i can see weakness in your eyes;
seems you need a hand-
i'm taking your soul
and I can smell the fear in your heart-
seems you need a hand:
i'm taking your soul away.
(elysion, weakness in your eyes)
For the next few hours, Malistaire watched from a distance as Shadowsong slept peacefully on, abandoning his post only to check that she was still breathing; she would be waking up soon, and he didn't want to be anywhere near her when she did— if she had any memory of what had transpired during her brush with undeath, she would, no doubt, kill him where he stood. But she was his now— nothing could change that.
She awoke some hours later, shivering and disoriented, and he instantly rushed to her side. Understandably, she was frightened— he would have to do some serious damage control, if he was to be successful in calming her down.
"What is it, my dear?"
"So… cold."
Her entire body trembled so badly that she could barely speak, and he couldn't understand a word of it. Not knowing what better to do, he pulled her toward him and held her — she resisted at first, but eventually gave up and let herself fall into the embrace. Every fibre of her being felt alive in his arms, from the blood pulsing through her veins to the fresh tears that now sparkled on her cheeks— her eyes fluttered open and shut as he stroked her face and hair, and just looking at her was the most beautiful thing in the world
"Come now, sweetheart. You can't fight it forever."
As he said it, she glared at him and tried once more to pull herself free. "Oh yes, I can" she snapped bitterly. "I can, and I will. Oh, and I'm not your sweetheart, your princess, your crypt-dove— whatever creepy names you insist on calling me… None of this makes any sense, so just sod off and let me go home."
She tried to disguise the quiver in her voice with a laugh, but Malistaire didn't buy it for a minute. It was too painfully obvious that she was caving— that her strength was fading, and that she'd all but lost the will to live; so beautiful to watch, and yet so terribly unfulfilling.
If only it were that simple, my love.
"Could you please stop doing that? It's giving me the creeps."
He said nothing in reply, but picked her up and carried her through the narrow doorway into the tunnel that loomed ahead, like a giant dragons' mouth that threatened to swallow them both whole. Once more, the translucent grey beams from Malistaire's staff, which floated in the air before them, illuminated the path—the only light in the darkness, just as Shadowsong herself was the only beautiful, living thing that Castle Dragonspyre had seen in seven, long years.
Upon their return to the throne-room, most of the minions had vacated the premises; only Zarathax and a few others remained, and Malistaire figured that he could still put them to some use. He kept them around for a reason, and it wasn't to sit there and look pretty— that would be Shadowsong's new job, as the Mistress of Shadows.
"Gentlemen," he began, eyeing Zarathax carefully before turning to the wraiths. "We have made a great discovery this day— the girl-wizard lives, and I alone am the master of life and death!"
There were murmurs of appreciation, and Shadowsong scoffed her disapproval, but Malistaire ignored her and continued to address his flock. "Yes, she lives," he continued, setting her down at last. "And she is mine— as such, you will obey her orders, as you would my own. Lay so much as a finger on her, and I'll see to it that you suffer horribly. Consider this your warning."
He wrapped his arm possessively around her waist, at which she flinched and tried once more to break free. Even through the thick, black velvet of the eufiber dress, her skin was still cold— meaning that she hadn't fully recovered yet and, in her fragile state, wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight.
She looks so beautiful in that dress. I bet a hundred-thousand gold coins that she'd be just as radiant in rags.
To the minions, he simply nodded and gestured at his new protégé. "Men," he commanded. "Ready the Great Hall. Make sure that everything is in its place, and in nothing less than impeccable condition; Zarathax, make sure they don't mess it up. And you, my dear Wizard Shadowsong— all you have to do is bring your beautiful self. I trust you can handle that?"
Her only reply was to roll her eyes in disgust, but she made no attempt to resist as a pair of wraiths appeared at her side and whisked her off to yet another strange room. This one was empty, save for a sculpted cherry dresser and vanity that was covered in baubles, including a hairbrush and mirror set made from bones— so twisted, but so beautiful.
One wraith picked up the brush and ran it through Shadowsong's long, dark hair, while the other inspected her dress for bloodstains or tears. "Ooh-de-lolly," it marvelled admiringly, running its skeletal fingers through her silky mane. "Such a pretty girl you are, poppet— just like Mistress Sylvia, in her day. Too long have we waited, to serve another so lovely as she, and you are just the one to take her place."
"Well, then," she replied, her eyes turning towards the marble floor. "Let's just say that I'm sorry to disappoint you."
They looked confused, but Shadowsong didn't engage them. Instead, she remained silent until they had finished making her over, at which point Zarathax entered and eyed her searchingly. "Exquissssite," he sighed breathily, his clawed hand coming to rest on her hip. "You look ssstunning, my dear—almost good enough to eat, metaphorically-sssspeaking. Let's be on our way, shall we?"
Obediently, she stood and allowed them to lead her into the Great Hall, once again bound at the wrists. They shuffled, one by one— a wraith, Shadowsong, another wraith, and Zarathax at the rear— into a room with a large, oaken table, pristine white tiles, and Castle Dragonspyre banners on every wall. At the other end of the table was Malistaire himself, in a black and red velvet cloak and holding a goblet of strange, scarlet liquid— was it blood?— in his hand.
That's disgusting.
As expected, he rose to greet her and set his cup of mysterious, crimson goo on the table long enough to free her from the shackles the minions had bound her with. "Enchanté," he almost gushed, bowing as he kissed her hand. "Welcome, my dear, to my innermost sanctum— beautiful though it may be, it does not compare to you."
