museworks: (Lucrezia)
[personal profile] museworks
((Warning for potentially disturbing content beneath the cut.))

I wrote of the way I sometimes still have nightmares of him. Of how sometimes when I wake in the dark I still imagine seeing his eyes over me. How I crave the sun. I do not know if I mentioned in a past entry-- I do not care to look-- about how I hate total darkness now. One thing I carry with me, wrapped carefully and hidden in one of my packs, is a jar. A glass jar, in which there are several motes captured from various places on Draenor. Bits of energy siphoned from gas clouds and the like, elemental energy, that glow.

I have a nightlight, like a child might.

I'm ashamed of this fact, and maybe someday I can overcome this problem with myself, but for now I cannot handle complete darkness. Even if it means wrapping myself in my bedroll so that no others can see it, if I am supposed to remain hidden in the dark, I have this with me. I am…afraid of the dark. At least some.

He is one of those Blood Knights who never gave up the notion that the Light is to be bent to his will, and taken as he wishes. (A sort of gallows humor compels me to wonder if he considers the Light another wife.) Even with the restoration of the Sunwell, and some-- few, but still some-- noble Knights respecting the shift in their world, he is one of those who continues to abuse the Light as he wishes.

It was an accidental discovery-- or rather, the accidental realization and/or idea-- on his part. We were alone, and it was during one of those times I was allowed to have daylight. He was…performing his husbandly duty, and I endured with resignation. I had been starting to slip away in mind after all, focus my thoughts elsewhere to block him out. It made it at least a slight bit more bearable; unfortunately he realized this. He sought ways to keep my focus on him, to make sure I was actively hating-- and fearing-- him and not being passive. It was so much easier being the latter. Just giving in. Living day after day like a soulless doll. I also knew on a certain level that even giving up was a way of getting back at him. But he figured something else out to do.

He was behind me, and I felt him grasp my hair. I felt him tug, almost in a way to pull me upright against him, but he stopped me halfway; instead, he twisted the handful of my hair in his grasp, and wrapped it around my neck. I should have felt fear at that point, but all I had was a horrible sort of hopeless hope, for lack of a better description. Hopeless because hoping for death-- and knowing I lacked the will to do so to myself-- was simply giving up. I hoped he would end it because I could not; I hoped until it happened.

I know he had meant to release me, to allow me to breathe sooner than he did. He had misjudged. I cannot even describe it well except that it was terrifying rather than relieving. It was almost as if I watched as a detached spectator while he effectively strangled me with my own hair. His ardor increasing as I clawed at my neck. Then everything was dim, then black.

Then suddenly I was gasping for air as something hummed through my entire body. Light energy, that so many (at least of the living and not-undead persuasion) claim is warm and comforting, filling my body and willing me back to life. It was only later that I realized he truly had managed to kill me, or at least had come horribly close to it, and with his command of the Light resurrected me. Right then, though, I just knew that I thought I was dying, then found myself pulled back to life. That the feel of the Light putting everything 'right' felt like yet another violation; something good had been corrupted through misuse and abuse, and he liked it. He liked how it left me shaken-- shaking-- and weak, and wanting to vomit.

I am still grateful to have not seen his face when he had this terrible realization that this was something he could do as much as he wished. That it was also something that truly, honestly terrified me.

To this day, even Light-wielding healers with the best intentions make my stomach turn. Every flash of warmth threatens to bring forth the memory of how my hair felt when wrapped around my neck, and the only way I can handle it for the sake of those beside me in combat is to lose myself in said battle. I dream of dying, and waking from the nightmare is the part like when I came back to life; to this day the nightmares leave me shaking in terror for those long, horrid moments before my mind can calm itself.

Perhaps that's why I can lose myself in combat so easily; dying there does not hold the fear for me that it might otherwise have had, because of Jovan.

I have to keep reminding myself that this is my personal journal, even if I'm also now writing for my brother's eventual enlightenment. I fear that it is turning into just me recounting my husband's trespasses. I will try to write more of me in the present day. Perhaps of my hunt, and as I am successful in finding more than just Alamir.

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museworks

July 2011

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