What can I do for you? asks the man that has stared at Lyr for so long he no longer remembers why he is there. There is an undoing in that, too, as the sleep leaves the blacksmith’s eyes and the wrinkle eases its way from between his brows, and Lyr stands shrouded in the too-white, too-cold light of wintertime.
Hugo strikes a match, lighting several candles that cast a warm, flickering illumination on everything. Lyr knows the warmth doesn’t play on him the way it ought to; no, winter has always been his season and always will be. He is still as cold as breath fogged on the air outside, white and grey and nearly luminous as he closes the door behind him. Then there is nothing but the flickering candles, glinting off all the sharp angles.
The scene is nearly menacing. Nearly. The firelight glances off of metal and hardwood; it smells of oil and coal, metal and leather. Lyr does not expect to see a man so flamboyant, with bright feathers decorating his head like a crown. He still seems half asleep. But kind. And Lyr appreciates the kindness, although he feels more and more out of the place the longer he stands there.
The blacksmith, however, smiles. It is long and pleasant enough that Lyr eventually smiles back, albeit in a cool way, with tight lips. It is the only smile he knows. “I was… Well, I was hoping to look at at a short sword out front… but if you’re occupied I can always come back at a different time.” His tone is neither conversational nor clipped; it is some airy, nearly dreamy, in-between. He looks everywhere but at Hugo’s eyes.
“I am Lyr.”
The lie always tastes like salt.
@
Coding by Avis.
i know i am damned for the pyre
no matter how bright you glow when you call for me
