Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own it; please don't sue me.
Notes:
Set sometime in Try, although I would be hard pressed to say exactly when. I'm not entirely sure what else needs to be said about this sucker. This is really my first excursion into the wonderful world of Slayers fan fiction. So give me some constructive criticism, okay? Or drop me a line at sansdio at yahoo dot com.
Warnings: Tweaking mildly, VERY VERY mildly with Zelgadis's past. I seriously doubt that it's enough to offend anyone, but then you never know, do you?
Pairings: Zelgadis und Amelia. And hints of other things, perhaps, if you believe that Zelgadis is a masochist.
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The Pleasure of My Company
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No matter how cold, self-loathing, and closed-off you are, some people just do not get it. Some people seem to view this as an emotional cry for help—and fine, I give you that on some level it probably is. But very nearly one-hundred percent of the time there is a very, very simple explanation for my emotional and occasionally physical withdrawal: I want to be alone because I am a hideous freak.
Is that really so hard to understand?
I'm not stupid. I realized that these scars aren't only physical, that you can't walk away from something like this without some serious mental issues. But I'll be fine, be happy again, once I find a cure—and I will find a cure. Until then, there will be times when I will want to be left alone.
Lina understands this, and so on nights such as this, when our little band checks into an inn and I retreat to a room early, she doesn't try to follow. She's far wiser than her years and table manners would suggest, and she knows that there are a great many things which people have to work through for themselves. When I leave she looks at me without sympathy, but with understanding nonetheless. I do not forget, she has held the Mother of All Things within her body, and she is better for it. Lina does not try to stop me.
Gourry's understanding is less intellectual and more visceral. He is by no means stupid—if he were, Lina would tolerate his presence no more than she would tolerate some table scrap going uneaten. Gourry isn't stupid, but he does not understand magic in the way that the rest of us do. And why should he? The only magic he'll ever need is the blade of the Sword of Light. I am not entirely sure that he understands why I am the way I am, only that it hurts me to have to be this way. And Gourry wishes to be, above all else, a knight. A gentleman. Gentlemen do not speak of such private matters. Gourry does not try to stop me.
Filia I would not expect to try to stop me. She has enough trouble on her hands, trying to keep Lina and Gourry from spending her last dollar. I don't think she cares much what I do—as long as I don't destroy any ruins, or break into any temples. As long as she's got Lina and as long as we're another step forward on our way to saving the world, she's happy enough. Filia does not try to stop me.
No, it is none of them. When I stood up from the table and announced that I was going to bed, it was—and always is—Amelia who watched me push my chair back with eyes huge with hurt. It is always Amelia whose normally cheerful face is marred by down turned lips. It is Amelia who sighs my name as I leave, as if that would somehow bind me there. As if I would stop because she called to me.
And usually she leaves it at that—a frown, a sigh, and we don't see each other until the next morning, when she greets me exuberantly, forgetting, or at least forgiving, the hurt of the previous night.
But of course, my hurt has not gone away. She may wake up cheerful, but I wake up, as always, cold stone. And until the time when I wake up as something else, or do not wake up at all, I will not be able to return this kindness. I cannot love Amelia.
Power. That was always what I wanted. Be careful what you wish for… Oh, they think they're pretty funny, don't they? Those wise men? Rezo was one of those wise men. Don't make that face, it'll stick that way. And then, one day, it did. Where does the border between wisdom and wives' tales begin? Where grandpa wants it to, in my case.
Power—my curse. I still want it. I haven't learned my lesson yet, I know, but I can't help but want it still, even if the only power I find is the one to cure me. That is why I cannot allow Amelia to love me, or allow myself to love her. Because if that happens, she has power over me, and I know too well what that's like. I know the feeling of having no control. Rezo did that to me—all my life, and then also not so long ago, when I first met Lina. He took control of me, turned me against her and Gourry and Zolf and Roddimus. I could have killed… Well, I couldn't have killed Lina. But Zolf and Roddimus… Who knows?
