Only

  The carriage ride was long and tense, the man's pocket-lining growing hotter with each passing second. His grip on his oaken cane was deathly-tight as his mind calculated everything through once more. He took out the advertisement and looked at it again, wondering if this was going to be worth it. Contradictions ran rampant in his head as he read it thrice-over before ripping it into pieces. If mercy called for it... a quick shake of his head muted that thought.

        Peeling open the carriage window, the sounds of echoing bells flooded inside. They seemed to be resounding in every crevice of the streets, every fold of the pavement.

Tennyson had died, and funeral ribbons and bands marked the streets. The day itself seemed to be dressed in a somber veil of fog and rain. Taking in a deep breath, the air was a smell of modern smarts: that this day marked an end to beautiful cricks and infinite daffodils. That space was replaced by steel now, by cotton smoke and decaying lungs. No more was there someone to speak of love and loss, no more was there a l**k from those poetic dreams to this bulimic reality. He was only black ribbons and dead words now; history and funeral bands.

        The sound of the hooves clacking against the pavement felt like it was echoing too as they grew closer to the meeting point; and as the fog thickened, he threw the pieces of the advertisement out the window. Despite the words being torn to shreds, their black suits were still pressed against his eyelids- Demon, Being of Horror.

        The money in his pocket was now burning his skin. He looked back out the window and mused that words like those don't often precede from what we think they do. Mercy- his eyes closed as he traced over it- the smooth curve of the 'c', the mouth's gentle touch of the 'm'. What could precede such a contradictory word?

        When he finally opened his eyes, he realized it wasn't something he had.

        The advertisement was written more than a fortnight ago, and it was credited by two men whose ambitions exceeded the grace in their souls; who turned from slow, scientific methodology to underhanded shillings and morbid chambers. That was where it was created- not born- no, what they had done to it was beyond that simple word. Perhaps it would be better surrounded by terms like scalpel, gauze, or satanic revelation; because, after all, what kind of God would have let them succeed?

        Science abandoned, technology surmounted, intentions unrealized; yet it was a success, their success. Never before had two men felt wholly and completely equal to God. So they named it Esperus, a subject of study to one and a means of social rise for the other. What a thing it was! Patched by white threads into some concoction of divine creation- the cobra, the wolf, the bat. No creature such as it walked the earth; outcast from the innocence of Eden and left only to some estranged relative to man and beast. So It was, and so It lived under the hand of Sir M on his daunting expeditions and dangerous encounters- no gold unclaimed, no artifact passed by.

        Years had passed and Esperus grew more into the mold of what Sir M required: A thing that was all things- a beast that was all beasts. At his whim a monster stood by his side, by gaze bone broke and skin collapsed to the ground.

        What was the cost for such power? For such a vessel of cataclysmic destruction? It was accosted to no thing but Esperus- it was the tormenting agony of every bone redefining itself into vast antonyms. From tooth to fang, from palm to hooves, to mangled half synonyms of both. But the reprieve to that pain was white-stringed rejuvenation: No matter the tear of flesh, loss of limb, or deprivation of blood; Esperus healed with no cell imperfect. Perhaps to some this would be considered a blessing, a miracle, but for Esperus, it was some other, less divine, type of event.

        It was an exchange from multicellular to unicellular, from dependency to isolation. Cells pact together as shattered bricks to the aspiration of complete factory. Any strand of RNA un-used died in vast chaos, and over time, chaos cut free perfection; so it was until the last brick sank into the last crevice, and every gain multiplied showing the hidden structure to inconceivable disorder. To The Doctor, it seemed as if all of the secrets of biology had been unlocked, and only he had the key.

        It was only after Sir M had returned with his artifacts from Ireland that he had decided to test The Doctor's hypothesis; that the more reconstruction Esperus undertook, the more flaws were cast away and perfection stood in its place. In the span of three months, the deformed and marred visage of Esperus gave way to golden skin and poised bones. Long dewy hair delicately flowed over its shoulders, and its once sickly orange eyes were now a plain shade of grey. The almost superior-human aesthetic of Esperus was a stark contrast to everything it was capable of- its beastly abilities and inhuman climate towards death and murder. He had molded it into a thing void of emotion and sympathy, a thing that was but a vessel for someone else to command. Perhaps it was less of a living thing and more of a weapon- a steel, unfeeling machine.

