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Time wore on. The Sun rose when it chose to, according to season, but he rose and went for a run when it was five. The gym. The sauna. Breakfast.

Time wore on. Saw to one or two appointments as a personal trainer. Left to the Rift. Trained in combat.

Time did not touch the Rift. The crystals gave off their obscene incandescence, the greater youma slept in the depths, the others came and tried here and there to swallow whatever made him move. The weapon in his hand, and the vitality of Metallia, which matched the crystals in wholesomeness, prevented them.

Time died. He returned to the world, and it was dark, as winter hurried on to swallow autumn as greedily as it could. He visited Michigan Jack’s, Brewski’s and North Paw among other bars to collect his quota. He vanished from the world with mid of night. Turned in his energy. Fell to his bed in the barracks.

Sleep sometimes fell rather later, chased by memories of color like gold and green, iridescent whites and blushing cream, or vibrant and heady crimson. Or the gnawing hollow in his stomach spoke of the missing weapon from his hand, the weapon he was supposed to be and doubly over had no hand to wield him, or the blasted wounds that scarred the place and last leader he’d known. It had been months and he had not seen her. Metallia had raised her up, but distance could blur scars out of sight. Magic and life sacrifice healed the gravest wounds, but the body of a monarch was different. Even one who was regent-steward only to the truth Throne of a world. The queen was the blood and milk of her people.

He spent the night, finally and each night thereafter, with his hammer there beside him, in hand, on his bed instead of Elsewhere. Instead of rising to run, he rose and washed, returned to the Dark Kingdom. He sought the halls to the throne, as though in such a place some sort of solace could be found for troubled mind. Thankfully it was not in the place itself, fallen, but in the raised where his hope lay. And was in luck, coming to the office where he’d been to see her before, stacked packages once threatening to fall over, and spied small silhouette and the pale shape of calf curled back along the leg of a chair in concentration. She leaned forward, engrossed in some duty more important that one captain’s wont.

But there was no choice in seeking her, in waiting on her freedom if it came to be necessary. Titanlåvenite knocked on the lintel with the back of his knuckles, and waited her recognition, permission to enter, and to be approached. "Queen Laurelite."

Entry came first, ducking, and crossing the space to kneel at convenience to her sight but not interrupting into a birth of personal space like a missing dais. At least so much as the room, and his own frame, allowed without knocking into anything. He did not look up, though his gaze was steady on the floor at her feet. The small limbs sat in the tail of his upper vision, just attended by a blur of lashes and blonde hair coming forward with his braid to thock on the flooring in his bow-to-kneel.

He drew the syllables out, to make them precise and proper in English. "Queen Laurelite."

"My heart is...worried. Has been. It's been long months. For you. Of you. If it is okay to ask..."
"It would silence my worry. If it is okay. If I could ask to see your hands and your feet only in my hands, it is enough. "

Reverently, hands lifted to first one of those she lowered. Then the next. More Holy than delicate, as with his thumbs careful pressure was applied and pulled down from meat of palm the length of each pale finger. The bones are knit. The tendons are strong. Scars with strong story of healing and renewal. Rod, sword, or loom fit and worked fine for these hands.

"The Body of the Queen is the Body of the Land. Your hands wield us. " It felt like settling, like a knot relaxed and uncoiled. The same thing latched onto the Renewal, drew the idea tight and strong like a sail. Like saying: 'Here is the proof. Now is for War, later is Healing. But it will come. It will come. ' Titan bowed over the second hand. Let it go carefully and slowly.

The feet will be like the hands. Is it alright? It is alright. The Throne is alright.

"We are in good hands," the words came out not as a judgement laid down from some specialist, but as a farmer having seen good fields and believing the almanac writ by more scientific minds than his own. "Thank you,Queen Laurelite. "

Were the moment belonging to a storybook, her gesture could have bought her the world. In his genuflection Titanlåvenite trembled. Ever tendon stood stark to casting shadows for a moment, poised with want, caught breath, and an ecstasy that drew his eyes up to see as the fingers withdrew.

In approval, in gentle affection, the Queen of the Body had blessed him with caress.

Her smiles balmed worry—the deadened fear that cast through his stomach in the moments when she had approached the massed power of Metallia. The certainty that she would be swallowed, or ruined, eased to sleep a little while. She was here, perfect and strong, and would make the rest of the ashen kingdom the same.

"No, my Queen." The words came tinged with regret, but understanding. "I came to the ranks raw. Less than a weapon. Fists only. It takes me long...A long time to learn how to be sharper. Stronger. I had to learn what is fitting for a weapon wielded by the throne, and to understand and accept knowing what is not. I have not had eyes that saw. I have not been fit to lead, as a General does. "

"I am patient. I will be better. " I must always be better than what I am. I will be a wall that can endure more than any other, to serve.

He took her offered hand in raising, not out of need for it, but out with the gratitude of the invitation to it. He did not immediately let it go, once he was standing. It felt grounding, the contact, like a wall against the compliments that felt like flames, pleasant warmth and burning uncertainty together.

'I admire you.'

Don't! 'This will make an end of it, whatever Metallia does, if it wasn't already when she became a Sovereign.'

In such an hour and presences, offers were as much as commands- what should please her and make Laurelite Queen content? Her will and generosity meant pain, but what was that? Pain at the very core and the stretching of further power through his limbs. "I would honor your will. Your esteem, in this, my Queen. I -"

"Marked by your hand... and follow that with deeds, and not just words. "

'endure more than any other'
'Brandr af brandi
brinn unz brunninn er
funi kveykisk af funa'
The Havamal felt further away, not closer, with the copper tinge of power flashed through his mouth and like ice through his limbs. It caught up his breath, like the hold on his starseed, and did not return until it was done.

stay standing. Carry the brand from her to others. Not her greatest servant, but appreciated. Constant. In the dark. It feels so dark.
The panic and worry that rose in roar against the affection and devotion dulled, blanketed under new and greater weight of ...something. His eyes pressed closed, brow furrowed. He could breath. New strength and stamina contested the inevitable fatigue of the change. So much didn't feel, dulled beneath that new strength, or was it overcome? It was some different brightness which shone without pain to the eyes. A warmth of spectrum like the crystals and laying in snow.

He opened his eyes, looking only at the small form of the queen. Lifted his gloved hand to curl gently over her tiny fingers on his chest. His other hand drew his weapon from it's place in Nether. He stepped back reluctantly, and set the mawed head of the hammer on the floor, and knelt slowly down in offer the haft in a lean to her. "By your hand I am wielded and forged, My Queen. By your strength I am comforted. Hail, Laurelite-Queen. Hail, Metallia of our Throne. "

Then softly, as it were thank you and prayer, "My heart is quieted by your warmth. If you need me, and I live, I will come to your call."