And the worst part? He programmed me that way—so that he could do that, control my mind. It was part of his grand scheme from the beginning, to shape my body to his will and leave himself the opportunity to do the same to my mind. Or so Lina speculates. The sorcery genius would know, wouldn't she?
Is it really so far-fetched to want a little bit of power for myself, in a world like this? If not power, then at least a little bit of control? They're not so different. I can't let anyone have control like that over me again, and that's why I have to turn Amelia away. I can't let that happen again.
That, and…
I don't know what changed our usual, comfortable routine that night, but I was just settling down into bed when the knock sounded on my door.
"Who is it?" I demanded—because at that point I felt that anyone who would be bothering me ought to be turned away as quickly as possible.
"It's me," she squeaked. "Amelia." She opened the door slightly and poked her head inside. "May I come in?"
I had to smile.
"You already have," I said, sitting up. "Really, Amelia. What if I'd been undressing?"
I was rewarded by the way she flushed slightly. But she stepped into the room anyway.
"Well?" I asked, when it appeared that she wasn't going to say anything. "Is something wrong?" I hadn't moved from the bed, she hadn't moved from the door, and I was starting to feel slightly uncomfortable.
"Zelgadis," she mumbled. "I was just wondering… if…" She trailed off, looked away from me, and to the window. Outside the night was clear, starry. Five stars, I thought. Was the world going to end? Why must prophecies be so… tangled? Why can't they just say what needs to be said? It's as though the powers that be are just toying with us. Always toying. And then laughing when we don't get it right. Shabranigdu was sealed in my grandfather's eyes—whose cruel joke was that?
"Just wondering what, Amelia?" I asked finally. Her face burned red, and suddenly I was so glad that I hadn't blown out the candle, yet. I was afraid—afraid to see her there, bathed in starlight, so close, and me not able to do anything about it. I was afraid of Amelia—of what she could do to me, without meaning to, without wanting to. This was what she had already done. I was afraid, and that meant that she had a different sort of power over me. Two types of power, she had, now. And that made me angry.
"Do you mind me being here?" she asked quietly, still looking out the window.
"Why would I?"
"You left. I was wondering if… maybe… I was wondering why."
"I'm tired," I lied. "I'd finished dinner, and I thought I'd better get some rest. Who knows what's going to happen tomorrow?"
"Oh," she said, finally looking at me again. Our eyes met for a moment, and this time it was me who looked away.
"So it wasn't…" she started again. "It wasn't me?"
And there it was again—how could I possibly make her understand that it wasn't her, but me?
"Of course not," was what I said, slightly more gruffly than I'd intended to.
"You're… You're sure?" she asked—I'd never seen her so insecure.
"Positive," I said, but nonetheless, I didn't really want her in my room for any longer than was crucial. I was about to suggest to her that I'd like to go to sleep, but suddenly she began speaking once again.
"Zelgadis, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about," she said.
"Oh?"
"Yes."
Reluctant would have been an understatement in describing her posture, the look on her face. It seemed as if she was going to leave it there. We'd established that there was something she'd like to talk about, and that was it, end of conversation, buh-bye Amelia.
It could have been that simple, but instead…
"What?" I asked.
Still she stood there, just stood there demurely blushing, and damn it, I liked it. She looked beautiful. She was actually attractive when she was acting more like a shrine maiden than an action hero. And her standing there speechless gave me some small sense that I could still control the situation. That there was still some power in my hands. Power. My blessing.
I knew damn well what she wanted to talk about.
"Why don't you sit down, Amelia?" I asked in a most gentlemanly manner. It did seem rude of me, to let her just stand there.
"There's nowhere to sit," she pointed out, all innocence. And I reached out and patted the end of the bed.
She hesitated for a moment longer before crossing the room and sitting. I leaned back against the headboard and pulled my knees up.
"You're quiet, tonight," I observed.
"I'm trying to find the words. This is so hard. I've never…"
We were silent again for a moment, and then I sighed.
