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[stoneandstave]

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☆ Misbehave ☆ ★☆ Profile Unit LiliS Position Evergreen Age 150 Birthday/Zodiac Sagittarius Height/Weight 185cm (6'1") // 72.6kg (160lbs) PB Yato (Noragami) Hair/Eye Color black // striking blue Notable Traits if you watch very closely he moves just a bit oddly, like he's about to start dancing Bio Double dancing Covered clutching Hard like iron (naught for touching) Fulsome fawning Sorted singing Rime and reason Braced for stringing Fancy facts And knotty fiction Reliably in Contradiction ★☆ Abilities & Point Bank Rapunzel Unobtained Adventures in Wonderland Unobtained The Nightingale Unobtained Cut-Tongue Sparrow Unobtained The Juniper Tree Unobtained Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There Unobtained Points Points ★☆ Player Contact & Permissions Name Lena Game imeeji_frontstage Character Source The Lightning Tree Contact Lenainverse | Discord: Lenainverse#0133 NSFW (general) Open Shipping (general) Open Fanmail (nsfw/gore) Open Shipping (NSFW) Open Do Not Want I'm open to anything! If you think something is extreme or you want to make sure, go ahead and ask.

code from twicebonded

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Memory #3 - A Silence of Three Parts

[stoneandstave]

[ SUMMARY (cw: mention of blood and previous injuries)

• A red haired man is sleeping in his room at an inn


• Gentiana enters, stepping carefully so as not to wake him, then checks on him with surprising tenderness


• The sleeping man had been injured and his wounds treated, but the smell of blood hangs in the room


• Gent sings a short song about how it's difficult to watch mortals grow old and die


• Pulling up a chair, Gent sits and watches the man sleep, clearly on edge and afraid

*~*~*~*~*~*

It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious of these was a slow, creeping quiet, made by things that were lacking. The doors of sleep made a rare exception and eased shut without fanfare for one of the Inn's occupants, a man who had avoided death this night and been close to apologizing for the insult. Each pause between his soft breaths was sallow, brittle, a branch near to giving way beneath its own weight. If there had been customers, there would have been a chorus of snoring, sleep-dulled murmuring, tossing from travelers too used to sleeping rough to appreciate fine feather bedding, and it would have broken up the mournful quiet. If the town were home to more than a handful, the night air would have carried the shuffling of folk as they moved about their homes, touching their iron and keeping their fires bright and roaring. If there had been music... but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

The door inched open and careful steps of soft boots avoided touching the floor where it creaked, forming a second silence, a dissonant harmony. The encroaching black-haired Fae touched the sleeping man's forehead, his wrist, the hollow of his throat, leaned over his sleeping Master with slow reverence. The chair he pulled close chastened the silence, affronted it, and his gentle hand brushed back the sleeping man's hair. As if his once-towering Master were fragile as the year's first apple blossom, which knows too well that the frost still has its last word to gasp. The Fae's soundless fear formed an edge of sorts, a counterclaim, slicing at the other silence in a way that made them seem both all the more deep and daunting.

The Fae's voice softly sang out, desperate to bite the silence back, voice lilting in a manner suitable for prayers had he believed in any such thing:

"How odd to watch a mortal kindle
Then to dwindle day by day
Knowing their bright souls are tinder
And the wind will have its way.
Would I could my own fire lend
What does their flickering portend?"

But his song had no answer, and so the silence swathed them both again, settling in for a long stay.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the desperate searching of dark Fae eyes, in his seated stillness that craved motion. It was in the coiled resignation of the one who sat above this slumbering mortal man, watching. Aching. It was in the swirling hatred held for the Master's false name, corrosive thing that it was.

The sleeping man had true-red hair, red as flame. His breath lifted hearteningly and then sank all the deeper, as did his nature in times of late, and his mood. His blood smelled metallic in the flat night air.

The Waystone was his just as the third silence was his -- or, at least, in his honor. This was appropriate as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself: the Fae's vigil over him. It was threat and trembling. It was pressing and pleading. It was dry as a flyaway leaf that will soon be nothing but crunch beneath a boot, as potent and sharp as the hunger of a starving beast. It was the dangling, white-knuckle sound of one who loves a man who is waiting to die.