Returning to the Sanctuary would not have been complete had he not stopped to at least see how she was doing. While he'd held his restraints about such a thing, considering that perhaps she would be disinterested in his presence or mayhap even offended by his shadow upon the door step of her work, he had made the journey regardless. The place had been quiet, but not near as empty and desolate as his first trespass under the eaves. He'd been greeted by a young lady - one he had mindfully kept from referring to as a parasite after her teachings on their first interaction - but it was not the simper and words he had grown somewhat accustomed to. He'd asked for her, an action that had caused a slight crease of a frown to further color the lush painted lips of the stranger. The beginnings of a scowl replaced by the even wider gleam of pearly teeth, a reassurance that even though Ethel was not currently present, he could be well tended to. An invitation that eluded him in the moment and in retrospect he wondered briefly if he should have named the woman a tick after all.

Regardless, he had departed the studio just after, ignoring the call of the femme as he had dispersed into the shadows of the falling nightshade. Retrieving Horse from the stables, he had instead set off down the streets in the familiar paths that would retrace to that little cottage in the woods. It was without thought, in the beginning. Somewhat of a habit he supposed, though once he had bid silent farewell to the busier streets of the city and diverted into the dark lines of the country trail, he had to come face to face with the unconscious decision he'd made. Already, the mare was hastening her footfalls in the enticement of what? Of home? However, he didn't stop the rapidly growing beat of hooves upon the packed down soil. Instead, he soothed the bickering voice within the prison of his cerebrum with the promise that it was only to ensure she had made it in safely as she had left rather late. He would make sure she still had enough wood to burn to light the living room, and candles to chase the shadows from the other rooms as well.

The door gave under the slightest of insistence and he clicked his tongue lightly at her disregard. The heavy blight of his traveling bag dropped to the floor in the entry way, the floorboards releasing a loud groan of protest under its weight, followed by the thud of his boots. The place nearly seemed empty, far more quiet than he recalled from his final leave. If she was present, she didn't hum to fill the elongated gaps of silence. Her heels didn't click as she swayed with the broom or other various instruments in playful dance. Dull and lifeless, two words he was intimately familiar with. "Why didn't you lock the door?" He greeted with a vague frown as he loomed before the dimly lit room, leaning within the door frame as he crossed his arms over the breadth of his chest. It was then his gaze caught briefly upon what she held in her hands, pages painted with words he couldn't decipher and he would tilt his head softly with the hint of curiosity. "What are you reading?" his tone, while not entirely harsh to begin with, softened, even if it was only by the faintest bit.

She seemed nearly startled by his appearance, or perhaps it was the hint of rough gravel in his intonation that had disturbed her peaceful reverie. For all he'd known, she may have been upon the verge of sleep before he had interrupted that slow consuming tide. Regardless, her smile was faint, tinged with the hint of a flush to color the apples of her cheeks. "I forgot." Her vocals would chime within the quiet. "You should be more careful." He would confide quietly after allowing the regalia of silence to linger between them for a moment longer. His words much softer now than previously. His gaze averted, dropping down to the way the shadows cast by the fire danced along the dark of the wooden floors. Quelled and weightless steps carried out by virulently moving performers. Each lilting breeze that he did not feel touch his skin reflected in the ever present shift of the gilded tongues of illumination.

So to did he feel her eyes upon him, an extra sense that nearly made his skin crawl with the discomfort of it. He would shift his weight slightly, feeling the breath pent within his lungs as he idly brushed his fingers through his hair as if to dishevel it from the press of the door frame. He should leave. He knew that, he'd already seen that she was well. He should vacate the house, check the stores of wood and then depart, and yet along with the air he held, his feet felt like iron hinged in place. Finally, he would meet her stare, only to find her hastily divert her attention, along with the placement of the bottle on the table.

She would pat the cushion at her side at his final askance, a bright smile unfurling upon her features as she did so. Again, he felt that insistence, that knowing that he should leave, and yet again he felt his body gravitate forward as if by no will of his own. He settled next to her, giving the tome a slight glance as he listened to her weave the tale. "It's the story of a lord who falls for a fishmonger's daughter and marries her in secret." The all too familiar furrow of confusion marked his brow, his head inclining slightly at the pages. He was unaware such things were recorded, let alone why it was done since the act was done in secret. "That's not keeping a very good secret if you write it down. Look, now you're reading it. Why not be open about it anyways?" His small tide of curiosity was deterred as she beckoned once more and his gaze would settle back upon the hand that rested in his lap. "Would you like me to read some to you?"