"You know," I mused conversationally. "I had a lady-friend. Before."
She looked up at me with huge blue eyes.
"It didn't last long, after," I said.
Her eyes widened.
"You mean," she started, switching to Amelia, Defender of All That Is Light and Virtuous and True. "She ditched you because of your looks? She couldn't see past the beastly exterior to the wonderful person inside? I understand now why you're afraid to love again! Poor Zelgadis!"
"No," I said. "That's not how it was. I broke it off with her. She wanted us to make it. She never stopped seeing me the way I used to be. She… Well, she was a lot like you."
I paused to look at Amelia, and for a moment I saw her face, their faces together. She had been paler, of a finer structure. It had been excruciating, the pain of driving her off. For the most part I'd gotten over it, now. I tried to imagine going through it all again, here, now, with Amelia.
"But, Zelgadis…" she murmured.
"You're a shrine maiden," I muttered. "You wouldn't understand. But there are reasons—more practical reasons than looking past the beast and seeing the beauty—why it wouldn't work."
"Zelgadis, it could work," she protested. "I'm not like her; I know we could make it work. I… I love yo—"
I grabbed the back of her head and pressed my lips to her lips. All this time, and I hadn't forgotten how good it felt, to kiss someone as soft as Amelia—so soft, even after days spent under sun, in wind, rain, all weather, all manner of abuse.
To her credit, she only let out a small shriek when I first grabbed her. She didn't move, then, didn't try to respond, and for a moment I could let the glory of it sink in. I didn't have to worry about trying to imagine in my head that we were two people, not one person and one hideous, manufactured freak. Because I didn't need to worry about being gentle, about proving my love. I was proving something else.
When I pulled back, her lower lip was bleeding. There was, too, a spot of blood on her forehead, from where my hair had gouged her.
"I am made of stone, Amelia," I said, and it sounded flat and lifeless even to my own ears. Even to my own pointed, superhumanly sensitive ears.
She touched her lip. Her eyes were on mine, but they were unfocused. It was unnerving, like she was looking through me. I couldn't stand it any more, suddenly—couldn't stand the proximity, couldn't stand the feel of her weight on the bed, the curve of her breasts under her shirt, her smell, her humanity. I swung my legs out of the bed and stood, and crossed to the window, where I could look out and see empty streets and storefronts and imagine all the normal lives and the normal people who lived there in the day.
"Zelgadis…" she murmured.
"Do you know how much I weigh?" I asked sharply.
"You were our anchor, once…"
"Imagine that on top of you, Amelia."
I turned back to look at her. She'd wiped her lip clean, but now her eyes had bubbled over with tears, and I was sorry. But still, I had to, I told myself. I'd let her go on with this too long. Unconsciously I had started to reach out, even across the room, wanting to wipe those tears from her eyes. I let my hand drop back uselessly at my side, knowing that it would be pointless. It would only be leading her on. Instead I wrapped my arms around myself.
"Did that hurt?" I asked.
"I…"
"It hurt her, too," I murmured, and tried not to remember the blood. "Amelia," I said again, finally daring to meet her eyes across the room. "Imagine that inside of you." And even as I said it, I was imagining it. I was wanting it. I was hating myself for that. In general, I was hating myself, and maybe hating her a little bit, too. For reminding me like that. Maybe I just hated everyone.
She stood up, finally.
"Zelgadis, I'm sorry," she said. She started to come toward me, and I turned toward the window to get away from her. She'd found out what she needed to know. She should leave, now. Leave me alone, now.
"Please," I said. "I'm tired. I'd like to go to sleep, now." It was such a pathetic lie, and we both knew it. We both knew we both knew it.
"…All right," she agreed. "I guess I'm tired, too."
I didn't say anything to that. I didn't say anything as she crossed the room and went to the door, and opened it.
"We could make it work," she said, from there. "I know we could, Zelgadis. I know that I love you. Some day…" And then she closed the door.
I turned around, back to the bed, tired now beyond belief, ready to drop dead…
And who should be sitting there but the devil himself?
