Work Text:
It’s raining again. And to think for a moment that he had thought the gloomy veil covering the sky had finally been lifted with how the warm sunlight had covered the forest earlier.
But now, in the pitch black dark of night, the low rumble of thunder ripples through the sky, signaling the approaching storm. He leans back into the chair, rocking it slowly as he stares out the window, his project, unfinished, lying askew across his lap. He listens as his only light source, a lone candle, crackles and flickers on the wooden nightstand, all while he fiddles idly with the pink yarn, his sharp claws catching onto its thin fibers as he stares at the black abyss just beyond the window.
Sleep escapes him tonight it seems. Not that he slept much to begin with, he rarely does anymore.
A strike of thunder lights up the sky, its bright form streaking through the sky and illuminating his reflection in the glass. It feels like an eternity in that millisecond as red eyes peer back at him from the glass, staring at him unblinking as he catches a glimpse of the human facade he has chosen to masquerade as.
Something inside him recoils, then snarls. The urge rises without warning, sudden and violent, clawing up from the hollow place inside him where grief and rage festers like rot, spreading and sinking into the very fabric of his soul. Every part of him screams, and suddenly, all he wants is nothing more than to sink his claws into its smooth flesh and tear– to free himself from this suffocating flesh. He wants to scream until the forest shudders and splits, until the earth remembers who and what he is. Until that sickly ugly feeling that has been bubbling underneath his skin and is practically melting his bones finally disappears.
His hands itches to move, to follow through with his instincts, but he resists.
And so, this form holds for another night, just as it always has.
The rain outside begins to insistently tap against the window panes, breaking the stillness that has engulfed the room. He stares and stares at the shadows just right outside the window begging to be let in. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, rocking back and forth in the chair until he feels a small tug at his sleeve, prompting him to finally tear his gaze away from the window and peering down at the aurora eyes that stare up at him.
“...Papa?” A small voice calls out to him, hesitant and uncertain.
Silver.
Lilia blinks once, then again before his gaze drops to where the small hand grasps around the fabric of his sleeve. The hand barely makes direct contact with his skin and yet it burns hotter than fire, anchoring his frozen form to this comprehensible plane of reality.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge the title. It hangs in the air like the dead fish set out for display in the marketplace. And yet he doesn’t challenge it either.
Despite the clear lack of response, Silver doesn’t flatter in the slightest. Instead, the child continues, shuffling closer to him until he is pressed against the chair. “Papa, why are you still awake…?” he asks, tilting his head innocently to the side.
Lilia finally allows his gaze to return to those aurora eyes before clearing his throat, smoothing it out until it is human and harmless. But before he had even got a word out, Silver frowns, and the next question he asks seems to stab him like a spear in the most gentlest of ways.
“Papa… Are you sad?”
The storm that seems to be raging inside him freezes for a brief moment, startled with how those words manage to cleave through him and stabs an exposed nerve. The word “sad” is too small and clean to contain the rot and the guttural rage that shakes the bars of his flesh. And yet, the raw sincerity and softness in Silver’s voice makes the ugly truth undeniable. He is sad. He is a husk of grief and rage.
He is… something .
Something older than humans. Something lost and unraveling.
And yet the child looks up at him with such trusting eyes, reaching out to him as if he can soothe away the sorrow with just a touch alone. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know of the life he has whisked him away from so many months ago. He doesn’t know the monster sitting in front of him.
It makes Lilia want to recoil. It makes him want to pull Silver close and bury the boy into his chest and press , as if by sheer force he could fuse them together. To make the boy a part of him so that he’s safe and irremovable. To make it so that his light will never fade or dim like his child. And yet he wants to run away from this thing. He wants to silence its small fragile voice forever. To free himself from this madness he has created, yet still stays in. How could he possibly do both at once?
So instead, he gathers himself and smiles at the child, as best as he can manage. “I’m fine,” he lies, “I just couldn’t sleep. Why are you awake, Silver?” he asks, his voice quiet.
He doesn’t know what expression he is making as Silver’s brows furrows, not seemingly convinced. The child is silent for a few moments before looking down at the floor, “Thirsty…” he whispers before pressing his head against Lilia’s side, the sight reminiscent of a kitten seeking warmth from its mother.
Lilia feels his claws itch briefly before he nods, turning to look down at the unfinished project in his lap. He picks it up, turning it around as if finally remembering its existence for the first time. “This is for you.” he suddenly says.
The boy looks up, eyes wide in surprise, “Really? What is it?”
Lilia hums, “It’s a scarf,” he replies after a pause. “But it's not done yet.” He runs a thumb along one of the uneven stitches, careful not to let his claw catch on the thin threads. “It will be cold soon… I’m hoping to finish it this week.”
Silver stands up on his tiptoes, leaning in close, his small hands gripping the arm of the chair as he peers down at the knitting with awe. “I love it!” He declares, voice bright and determined, as if it is already a treasure. “Can I try it on?” he asks, wide aurora eyes peering up at him hopefully.
Lilia lets out a huff, amused at the answer. “There’s not enough length to wrap around you yet. You will have to wait a little longer,” he says as he reaches out, slow and careful before placing a hand on the boy’s head, his fingers threading through soft silver hair.
“It’s quite late, little one,” he says, his voice dipping into a lullaby as he sets the scarf aside and lifts himself off the chair. “Let’s get you back to bed now.”
Silver doesn’t protest, letting out a small yawn as he nods and lifts his arms up, wanting to be carried. Which Lilia obliges, lifting up the child as if he was light like a feather. In his arms, Silver curls against him, pressing his cheek against Lilia’s shoulder and nuzzling. “Papa, can you tuck me in again?” he asks, his voice muffled and sleepy.
“... Of course, little one.”