I don't want to steal your freedom
you don't have to change your mind
It says enough about the two of them that they are able to remain composed, to move past the unspoken regardless of their personal feelings. Right now, they cannot give each other what they need. Harper can't deny he's fond of her in a way that could mean more someday, but here and now, he's not sure he ever wants to see that day. The pain has lessened with time, alcohol, and distance. It doesn't mean he isn't aware that Maea is as prone to disappearing as the other women he'd loved. Maybe it's him that's the problem?
Consumed by these thoughts, he doesn't return to himself until all objects and garments are in their proper place, and Maea has slipped into the bed on her own power. Her voice pulls him out of it, and he smiles at her - still just as warm, because he finds no fault in either of their choices just now. Attempting to give comfort in case she needs it. Though, if she does, she hides it well.
"Of course I will. Get comfortable." As she does, he goes around dimming the lights until he considers partial-shifting his eyes to make up for the weakness of his human pair. He partially sits on the bed once she is comfortably ensconced within the sheets, leaning over on one forearm until he's just as physically relaxed - though he has no intentions of staying once she has fallen asleep. Lifting his free hand, he gently begins to card his fingers through the ends of her hair, moving higher only if it's clear she won't reject the touch. Clearing his throat, Harper lands on the first lullaby he can recall in entirety, and lets the throaty baritone of his voice rumble hypnotically in the quiet of the room.
"The dark doesn't frighten me. I chose to close my eyes - it is mine, it is mine," he croons quietly as he brushes through her hair, and he hopes maybe these words - this song - will mean something to her in particular. Words he won't share so soon into her rebirth, but which might find their way into her ears in a different way. "Time has changed the metaphor, now dust is not the origin of bone. Little girl, don't let them sell you any armor," he sings, and his fingertips brush gentle at the base of his horns as he draws out the end of the stanza, "All your ribs are still your own." And on and on the song unfurls, much slower than it was normally sung, to try and lure her into sleep. And hundreds more songs upon his tongue, ready and willing, if one was not enough to ferry her there.
Consumed by these thoughts, he doesn't return to himself until all objects and garments are in their proper place, and Maea has slipped into the bed on her own power. Her voice pulls him out of it, and he smiles at her - still just as warm, because he finds no fault in either of their choices just now. Attempting to give comfort in case she needs it. Though, if she does, she hides it well.
"Of course I will. Get comfortable." As she does, he goes around dimming the lights until he considers partial-shifting his eyes to make up for the weakness of his human pair. He partially sits on the bed once she is comfortably ensconced within the sheets, leaning over on one forearm until he's just as physically relaxed - though he has no intentions of staying once she has fallen asleep. Lifting his free hand, he gently begins to card his fingers through the ends of her hair, moving higher only if it's clear she won't reject the touch. Clearing his throat, Harper lands on the first lullaby he can recall in entirety, and lets the throaty baritone of his voice rumble hypnotically in the quiet of the room.
"The dark doesn't frighten me. I chose to close my eyes - it is mine, it is mine," he croons quietly as he brushes through her hair, and he hopes maybe these words - this song - will mean something to her in particular. Words he won't share so soon into her rebirth, but which might find their way into her ears in a different way. "Time has changed the metaphor, now dust is not the origin of bone. Little girl, don't let them sell you any armor," he sings, and his fingertips brush gentle at the base of his horns as he draws out the end of the stanza, "All your ribs are still your own." And on and on the song unfurls, much slower than it was normally sung, to try and lure her into sleep. And hundreds more songs upon his tongue, ready and willing, if one was not enough to ferry her there.
I just want to make you love me
so please let me take my time
HARPER