"Schadenfreude!" he said brightly.
"…bless you?" I ventured flatly, the irony of the statement not lost on me. Having just exhausted myself of all emotion through my dealings with Amelia, I was in no especial mood to try to decipher him. Of course, that was probably what drew his attention in the first place.
"Schadenfreude," he repeated. He was sitting bolt upright on my bed, the very picture of good posture, one leg drawn up with hands wrapped around the knee. He lifted a single finger in exposition, and oh how I wanted to break that single finger into eighteen shards of bone. "A very archaic term to your ears, I suspect—is the enjoyment of the pain of others."
"Which explains why you're here," I snorted, leaning back against the window frame. But this had been a long night, and it was so ridiculously early, too. My original lie about being tired had since turned true. Payment for lying in the first place, I supposed.
"My reasons run deeper," he smiled. "No, the word refers almost exclusively to, well… you." The smile curdled into a knowing smirk as he turned his head slightly. He regarded me still with deep and deeply shadowed eyes. "You enjoyed that, just then," he purred.
And isn't that what I hate the most about them? Of course they're the incarnation of pure evil. Of course they feed off of all of man's basest emotions. Of course they revel in destruction and terror and all other sorts of plagues. But the most insufferable thing about them is that they know what any given person is feeling at any given time, by virtue of the fact that they are trying to consume it. They have to watch what they eat, after all. The confused, the lovelorn, the poets, the teenagers—all they need to do when trying to dissect their psyches into making some sense is summon up the first being of darkness that they can contact. They will be told every hidden emotion, every lingering undercurrent of feeling that hides in the subconscious. Like swine rooting for truffles in the unmarked graves of the dead, they are. Nothing is sacred. Nothing is safe.
In other words, even when I cannot accurately categorize my emotions, he will know. He will know exactly. And he will be there, licking the wounds.
And damn it, damn it all, he was right. I did enjoy that. I enjoyed the blood on her lip. I enjoyed the hurt expression after the aborted declarations of love and undying affection. I enjoyed seeing her falter after considering just what any culmination of our possible romance would be. Because it meant that all along, I had been right.
It meant that I had power. I could toy with her, if I wanted. I could turn her on, turn her off, keep her coming back at will. She was confused, but I had known exactly what the outcome would be. I had known it all along.
Power. My curse.
I hadn't said anything, hadn't even moved, but he laughed. It was a light, clear, tumbling-stream of a sound, and it reminded me that even the loveliest of waters can run poisoned.
"Your silence is agreement, then?" he wondered.
"Shouldn't you be annoying Lina et al?" I asked, newly discovered victory having just been crumbled to dust by the realization that he was not leaving. "Shouldn't you be downstairs?"
And before I had time to realize what was happening, he was off the bed, perched on the windowsill beside me in what would have been a precarious position, had he not been the ageless, deathless creature that he was.
"What makes you think I'm not?" he breathed into my ear.
I had to steel myself not to flinch, or move away, but I should have been used to that. I'd had plenty of time to practice ever since he used that ridiculous show of speed and power to snatch away what was perhaps one of my few hopes at getting a normal life back. And then he had burned it. He had felt my shock of horror, the surge of anger that followed immediately on its heels. Why couldn't I have better defenses? If I kept letting him make me angry, he would only keep coming back. I knew that well enough. I just didn't know how to get around it.
"How much of our conversation did you hear, just now?" I wondered aloud, moving in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner away from the window and back to my bed.
"Enough," he shrugged.
"Enough for what?"
"Mild amusement." He was back to smiling now, perched on the windowsill in almost the same way he'd been perched on my bed.
"Voyeur," I muttered. I returned to my previous place on the bed and tried to make myself comfortable again. Maybe if I was comfortable, he would leave. Maybe if I just ignored him…
Of course, it bears repeating that no matter how cold, self-loathing, and closed-off you are, some people—and I use the term 'people' loosely—just do not get it.