        If Esperus really was a miracle, it would have always been a hollow thing, those statue-like things. It would have been graced to not suffer the most devastating type of malediction. Despite how perfect and glossy Esperus now appeared, inside its jail of a body was tumultuous infliction. Blood, those muscles said, fat craved another- revenge they chanted. Esperus cast an iron-cased eye to Sir M, its insides bursting into curl-tailed lashes upon its skin. It didn't matter what it yearned for- not when its mind was tied by a scathing chain to deep-rooted fear.

        Sir M appraised the figures of his highest bidder as he set about packing his belongings for his retirement that was to be along the coast of Africa someplace- his expedition to Ireland his last accomplishment before retiring to the great names of The Explorer's Club and Society of Archaeology. He had no use of his devilish creature anymore, and now it was time to pass it along to someone else. Packaged in nothing but a small metal box and a blindfold, Esperus was organized among the other prizes of Sir M's collection as they sailed northward to London.

        It was on this day that their ship docked in a small, obscure port along the Thames- the smog of the factories hovering over the deck. Sir M anxiously awaited for the arrival of his buyer, his fear of social ruin causing his brow to dampen with sweat. The idea of losing all the prestige he had due to dealings of the black market brought him nothing short of great pain, but his fear of Esperus rising against him was greater. How long would the beast obey the master? To him, it was only a matter of time before Esperus revolted; after all, isn't that what humanity did against God? Despite having trained and broken Esperus himself, he still had the intelligence to be afraid of Esperus like all wild animals. That, while tame and docile now, it could easily turn aggressive and uncontrollable in the blink of an eye.

        The smog thickened as the workers slowly lessened across the streets- the starting of the first shift causing the streets to be hollowed out. As two men walked down the street and towards the ship, Sir M signaled his men to retrieve the product, his eyes silently telling the others to arm themselves in preparation of a sour-facing deal. The wooden deck creaked loudly as the men boarded, one's face obscured by a tight black cloth and the other his man. Sir M shook the gloved hand of the assumed buyer.

        "Are you Oxbow?"

        The masked man nodded. Sir M clapped his hands excitedly and dove into anxiety-driven conversation.

        "Marvelous then. I think you will be quite satisfied with what you are here for- well trained, fitted for all environments. For a moment your mask made me worry you were some sort of authority but perhaps I should have worn one too to shield my identity. Cah- What a thing hindsight is. I assume you have the...?"

        The man nodded once more, his lack of speech making Sir M's attempt at conversation dry and only adding to his anxiety. They stood in silence, the only sounds that of the smoke hissing from the factory and the occasional cough from a passing worker. When the men finally arrived from below deck with the metal box, Sir M felt that he would burst into flames from the intensity of the exchange.

        "Could you boys have gone any slower? We don't want to keep an important man waiting," He seethed, his once skirmish demeanor starkly contrasting with his deathly narrow tone. He turned back to the buyer and plastered a fresh, catering smile on his face.

        "To the quarters then," He hummed. "I think it would be best if we passed our business in private, don't you?"

        The man said nothing in reply but wordlessly followed Sir M up the steps and inside the large cabin of the ship, the men towing the box in behind them.

        "Would you like to see what it is capable of? We have enough space here to show you its... unique abilities."

        The man stood for a minute, his head trained steadily at the large metal box- its intricate locks and iron sides, the small holes for air and metal pegged doors.

        "No," He decided. "Whatever way they would like to present themselves to me, I will observe."

        The words seemed to resonate within the metal box, the hotness in the creature's throat waning, its mind was shattering. Despite the low murmurs in its mind saying that this would be the perfect opportunity to strike, a flash of green doused those thoughts. Memories and agony dug into its skin- a terrible flurry of emotions causing their lungs to burn. Guilt was the most prominent of them all, the one that caused the blindfold on its face to grow damp with tears. With a bitter gulp, it closed its eyes and let its mind fade away from the outside world.

