It wouldn't be a pride demon if it didn't feast on that stubborn, suicidal pride, that impulse to stay and stand his ground solely because he's frightened. He can't let fear win, can't let this terrified little creature be who he is--and so the demon waits for him, often, with a mirror of his own smug, serene smile. The nightmare is his Harrowing all over again, and he never learns.
"We might as well be old friends," the demon agrees, with wry conspiratorial warmth. "You always did put up the fun sort of fight."
You're different, special, exceptional, the kind of praise that 19-year-old Vandelin could so easily fall headlong into and sink below the surface without a trace. 32-year-old Vandelin doesn't trust a compliment anymore.
"Not tonight," he snaps--too quick, too sharp, the kind of emotion he'll be furious at himself for showing when he has time to think--before turning on his heel and hastening back down the path, past Atticus' hiding place, fast enough to leave a chill breeze behind him.
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"We might as well be old friends," the demon agrees, with wry conspiratorial warmth. "You always did put up the fun sort of fight."
You're different, special, exceptional, the kind of praise that 19-year-old Vandelin could so easily fall headlong into and sink below the surface without a trace. 32-year-old Vandelin doesn't trust a compliment anymore.
"Not tonight," he snaps--too quick, too sharp, the kind of emotion he'll be furious at himself for showing when he has time to think--before turning on his heel and hastening back down the path, past Atticus' hiding place, fast enough to leave a chill breeze behind him.