A disquieting confusion passes over Vahvuus once more, and he ducks his head, wrestling with those words - the will of his master - and with the knowledge ingrained into his soul from the moment he gained awareness in this life. He's a tool- tools have no value. When the time comes he must be thrown away.

But he's not a tool, he's a partner. He has value because his master tells him he does.

"You have value to yourself."

But his worth is defined only by the continued life of the exorcist to whom he's tethered, because as long as the exorcist lives his own existence has meaning, and if he were to survive while the exorcist died then what good is he?

...why... why did he use the word "live"? Tools don't... tools aren't...

Obey, obey.

I'm trying.

I'm trying, but he...!

He blinks, coming back to himself in time to realize how his breath has become shaky, his heart pounding heavy in his chest. But... malakhim don't need to breathe, their heart serves no purpose like providing bloodflow as it might for humans. So why...?

Vahvuus lifts a hand to his chest, pressing it tightly against the fabric of his robe as if that might halt the strange, unexpected ache he's feeling. It makes no sense. None of it makes any sense at all.

"You... may be ordered," he murmurs, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy, reaching for the expected answer- anything to halt this clash occurring within him between what he knows and what he hears. "A superior may order you to use me in this manner. You cannot hesitate in battle, or- you'll die."

And that would be a failure on every level. Surely he, as the surviving malak, would be punished, even if the fault didn't lie with him. He'd at least be free of this conflict at last- his slate would be wiped clean, he'd be reassigned, and another exorcist would use him properly until he met his expected end. It would be fine. Maybe it would be better.

He'd be... no, he wouldn't... he'd feel...

...why does it hurt...?