He has misunderstood her, all the more reason to loathe her condition.
He draws back his wings and she is grateful to be free of the weight of them. Even still, she feels some sharp stab of irritation.
But he takes this misconstrued meaning and he speaks and she can taste the desperation in his tone. It sits bitter and heavy on her tongue and she wants to hiss and spit but the pain and the weight and the exhaustion are too much to bear all at once. So, she merely stands there and she lets him speak.
She stands there, tired and weak and irritated with both, and allows him to drag his mouth across the plain of her forehead.
“It was meant as a form of congratulations, Ghaul,” she says and does not bother trying to conceal the barbed edges. Because this is the Gospel they both understand, the venom, and she draws her head away.
“You deserve the throne,” she continues, “I have no doubt that you will do great things with it.” But she does not want to be touched by him, not now, and she finally gathers what little remains of her energy so that she can draw herself away from him.
“You owe me nothing,” she adds, at last, “you never have. But, for you, I will look after the Cove.”
Perhaps there is still some part of her that worships him.
