strangers in fate

Dealing with him was wearying. That realization surprised her a little. Had it always been this way? Mythal did not think it had. There had been a time when she found his determination and his zeal to be invigorating, perhaps even inspiring. Her smile was faint, and it held a trace of sadness to it. He was enjoying this. As much as he could enjoy anything at all outside of his delusions and his sense of grandeur. He had not always been like this either. How odd, to find some sort of nostalgia in that he was familiar — despite everything that he’d done, despite the fury and the pain he’d caused… to her personally.

He needed her.

Perhaps I have forgotten, Elgar’nan. There are… certain things I seem to have forgotten. That much, she was willing to admit. Feredir himself had told her that she may never remember pieces of her life. And there was a chance that she might recall memories that were not her own, but shared with the vessel that had housed her shards. Had the same happened to Elgar’nan? Would enough of them find a way to change him? Mythal did not think so. He was too fundamentally entrenched in who he was, his sense of identity forged over their long, long lives. How might things be different if he had been a different man? This world is unfamiliar, strange, there is still beauty to it.

Something that would no doubt sicken him. The brightness of his amusement was matched by her own, then. I crave peace, Eldest of the Sun, and in the arms of the one I love, I find it. She told him, even though he would not understand. She did not think he ever would. If you yield, I will not destroy you. The amusement faded. Should that unlikely scenario pass, it would not be her hand that dealt the blow. What would such a thing even look like? Elgar’nan, truly humble, contrite; a decisive victory to be sure.

I do not remember her face as she pushed the blade into my heart. I bear the scar still, but I do not remember. Would that disappoint him? Mythal honestly could not say. He had always been mercurial, quick to anger, even quicker to retribution. Somehow, she doubted that the passing years without her direct influence had helped him any. Perhaps there was a way she unsettle him now. For good, or ill. His calmness was eerie, unnatural, almost.

And how shall we dance, All-Father? With words and barbs? You never seemed to enjoy it otherwise. Unless that, too, has changed over the years? You’ve grown in the time I’ve spent slumbering. Changed. There is a patience to you now. Cunning. But no joy. No peace. Are you not weary?