        Sir M blinked for a moment, surprised, before nodding to his men to open the box. They painfully grunted as they pulled back the heavy locks until they clunked into place, the doors creaking slightly but remaining closed. Sir M walked forward and peeled the doors back, his large form obscuring the man's view of the product he was about to purchase.

        Sir M pulled the person out and stepped aside, his gaze attempting to gauge the buyer's reaction. The masked man slowly approached Esperus- its dirt-caked hair and shivering skin. Not a circus freak, not some strange, exotic animal- a human being. He walked behind and spotted a strange mark on its skin, and upon lifting up its hair, found two zig-zaging white scars that decent down its back. Beneath the scars was a deep pressed mark, a sort of family crest.

        He walked back towards Sir M, his face trained solely on the product and nothing else.

        "You mean to tell me," He spoke, each word stark and clear cut, "That this is the creature you made an ad for? A 'being of horror, a thing of Satan, a beast'?"

        Sir M didn't have a chance to respond before the man continued.

        "Because all I see here, is a person. Last time I checked, those were rather harmless."

        As the clothed face slowly turned towards himself, Sir M couldn't help but gulp silently. The distance at which the man spoke of mankind sent an odd sensation down his spine.

        "I assure you," He quickly stuttered, "That though that thing may seem harmless, it is in fact very deadly. If you would let me, I could easily demonstrate-"

        The man let out a tired sigh, the air in the cabin becoming stiff. Sir M silenced, his eye flicking to his men impatiently.

        "No," The man finally uttered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large stack of money.

        "Six hundred, as agreed. Have my man bring the trunk here and we will be on our way."

        Sir M nodded eagerly as he fingered through the money, double checking the numbers. He gestured for his men to leave and waited until the buyer's man arrived to give them privacy.

        "That door there goes down the opposite stairs to the right dock. I assume you will be out shortly-"

        "Yes."

        Though his ego would have normally been insulted, Sir M gladly left them in the cabin with a large sum of money in his hands. The masked man sighed tiredly when he was finally left without the annoying, jittery personality of Sir M.

        "Hans open the chest won't you." The man set to opening the chest and laying out its contents. The masked man slowly walked forward and took off the blind fold, their eyes remaining closed.

        "You can look at me."

        Their eyes opened, and in their gaze the air held a cold ache. The distance at which he had once earlier spoke was now realized, for no emotion showed on their face- if he could even refer to someone so empty-shelled with living pronouns. 'She' held a sort of history to it; a sort of delicately bruised past, a connotation which, if used, might immediately skew the painting of where they were. They were here; past the enjoyable taste of sin. Perhaps the only way he could refer to them as 'she' was if it was backed by a different history.

        'She'; this person was a 'she' like the gods of the old times. Whereas she might have been glorious once, now she was left to nothing more than half-ruined artifacts and defaced statues. 'She' as in a raging wildfire or treacherous sea; only, the sun had devoured all the oceans, and the fire was reduced to ashes. She was these things, and she was past their sweet taste. In her dirtied face you could see the devoured husk of that power- their black matted hair, their hollow eyes. He mused to himself that it was like looking at a wax figure, but found that observation to be a vast understatement to what he worried was true.

        "Do you know what size you are?" She blinked as if she had hummed to life at his words before slamming her eyes shut. Fear turned into mutiny- the possibility of an end bittersweet on her tongue. That flash of green felt warm now, it was closer than it had ever been in the past three months. Yet, her neck begrudgingly gave a subtle nod 'no'; her body fighting to survive where her mind longed for an end. He looked at her with a gentle focus, wondering if behind her empty eyes there was someone waiting to wake up. He signed for Hans to bring over the contents of the chest.

        "Hans will help you dress."

        She blinked and looked to the other man as he attempted to guess her size before dressing her into a plain black dress. Hans walked behind her and tied her hair into a bun before pulling out a thick black cloth that hid her dirty, matted hair and a funeral veil that shrouded her face. Hans brought her long black stockings and shoes to wear, her eyes watching him awkwardly pulling the stocking up her legs and lacing her in leather heeled boots. The masked man walked forward and fixed her veil.

