The darkness that is

He was mad. Blindly mad. He felt white fury coursing through him, burning every inch of his skin. He had felt the need to commit murders. To break their necks so thoroughly, that they bled through the breaks. He wanted it. His fingers itched. His arms shook. His head throbbed. His entire body was on fire.
But he with held. He limited himself to a single hit. But he put all of himself into it and wouldn't have been surprised if he had broken the man's skull with the blow. He was fairly certain he had.
And here he was, back in the cool night air. His body still burned, his heart beat heavy and fast. But she was safe. She was clinging tightly to him. She buried her face into his shoulder. He felt her breathe deeply and pull closer with her arms around his neck. He breathed easier. His heart slowed. He reached under her legs and pulled her into a more relaxing position in his arms. One arm under her back, one under her legs, her arms around his neck--still clinging, with her face out of sight in the curve of his chest. He began to feel the wind that billowed around them. He could hear the night sounds again.
Friend galloped below, whining now and then for attention and inclusion. The hop's cries reminded him of the men he'd left unscathed. He felt the anger broil up again. So he tightened his hold on Ashling and dropped suddenly to the earth. He landed softly on the grass, and Friend came to tottering halt beside him. The hop was a little winded from the long run, and Demaren realized they had covered a lot of ground in however long he'd been flying in anger. A quick glance at his cargo told him she had fallen asleep. So he wrapped her tightly in his parka again and set her carefully in the saddle of Friend.
"Don't you let her fall or disturb her sleep." He spoke, as softly as he could to Friend, but it still came out as a growl. As he adjusted her in the seat, she stirred.
"Demaren...?" She blinked at him. He suddenly was aware of the heavy glare across his face he couldn't seem to remove. The best he could muster was a dead expression with a tinge of annoyance. Better than a scowl. But she still looked concerned.
"Go to sleep." He tucked the edges of the parka around her. But she pushed at the fabric until her hands were free. He made to move away--to fly into solitude--but she grabbed his wrist. It was not a firm grasp, he could have broken it and taken off, but her face was in earnest.
"Don't be angry."
Demaren laughed bitterly, almost insanely for a brief instant. A single "ha!" burst out. She was a little surprised and her hand lifted. But it was his turn. He quickly grabbed her entire hand within his own, enclosed securely but softly.
"Why didn't you come straight out? I was on my way to steal you from sleep when I heard them with you."
She stared at her captured right hand, her eyes a little pained. He glanced down, but knew he wasn't holding it tightly enough to hurt her. He narrowed his eyes at her wrist and, glancing at her face, gave the very smallest of tugs on her arm. Her eyes bugged for an instance and he heard the sharp intake of breath.
"What happened to your arm!" He shouted suddenly, dropping her hand and placing his hands on her shoulders. He quickly pulled his hand off her right shoulder and after a moment, rested it on her cheek. She whimpered but shook her head.
"Just got pulled too hard. T-That's all." She shrugged him off. He dropped his arms.
"Why did they try to kidnap you?" He half pondered to himself. She must have been sure he was talking to her, because she responded.
"They tried to kidnap me because I... I'm a slave..." By the end of the statement, she was down to the veriest of a whisper that a normal person would not have heard--but was within range for a Syla.
"You're a what!?" He shouted. She closed her eyes tightly, as if he had slapped her. "Why didn't you tell me that!"
"I-I don't know! I couldn't!" She sobbed.
"You couldn't? Why!"
"I was afraid?"
He glared at the thought of her being afraid of him. He noted her eyes widen, and made to speak. But he was suddenly very aware of the tears she was crying. The anger seemed to drain faster than water from a broken bowl. But his body was frozen, and the shock from the recent revelation seemed to come over him briefly. After a moment in silence, he finally spoke, making his voice smooth and steady.
"Have you always been a slave?"
She shook her head and held up her right hand, with the burn on it. "That's what this is. Anyone with a brand on their hand is a slave. If I had been sold to a house, I would have received a brand on my arm, too."
The anger started to trickle back in at the idea of someone burning her hand intentionally--maliciously. "A brand."
She nodded.
"And they were going to, what?"
She shrugged, but answered. "Probably sell me. There's a reward for returning slaves."
He laughed bitterly, "Probably would have gotten less than you're worth."
Her eyes looked up at him at that. He wasn't sure what was in them, though they glittered dangerously close to tears. Again, the anger faltered. The desire to suddenly hug her overwhelmed him, so he stepped back from her. She pulled her eyebrows together and looked back down at her hand.
"Why are you a slave?"
Her face completely crumpled and she shook her head and grabbed at her ears, pressing them against her skull. "Don't ask me!"
"Don't--Ashling, I will ask you whatever I think I need to in order to protect you! I will ask you about being a slave! I will ask you about your arm! About your family! About--" He searched for something else to say. "I will ask you about Berrik!"
She looked up violently, her face pale and stricken. "H-how do you know about Berrik?"
He felt a little small at that moment. And looked away. "You called me Berrik when you were in that fever."
For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke. Friend, uneasy, snorted as he looked back and forth between them.
"He was my brother." Her eyes were sad and tired.
"Was?" he looked at her.
But her face fell into a stoney expression, her eyes closing off. She spoke in a suddenly heavy, monotone voice. "Yes."
He felt the finality in the comment. Anger filled him again. He looked away into the darkness and finally accepted that his emotions were far too volatile for a conversation as important as this. So he looked back and pulled the parka back around her.
"Go to sleep." Then he shot into the sky.
He flew above them, moving forward. A quick glance told him Friend figured it out and followed beneath. Then Demaren tuned everything out, drifted a little higher, and focused on the flight and cold night air. He looked at the stars, seeing the star he had come to associate with his mother, and felt ashamed at the hate and wrath he had felt. He tried to drain all of the feelings from his being. Tried to let it fall to the ground so far below. It wouldn't leave him as easily as he wished. He ended up with a few tears escaping.
This had not been the best day. She'd almost been kidnapped, or killed even, and he'd killed someone. He'd yelled at her, and discovered she was keeping very important secrets from him. He was feeling very alone. He contemplated abandoning his goal at Grayman, but discarded the idea when he remembered his father. He didn't even want to imagine how Ashling would fare without him there for her.
Enough. He was tired of all the thoughts. They made him tired and rushed through too many differing emotions too quickly. Enough. He shut it off and stared into the darkness where the sky faded into the distance, thrusting every thought into it and out of sight.