Layers of dust, thin and frail, blanketed the space where he'd once kept his things.  Now a missing haunt, a man whose aloof frown and downward brow nearly seemed to be a wild fevers dream.  Were it not for the warm metal pressed between her breast, Ethel may have believed it was some illusion crafted by a twisted reverie.  A manifestation stirred by a wearily stressed mind - one such that could not contain its collective thoughts.  Each musing goading abandonment - each whisper a reminder that her wish was fulfilled.  She'd wanted her freedom at the altar, hadn't she?  His presence was gone so that she could satisfy the heathen ache thrumming through her breast. Isolation ill-suited her.  Days on end she'd entertain at Beauté la danse.  A place of friendly, familiar faces and enchanting stories, each a necessity to bide the crawling time until she'd muster the courage to return to the cottage.  Would he be there waiting this time?  Tucked away in the woods far from peering eyes, hidden by vines of ivy and branches of evergreens, a welcome sight she took in now upon this eve of her inevitable return.  The week had been laborious and exhausting, and she was ready to relax with a romantic book and a bottle of wine.  Why was it that her heart raced so violently as she withdrew the key that would unlock the great oak egress and grant her entry?  The lock clicked.  The hinged whispered a greeting when she pushed the door open and stepped inside the darkness.  Her stomach sunk and despite the humid spring sun, her body flushed with a sudden chill.  Was this what disappointment felt like? It was almost morose the way Ethel disrobed, shirking her slippers by the door and loosing the strings of her gown that'd been all too confining.  She'd reach into the bag that had hung upon her shoulder and withdrew the bottle and the book, both of which she'd warm with hands and lips - respectfully - while nestled on the couch. ‘All that we see or seem’, ‘Is but a dream within a dream.

Jahi

I'LL USE YOU AS A WARNING SIGN. . .

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.

!

. . . THAT IF YOU TALK ENOUGH SENSE THEN YOU'LL LOSE YOUR MIND

There was serenity found between the cover of a book.  With romantic words and their ability to elicit emotion and imagery she, otherwise, would not fathom.  It was a delightful respite away from the tumulous sway of sashaying hips and masculine hands; of this world whose safety teetered on the edge of destruction.  A town that'd been once safe enough now pulsed with near-visible tension between the earth and her creatures.  Ethel was able to escape it all as she sunk into her reading, as she allowed the warm tingle of wine to slither down her throat and warm the rouge painted tilt of her cheeks.  She'd been so enveloped in this tale that she'd almost missed the sound of hooves on the gravel of their road. Ethel almost missed the sound of boots on wood, of the door announcing the return of its resident or the way the floor groaned beneath his weight.  It was his rough voice that startled her.  "Why didn't you lock the door?"  Ethel nearly dropped her book but quickly caught it before it could tumble from her hands.  Her heart raced; her face flushed further with hints of wine-inspired warmth and embarrassment.  "I forgot."  Ethel replied with a sheepish smile. She couldn't deny the relief that washed over her in seeing him stand there, leaning against the post of the doorway like some great, towering guardian.  Most importantly, though, Ethel was happiest that he was safe - that he was safe and alive and here.  With her.  But why did that matter?  Was it the wine, perhaps, that caused her thoughts to race around and around until she felt nearly sick? The wine had to be blamed for the way she looked at him and realized that the lighting made him all the more... attractive, despite the multitude of scars and the missing appendage.  She wanted to run her fingers through his shaggy white locks.  Wanted to caress the broad span of his shoulders.  She wanted to... Ethel quickly shook her head and put the bottle far from reach on the table beside the devan.  "What are you reading?"  His inquiry made her smile wide and true and she'd pat the empty cushion beside her in invitation.  "It's the story of a lord who falls for a fishmonger's daughter and marries her in secret."  There was a mischievous glint behind the silver of her stare as she let it linger upon him overly long.  "Would you like me to read some to you?"  The offer was selfish, perhaps, as she'd not asked about why exactly he had returned or how long he'd be staying.  Truthfully, she was just happy to be in his company, brief though it may be.  Someone who was familiar.  Someone who wasn't a gossiping hen that would thrust her into the lions pit.  Someone who was, most importantly, safe. ‘All that we see or seem’, ‘Is but a dream within a dream.

