Krishna didn't have to see Morrigan's every expression to gauge what she might be feeling. Over the years, there was just as much to be inferred from the lack as there was an actual change. It was not unlike dealing with herbs, patiently teasing out their strengths and their weaknesses, and finding a good place for them, anyway.
Morrigan turned to look at him more times than she stared ahead, and she turned her face away when she was not looking at him. If he had had any doubt that his steadfast friendship was wanted, there was the proof, proof that he did not require.
"If the nights were darker, we would see the stars better," he started, after a moment of thought. He, too, turned to look at Morrigan instead of the eclipse overhead. The sullen red glow suited her, somehow, bringing hectic colour to her pale face, deepening shadows everywhere to reveal only a whisper of who she was, turning eyes he knew were green into wells of inky darkness. It was Morrigan, in a nutshell, a harsh, brutal exterior encasing the woman.
"The the noise of chaos dies down, we start to hear the smaller details. They always turn out to be so much more than expected when a little of time is spent with it." Krishna would choose something quiet over something large and dramatic any day. It was for that reason that the few friendships that he retained were the most precious to him, even in the sea of tumultuous relationships happening around him everyday.