Stand face to face with your god
She watches with a kind of detached amusement as he is consumed by his emotion. She cannot know the root cause of it, cannot understand what it means for him to wrestle with such fury. (Though it had been an insult, there is some flattery in knowing that she has garnered his wrath purely with the audacity of her mere existence. She delights in knowing that the fact that she draws breath at all is enough to elicit such rage.)
She does not understand that his fury comes from grief. She has never cared enough about anything to mourn its death. Not even her brothers. (Perhaps she would delight in their deaths, missing them only because they could not serve any significant purpose were they dead.)
She tilts her fine head as he edges closer. Those draconic eyes flash vivid red, though she does not back away. She notches up her chin as he staggers, as he whispers something that sounds like a plea. (Does she know that she could heal him, if she chose to? Can he smell it on her? But there is no ice present and surely the glaciers in her gaze do not count.)
“The world,” she answers plainly, smoothly, her tone level despite the way her eyes flash, “does not care that all you have known is dead. The world goes on existing whether you want it to or not.” It is a dismissal, certainly. Not of him but of his grief. She is not a sympathetic thing, Altar. She feels absolutely no sorrow for the magnitude of his loss.
(She is intrigued, though she would never willingly admit it. Curious about his sickness.)
“Why are you sick?” she asks, despite herself.
@achille