Don't mind me, just weaving my word webs again, mulling over a moment of Spite interacting with Mewyn.
Spite.
Soft voice, warm tones. Not Lucanis.
Spite.
No panic or weariness or annoyance.
Spite.
Fade-threads, subtle and dim and green, stirring near but elsewhere, no threat and no harm. The purr of banked power vibrating their edges. Her. Rook. Mewyn.
Darkness gives way to the kitchen, the crackle-pop of a well fed fire, all spice and herb and too much coffee.
She sits at the table, curled fingers under her jaw, lips curved in a smile (no blood, no pain, no chains, not her, not Zara). Her eyes blink slow and lazy, exhaustion pulling her posture loose, careless, her elbow firm on the table perhaps the only thing preventing a slide to the floor.
An ache in their knee, the left, Lucanis' fall throbbing along their nerves. Their leg will not move and he has to shove - a dead weight smacking their foot to the ground and he cannot feel it. Not yet. How long -?
"You were asleep." Mewyn says in that not-murmur she reserves for him, quiet relief in a too-loud world.
"I don't sleep," Spite replies, eyes prickling, irritant, blinking. Gently with the fingertips, he remembers, sweep from the inner corner out. Dab a pad to his tongue and repeat again if there's stubborn residue.
Physical shells are such maddening, complex things.
"Your body does," she says, and stands with a sighing groan. She waves her hand, just once, and disperses the formless magic she'd willed to snare his attention. Crooks a finger at him.
"Why not call Lucanis?"
"It was your time interrupted, it's only fair you have the chance to get comfortable and rest properly."
"And if I don't... want... to rest?" It is safe, to speak of such things with her. She's broached want before. Need. Life. He is allowed to explore, without judgement, without belief he'll be... different for it. Changed. Turned. Made into something else. Something Other than Spite.
He doesn't want rest, but their body needs it. Slow to respond even with him stretching through the muscles, pulling on the bones. Limbs heavy, feet hitting the floor uneven, clumsy, but he's following all the same to the pantry, through the door first -
Foolish, to show their back, but it's Mewyn and she has never harmed them yet.
- to the nook that smells of Lucanis and frustration and arguments thundering on the horizon. He doesn't want to rest. He doesn't need to sleep.
"You share the same body, Spite. It falls to both of you to care for it." There, a brand on their shoulder, a shock through their system and he blinks down at her hand, the light clasp of it. No order or expectation, just a touch.
"But -"
"Sleep. We can talk again tomorrow, I promise."
