“You say that every time,” I reply calmly.
“And every time you eventually agree.”
“That does not make the experience less humiliating.”
“It’s laundry.”
“It is an elaborate torture device designed to expose my complete lack of domestic skill.”
Her laughter rings softly through the morning air.
“You are a wrath demon who once destroyed a war fortress.”
“That fortress did not require clothespins.”
She hands me one.
“Here.”
I examine the small wooden object as though it might bite me. Elowen watches with poorly concealed amusement.
“You clip the fabric to the line,” she explains patiently.
“I understand the concept.”
“You said that yesterday too.”
“And yet the laundry still fell.”
“Because you clipped the wind instead of the fabric.”
“That is a matter of interpretation.”
She laughs again, the sound bright enough to make something warm settle in my chest. I take the first shirt from the basket and carefully attach it to the line. It stays. I narrow my eyes at it suspiciously. Elowen claps once.
“Look at that.”
“Do not celebrate prematurely.”
She leans against the railing while I continue attaching the rest of the clothes. The wind shifts gently across the ridge, lifting the fabric as the line slowly fills with shirts and blankets.
“This is peaceful,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
“You don’t miss it?”
The question is soft but deliberate. The abyssal plane. The endless wars. The power. I glance toward the lake again.
“No.”
The answer surprises neither of us. For centuries I believed wrath defined my purpose. Destruction. Conflict. Dominance. Yet standing here now, watching my mate smile at a row of drying shirts, I realize something important.
Wrath was never the whole of what I was. It was simply the loudest part.
“You are thinking again,” Elowen says.
“That seems unavoidable.”
