tenebrae
let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, just keep going, no feeling is final
They gather around him, stepping into the sight of their new queen as they had with Isra and Antiope before. The air is filled with murmurs, voices lifting to hail the new queen. Others set to gossiping, about who would be chosen for what, about what this new appointment might mean for Denocte.
Tenebrae stands, as much a Disciple of the Night Order as a friend to the new queen. His vow, his pledge is the same he would give to any ruler of Denocte. It was his vow, the part he has not broken, though he dare not linger long upon the question that haunts him: if he broke one vow, did he not in doing so break the other? A disrespect for one, surely meant a disrespect for both?
He has little time to dwell within his own mind. The meeting is no place for his wounded pride. The moment is one of joy and acknowledgement. The monk tips up his nose and sets his ears upon where he heard her voice rise from. About him the sounds of horses arriving does not detract from her message.
Two request the position of Warden and he twists an ear to them. The voice of one is the man he met in the temple and again by the lake. The monk hopes for them both a good and fair fight. It was a relief to see citizens keen to fill positions.
Regent.
And with that one word Morrighan makes him forget all that has gone before. All the monk can think is, no.
No.
He is not right for this. He is a Disciple alone and a shamed one at that. There are other monks. Tenebrae longs to tell her. Ones who deserve this more than me. But she spoke of Maeve and his thoughts drift to the new Denocte princess with her sad face and her budding magic of flames. She chose him, not just for his loyalty to Denocte, but his loyalty to her, as a friend. The shadow-man’s mouth is dry, turned to sand in his dismay.
“Of course.” He says, softly, carefully. But knows he will find Maeve again, question her. Surely there are those better than him?
