high, like the stars use to be;
so high, she is standing above me-

unreachable,
just like the promise of paradise.

(xandria, pure)

For the next few days, Malistaire stood guard over Shadowsong's sleeping form, waiting for her vital signs to return to normal. So far, there had been no improvement, and he agonized over it constantly— hurting her had been the furthest thing from his mind, but he'd needed to subdue her, somehow. She had already become more involved than she should be, as his agenda had involved simply taking her soul and turning her against Alhazred— using her powers against the very cause that she fought so hard to protect. Loving her was simply a burden, albeit a welcome one, and he couldn't afford to let it interfere with his master plan.

All said and done, of course, he had certainly met his match with Shadowsong. She was cunning and intelligent, just like her master— no doubt Alhazred had taught her well— and she frustrated him, to no end. The more he pursued her, the more she pushed him away— yet, her cold aloofness only drew him to her still more, and he'd come to love the pain of her constant rejection. Determined as she may have been, he had surpassed her previously-insurmountable defenses… even if it had meant using underhanded means to lower them.

Undeath was a truly horrid fate— simply existing, in a state of perpetual purgatory, was just as unnatural as it was lonely. So he didn't understand why he wanted to turn Shadowsong into one of them— she was too beautiful, too alive, to merit such torture, but sacrifices had to be made somewhere. Loving her was torture in itself, but the pain was exquisite— she could torment him forever, for all he cared, if it meant that she would stay. But, as soon as he left her alone, she would surely run— return to Alhazred and his band of thugs, and disappear from all memory.

He eyed her for a minute, hoping to see her blink or move— anything, to confirm that she was alive. The madness of true love was overpowering and, at that moment, so was his affection for this fragile, exquisite creature— what sense did it make, to keep her here? Did he hope to repay Alhazred for a lifetime of exile, with her blood? As satisfying as it would be to watch her scream as the wraiths sucked her soul out, revenge was pointless now.

"Love me," he whispered, choking up as he kissed her cheek."Look not upon the monster I've become, but through him— not with your eyes, but with your soul..."

The words were almost too painful to utter, and even thinking them hurt, for he knew that she never would— that much, she'd already made clear. But he didn't care. "Love me," he whispered again, almost pleadingly this time. "Love me. Love me!"

But Shadowsong remained perfectly still, her skin as cold and pale as the ravages of death itself, and Malistaire winced in pain as regret suddenly welled in his chest. He touched her cheek and bent to kiss her forehead, his eyes still dripping blood as he continued to plead with the fates. They had already taken his humanity, to a place from which it would not and could not return. But perhaps they would spare Shadowsong's life, if he could prove that he was not the beast that she claimed he was— the same one who had killed Sylvia, seven long years ago.

Love me.

Originally, he'd wanted her to be afraid— it was supposed to keep her quiet and submissive, but that plan had backfired and made her even more brazen, more determined to foil every attempt he made to bring Wizard City to its knees. Brute force had been all that would stop her from getting in his way, but he hadn't expected that it would leave him so utterly torn; two very-different forces now fought for control of his being, and he felt divided, both in body and spirit.

Love me.

He closed his eyes and brushed his fingers across her still-warm cheek. A fresh flow of scarlet slithered from his eyes, splattering Shadowsong's face and neck with scarlet anguish. Love was, Sylvia had once said, a double-edged sword; and, while Shadowsong was a formidable swordswoman, it was the metaphorical dagger that truly cut into the remains of his soul like a knife through butter, even if it was all self-inflicted.

Sylvia was gone now— seven years dead and buried— and it was not out of disrespect to her memory that he'd fallen for this girl, hard. Shadowsong had been a prisoner, like any other, but her fearlessness and iron resolve had set her apart from the rest. He had once planned to use her, to bind her soul to his body and blackmail Alhazred into unequivocal surrender, but it hadn't worked out that way. Nothing he did ever went according to plan, though this was the first time that he couldn't blame the minions— or the Order, or anyone but himself— for messing it up.

In his mind, Shadowsong's vulnerability was what truly made her a thing of beauty. She would certainly accomplish great things with the Order, but he could make her powerful—they would be a devastating combination: ruthless, immortal, and downright deadly; if she could ever learn to see him as more than just a monster without morals. And, while she may have been young and headstrong, Malistaire could easily see past her scathing threats and weapons to what lay hidden inside— a wounded child, made old before her time.

He stood vigilantly over her for the remainder of that day, and the next, hoping that she would, once again, show signs of life. Sorrow welled in his chest as he held her and folded her into his arms, a single crimson tear slipping down his cheek and landing on hers. For the first time in seven years, he was overcome with sadness and anger— at her, for getting under his skin; at the Order, for subjecting him to her frigid and feminine charms; but mostly at himself, for letting her down.

Alive or not, this girl would be the death of him.