He waits for her, as he always does. He wakes earlier and earlier these days, although he loves nothing more than sleep, but he finds that ie eludes him. It rips itself from him in the early grey morning and leaves him alone, cold and awake, watching as the stars begin to fade into the night sky and the sun begins to wash its thin, watery light over the landscape of Beqanna—leaving them here.
Cher is not here this morning, which feels imbalanced and odd, and Obe makes a note to ask him later where he had wandered off too. It leaves him feeling even more obligated to sit and watch Altar, turning his heavy gaze from the early dawn to her sleeping form—studying the galaxies that coat her in awe.
He has not seen much, but he knows that she is the best of them.
Knows that she is something special, something to be revered.
He does not know much, but he knows that.
So he remains, pulling himself finally to his feet and resting his youthful hip against a nearby rock as he watches her sleep—occasionally turning his bulky head when a breeze rustles what little vegetation remains. When the cadence of her breathing changes, he turns back, stepping away from the rock slightly as though to make it clear that he was alert and ready, trying to compose his face into even harsher lines.
“Good morning,” he rasps, the sound odd and husky, touched with the slightest bit of rust.
A slight cough and then nothing.
turn your head toward the storm that’s surely coming along