and lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He’s known galaxies, lived among them (and sown Beqanna with them, legions of star-studded children), he’s resurrected kingdoms (at the cost of a few stupid, willing creatures, horses who had bled for the chance to please him).
And he savors these things, sure – showy and dramatic, echoing change across Beqanna, keeping his name known, keeping his bloodline strong.
But there is pleasure to be found in small things, he knows – simple interactions. It’s a different, less showy pleasure, but he takes enjoyment in it nonetheless.
(And after centuries of godhood, he must take entertainment where he can!)
She’s just that – a small pleasure. A fond memory.
He’d been so young, in the Dale, in only his second iteration (or was it the third?). Less controlled. He had not quite mastered the craft, his ministrations had been heavy handed.
He is not so brutish tonight, the scene painted between them is still soft, a bastardization of tenderness, his lips to her forehead, her scars.
“Even gods get bored,” he says, then amends, “especially gods, I think. It’s so boring, sometimes.”
She touches him back, and he smiles, a wicked curve of the lips she cannot see. He is always willing to bend them to his will, but he prefers bent knees to broken ones.
“Look at you,” he says – poor choice of words, he supposes – and he draws back, regarding her with his wine-dark eyes, “I’d almost think you missed me.”
He is eager to touch her again, but the dark god is a man of patience, so he keeps his distance, for the time being.
“Oh, it does grow tiresome,” he admits, finally answering her question, “but there is pleasure in giving. In remaking, even.”
He reaches out again, this time with magic, draws it over her sockets. He offers a hint of sight, a glimpse of it, a world viewed through a thin blindfold. Enough for a taste. Enough to make her want, maybe. Remind her what she’s missing.
“There’s so much beauty here,” he purrs, “and you’re missing it. Those children of yours will come soon, don’t you want to see their faces? Don’t you want to see--”
He plunges into her mind, plucks out the name.
“-Ashhal’s face?”
He steps closer, into her filmy field of vision. He is not touching her, but he can feel the heat of her body.
“Just ask,” he says. He lets the glimpse of her vision shimmer, waver, threatening to cut out.
“That’s all you have to do.”
c a r n a g e
holler if i need to change any of this!