#inkscrawl

Sunlight is bleeding bright against the stirring of the pollen. Soft motes swirl lazily in the wake of life as it flutters and strives: the loud unending mumble of creatures unseen behind the darkening edge of the forest. Something beats a wing, just once, and a mist of nothing blooms for a moment in the endless expanse of light. Two men sit, half obscured by the grass, eyes watching well-trod worlds that the other will never see. The moon will come soon, to dance and weep above them.  Until then, Harry settles back against the strong, broad body of his friend, enjoying the warmth of his arms as they curl around his own, holding the edges of their book. Raphael’s sight seems to dim in the long evenings, so instead the tales are spun in sounds and song. 

Harry likes it this way. Weaving words for him, reading gently into the night, held steady in his arms. Tonight though, the pages are running out; the play drawing to its triumphant close as he reads. 

“As th'art a man, Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't. O good Horatio, what a wounded name (Things standing thus unknown) shall live behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain...”

Harry hesitates, stilling his hand where it had been softly rubbing against Raphael’s crooked knee. He tilts back his head, nudging his loosened hair against the scrape of his chin. “You remind me of Horatio, Raphael.” Just a murmur. “A man too often left behind, his heart locked firm in his sensible breast.” He sighs, the cruelty of an endless life, so full of constant loss weighing hard against him. He wonders whether Raphael will miss him, when the time comes that he can no longer battle the inching of hours that govern his life. He pulls on Raphael’s forearm, to lower the book, not wanting to finish the play tonight.

He is a child chastised. Red-faced, bumbling, he gives a little jog to catch up to Raphael. Pierre hadn’t meant to stray from the path, but his curiosity got the better of him, as always; even now, as he heads the right way, he cannot stop looking back at the other. He’s never seen a country as beautiful as this, and if he’s following one man in one direction, then he isn’t making the most of it.

He makes a mental note of where they are, resolving to try and find the place again tomorrow, when he’s alone. More likely he’ll try to talk Merrick into accompanying him. 

         Pierre pauses for a moment. He’s been so caught up in his thoughts that he hasn’t even offered poor Raphael an apology.

“My dear fellow,” he says. He has to stop to take a breath – he doesn’t have the stamina for this much walking. “It won’t happen again. You are – my guide, and I’ll never again take a path you don’t show me.”

    he’s genuinely baffled. marcus opens his mouth to speak, lips rounded around a response he hasn’t quite decided on yet. the answer is neither. he wants to know what it is about him that suggested both. unless, of course, this guy is being funny. marcus is so starved for adult attention that he doesn’t remember the last time he heard a joke that didn’t begin with his five-year-old saying knock knock, daddy!, and that means he has no sense of humour left anymore. 

                    he used to enjoy smiling. figures he’ll give it a go. 

@inkscrawl

Merrick, despite the grey at his temples and his ever-weary thigh, has lost almost none of his Naval-born efficiency. The smooth, warm face peeking ‘round the door seems to brighten his little room and tug him upright as it retreats. He finds his mouth twitching upwards at Raphael’s low mumble. Quecha, even before a sip of coffee, he thinks. A good day then. He shrugs his way into a thin, deep blue robe, patterned around the collar with curling silver leaves. Something salvaged from rags and given new life by Raphael’s slow and gentle fingers. He lets one hand brush down the softness of it, flattening the material against his bare leg and relishing the feel of cool fabric on hot skin before strapping his whitewood carefully around the afflicted muscle; caging his leg.

Once in the kitchen, he’s struck as he always is by the way the light reshapes his friend; widens his shadows, darkens his eyes.Merrick’s hair, longer than usual, is falling over his eyes and he huffs at it, shuffling close to Raphael for warmth in the chill of the wintery air. 

The coffee is not ready. He supposes it’s only fair, considering that he isn’t dressed either. 

|| Lo, Demon! @inkscrawl

At the sound of a voice behind him, Cabal tensed and drew the hammer back on the Webley again. Kneeling beside the body of the man he had just shot twice, he stood slowly and turned to face the speaker.

    “I have not kept count.” He replied honestly, but not without favoring the stranger with a dark glare. He had four bullets left, and hoped he would not be forced to use them.

    “More than I care for. Self-defense is not an exact science.”