. She was practically foaming at the mouth when she realized who I was—that blasted wizard's probably told her all manner of lies, damn him. I need her cooperation for this to work, and she's probably plotting how to kill me at this very moment. As Malchior considered this fact, he changed back to his human form and stepped through the complex illusion he had created to disguise the cave's entrance. Only he and those whom he admitted could pass through.
Grudgingly, he admitted to himself as he stalked down a long tunnel carrying the food, "She has spirit, I'll give the wench that much, but—"
His words died in his throat as he caught sight of the flames still blazing in the corner. Malchior didn't know what had prompted him to do that to the girl—he had only intended to frighten her a little, not to actually put her life in danger. For all her irritating qualities, he had no real quarrel with her. It wasn't her fault that she had horrendous taste in men, and he had reconsidered the part of his plan that actually involved killing her. When the power that he hoped for was his, he was sure he could come up with something that didn't involve too much collateral damage.
At a sharp command from him, the fire died down. Placing the pie out of harm's way, Malchior braced himself for a sudden attack, summoning a magical shield in case she had discovered the true extent of her powers while he was away: unlikely, true, but excess amounts of stress had been known to trigger previously unrevealed strengths.
He needn't have worried—though he might have preferred a furious assault to Kyrie's current appearance.
She was curled into a limp ball, her face buried in her arms. As Malchior watched, unable to believe that this was the same girl as the furious spitfire of a mere three hours ago, she looked up.
He felt an uncharacteristic pang of guilt at her tearstained face. But when her eyes caught his, he almost flinched with sympathy. Her expression was hopeless, as though she was already dead and was merely waiting for her heart to stop beating. He knew the feeling all too well, and the knowledge that he had been the cause of it in someone else caused a wave of self-loathing to hit him.
Trying to hide his moment of weakness, he said noncommittally, "That looks like a distinctly uncomfortable position. Perhaps you would prefer a chair?" He could conjure one easily enough, after all.
Kyrie just stared at him with blank eyes before lowering her head again.
Malchior tried again. "If you cannot control your emotions better than this, I am afraid that I have no use for you." Despite the words, it was far from a threat—actually, the tone was much closer to pleading than he was happy with.
She tensed, and then shrugged half-heartedly. Her voice muffled by her arms and hoarse from sobbing, she said dully, "Then kill me. Might as well be sooner rather than later, right?"
"No!" They both flinched at the vehemence in Malchior's tone. In a slightly more level voice, he repeated, "No. I don't kill innocents, not even if I knew it would drive my worst enemy mad with grief. No."
Kyrie stared at him, surprised out of her resignation. "What? But… but Rorek—"
"Is a conceited bastard who has hated me since the moment he first laid eyes on me, by virtue of the simple fact of what I am," Malchior snapped, he crimson eyes dark with rage.
Kyrie was silent, not wanting to provoke him further, but her eyes were eloquent in their skepticism.
He let out an exasperated huff and said in a voice dripping bitterness and sarcasm, "Of course, how could I forget? The almighty sorcerer of Nole is never in the wrong, is never unjust, has never done something that a lesser being would be burned at stake for, had never—"
"Stop it!" Kyrie broke into his vitriolic monologue. "He isn't perfect, he has done wrong, but I—I love him. And you have no right, no right at all, to slander him so! Are you faultless?"
Now it was Malchior's turn to stare. Stupid girl… but she's right, in a way. He didn't agree with her way of phrasing it, but he could get a vague idea of what she was struggling to say, and the truth of it disturbed him. Clamping down on his thoughts, he forced his face into a sneer. "Brave words from a prisoner."
Kyrie's spirit seemed to die a little when he said that. Mentally, Malchior kicked himself. But she rallied, saying with a strange half-smile, "I was prepared to die in the most torturous way you could imagine. What worse could you do to me?"
"Not to you—with you," Malchior said, thinking of the spell. He was sure that she would see it as dark magic, and would be less than appreciative of being forced to assist in such an endeavor.
Kyrie's thoughts, however, were following completely different lines. Before Malchior knew what was happening, she had pulled her sword out of nowhere and was swinging it at him.
Barely dodging the steel, he yelled, "Hey! What in the name of all the gods—" He was cut off by another attack. Jerking to the side, he reached out and grabbed her sword wrist, only to find that she had drawn a hidden dagger with her free hand and was now menacing him with it.
Trembling with fury, she hissed, "I would rather die than let you so much as touch me, you disgusting worm!"
"What?" Touch her? Why would I—oh, no. "Not that!" He could feel the blood creeping into his face—he hadn't even known that he was capable of blushing, much less under such decisively less-than-amusing circumstances.
Kyrie was still shaking with anger and disgust, plainly unconvinced by his statement. He repeated, "I didn't mean that I would… do that to you."
She eyed him suspiciously. "Then, pray tell, what did you mean?"
He sucked in a deep breath, anticipating a violent reaction to what he was going to say. "Put the sword down, and I'll tell you." It was probably a bad idea to have her holding a potentially lethal weapon in any case, but even more so now.
At her skeptical look, he rolled his eyes and placed two fingers on his forehead, pressing the other hand to the inside of his wrist. "I swear by my life that if you put the sword down I will tell you what I intend to do—and," he threw in for good measure, "I swear that my intentions do not include killing you, causing you undue harm, and certainly not sleeping with you." A red glow confirmed his vow. It was a pity that he had been so broad with his language, now that he thought about it: but then, "undue" could be construed in a variety of ways, and he had already decided against killing the girl.
Kyrie looked at him for a moment more, then slowly lowered the sword to the ground. "There. Now explain."
Malchior bristled at the order, but decided that clearing up the misunderstanding was more important that his pride. Gods knew he didn't want Rorek's fiancée and his prisoner thinking he desired her: she was pretty enough, but not to his taste. He just hoped she didn't misinterpret what he was about to say. "I require your assistance in… a spell."
Kyrie looked puzzled. "My assistance? But I'm just—" Her eyes narrowed. "If you say necromancy, I will make you wish that you had never been born. Raising the dead is the worst kind of—"
"Will you please listen to me before you arrive at such farfetched conclusions? No, it's not necromancy: it's a demon summoning. Trigon the Terrible. And I do not appreciate being threatened, much less by an impudent chit less than a tenth of my size."
Kyrie gasped in pure, unadulterated shock. Looking as though she was in danger of forgetting how to breathe, she choked out, "Trigon—the—Terrible?"
::grins:: Aw, is wittle Malchior embarrassed? Oh, I have too much fun torturing my characters... far too much fun...