He should leave. He shouldn't stay any longer. He shouldn't have sat down. Distress bit at him, the indecision he knew that would come should he permit himself to come thus far. All along he had, with softly vehement promises, told himself that he would simply check on her. Ensure she was well. Ensure she made it home safely. Ensure she had wood. Ensure she wasn't sitting in the dark. Ensure that... That what? Tenderly bitter lies to assuage the cruel acknowledgement that once he set foot here that he wouldn't want to just leave. It would have been easier at the entertainer's hall. He could have dismissed himself in the name of her work. Here, however, to this place that she continued to return to despite knowing what it was, what it was meant to be, he couldn't feign the same avoidance. If he left, it was of his own volition. It wasn't something he could convince himself that would be better for her. Especially now when she invited him so warmly. When she greeted him and didn't openly expect anything of him. He couldn't lie to himself and convince himself not to tarry.

"Yes."

He didn't know if she even knew of what he'd done in the time he'd been absent. His return had been late, far more so than he had originally planned. Finding the beast had been a task in and of itself. Hunting down bait to lure it into the open, a large, feral were - a foe he had been expecting. The wolf's bane poison he'd bought in the main city previously had been of great import, with his own unwillingness to face the wolf in equal standing. It had been a risk he could not take since the dregs of paranoia had alluded that he had been followed at least partially into the wooded frontier beyond. He couldn't take the chance that unwanted eyes could see the transformation he had painstakingly masked thus far. Sanctuary would not welcome him, already some were wary of him, it wouldn't be a rumor he could simply ignore and wave off. As well as... silencing the witness would come with its own complications, he was sure. Not only an undesirable outcome from him personally, but something else that may draw suspicion to him should the trailer not be working alone.

Time had also eluded him, escaping his attention and normally careful planning in preparation for the night he was not in control of himself. A fear that ran deep in his veins. The gained wounds had done nothing in his favor in the end, but even in that haze, he could only recall collapsing to the flooring of a cavern and sleeping while the heavy scent of iron kept him company. Exhaustion soothing the feral instinct, he did not recall being disturbed and when morning finally dawned, he seemed to be relatively in the same position as he had collapsed to begin with.

His concern was somewhat assuaged as she agreed to keep the entrance locked from henceforth. Idly, his fingers would rub over his chest, a frown marring his features as he felt the divets in his flesh the blight of talons had carved out there. He closed his eyes, finally realizing just how tired he still felt as he further leaned back against the cushions at his back. He only reopened his weary lids once he felt her shift at his side, leaning closer and he would do likewise to better accommodate, tilting his head in the direction of the pages she seemed intent on sharing despite his lack of ability. There weren’t even any pictures, the thought echoed dully within his mind as she explained that sometimes just wild tales were written down instead of actual accounts of events. Something that further bewildered him. How did people know of what they were reading was true or not then? How did she know? How did war councils facilitate such a thing - the main area he had seen such piles of paper?

However, he wasn’t permitted to be concerned with such trivial details for long as she began to read the eloquently scripted text, another lilt of confusion and appreciation alike that such things could be scribed. He only knew the meaning of half - or less - of the flowery diction used, and even then most of their sense, meaning, and apparent foreshadowing were abundantly lost upon him. As she stopped, her features burning like cherry coals, he would frown slightly at her inquiry. ”If you want,” he spoke after a moment, the words slow and weighted with uncertainty due to her reaction. She said they married one another in secret, was that why she didn’t want to continue? A reminder of the holy ceremony made mockery? Something that people normally looked back fondly on, and yet they couldn’t treasure the same memoirs. The gilded band upon his finger suddenly felt far too hot, too small for his hand, a rage of discomfort that came with the recollection. ”Do they get married next?” The question was unabashed, his vocals belying nothing as per usual as the stoicism of his features remained, for the most, part unchanged save for the small furrow of his brow.

