Animus.

[Kylerryth]

She stirs; plots; twists fate to her design. Perhaps you should go.

The voice addressing him was a voice accustomed to singing; to praising; to sweetening the air with its light, dulcet tone; to granting deliverance and issuing benedictions; to calming squalling infants and reading fantastic tales to children at bedtime.

That was a ruse, and he knew it.

Before, that same voice had been a lash in the hands of a cold and calculating mistress whose brilliant, analytical mind was driven by an inherent cruelty, a complete disregard for life and the living, save for the bearer of her current vessel. That it wanted something, for him to do something for it, was no surprise; that it suggested instead of commanded -- that was surprising.

So he listened. And when it finished, he replied, his own voice a soft, slurred drawl. "I know, Darksbane. I sense it."

Perhaps you should go, echoed the other voice. As always, it had little to offer; it preferred use over discussion. However, it wasn't often that the voices agreed. Perhaps the matter was serious enough to warrant their attention -- and intervention. Correction: his intervention. They couldn't operate on their own. Such was their relationship: they, the empowering symbiotes; he, the willing conduit and able-bodied host.

The irony of their decision, however, had not been lost on him.

"Perhaps. How do I benefit from this?"

He still wields her, answered Darksbane. You could end both lives -- erase them from existence.

There is distance between us and them, added the other, yet-unnamed voice, but it is not great. You would have time to reacquaint yourself with us and your own abilities.

"I need no training, Eagle's Eye," he snapped. That, too, was a ruse; a lie told to them and himself. All three knew it. He looked at his hands, and was surprised to find them clenched into fists -- fists so tight that his nails dug painfully into his palms. Unclenching them, he stared at the pale, crescent-shaped depressions in his palms; stared at his hands, their long, slender fingers callused from wielding the sword and the knife and the bow; and, inwardly, stared at himself, wondering if he truly could learn again a lifetime of training in ... days? A week? Certainly no longer than that.

Certainly, echoed Darksbane.

Certainly, echoed Eagle's Eye, its voice almost overlapping Dark's Bane's.

Silence. Then, at the mouth of the cave, there was a minor disturbance: the wind had knocked loose a rock, and it had in turn loosened others, creating a landslide in miniature. He watched it, wondering if it was an omen of sorts.

What have you got to lose, Luc Alh's? inquired Darksbane, pulsing faintly in the scabbard that rested against his spine, exuding warmth.

Go, said Eagle's Eye, sounding more the teacher than the student. He could already hear the sibilant song of the sword being drawn; the cacophony of blades intercepting each other; the sparks that illuminated the combatants and set fire to their desire for death, their lust for victory. Go, it repeated.

Go, Luc Alh's, insisted Darksbane. It throbbed; it burned; it ached, all of it with longing. Go now, and kill your brother and the filthy thing he tries to control.

Go now, and kill Audmathus.