Insein L'Mort
The ‘tea’ had been hot when Naxevo had left it upon the table for the two of them. Insein found it much later when she went to return the books to his office. There was little of the infused venom left in either cup. She looked at the empty chair where he had sat and sighed.
He gave everything of himself to his ideals and to his people. He looked at himself as a product of a life of wickedness and callous behaivours. Even last night, he spent time with Lellenthyr to show her what it meant to properly worship and wield Shadow. He gave too much and asked only for recognition and respect. What he asked for with the rest of his being was love, compassion and understanding. No one saw this except the magus. No one understood.
It was the least she could do when she went to comfort him, after the guests had left. His office was mostly dark, and the quiet sounds of the burbling experiments and whimpering victims outside of his sanctum were all that they could hear besides their own hushed conversation.
She held him, as she had often done before. It was never the embrace of a lover, but more the comfort of a kindred soul. Even in their quiet time together, he tried to guide her and speak words of revelation. His drive to educate and enhance all of those around him never faltered.
He gives too much, she thought.
She touched his form, running claws along his robes, probing what was underneath. Little remained of Valinthras’ body except bone and sinew. Most of his flesh and muscle atrophied into leathery strips that served little purpose. For all his power and everything he had done for her and countless other Forsaken, he almost never allowed himself to be repaired. She was unsure why this troubled her as it did.
He takes so little for himself, she mused.
She had kissed him, forcing his attempts at enlightenment back down his own rotted throat. He let her, and quieted under her embrace. His mind was troubled, and he had mentioned voices, ones of his own personal Shadow. Somehow she wondered what they sounded like, and if they were much different than the loa.
The loa did not so much whisper to her but sing in a riotous cacophony of internal sound, guiding her instinctually towards ardor and forbidden sensations: the smell of coppery blood from her kills, the sensation of absorbing flesh and soul from others into her own, the fetid caresses of two corpses intertwined in passions long lost from their living days.
She looked again at the place where they had kissed just hours earlier, and she smiled. She would teach the teacher what to do, and how to live again.