Jahi

I'LL USE YOU AS A WARNING SIGN. . .

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."

!

. . . THAT IF YOU TALK ENOUGH SENSE THEN YOU'LL LOSE YOUR MIND

Admittedly there was an air of careless abandon in the days and weeks following their holy masquerade. While the behemoth bodyguard was around there was little for the more demure, lithe woman to worry over. In hindsight, it was unfair for Ethel to expect him to protect her, to keep her safe from the dangers lurking in the darkest holes of Rophuin and the countless others spread throughout this country as well. He did not owe her that. He owed her nothing but still, he'd stay for countless dinners, and numberless nights and be the first face she greeted at dawn. He'd be the shield and she the voice in their dynamic. Nowadays, it was a rare chance she'd catch him. Why did he come back now of all times? Why did he tend to her when he held no obligation? Why did he care if she locked the door or kept it open for any wandering vagrant? Ethel couldn't make heads or tales of it, of him, and herself - even less so with the dizzying effects of her libations. "I will." She promised. She couldn't always depend on others to keep her safe - not anymore. Not when they had so much more to lose. She'd toyed with a blade in secret and swung it around without any true aim or purpose or direction. Still, it was something that garnished her with a sense of security. Much to her surprise, he'd accepted the invitation and she wondered, quietly, why he approached the couch and not the door. Her company had seemed to be the last thing he wanted - going so far as to avoid any likelihood that they'd encounter each other here, in a space that was meant to be their home. Ethel wouldn't deny the elation budding throughout her breast, the warmth that manifest, the unadulterated delight at the scent of his musk and the closeness of him. Closer than the door; closer than the wildest stretches of their untamed world. She smiled a smile that was raw and sincere. For a time those wicked musings circled in her head like a vibrant carousel without end. Gratitude hung at the back of her throat - a magnitude of questions reigned to silence. Only his voice chimed throughout the cottage and her lilting chime of a laugh shortly followed. Not at him, of course, but at the notion he proposed. It was easy to forget that not everyone in this world had the enlightenment of understanding written language. "It is a terrible way to keep a secret," She validated on a whimsical sigh. "but thankfully these people aren't real. Some authors like to write stories about imaginary things to entertain others. It helps the reader forget about their own lives for a little bit so they can focus on another." Ethel shifted in her seat at his acceptance of the reading so that she was closer to him, as close as he comfortably allowed, and held the book so the pages would be in his view. Regardless if he could understand the etchings upon them, it was her hope that he could become just as immersed in the work as she'd been prior to his entry. Once she'd found her place in the story, Ethel began to read from the pages, elegantly weaving the tale of the ink into the bold imagery it was meant to portray. "She was the mirage of my vision that seemed true, It was the beautiful thing that happened in the dew, Yet her bubbly personality still danced in my eyes, And makes the desire to be more than the lies. "I am in love with you," I whispered to her softly. "Oh, Quincy." She sighed with contentment. Her eyes glistened with pristine adoration, Eyes that beckoned, eyes that enchanted me to lift her mouth to mine. I would kiss her. I would kiss her with all my seething, burning passion my lips bespoke the words my heart had formed with each racing beat." Ethel's face burned a violent shade of red as she skimmed ahead of the story, realizing the events that would transpire. "Do you want... me to continue?" Her asking gaze lifted to his face where she attempted to read any flicker of emotion upon it. ‘All that we see or seem’, ‘Is but a dream within a dream.

Jahi

I'LL USE YOU AS A WARNING SIGN. . .

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.

!