"I consider myself more of someone with an average amount of curiosity," he said, scrunching up his face into ineffable cuteness, "and above-average capabilities of observation."
"There's not anything to observe now," I snapped. "So you can divert all of your attention back downstairs. Or wherever else you are." I absorbed myself in straightening the linens on the bed, although they weren't especially crooked.
"Ah, Zelgadis!" he crooned. "Is your self-esteem really that low? There's plenty worth observing. Right here."
I made a great show of looking around the room.
"No, I don't think so," I said, finally, shrugging. "There are no manuscripts here for you to destroy… No dragons to torment… No one around to willingly listen to all of your half-truths… No emotionally decrepit victims—"
"Really?" he cut in, coloring his voice with confusion. "I'm inclined to disagree."
Well, that stung just a little.
"Fine," I muttered. "Maybe one."
"One's enough," he said brightly. How, I wondered, could he stand himself? Being so… so chirpy all the time? Most humans couldn't even handle that much whimsy. Perhaps that was why—aside from the obvious—all of the Mazoku we had encountered between trying to find Prince Philionel's killer and a Claire Bible manuscript had reacted universally to his presence with cries of, "You? What are you doing here?" It was a good theory, I decided. It was how I felt, anyway.
He was gone from the window, suddenly, and for the briefest of moments I dared hope—but no, he reappeared just as quickly at the end of my bed, cross-legged.
"You're much more interesting than, say, morning glories," he told me.
"I wouldn't be half so emotionally decrepit if not for you and your meddling," I murmured, looking out the window now that it was safe to do so again. Somehow, I couldn't quite make myself look at him.
"Oh, Zelgadis," he burbled. "You're so… ugly."
Oh, that did it. That did it.
"Of course I'm ugly!" I exploded. "I'm made of stone! My own blood did this to me—my grandfather!"
"I know," he nodded. "Tragic, isn't it?"
"And then you… You have the gall to show up here and rub it in, after you've effectively destroyed every chance I had at finding a cure—"
"Yes, yes," he said, still nodding. "All my fault, isn't it?"
"—even by your being there, you destroyed all my chances. If you hadn't been around, if you hadn't been following Hellmaster's orders, we could have… We… Gaav never would have…" I was running out of fuel. "Of course I'm ugly," I repeated. "I'm a chimera!"
"Zelgadis," he said, mock-sternly, but still musically. "I'm not talking about here," he said, reaching out and poking my nose, the jagged cliff jutting out of my face. "I'm talking about here," he finished, tapping the rocky ridge just over my heart.
It took me a moment of staring at his smiling, jovial face before it quite sank in.
"Just leave me alone," I said, staring out the window again, and he laughed.
"Well?" he wondered. "Who can you blame for that?"
No response. Ignore it; it'll go away.
"Was it the Red Priest's fault that you were so power hungry?" he wondered, leaning back against the bed frame. "Was it his fault that that was your request? Is that my fault?" he asked, and then laughed again. "You are hideous," he said. "Aren't you? You're so starved for power that you have to take it out on little girls. Do you know what that says about you, Zelgadis?"
I wondered vaguely what it would feel like to have his throat in my hands. Just for a second. Even if it killed me to do it.
"It means you're leaning," he explained, as if discussing the mating habits of a particular sort of insect. "You have to draw your much-coveted power from someone else. You're a bully. You cut her down to build yourself up. You know all about it, though, don't you? I don't really have to tell you."
"No, you don't," I agreed.
"You know what it means. You know that, despite all the posturing, despite all your magic, despite your big, shiny sword… You're weak. Terribly, intrinsically weak."
"I despise you," I muttered. Your deepest fears, those emotions that you've been hiding from even yourself… he knows all about them.
"I know," he said, lowly, husky bedroom-voiced. "And that's why you'll never get rid of me."
I stared out the window again, and remembered how sweet Amelia had looked, standing at the door so recently, bathed in moonlight. I looked up a little bit—the stars were out, and she had looked at them. I wondered if she was looking at them now.
