Writer in the Dark

25 Spring, Year 1. Part One.

Elliott.

I awake in a bed. Ordinarily, this would not be cause for concern, but this morning, the bed I greet the sun in is...not my own. Nor Haley's. This...is a rickety old straw-mattress bed in an unfamiliar wooden cabin, and something smells like earl grey. Not entirely unpleasant despite the straw poking me in my bare back. Bare. I am bare.

A quick survey reveals that beholden by some great fortune, I am revealed to the world only from the waist up as nude as the day I was born. Still, my heart leaps to imagine how I ended up in this bed in this condition. The implications make me blush, though they're only mere ghosts of ideas haunting my groggy brain. Perhaps if I knew where I was...but the sunlight forces me to shut my eyes and take inventory of merely what I can detect blind. I focus on my body to begin with; I don't...feel any different, beyond the usual effects of a hangover, however, so perhaps my virtue remains intact. Hopefully. I pray. The only physical thing that soothes my growing concern is once again, the scent of earl grey fills my lungs. I force my eyes to open despite the insistent pulse at my temple.

Perhaps it is the steaming cup of tea on the nightstand next to me that perfumes the air. My brain is not quite thoroughly cooperative this morning, it seems. Nor is any sense of logic. How in Yoba's name had I gone from curling up to you, my dear heart, in the meadow, to laying splayed out in a strange bed with a rat's nest of ginger hair atop my head? Any sort of reason escapes me. The bed is empty, after all. As is the room--devoid of all but a ginger cat, peering at me from the doorway. I almost speak to ask it of my whereabouts before remembering: this is a mere animal, nothing magical. The only magic exists in the moments I share with you.

But perhaps you yourself can enlighten me, as you've just entered this particular room of the cabin. Like a flash of lightning, the implications of my current situation hit me hard and quick.

I attempt to muster up the courage to ask what state my virtue lay in, as its importance has so suddenly surged to the forefront of my mind yet again, but you actually speak to me before I can manage. "G'morning, Elliott." Your tone is dulcet, washing over me in waves of sugar-water rather than salt. You could rot me this way; put cavities in the gaping mental maw you so often rescue me from. I could see myself rotting here. In your home, in your bed, in your arms. Those arms are already smudged with the dirt of the day, I notice as you settle on the edge of the bed next to me. Already up and at the world, unflinching, hardworking...an absolute dream of a farmer, aren't you? Dream...dream of a man...

"Good...morning," I somehow manage to croak out. I almost wince at the grate of my own voice. A simple throat clearing should fix that right up, should it not? I attempt such a thing and then begin once more, "Lucifer, I--"

At the same time, you start to say, "How are--"

We both stop. Smile. Oh, my heart...how it races. Sitting entirely still in your bed, it pounds harder than it has during any sort of exercise I've taken part in during the past ten years. Surely, that cannot be healthy. Then again, I'm not really the perfect image of health anyway, laying hungover in bed, now am I? I would think not. Perhaps I can excuse my own traitorous heartbeat for the time being. At least until I come to the root of more obvious issues. I murmur, "You first."

The little smile you give me next should send my heart to the absolute opposite of the spectrum it's on at the moment—it should cease. If I have this reaction every time you smile, how will I ever be able to grow closer to you? I physically steel myself against your charms then, straightening up where I'm seated, soft smile schooling into something more neutral. I will survive this. I will not be crushed underneath my infatuation. Not even when your careful voice reaches my ears to ask, "How...are you...feeling?" and it's even sweeter than before. I doubt it's intentional. I even suppose I may be simply hopeful and imagining the warmth of your tone.