. . . THAT IF YOU TALK ENOUGH SENSE THEN YOU'LL LOSE YOUR MIND

It was strange how the man who had been the epitome of rigidity and detachment could sit so serenely beside her.  Lax,  close, and quiet.  When Ethel shifted he did not stiffen or tense or push her away - he reciprocated.  Her heart thundered; her veins were lightening beneath sordid flesh.  There was no breath, no words.  Even the light clamour of their avian neighbours could not overcome the scream of her heart.  Still, she read the ink on the page, turning the words into the elaborate story this author has meant them to be.  A tale of forbidden romance.  A narration of taboo affairs.  Ethel swallowed the lump in her throat and unconsciously shifted closer where the spine of the book rest on his thigh and she craned her head to lay on his arm so that they both could see the scrawling within.  "Let's see..."  A gentle murmur retorted as she flipped the page, strategically skipping the part that she knew would chase him away. "Do they get married next?"  Her sterling gaze lifted to his chin, attempting to search out the contours of his face, his eye, and the emotions between.  She smiled. "Guess we'll just have to see."  Ethel turned her attention back to the book where the contents within were carefully spoken.  A short detail of the lovers sneaking off into the night.  She read of the troubles they'd encounter when a bandit attempts to kidnap the bride.  She detailed the wedding within, the white lace dress and the sheer veil.  The candles on the altar illuminated the priest and the groom awaiting the march of his soon to be wife. "We sampled the wine as lovers, sipping along the rim, kissing while the taste still lingered in our mouths. This night would be a night of love, A time of giving and not of taking. "I  have given you my name,"  I whispered softly against her mouth. "Naught shall stand between us now.  Not envy, not greed. Not the ire of my mother's dream." Her arms slipped with infinite care around me and I forgot all but her." Ethel's eyes were heavy, hazy, laced with a dreamy fog as she returned her attention back to his masculine visage.  "We should have a wedding like that."  She smirked with devilish, wicked intent.  Always the jester; always a tease.  "When I make you fall for me, that is."  ‘All that we see or seem’, ‘Is but a dream within a dream.

Jahi

I'LL USE YOU AS A WARNING SIGN. . .

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."

!

. . . THAT IF YOU TALK ENOUGH SENSE THEN YOU'LL LOSE YOUR MIND

Ethel Nethersole had studied men, their preferences, the flush of abashment when met with sordid provocation. A flash of porcelain skin and a well-timed grin brought most to their knees. Even the most stalwart thinking man found himself kneeling before the whimsical sashay of the beckoning dancer. In her line of work, it had been a necessary skill, a talent the young girl took to like a thief to diamonds. Ethel Markai, however, concentrated these wicked efforts on one man these days - when he was around, that is. The man whose ring glistened in the light, whose face burned a violent shade of red at her suggestions and who, in all his awkward splendour, still roused from her the faintest trill of a chuckle. She sought to ease his discomfortable plight by shifting upon the pillowed cushion of the devan to close the book and rest it beside the emerald bottle. Its contents had languidly dwindled over the course of the week between sips taken at dinner and long, intoxicating swigs at night. The burn helped to ease her into a sense of relaxation and inevitably lead to a restful sleep. A sleep that did not harbour the screams of innocent citizens scrambling the streets of Rophuin; a sleep that was liberated from the pooling tides of crimson gore. Morning, however, would be a different story. A story she wasn't willing to dwell on now as she looked from the cap of the bottle to the turned visage of her husband. Whether it was the wine or the unspoken thoughts, Ethel couldn't help but let her eyes trail to the wounded appendage of his hand. She recalled watching him train on the scarecrows in the garden, how effortlessly he moved, and how she wished to be on par with his swordplay. Her talent lay in the domestic. A series of questions plagued her. Each a perplexity that, despite her conscious warning, the tongue saw fit to release after a long pause of silence. "Do you blame me?" Searching gaze sought his, desperation hinted in their depths, a pleading for truth. "For what happened?" Oh, to go back five seconds. To go back and steal that question from her mouth before it could find its voice. Visibly she cringed, almost appearing like a child freshly scolded. This time, it was her turn to loose an awkward laugh. "H-Have you eaten yet? I'll go fetch us somethin' light." A sheepish attempt to avoid the answer and this conversation in its entirety. Ethel rose in a rush and far too fast for a woman who had begun to feel the dizzying effects of the libations. Her senses were awry and she could hardly tell left from right let alone place one foot in front of the other. It wouldn't stop her from attempting to make her way to the pantry and far away from the possibilities of a hurtful truth. Had he maintained this distance because of her? ‘All that we see or seem’, ‘Is but a dream within a dream.

Jahi

I'LL USE YOU AS A WARNING SIGN. . .

”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.”

!

. . . THAT IF YOU TALK ENOUGH SENSE THEN YOU'LL LOSE YOUR MIND