Work Text:
You crown him, with all the reverence a devoted lover might have.
And then you remove the jewelry again, with care. More care for him than for your treasures, these days.
The gold and the gems look better when worn by him; he does not look himself when wearing gold and glitter.
In a way, he is the crowning piece of your collection: a man, still fairly young, dressed unassumingly for his own world, captured in spellweave like an insect in amber, kept as close to looking alive as you could manage, placed on a raised platform as if he was resting.
Not in your line of sight, no, you weren't that much of a masochist, but in a place of honour? Certainly.
You manage. Of course you do.
You are a dragon, centuries old before ever meeting him.
Loss and time does not wear on you as it does a mere mortal.
(Sometimes you wonder if it would be better if it did. If numbness wasn't preferable to the unexpected stabs of grief that struck you deeper than any blade ever had.)
One of the vermin that tries to steal of your hoard tells of stories of a cursed prince kept by an evil dragon who might yet be woken up by a true loves kiss.
You snort at that, before blasting the creature to ash and dust.
Like you'd allow these cockroaches to even touch him.
No.
You are aware that the done thing is to ritually burn his remains and keep, oh, perhaps a pot of ashes and bone shards, a picture, a stele with his name on it.
It is the way of his people, to do away with what can rot after the occupant has left.
You can't.
You keep what's yours.
So you carefully dust him off and tell him of your day and you renew your spells and know you won't get an answer, and that he won't bring you foods or bid you goodnight.
And you do it again the day after that.
Eventually, you forget what his voice sounded like.