        "You will call me Sir, nothing after it. And Hans," He mumbled, pulling black laced gloves onto her hands, "Grab my hat and cane won't you."

        Hans pulled out a hat with a thick veil and handed it to him, the veil shielding his cloth-wrapped face. Once he had his cane, he looped arms with her and wordlessly guided her down the steps, onto the dock, and into the thick crowd as the factory workers pooled out as the second shift began.

        A hot static gushed between her ears as she quickly walked onward with him- something she had never experienced before- though something she had always felt murmurs of. Each ounce of blood felt like it was boiling as they walked further and further away from Sir M, and with it was a violent scratch raking up her throat. That red-painted voice flooded her mind with fire- burning and scathing. Frog-toned, snake-skinned- it clawed across her mind with nothing sort of dis-coherent rampage. As soon as it had sung its teeth behind the skin of her cheeks, it seemed to immediately relax- a queer coldness taking its place.

        Following him through the crowded streets and loud noises, the strange smells slowly became familiar. The streets blurred together like an endless labyrinth, and finally, they came across a guarded carriage. He guided her inside and paid the watch-man before stepping inside himself and Hans taking the drivers seat.

        With the tap of his cane on the roof, the carriage lurched forward and went down the lane. Sitting across from her, he used this as a chance to observe her- to edge out her 'deadly' attributes and 'satanic' cast. What he observed, though, was something much different. He turned his head to the side away from her, watching from his peripheral vision as her blank eyes stiffly moved from him to the thin crack in the curtains of the window, peering outside.

        Her hands coiled into fists before tenderly resting on her forearms. Such a lack of violence was strange, but she bit her tongue before she let that pitiful bird perch in her chest. Hope was only something that hurt, she convinced herself. It was a wish that, since the beginning, had never been fulfilled. Looking at him slyly, her hands tensed before she roughly laced her fingers together, the pain a welcomed distraction.

        He saw nothing more than a person lacking every dignity a human being should have.

        The ride continued in silence, his head never turning back to her, and her eyelids fighting to stay open as they looked out the window- perhaps she thought she needed his permission to do so- But after awhile, as the scenes outside the carriage faded into obscurity, she stiffly sat back and looked at him once more before letting them close; an almost inaudible sigh escaping from her lips.

        After a length of travel, the carriage finally pulled to a stop. In an instant Hans opened the carriage door and Sir beckoned for her to come out, his hand taking hers as he helped her down the step. They walked up to the large wooden doors as Hans took the carriage away, her hands shaking slightly as he lead her inside.

        "Nimbe! We have a guest!" He announced, placing his hat and cane upon a tall rack. White marble floors and timid blue walls contrasted violently with his black attire and cloth mask, but she was too distracted to notice that. What she noticed was that he called her an unexpected word: a guest- that she was in his home, and not in some cellar or basement. That fire bubbled in her throat again before it vanished, the emptiness within her now more gaping. Her throat dried as she blinked rapidly, attempting to discern if this emptiness was physically painful, but it wasn't. It was nothing like pain; it was some distant, unknown stranger.

        A short woman walked in from one of the large adjourning rooms, her silver-tinted blonde hair in a laced cap and her grey dress guarded by a white apron.

        "We do, Sir?" She answered, her voice aged and rooted. Nimbe's gentle eyes glanced at her and a small smile broke across her lips.

        "How may I help?"

        He walked across the room and poured himself a glass of whiskey from a serving table, his gloved hand holding it awkwardly as he walked towards the wide stairway.

        "Get her bathed and dressed for sleeping, then I'll show her to her room. I'll be in the study Nimbe." He briskly walked past the staircase and into a large room before walking deeper still into the unknown spaces of the house, his footsteps fading away.

        Nimbe turned towards her and smiled.