The more she read, the less he felt he understood of the concepts and the story he had walked in on unraveled to make less and less sense with every passing moment. Words he understood twisted with meaning he didn't to the point where she may as well be speaking a wholly different language all together. She shifted, leaning wholly against him and he glanced down to her slightly, a low breath escaping him as he would awkwardly move his arm to better allow her to rest her head against it, along with his leg to better hold up the book for her. Was she feeling tired as well? He assumed her to be, he knew the enthusiasm she showed at her work, and after the trudge home it would certainly make sense for her to be weary. In truth, he had fully expected her to remain at the studio, not return to the little cottage. Finding her gone from there had been a bit of a surprise, though one he hadn't bickered with, knowing that if they met under those circumstances, there was the chance he would be asked to dance again.

At his inquiry, she looked up to him and he found himself averting his gaze slightly, and yet he didn't miss the smile that haunted her expression. "Guess we'll just have to see." She hummed, and while she turned her attention back to the pages, he didn't do the same this time, his vision tracing over the wrought iron cage that served to hold in the logs for the hearth. To the pluming trails of smoke that strayed from the candles as his cheeks began to burn slightly with the scene she wove. Why anyone would record - or rather simply come up with - such a... private sounding thing was beyond him. Had that been her expectation for her own ceremony?  Painted, shaped and colored like those of these odd stories?

He wouldn't lie. The novelty of the tale escaped him. Though, he was hardly one for romance, he supposed. His life was far from that, and to say it had ever held interest or influenced him previously would be a lie as well. He had never missed the ability to understand the words on a page, to know the shapes and forms of letters. What they meant, the patterns and ways they could be strung together to give themselves meaning anew based on what surrounded them. To say it was any different now would also be false.

Distraction lay in the way she moved once more, and he could again feel the weight of her eyes upon him. Her words, however, far from aided in the slight burn upon his features. "We should have a wedding like that." He looked to her sharply, his mouth open slightly before shutting as she continued to incinerate his features. Her smile was wicked, vexing as she spoke, her eyes hooded with the plight of her mischief. "When I make you fall for me, that is." A short sound akin to nervous (perhaps distressed) laughter escaped him - if one could even call it that - as he wholly turned his countenance from her. "I think.." he began slowly, clearing his throat slightly, "you've had a bit too much wine."

”Do you blame me?”

He missed her gaze slipping along the lines of his injured arm. The cursory signs of her curiosity eluded him, and so her inquiry seemed sudden, and he had to swiftly divert his attention back to her. Her face was earnest, her eyes attentive as they wandered the contours of his features. ”For what happened?” His own stare widened slightly, but she gave him no time between her fevered askance and the rebuke she seemed to expect to fly from him. Instead, she rushed on, words nearly tripping over themselves in their haste to leave her tongue.

He supposed he hadn’t ever told her, he mused  quietly, a thought entirely to himself. The sounds trapped somewhere between the lucid dreams that had followed his fevered transformation and his own inclination towards being quiet. Uncertainties that bloomed with thorns and held his tongue. His own shortcomings when it came to communication, a clearly bleeding fault-line that ran deep. He’d never had any use for idle conversation, only a very few people who conversed with him outside of strict dialogue locked entirely to his tasks. Even they were vaguely stumbled through for the most part, gestures, shrugs and the occasional grunt and grumble far more likely to leave him than a well carried talk.

She was just as quick to depart as she was to try and dismiss or distract from her inquiry. His head lifted as she sought to gain her feet, her steps teetering dangerously as she rattled off something about food. Something that she had probably easily figured out was the key to turning his thoughts away quite easily. ”Ethel.” However, he found himself less distracted this time, as he decisively reached for her hand, seeking to turn her around, to nudge her back towards him. A soft sigh left him, giving way to the unknown of what he wanted to say: how to properly convert the hushed and give life to those silent convictions.

”I don’t blame you. I never have.” The murmur of his baritone was soft, hushed, as he spoke. His eyes averted, hoping she wasn’t peering  at him, a soft pink lured to his cheeks by the thought. To ensure she wasn’t (or wouldn’t) the heavy breadth of his hand would reach up, allowing it to fall gently on her head. ”I was…. worried you wouldn’t be here when I came in that night.” The admittance was soft, a note of uncertainty hinted the struggle his word choices presented him. ”I'm just glad you were safe, so… don’t be stupid.” The last was accompanied by the ruffle of her chestnut locks as he allowed his palm to leave her. Another, more laden sigh left him, something of relief. ”But, I am kinda hungry now.”