T E N E B R A E
On my body, the grace of shadows
and in my heart: all Hells
and in my heart: all Hells
He sees the way discomfort blooms across Morrighan’s face as he speaks. It darkens the lines of her face in ways not even his shadows can. Tenebrae does not know the degree to which Morrighan feels exposed. That his words may peel back the layers of armour she fashioned across herself. But he has heard enough of his Regent to not be surprised by the way she does not look at him.
Her responses are short, awkward as she seems within her own skin. To any other he might reach out, touch the line of their shoulder gently, warmly. Yet to do that with Morrighan is to incite fire. A fire that burns wildly. The legend of her fire precedes her.
Tenebrae does not touch her, yet neither does he shy from watching her. The way she stands, the way thoughts drift sharp and soft behind her amber eyes. Eventually she coughs lightly, shedding the last of his compliments, its weight sits strangely across her shoulders. Tenebrae can see it.
Then she is gone, wishing him a good night. His own blessing follows at her heels. It chases her, but whether it ever catches her or how well she receives it, he does not know. The monk remains a moment longer, looking up to where Morrighan did at her last glance. The stained glass of the window gleams - was it the reds that held her eyes like that? Or maybe the silver, the blues or the greens? He might be tempted to think it was the red, but to do that would narrow her down to fire alone and he knows there is more to Morrighan than the might of her fire.
Eventually he too turns and leaves. Only their ghosts and their phantom words are left behind to haunt the coloured light of the Autumn festival.
@Morrighan - fin, thank you so much.
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