        "This way Miss, welcome to Bingsby. We'll get you all cleaned up." Though she didn't return the smile, Nimbe took no offense as they walked through the lavish rooms of the house and through the back rooms until they came into the bathing room. A large white clawed tub sat against the tiled wall near a shiny metal nob and hose. The floor was set with smaller, blue glass tiles that spanned out from the little drain in a circular design. Nimbe set to filling a boiler with water and heating it on the range before pouring it into the tub. Once it was filled, she gathered soap and a towel and set it on a small table by the tub, before brushing her hands softly.

        "There you go Miss, will you need help undressing?"

        She nodded no, her movements few and pointed.

        "Okay then. When you are done, knock on the door and I'll hand you your nightgown and robe." After another silent nod, Nimbe left the room and shut the door behind her, her footsteps growing faint as she went to retrieve the clothing.

        After observing the small room, she began to pull off her veil and cap, her head aching dully from having it in a bun. She walked towards a table on the opposite end of the room and peeled away her gloves and carefully undid everything she had seen Hans do when he was dressing her. Once everything was set on the table, she placed her hand upon the surface of the water like it was glass. The warm water felt kind- alive in some unspoken way. Each movement into the water felt like returning home after a long and harsh voyage, and perhaps it was. Perhaps this place was 'home' now.

        That voice murmured in her stomach again, but somehow those cravings felt contented. The power of being someplace other than a cellar made her muscles clench tightly. There were so many things she could easily do, but doing them at a time like this felt wrong. And besides, she hummed to herself, it would be a waste to pass up a warm bath. The voice within her muted, the tenseness fading. In that moment, more emptiness stretched to the place the voice had once harbored.

        The thick dirt and grime of the ship seemed to seep from deep within her bones as she set to moving the soap across her numb skin. Her fingers gave no serious attempt at untangling her hair, because after all- what was the use of having it anyways? Once finished, she dried herself completely before rolling her knuckles on the door, which Nimbe creaked open handing her the nightgown and robe. Following the example of Hans, she pulled the gown over her head and put on the robe before securing it with a tactical knot.

        Slowly opening the door, she was greeted by Nimbe with slippers and another towel.

        "Before I take you up, the master wanted me to cut your hair free of the knots."

        Nimbe gently pushed her into a seat and pulled out a pair of scissors. Placing the towel under her hair, she quickly cut the hair just above her shoulders, the thick mats tidily collected in the towel. Once the slippers were on, they set back through the rooms of the house, across the large foyer, and through more rooms before they came to a set of mahogany doors. Nimbe knocked, and after that, she left and wordlessly went to another room in the house.

        Heavy footsteps walked forward and opened the door revealing Sir- still masked and still gloved. He exited the room and signed for her to follow him. They returned to the foyer and up the wide staircase that opened to a long shaded hallway. The walls were adorned with large paintings that swallowed more light as they walked, like the darkness of the sea the deeper you sank. He stopped at one of the doors and opened it, backing up and stepping aside for her to look inside.

        "Is everything to your liking?" As her eyes scanned the room, her face paled and her throat tensed. He followed her line of sight to the large mirror and looked back at her, the ignorant side of him scoffing that she would pale at mirrors, but the older, wiser part of him saying he knew exactly how she felt.

        "I'll get rid of it if you ask me," He said softly. He hadn't realized it until now, but she hadn't said a single word since being with him. She looked at him and glanced at his hands, her eyes wincing before a hoary voice broke through her throat.

        "Will you please rid it Sir?" The toneless sound of her words made him think of stones carving into cave walls, her lips the petroglyphs that enclosed their bent meanings. Knowing she could speak gave him a grain of assurance he had been seeking.

        "Of course." His smooth voice answered as he walked into the room. He lifted the mirror and put it in the hallway before turning back to her.

        "Better?" He asked.

        She simply nodded 'yes'.

        "Nimbe will wake you up in the morning and help you get dressed for breakfast. My room is at the end of the hall. Don't ever go in my room, but knock if you need something."

        She nodded once more, her clenched jaw relaxing slightly.

        "Good night Sir." She tried, her thin frame timidly slipping into the room and slowly shutting the door.

        "Good night." He echoed.

