To behold such a terrifying sight (how utterly pitiful to be lying in one’s own tomb, merciful is nature to shown remorse in thine hands cradling a willow maiden’s tired, exhausted frame with bountiful flowers of every warm colour spectrum) of a leader collapsed in front of her teammate, her subordinate. Remotely do you bear sufficient strength to beckon him over, gesture from the right index finger arose within the towering male’s field of vision. You await his approach, succumb as a paralyzed doll only mobility gained from another touch; he knelt beside your shoulderblade, caressed you in his hold; the secluded cabin of patch residing not too far resembles his embrace, tenderly does your forehead rest upon his right brachium, near his elbow. Decorative in bloody smears and dress fabrics torn scarcely, scratches and gashes, right sphere concealed beneath a waterfall of crimson red trembling from ebon locks soon mirroring the colouration of their tips. Nary a movement, not even sparingly, just a rest for momentary silence before the weakly croon dulls the ambiance’s silence
“I will be okay, Qrow.. the cycle continues to repeat.. I will be gone, elsewhere.” Meaningless it seems, ‘til the casket that clutched the petite corporeal forme spurts growth; locks partially shielding your eyes, the symphony of silence reawakens.
