make my messes matter
make this chaos count
make this chaos count
H
e hears the snapping of the dead grass long before he senses her presence behind him. Perhaps if Caine were not so tired, his conscience worn to shadows, he would’ve cared more.
But his song is not yet over, and he is beginning to wonder if he has ever cared at all.
The last notes of the lullaby fade away into nothingness, into void. Into memory. Silence separates them for a heartbeat before she breaks it.
“You’re back again then?”
The barest hint of surprise flashes across Caine’s eyes, but his gaze remains fixated on the blurring horizon. Moira Tonnerre. The rising sun burns as bright as fire, blinding in its brilliance. His head tilts towards her. As bright as a phoenix.
He stares at her for a moment, unblinking. At the red of her, at the fury of her. She has not changed, has she? he wonders, but he knows he is wrong. He lets out a breath. No. I am the one who has not changed.
“Tonnerre.” He dips his head towards her, a shadow of a smile across his lips, before turning back towards the sky. He knows she is not finished. Can see it in the line of her lips, the gold of her eyes.
“I thought you flew the coup, bat boy. Come to sing me a lullaby and whisk me home?”
Bat boy. A smirk tugs at Caine’s lips, amusement dancing in those fathomless silver eyes. He has been called many things before. Magician. Herald. Murderer. Raven. And the worst, uttered by a sneering count who had denounced Agenor's endeavors from the beginning: well, Selwyn, at least the mutt is obedient.
Bat boy. He turns the name curiously in his mind, wondering where she had found inspiration for the reference. The last time he checked, his wings had still been feathered. They droop at his sides, black and sleek and monstrous.
“I had other matters to attend to,” he says, voice carefully neutral. Things unsaid and matters unsettled whisper and whisper in the space between them. He is aware. He is always aware.
Caine turns towards her again, this time completely. Until he is facing her, back splattered blood red by the dawning sun. Silver eyes steady in hers. “I am sorry.” He does not say anything more.
If Moira Tonnerre looks deeply into those steady silver eyes, perhaps she will see the sincerity reflected within them. The flicker of regret at breaking his promise to teach her. (The boy is a great many things, but he has never been dishonorable. Always, always, he is sincere.)
But perhaps even if she does, she will find nothing there but apathy.
Caine lets out a silent sigh and lets his gaze fall. The shadows lining his eyes have never been darker. His throat burns with thirst, and patches of black cross his sight until he swiftly blinks them away.
Eyes darkening, Caine focuses his remaining energy into ensuring his voice is clear, his smile steady. His act perfectly polished.
“I hope, in my absence, you have been well?”
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