no one sees how i'm burning-
no one feels this yearning.
so come, taste this black poison
and forgive my obsession.

(xandria, blood on my hands)

As the minutes turned into hours, Shadowsong 's fear turned to rage. She wanted to fight back— stick him with her sword until the entire room was bloody and slick with vengeance. But the darkness seemed to swallow her, and she remained still, unable to free herself from the deep-freeze that enveloped the entire room as he sapped her of any remaining strength and resilience.

"Stop," she spat, half-pleadingly, through gritted teeth. "Torturing me isn't going to make me agree with your silly prophecy! So let me go— kill me if you must, but I'll never surrender anything to you!"

"My," he laughed chillingly. "You're a feisty one, aren't you? What are you going to do about it, sweetheart— glare at me until you somehow burn a hole in my torturing arm with your eyes? How very brave of you, Wizard Shadowsong… and how very, very stupid."

She fought against the cold, grey light, desperate to escape its hold on her. But Malistaire just laughed, which infuriated her all the more. "Kill me," she repeated, her voice steady this time. "I'll die before I serve you!"

At this, he smirked coldly and touched her cheek once more. She shuddered in disgust and tried to pull away, but not before he slashed her across the face with his dagger. "Well, well," he answered, smirking horribly. "I see you've quite the mouth on you, little lady. But not to worry— your time will come; I'll suck out your soul, like a vampire does blood, and I'll enjoy every minute of it."

Once more, she drew a sharp breath and tried to suppress the sob that pressed against her lips like a battering-ram; the result was a garbled, high-pitched whimper that immediately drew Malistaire's attention to her prone and shaking form. A pang of guilt thrummed through his chest, though he wasn't sure why— he had given up feelings, and his humanity, when he'd been cursed with living death. But her tears stirred something deep inside. And he wished, with all of his might, that he could do something— anything— to make her sad mouth smile once more.

So he stopped all movement and gathered her in his arms, stroking her face and hair as he tried to calm her. "Come now," he insisted, dropping his voice to a whisper as he gently brushed the tears from her face. "There is nothing to be—"

"I'm not afraid of you," she hissed, though her eyes gave her away as a fresh flow of tears rushed forth from the seemingly-endless basin of sorrow in her heart. "You're a coward— a murderer without morals, whose only concern is for himself!"

"I didn't mean to—"

"Don't claim to love me," she spat, as though the words tasted bad. "You just love control, how good it feels to inflict pain and suffering on your fellow man. But you're hardly a man— in fact, you're not a man at all. You're a corpse, and corpses are incapable of love."

She tried to break free, but his power over her was too strong; this only caused her to fight harder, but Malistaire just held her, not releasing his grip on her until she fell silent and still. He had finally broken her spirit, her will to survive, and yet, the victory felt hollow. Torturing prisoners had long been his only reprieve—guilt and fear were for humans with souls. But this was different, somehow, in that killing her was like killing the part of himself still capable of compassion.

Though too proud to admit it, he had never wanted to hurt her. Yes, he wanted her soul— needed it, to reclaim his humanity before he could die and rejoin Sylvia in the afterlife. But he couldn't simply take it from her; according to the fates, she had to give him her soul willingly, and torturing her into submission had seemed like the perfect plan, until he'd felt it—the guilt so intense that it had made him weak with sorrow.

One does not simply walk in and expect to leave here alive. Where did they think they were sending her— Unicorn Way?

Shadowsong was wrong about him— dead wrong. He was just trying to get things done, as quickly as possible, before the Order had a chance to pay him a visit, thus disrupting the entire plan. But she wouldn't understand that. He wasn't, as she'd insisted, a monster—a murderer without morals. So why, then, were those words more devastating than any wound she could ever inflict with her blade?

She's right— I'm a soulless murder-machine, whose only purpose is to destroy that which is beautiful and alive. And everything I exist for is what she despises most.

He gazed down at her motionless form, a horrible lump forming in his throat. Shadowsong's dark hair was splayed around her head, like a black aura, and tears still glistened on her cheeks as though she were both alive and dead at once. He didn't want to think that he was capable of such violence, but he was, and it stabbed at him like the icy claws of a wraith, over and over again. It was obvious that Alhazred didn't have his apprentice's best interests at heart— if he had, Shadowsong never would have been sent on such a dangerous mission alone. And, to Malistaire, that meant that it was his job to keep her safe, even if he had to hurt her, in order to keep her from those who would do her further harm.

I see the unseen, and it's all terrible. But such is the cruelty of unlife.