"The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils."
--
The Merchant of Venice, William Shakespeare


breathe


Her lips curve as he enters the room – they always do. He is the king of their people – but even before that, he is her king.

Black Bolt.

She nods to him as they pass one another, her husband taking his place on the throne as she leaves her own. In one hour she is to relay his bidding – their bidding – as only she is charged.

There is something she must do beforehand.

Waves of red flow about her – always at her side, always ready to do her bidding. She is the red's queen as she is the people's queen. They server her faithfully, truly, without question – aside from her husband, the strands of power are the only ones to never disappoint her.

"My queen," an Inhuman bows as she walks toward the courtyard. He is kind. Respectful. She decides to stop.

"Rise, Rexmius," she says softly. "You are at home here."

The royal refuge – the heart of all Attlian, home to the Inhumans. Home to more than most queens would know – but Medusa knows each name. Each face. They are hers because she is theirs.

Rexmius rises slowly with the help of her red. Its touch is soft around his wrists – and so very gentle. But there are many sides to the red – a caress is only a moment from a crush.

The red retreats into its proper resting places, aware of the sweat and hair on Reximus' arms – with complete familiarity of his heart's pace. Touch is knowledge.

Touch is power.

As Medusa continues down the hall, the red skids softly along the floor behind her, a train hungry for what is to come.

Six people walk these halls. Four male, two female. One is running, another carrying a child. Two are coming this way while the other four unknowingly tread on in the same direction as their queen.

The red curls around the fine Inhuman silk which also descends from Medusa, happy to share the space with such an exquisite texture. They compliment one another – the red would have it no other way.

"Lennux," Medusa nods as she continues down the path – another of her subjects, of her friends, bowing as she passes.

The queen turns to her right, the red opening a door before her fingertips could dream of helping. The wood is old; splintered. It should be replaced.

The simulation of a breeze flows about the courtyard and the red dances around Medusa's being – from her eyes to her toes. Wind – real wind – it is the one thing Medusa prefers about Earth. Humans take it for granted so.

The red pulls at the breeze, tucking it underneath its mass. It flows left, right – between her arms and between her legs. Atop her head and beneath her feet. It breathes.

Queen and subject, Medusa and Red, breathe.

Just breathe.