you need a big god; ryatah

[Carnage]

lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He is pleased that she’s caught on, and this strengthens the call of the worlds above, somehow. Magic sparks and zips along his blood, readying – it is no small feat, to ascend in such a fashion, to survive. The first time he’d done it he’d fallen back to the earth, spent and exhausted and with little power, for a moment, and it had been a strange feeling. But he had been weaker then, closer to mortal than god, and it is not such an issue now – it only requires a bit of concentration, a flex of muscle, and all is well. Lord knows he’s wiled away enough time there, even sustained two star-bent children in one galaxy. “Yes,” he says, “to the stars.” She agrees – of course she does – and he is again pleased. He had no doubt that she would refuse, but she has surprised him before. This is no such surprise, but he’s still pleased, because he thinks she will take well to the stars, to the touch of constellations. (He could let her shatter there, or burn her alive like an exploding star. Or sustain her. He is so rife with choices.) “Good girl,” he says, and he touches her, threads her body with the magic she’ll need to survive while there. He likes the feel of his magic inside her, changing her, a queer intimacy he’s felt a thousand times before but still holds a certain kind of thrill. “Hold on,” he says, though he’s an expression and nothing else, because he has already tethered her to him, and then they are going, evanescing, dissipating and reforming. They reform in some far-flung galaxy, centuries away from Beqanna. The air around them aches in silence, and alien stars shine on unknowable planets. (He does not explore the planets, often. He prefers to watch the chaos of the universe instead.) He looks out, at this random universe, and then at her. She is a speck of white, here, a blank canvas. “What do you think?” he asks, as they float there, amidst the stars.