[ He cannot bear to be around others. He cannot bear to be alone. The days drag like oil, thick and sludgy, and he drags himself out of the bed he now sleeps in alone to face each new day with a feeling like ice in his veins. Detachment, as he puts together his new place in this house β as he reckons with loneliness, with being difficult (if not impossible) to care for.
When he feels his rotting eye fill, when the light becomes unbearable and the darkness becomes a nightmare, he resolves, at first, to weather it alone. He knows, now. that itβs finite. All he has to do is wait.
At the end of the second hour, his name appears on Mithraβs phone screen. Whether or not she picks up, the message β spoken hoarsely, struggling to remain level β is the same: ]
Iβd β¦ like to ask a favor of you, if youβre not β¦ if you arenβt indisposed.
[ Her own days pass, filled by her own hand; she knows better than to think that someone else will entertain her hours, being the solitary creature she all-to-oft was bidden to be. There is a business to be finalized, a new novel to be written, social hours to entertain at breakfast and dinners, and in between: a hollowness within her, like a great, deep sea. Still waters, cold waters, slumbering waters. Sometimes she rouses from a strange stupor, her cuticles torn to bloody scraps, her stomach snarling for food and mouth dry β throat slick with cold sweat and the hours of the day lost to absence. It's at the tail end of one such fit ( Your madness wakes again, dear Mithra; it sings appalling hymns. ) that she hears the ring of her phone, that strange and useful device that makes such quiet hours a little more bearable.
Her voice is just as hoarse, when she picks up at the third ring. Not too eager, not too dismissive of the man who has called her. That self-sufficient widower, who β like her β keeps his grief to himself, and shambles through a world in the absence of one loved and lost. ]
I am able to come to you, sir. [ He's asking for you, some part of her thrills, eager for praise and acknowledgement and fulfillment. For an unnameable connection that lasts and lingers. The rustle of her skirts heralds her rising, tidying her appearance β with her ring fingers, she dabs a pale cream under her eyes with her ring fingers, to plump the thin skin and disguise her own dark circles. ] Have you taken leave of your business?
[ The sound of his voice drips away like the oil-tar-blood that seeps from his eye, the smoke-scent that comes off of it in sickening waves.
What he means to say is, you were good to me, when this happened last. And somewhere underneath, I don't want to be alone. Too vulnerable, too pathetic, but the flames that dance in the darkness of his vision are too much when taken in combination with the events of the past several months. He dreams of the flames even when his eye doesn't bleed. (His eye, which he now treats himself, his hands shaking as he holds the injector over his face.) He dreams of Jinx, pale and rotting, sneering as she casts off each token of affection he'd ever given her. ]
One of the empty bedrooms. The one near the Library.
[ He already knows, to an extent, that he's already overplayed his hand. Asked for a favor, with no concrete promise of how he'll repay it. But he needs someone, as much as he hates to admit it β and he chooses her. ]
[ Someone else might take advantage of that favor, squirreling it away into a back pocket for a later day with the full intent of preying upon it. There are guests consistently looking for how to one-up one another, pursuing social elevation and power to a degree only a closed society such as the one at Saltburnt could. It's a commune of its own, and they are all vying for prestige and control within it. Mithra slips the thought of it into a desk drawer, and mentally closes it with a snap. It's for later, to consider; once she's addressed the reason for his asking.
Her voice lifts with brief joy, though the response is measured, even. The casual and careful small talk of someone attempting to sweep tensions away like cobwebs: ] A bedroom has found its way near to the Library? How advantageous. I might borrow it once you conclude your residency. Permit me a moment to locate you.
[ That's where she goes, naturally. Testing the doorknob even as she knocks lightly upon the closed door, shave, and aβ. Minding her tongue in the hall, lest she give away his vulnerability. ( What might he need? Silco is inscrutable and distinct from men she has known, not led by passions though he harbors few so immense and intense that they change the whole of his world. What service might she, of all people, be able to provide? )
She brings a little of everything, in a small pouch at her hip; spare handkerchiefs, a snuff box full of substance to soothe the mind, her cards, a vial of syrupy-silk liquid. Prepared. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
π voice β un: silco.
When he feels his rotting eye fill, when the light becomes unbearable and the darkness becomes a nightmare, he resolves, at first, to weather it alone. He knows, now. that itβs finite. All he has to do is wait.
At the end of the second hour, his name appears on Mithraβs phone screen. Whether or not she picks up, the message β spoken hoarsely, struggling to remain level β is the same: ]
Iβd β¦ like to ask a favor of you, if youβre not β¦ if you arenβt indisposed.
no subject
Her voice is just as hoarse, when she picks up at the third ring. Not too eager, not too dismissive of the man who has called her. That self-sufficient widower, who β like her β keeps his grief to himself, and shambles through a world in the absence of one loved and lost. ]
I am able to come to you, sir. [ He's asking for you, some part of her thrills, eager for praise and acknowledgement and fulfillment. For an unnameable connection that lasts and lingers. The rustle of her skirts heralds her rising, tidying her appearance β with her ring fingers, she dabs a pale cream under her eyes with her ring fingers, to plump the thin skin and disguise her own dark circles. ] Have you taken leave of your business?
no subject
[ The sound of his voice drips away like the oil-tar-blood that seeps from his eye, the smoke-scent that comes off of it in sickening waves.
What he means to say is, you were good to me, when this happened last. And somewhere underneath, I don't want to be alone. Too vulnerable, too pathetic, but the flames that dance in the darkness of his vision are too much when taken in combination with the events of the past several months. He dreams of the flames even when his eye doesn't bleed. (His eye, which he now treats himself, his hands shaking as he holds the injector over his face.) He dreams of Jinx, pale and rotting, sneering as she casts off each token of affection he'd ever given her. ]
One of the empty bedrooms. The one near the Library.
[ He already knows, to an extent, that he's already overplayed his hand. Asked for a favor, with no concrete promise of how he'll repay it. But he needs someone, as much as he hates to admit it β and he chooses her. ]
Would you?
no subject
Her voice lifts with brief joy, though the response is measured, even. The casual and careful small talk of someone attempting to sweep tensions away like cobwebs: ] A bedroom has found its way near to the Library? How advantageous. I might borrow it once you conclude your residency. Permit me a moment to locate you.
[ That's where she goes, naturally. Testing the doorknob even as she knocks lightly upon the closed door, shave, and aβ. Minding her tongue in the hall, lest she give away his vulnerability. ( What might he need? Silco is inscrutable and distinct from men she has known, not led by passions though he harbors few so immense and intense that they change the whole of his world. What service might she, of all people, be able to provide? )
She brings a little of everything, in a small pouch at her hip; spare handkerchiefs, a snuff box full of substance to soothe the mind, her cards, a vial of syrupy-silk liquid. Prepared. ]