IN RADIANCE.

She bounced and beamed and touched him, bright and elated. He didn’t need to feel her without gloves to really feel that emotion. Excitement sparked in his own veins from the routine. She was gifted, to say the least. Amazing and outstanding to say more.

“–Oh, what is it?”

He waited, and waited, and just before he went to ask once more, she confessed. There was a bit of surprise in his reaction, body shifting taller, the hand hold looser, and only for a moment. He let go completely just to engulf her in a hug and laughed, loud! Her feet was off the ground as he twirled her.

“And I’m so glad yer mine!”

He relaxes to her voice, finger curling back in with the rest. Shoulders lax, lips still tremble, but his voice does not continue. He listens to the lines, and plays the part of the audience– Bark bark bark. Whispered, soft, smiling quietly. He listens to the song,  and lets his eyes slip shut. Rest. Rest.

He stays, voice quiet, tone fairly even, unlike hers. But he doesn’t flinch from the noise; he doesn’t shy away or try to interrupt. His eyebrows are screwed in to a knit, almost confused. Not quite focused, but trying, trying.

          “Let us walk on s-stained glass, sinners one; sinner all.            It’s al ..always prettiest, after the f-fall.”

He falls silent, leaning forward, a finger raising, almost pointing at her, but without the authority of demand. He waits for a beat to see if she keeps, before interjecting with another tone, changing- the world spinning in his eyes, a king’s hand jeweled with greed and cup filled with wine and malice. Abuse on the ones below and none above. Stomped down under iron boots and nails.

He’s sitting up in bed. He’ll eat and drink when prompted, but only when prompted, sits up and barely sleeps. Fractured, fragmented, utterly shattered– he speaks when spoken to, but only prophetic rambling of a mad man. Prophecies or drawn ramblings of observations;  the caretaker has already advised people against talking to him after two hurried out to go drink.

This is how he sits now as she comes in and makes herself comfortable. Unresponsive, saying noting, fingers curled around his forearm, digging nails in to flesh until it bleeds under his nails. It heals as fast as its made, leaving nothing but a brown stain under his fingers.

The first notes cause nothing in his expression, no change. But the second her voice picks up his breath stops, chest catching with a gasp soft and quiet. Fingers dig back in to their iron grip on his arm, new pricks of blood welling crescents under his nails.

Her voice is heavenly. He knows these words. They fill in to his mind, and his lips tremble. His voice is barely a whisper, and he’s never been a good singer. But all the same, the words come up without permission.