He luxuriates in them, as he luxuriates in story for the sake of story, with all the paraphenalia of myth and fairy tale. He creates his characters and their fantastical natures with loving care, and respects their unique psychology, building story from their nature, rather than moving them about willy-nilly as mere markers in a story more important than themselves. He seems to delight in the complex and unexpected interrelationship of words and things, frequently concocting wild and beautifully poetic images that enrich the story. Music unplayed in the air. Perhaps his Majesty has become an instrument.
Stories have magic, mythic power to characters within the stories.
I see you do not understand. There are stories that hide themselves inside of us like bats inside a cave. The winds left abruptly without a good-bye, for winds, though they are never purposely rude, have no sense of manners. He discovered that the body has extra places reserved for these new and awful things, as if there were rooms within, like the unused forms of a great castle, rooms that could hold and honor and sustain infinite levels of wonder and pain. He learned the names of the southern winds who were more dangerous because they were more awake, the names of every tree along the timberline, the way to know a storm is coming when you cannot see it, to pass through an evil cloud with your eyes closed, the most intelligent birds and how to address them.