        She turned to look at her room- a window facing the east, the Persian blue of the night bathing the floor in soft hues. The bed looked like it was a cloud with its pearl white blankets and feather pillows. Nearing the bed, her fingers danced across the fabric before retracting them, a pit growing in her stomach. Everything about this room felt like it was some cruel apparition, some torturous fever dream. The freezing wood of the floor somehow felt more comforting than the strange instrument of the bed, and so she laid down on the ground. She imagined the fire under her skin was hissing against the frigid floor and that one day, she'd wake up and it wouldn't be there. Her tired eyes peeked at the bottom of the white door, the scene causing a stiffness to swim up her chest to her jaw.

        She hated this feeling- this acquaintance of an emotion she had learned to hate. Bitter blood, thawing flesh- nothing compared to this. Harshly closing her eyes and digging her nails into her rips, she struggled against the preeminent sea of sleep, the only place she couldn't escape.

        In the morning, as promised, Nimbe gave a gentle knock to the door and welcomed herself inside. She made no comment of seeing her sleeping on the ground but felt her heart sink in her chest. She directed the Miss to the vanity and wordlessly positioned her on a chair, helping comb her now silky hair before instructing her on how to get dressed.  No matter how hard she attempted to mask her saddened gaze at the sight of how skinny and malnourished she was, her eyes kept finding themselves glued to the scars and brands on her back. She busied herself instructing her on what things she should do every night before bed, though she couldn't shake the sight from her mind.

        "I don't think you're in need of a corset," Nimbe chuckled. "Lord knows that unless you're an old maid like me you shouldn't have to bear that injustice."

        She nodded seriously, though had no bearing that Nimbe was making a light-hearted joke. Nimbe finished showing her how to dress and led her back down the stairs into the large dining room. The ivory table stretched from one end of the room to the other, but only two places were set for breakfast at the far end. Tall windows lined the left wall, and through them you could see the winding drive and vast green fields of Bingsby. Flowers and shrubs delicately lined the groomed trees and the trimmed footpath that led past the windows and presumably around the entire house. Nimbe silently left her in the room to attend other business, leaving her to wander further into the room and look out the windows.

        The sky was a tired grey, and the grass stirred slightly from an unseen breeze. As she looked out, she could see the shadows of clouds dance across the vast grass hills and the wind snake silver paths through the meadow. She could imagine the smell of rain that would be carried by the wind, and the earthy tones of the trees and flowers. It felt like it had been forever since she had seen the world- not the crowded cities, not the retched ocean- no, this world. The calm, simple kind. The only sounds that of the bird or the beetle. She closed her eyes and listened to the quietness here, of the house and the soft thrum of the wind kissing the window. A quiet exhale poured through her lips as her eye fluttered open. Perhaps a place like this deserved the title of 'beauty'; the pure and unwavering kind.

        At that word she felt her face twitch slightly as her mind sparked into hellfire, dense lightening quaking through her muscles and bones. Her teeth bitterly roped in her thoughts as distant faces and feelings stung against her skin and swam behind her eyes. Why was it that beautiful things also remind us of the most ugly? Why do the most quiet of times remind us of the most quaking?

        She wrung her hands and winced as that familiar stiffness swam from her stomach, something in her chest attempting to violently drown itself in the putrid estuary that now replaced her body. A constriction tainted her lungs like she was suffocating, her mouth gulping in deep breaths as she placed her thumb and middle finger upon her temples, her hand creating a semblance of a shield.

        She held her breath and folded her arms, the thoughts slowly melting away with the air from her lungs. Flames whispered against the corrupted tissues of her throat, but this time, it didn't go away.

        "Are you going to sit down for breakfast?" At the sound of his voice she dragged herself away from the window and sat to his left. She hummed in response and traced the soft napkin with her finger before tenderly placing it on her lap. Her eyes lifted back to the window as the wind whistled slightly, the sky darkening as though, someplace, the sky was burning, and here there was only smoke.

        "Good morning," Sir hummed, her eyes instantly flickering back to him- his face still masked and his hands still gloved.

