Hour of Mercy || Hermitcraft AU

~• One •~

  If you've ever been alone for vast amounts of time, you'll know that silence is a loner's closest companion, and worst enemy. It may be sought after in large crowds, but is utterly despised in solitude. It's the absence of joy. It has, and will be the downfall of many to come.

Red eyes glint in the sharp darkness. Quick hands, moving, working, and piecing things together with the practiced ease of someone who's done it thousands of times.

A black boot taps the floor repeatedly to divide the quiet that has formed.

*putt, putt, putt*

A steady thud against wood.

*putt... putt, putt*

But silence still lingers between each beat. It's not enough to drive it away for a short second, only for it to return again and again. A suffocating cloud around his head, fogging his every thought. He can't think clearly.

*putt... putt...*

"I hate this." His voice is dry, cracking with the long period of abandonment. Halting his busywork, he glances to the hearth, where the fire had gone out ages ago. The cold night air has filtered in through the glass of the window, bringing the temperature down all the more. He gets to his feet, leaving the safety of his small chair, where he spends most of his days. The warped blueish-green wood of it shimmers at the sound of his footsteps, as if it too was happy for a little more noise.

Slowly kneeling down beside the wood grate, he fixes the few thin logs into the optimal position, before raising his hands above them. He snaps a few times, waiting for a clean spark, and upon its arrival, he blows softly over it. The spark of glowy orange slowly grows, lifting itself to new heights, seeming to sprout wings as it takes off, and before long the hearth has a steady fire.

He watches as it plays around the wood, and extends a hand, inviting a small flame to intertwine itself. He leans back, resting in the center of the floor, studying the beautiful flames that dance around his fingers, not wincing at the heat they admit.

For a few hours he sat, admiring the brilliant colors contrast against the corroding black. Comforting crackles from the hearth kept the quiet monster from intruding in on his mind a second time.

The light illuminated strands of his hair, making it look as if it too were made of flame, though, that was just an illusion. Most things were an illusion here.

His gaze became a glare as he peered down at the still swaying whisps. Were good things even good? Perhaps the darkness of the night was getting to him. He tightened his fingers into a fist, quickly snuffing out the happy blaze in an instant. Leaving a gaping empty feeling.