[ Her head careens right into his forehead, and it is only the fact that he must maintain his regal bearing at all times that Ozymandias doesn’t attack back by childishly spitting at her face. When she is falling over him, he hastily rolls away from Mordred, quickly rising back up and onto his feet. At first, he just stares at her, glaring with furrowed dark brows. ]

Yes, I.

[ He doesn’t move, throat rumbling in his usual, excessively showy introduction. ]

The King of Kings, the mighty Ozymandias! Sear those words onto the brain that you’ve forgotten is in your head!

[ Churlish and dour, a series of commands roll off his tongue, all of which he knows she isn’t going to follow. But simply by saying it, in his deep, authoritative voice, juxtaposed with the dry leaves stuck in his now disheveled hair, makes Ozymandias feel better, okay? ]

Now, prostrate yourself in gratitude. Beg for my forgiveness. [ He folds his arms over his torso. ] I’ll wait.