        "Yes, good morning Sir." She sat back as Hans set a hot bowl in front of her, muttering a small 'thank you' for everything he did. She waited patiently as everything was served, her eyes appraising each dish. She flickered her gaze to him and wondered if he was going to eat with her, and as if he could read her mind, he answered her question.

        "I already ate, please- enjoy." She nodded and carefully picked up the fork as she tasted each dish before settling on the plain oatmeal with fruit and honey. She paused often to stare out the window, each sound causing her to stiffen slightly, as if she was expecting something worse. Rain began to gently fall from the sky and drip down the windows, her food abandoned as she sipped her tea and simply observed the grounds.

        "It's very pretty," She hummed, her eyes falling back down to the her food as she set her remaining oatmeal aside. He nodded and looked out the window himself.

        "Yes, it is. Quite calming I think." Nothing, no negative reaction. The emptiness she felt the first time she arrived here at this moment stunned her. Was this how those people felt? The people walking down the streets and into parlors; those ant-like people; easy to crush under a faintest touch. As the trees shifted outside the window and the raindrops gracefully danced down the windowpanes, she realized that maybe to be in places like this, it was better to be an ant.

        She nodded in agreement, her brow tensing slightly as she dared herself to speak more.

        "I wish the entire world was like this." She flicked her eyes to his face as if waiting for him to reprimand her, but when she got a silent nod in return, found herself conflicted. Another sip of her tea made her thoughts calm, the hot vapors cupping her face in its gentle hands.

        "Have you ever been anywhere more pretty than this?" Her stomach churned as the words slipped from her mouth, her mind already cursing herself for opening it. The words felt like clumsy and weak animations.

        "I don't think I have," He responded, his face turning to meet hers. "Have you?"

        With his eyes on her- or rather, the feeling of his eyes on her- the prospect of speaking was suddenly much more difficult.

        "Yes, only once." Turning her head back towards the window, she cupped her tea in her numb hands. Despite how badly her fingers wanted to twitch in anxiousness or her foot wanted to tap out the fast rhythm of her heart, she blinked and felt that familiar lifeless visage take over once more. Control or be controlled- it was a simple philosophy.

        "It's more quiet than this." Her voice smoothed and her movements slowed. "There aren't any birds there, or trees, or grass. It's the most silent place I have ever been."

        It was as if the room cooled- the flimsy speech and mannerisms gone. He looked to the window to see if a draft wind had seeped in, but he knew it was a self-diluted thought. In the tall grass outside, he imagined that there was a lion creeping up towards him slowly, though his gaze would never be meticulous enough to spot it until it was too late.

        "You must value silence." She tore her gaze from the window and looked at him.

        "And you don't?"

        Tick- He could feel a faith in him wavering, but he steadied himself. If he knew anything, it was that he shouldn't form his opinions on baseless presumptions. Despite that, he found an ancient part of himself murmuring quietly, its faint words etched in the print of his skin. Would it be strange to say that sometimes you just felt things? Things that couldn't be wholly described or articulated, but had meaning nonetheless?

        "I used to."

        Short, but dense. Used to- she let the words ring in her head. The tenseness of her jaw slacked as her stone fingers reanimated and the room hummed once more.

        "Your voice has healed rather quickly. Your words are less strained." He commented. "I'm glad."

        The corner of her mouth tipped down ever so slightly, a faint motion of her neck rendering itself the sheet to some primordial song.

        "Healing has always been a gift of mine."

        "I must say I envy you then. There must be a thousand others who would." Another turn of her mouth, a flash of peach.

        "Envy is a word suited for shallow children."

        Bitter, but he understood why. His skin felt frigid against the cool leather of his gloves, his breath fanned through the cloth of his mask. Envy was a very familiar word for him.

        "Everything is better for shallow children." He retorted. "Even the things that shouldn't be."

        At that her bitterness faded, her grey eyes tendering as she placed a mechanical hand on the table- poised yet somehow tensed to the fullest capacity. Silence returned to the room, but not in awkwardness. Not in complete understanding, but it was a realization of equality. Words could flow freely here, opinions could clash and control wasn't some scarce entity.

        Control or be controlled.

        It suddenly didn't seem that simple.