ensconstellation
"And she's a woman, too."
If it had been left up to Mythra, that line of thinking would never have started, much less ever exited Amalthus's brain to reach his mouth and his audience's ears. The Aegis would have been awakened, referred to as such, or as Mythra, and that would have been the end of it.
But, these being humans, that's never the end of it, and it's never left up to the individual in question to give the parameters, point blank.
Individual. Person.
What does it all mean? And why?
Those questions are much more Mythra's current speed.
Being Addam's Blade quickly consumes the entirety of Mythra's earthborn world. Blade follows Driver, the both as one in body and soul. Blade reports to Driver, responds to Driver, attacks and lets up as the Driver commands.
Except, Mythra knows better than Addam does. Mythra has more knowledge than Addam has, and even without experience, Mythra should be the one routing the circuit to completion. We need to get across this clearing, which isn't clear because it's full of rubble? Anyone with half an Aegis brain cell would simply destroy the rubble. But Addam wants to go around.
Go around. And there are Ellooks, when they go around. But Addam doesn't want to destroy them, even though he gets bruised in several places just for his humanitarian efforts. Mythra gets bruised, too, but it doesn't stick. So if Addam were smart, he'd just send the superweapon he has full possession and control over to deal with the wildlife. But, apparently, Addam's not smart.
Since Mythra's chained to Addam's side, almost literally more than figuratively, that's just the way it is, huh?
Go where Addam goes. Eat what Addam eats. See what Addam sees.
The prince isn't a horrible person, to be sure, and he really does try his best - he really does strike Mythra as at least a fraction purer-hearted than Amalthus, even when his golden eyes can get a bit blind.
"What do you think of me?"
There's a flash of something pained in his eyes.
"I think I've got a long way to go," Addam says. "It's difficult, being the consort of Her Highness the Aegis, wouldn't you say? And I, just a lowly prince."
Mythra doesn't laugh at his joke. Protecting his heart, which is supposedly shared, with a mask of lies.
Being defined by this...sucks.
Lady Mythra!
Mythra, so coarse - not up to any standard of refinement and decorum, let alone the Empire's. Well, let alone the world's.
Mythra who eats too much, because it's funny and childish at once to be hungry, and not a sign that someone's getting attached to the fruits of life.
Expected to bear manners befitting a goddess in statute, but afforded none of the favors you would expect to appear alongside, Mythra wonders just what humans bother separating the sexes for anyway. Seems like separate standards are ascribed to everybody, regardless.
So maybe it's smart to just...opt out.
The other option is to ignore all of it, every questing impulse, because it really doesn't matter how people refer to the Aegis. Mythra doesn't want to be associated with Malos, but it's not like crying foul of anyone who does make the connection is very sensible.
They're so desperate to humanize Mythra, to make out the shape of a convention. Even at the edge of the world.
And Mythra could just let them do it, let them say whatever, because what does it matter?
But it matters. Oh, it matters.
Obviously, Mythra likes loves wants needs to be sure.
The most massive pain of all has got to be everyone's eyes inspecting the Aegis at every opportunity. Rex, who deflects that Mythra had just "entered his field of vision" (he's a twerp, and he's a nice one, and Mythra really doesn't believe that he's that cow-eyed, unfortunately); Zeke, who remarks on power, as if he hasn't met with Amalthus personally and learned everything there is about a Blade's appearance bearing no relation to their power; Mòrag, who just appears somewhat...mystified.
When Mythra's lips part on a tsk to let the Special Inquisitor know that she's not immune to ire, polite though she may always be, Mòrag provides a subtle praise: "You carry yourself well, Mythra. Your shoulders erect...truly, this must be the Aegis."
"So I'm convincing, is what you're saying?"
Any temptation to stray cocky is killed by the sheer weight of Mòrag's words.
Truly. Must.
"Not that Pyra isn't much of the same," Mòrag amends. Her own shoulders shift, minutely, and she seems to stare not into Mythra's eyes but at the full brows, prominent though they linger between platinum and sandy, just above.
"No," replies Mythra, slowly, "I think I know what you mean. Thanks."
It's the caution with which Mòrag had spoken that plies Mythra's curiosity - no, beyond curiosity, wanderlust, intrigue.
All of that, the work of someone who's wasting time, futzing around, noncommital and inconsequential.
Mythra knows, now, that it's not inconsequential. No more maybes.
That Mòrag had been so sure of what, who, stood before her, but unsure of her own reflection into it, is both startlingly new and a dazzling callback.
Mythra refuses to lay all their confidence upon the impressions of another. That's what the problem's always been. But one builds, and builds, and builds...
After all, Mythra loves subversion.
Here's something interesting - by comparison to Pyra (oh, beloved Pyra), Mythra is almost easily the unfeminine side of the green Core. Flatter tone, blunter actions, talking the girl talk but never walking the girl walk.
Whatever it is women come with, it's not Mythra's speed. Neither is "brawn and brutish strength", though.
Just strength, thanks.
As if they'd ever really been "a woman" to any significant degree, or even any degree at all.
Not foisting the work upon Pyra, no. Mythra just needs their own other self to put this self into relief. And oh, what a relief it is.