❝And words, little words, words too small for any hope or promise, not really soothing but soothing nonetheless.❞
RICHARD SIKEN STARTERS | ACCEPTING | @sentientbook
‘ ...Empty promises, then? ’ A disheveled bed with pillows on the bottom of it and the covers long slumped down the edges, in the darkness taking the form of TORMENTED SOULS deep in Tartarus grasping and reaching out for that never arriving SALVATION. There’s a boy somewhere in the picture, too. Nero, with those brilliant icy blue and impossibly gold eyes of his and that devils arm casting off a dance of glows and colours upon Weiss’ slightly yellowed-out pages. Sitting in the middle of the bed with pale, slender legs crossed in his lap and the grand book placed upon them. Another nightmare, every single thing on the boy’s body screams from the messy snowy locks barely interrupting the glow of his eyes to the STAINS OF TEARS dug deep within cheeks still puffy with baby fat and the fingers so desperately trying to stay still and hide their distress from the book.
It... It was silly, wasn’t it? Nero asking so very badly to hear a story or even just a single voice that could get him out of that mental state of panic. He must have looked like a KID to Weiss at this point. A child that never quite had the luxury to always ask for a parent every time something in that cruel realm of dreams played with PRIMAL FEARS and fed on INSECURITY. The halfling lifts a hand off of pages and brushes through messy cotton soft hair to push them away from that clearly distressed gaze of his so he can focus more clearly on the ever appearing letters of unknown language on the paper and Weiss’ voice slowly drifting him back into a sense of tranquility and safety. A child that searches for his own salvation in the pages of a book that while critical and sometimes even rude, it never once judged the boy for showing fear in such tender and weak moments away from the prying eyes of friends and family alike.
