Maceoran Kotygal. Thank you for agreeing to see me. I was sorry to hear about your recent medical mishap. I trust you are getting better.”
“Would your eminence prefer I come another time?” Mirov studied the man before him.
Kotygal barely moved–a difficult feat for the highly animated figure that he was known to be. He must be straining against himself underneath that blanket.
“Oh, no, please, ambassador. I
welcome pleasant conversation, especially now. Everybody is so filled with gloom and doom these days.”
“There are so many who would mourn your premature passing. I’m sure they fear for you and for the whole of Pa’Myshka.”
“Oh, we chose well when we chose you,” Kotygal said just before a couple of mucus filled coughs interrupted his almost jovial attitude. The thin medical chief bent over him and observed his condition.
Kotygal pushed him away with a wave.
“Stop fussing over me, would you?” the big man in the chair said, swatting away the carefully trained and invasive hands flapping over him.
“Of course, ambassador.”
“You flatter me, your eminence.”
“Do I? As much as you do me, but your words gloss over the reality.” The
maceoran leaned back and let his head gaze to a far corner of the room. “I have walked amongst your people, Mirov. I have seen their faces, the looks they try to hide from me, but cannot. There is fear, of course. I cannot deny that we have brought that into this world, but there is more than that. I see contempt, anger, defiance even.”
“Your eminence cannot please an entire population.”
“Perhaps not, but I had hoped that more of your people might appreciate the things I have done for them.”