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From the shadowed depths of his helm eyeslits, Lusagraidh watched Delanthir rage, the Warden’s anger whetting the hunger inside of himself. What right did Delanthir have to condemn them? He’d hunted Courtiers like they were animals, focused hate and violence on them with a fury few could match. The Court that had inducted Lusagraidh would have been proud to boast a Knight of such violence as Delanthir, had they been able to catch him, force him into the Truth with eyes sewn open so that he could not blind himself to it.
There was a reason that Lusagraidh had avoided crossing his path as much as possible, in the time the Knight had spent spreading that same Truth, far more gently, to the saplings he received fresh from the pod, open to the possibilities of the world.
The only reason Delanthir was here without a weapon in his hand, Lusagraidh had no doubt, was the damage that nigh-crippled him and left him unfit for duty. The Nightmare whispered in Lusagraidh’s ears, stirring, plucking at the chains with which he held it leashed, promising him glory, honor, the thrill of the fight and the sweet taste of victory, the pain and thwarted fury of his defeated foe.
Slowly, his fist flexed, articulated plates moving whisper-silent on well-oiled pins, and his gaze rested, unblinking, unmoving, on blackened, rotted bark. Would it splinter, he wondered, or would it be soft, riddled with minuscule holes that turned it air-light and spongy? Would the Warden scream and curse him? Or would Delanthir thank him, thanks for releasing him from that ruined body, decaying above ground with the Warden still trapped inside it?
Lusagraidh’s breath rasped in his throat, envisioning it, the Nightmare chortling silently in his ears, pleading, cajoling. It would be satisfying to rid the world of another fanatic, the kind that Lusagraidh despised most, to hear the death rattle and feel life flee under the blade of his axe.
He almost took a step forward, anger, blood lust, and violence boiling under his calm projection - and in that moment, his foot lifted from the ground without his bidding, his fist clenched around the haft of his weapon, his mind caught up with his emotions.
The laughter of the Nightmare turned into a despairing howl as he yanked the leash up short, restraining the aching need within him to slaughter the one who offended him so. His mind seethed with admonishments. Where was the control he valued so highly? What glory would there be in murdering a cripple? What possible satisfaction could he find in destroying a man already destroyed by himself?
Within his helm, Lusagraidh’s breath echoed loud, fast and uneven, as he warred with himself, discipline striking back against his innate violence, fast and hard. He allowed his eyes to move, taking in the look in Delanthir’s eyes - the desperation of a man clinging to denial for fear it is the only thing preventing him from a fall, allowed himself to hear the tone of the words, their violence and fury directed outwards on the surface, but inwardly at the Warden himself.
His fury he throttled back, a grip so tight and unyielding, he felt as though he choked himself along with it. His fingers he forced loose from his axe, one by one, as though pried by an outside force. He stood straight, both feet firmly in the snow, his shoulders rising and falling steadily as he brought his body entirely back under his control.
The tempest within had not leaked through his strong, practiced shielding; only the very observant would have noticed his physical cues, and most were watching the Warden making the scene.
No one would ever know how the Knight had just shielded Delanthir from himself.