I am the pattern, the plague, and the prison --
The storms have always felt personal to him—and perhaps that’s because they were. They responded to his mood, were drawn in by the shifting tides of his emotions. When he was happy, they were playful—striking out without injuring, drawing wild patterns against the sky. When he was furious, they took on his cutting edge—lashing out intentionally, with purpose, aiming to kill instead of merely dazzle.
So even those these skies do not recognize nor respond to him, they still feel like his.
He wonders if the cosmos are the same for her.
He is comfortable enough in her presence though, understanding her silences and the way that she sees him and straight through him in the same breath. How her gaze is both empty and piercing all at once. It feels right—more so than the nearly foolish mortals around them—and he finds he prefers it. “There is another Queen?” he scoffs, finding it difficult to imagine, but rolling his shoulder all the same.
“I have seen how mortals play with such titles,” he thinks back, trying to remember his studies and his observations over the centuries. “I support that is not entirely unsurprising,” He can’t imagine that he would ever bend the knee to someone like that though—can’t imagine vowing his fealty. Even in his past life, he had never been particularly loyal to others. Never interested in losing his independence.
But she says that she is staying and that is enough to draw his attention. For a second, he studies her a little closer, his gaze sharpening on her pale face. “Really?” he asks, not realizing how much like a demand the word sounds. He sniffs, that arrogant way of his coming through with each movement, with the smallest adjustment of his weight. There is a pause, drawn on for a moment too long, and then:
“I suppose there’s no harm in staying.”
At least for now.
MORROWIND
