Saphira
A favor.
After all, I let you live.
“This is not living,” Saphira hisses. She is a shell, and not even a sea-shell, she is an old cicada-skin forgotten on a branch. She is nothing. She is not a whale, or a shark, or a seagull, or the sea. She is a stone, bound to the shoreline. Forever.
But, she thinks: he is here. He is here, without his army. Briefly panic asks - unless he is? As her eyes graze his form she thinks, no. No. He is alone. Lost; he thinks to carry on tormenting me but, there are no swords charging with him. Her mouth twists into a cruel grin and she says, “But you are hardly living, yourself.” She hopes it hurts him, and she hopes it is true. She hopes that he is grasping for his old life as desperately as she.