He got up off the end of the bed, actually moving this time, instead of just reappearing. He walked slowly to the window and rested his hand on the ledge. His back was to me, but I could tell that his head was tilted up.
"You're looking at the stars," he observed, and then turned back to look at me again. His eyes opened, but didn't catch the moonlight the way Amelia's had. "I've always wondered what your kind sees in them. In the stars."
"Xelloss—" I started to say, not quite sure why, but he was already gone again, just as quickly as he had come.
And what, I wondered, now that it was quiet again and I actually had the chance to sleep, had I done to deserve that? Other, of course, than being less than nice to Amelia. But she'd needed to know what I'd shown her. Hadn't she? Was it better to smash her infatuation, or to let her continue in it? Or had I, in the end, only kissed her to watch her squirm?
Maybe, in the morning I could find a way to make it better. I could apologize, anyway. I could do something.
I was about to contemplate just what, when there was once again a knock on the door.
"Yes?" I snapped, having had just about enough for one evening.
"May I come in?" she asked. It was Amelia. Again.
I started to stand up, not quite sure what I was going to do, only that I was going to do something.
"Amelia?" I called. "Please, do."
She opened the door halfway and slipped through, shutting it behind her once again.
"Were you asleep?" she wondered.
"No… Just thinking," I said, which was basically true. I stood in the middle of the room, awkward, not sure what to do with my hands.
"I just wanted to say," she said, looking down. "I'm sorry about before. I should have given you more time. I shouldn't have insulted your… friend, the way I did. I'm sorry. I can see why you wouldn't even want to be around a person like me."
"No, Amelia," I sighed. "That's not it at all. I told you before." I retreated, sat down on the edge of the bed again. "It's me." I chuckled ruefully. "Isn't it always me?"
"Zelgadis…" she murmured. "I'm sorry. I just shouldn't have brought it up."
"No, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm the one who should be sorry." I sighed again. Why did this have to be so ridiculously hard? "Would you… Do you want to sit down?" I asked. After a moment of hesitation she sat down on the bed beside me. We didn't look at each other.
"It was stupid of me," I said, after a time, "To suggest that we… Well, what I mean is, you are a shrine maiden, so…" At this point I felt like a heel for even having suggested it in the first place. But I had to make up for it, now. There was no going back. "Amelia," I said, "Our relationship wouldn't have to be like that. It…"
She looked up at me, suddenly, and took one of my hands into her own. She evidently understood what I was trying to say. Her eyes shone with girlish romantic dreams that I couldn't even comprehend.
"It could be pure," she breathed. "True, fairytale love!"
"Yes," I said, slightly baffled, slightly awed, entirely charmed. "That." Here was Amelia, the girl who wanted to be both a bride and an action hero.
"Oh, Zelgadis!" she cried, wrapping her arms around me and burying her face against my side. "I'm so happy!"
She was so easy to apologize to, so good natured, I couldn't help but smile, wrapping a single arm around her shoulders. We could have this much, anyway. As long as we were careful, I wouldn't hurt her. Until I found my cure, this wouldn't be so horrible.
And it could have been so sweet, ending there, if I hadn't suddenly begun to realize why I had just done what I had done. It hadn't been so much concern for Amelia, had it, as a desire to prove Xelloss wrong? And what kind of weakness did that betray? Further, why was he interested in the first place? Why should he care enough about how I was treating Amelia, about my own psyche, that he would point these things out to me? He couldn't—literally could not—be doing it out of the goodness of his heart. He had to have a motivation.
In what sort of calamity would my relationship with Amelia end, if Xelloss was interested enough to obliquely encourage it? He had to have known—had to know something.
Or maybe my anxiety over what his motivation was would be enough to amuse him.
He, after all—unlike Amelia—had to provoke in me some kind of dislike, in order to ensure the future pleasure of my company.
It is worth noting that some people—and I again use the term loosely—have different ideas of pleasure than others.
Schadenfreude, huh?
I still had to figure mine out.
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