— frozen grounds and leafless trees
It’s really all he needs before he’s out again. The two of them napping far longer than either of them had likely anticipated. The butcher’s still completely unaware of the snow outside and what exactly the Maverick has said. It matters very little, though, because as Danta starts to stir again and withdraws, Asta’s at least aware enough that the space is empty. And empty for too long.
But rather than have the immediate rage and start that last season may have started, the butcher instead slowly stirs, opening his eyes to glare at the light that pelts him from the crack of their curtains to see the snowlight that blinds him momentarily. And for a split second, the butcher very nearly thinks he’s back in Whitebrim. The cold bite, the throw of blankets, the smell of the fire and the cooler warmth within only to witness the glitter of sun on snow.
Danta’s yawn reaches him before he has a chance to actually register anything, though, and it forces him to relax from glaring back at the snow to flatten onto his back, feeling his spine crack at least three times with the stretch he indulges in after. “Please, darling.” Comes the quiet and hoarse voice, the sound of blankets rustling briefly before Asta is emerging from their den, wrapped up in a knitted blanket and one of their thicker furs, his hair not even straightened out apart from where he’s brushed it out of his face. His lips part to speak before he shuts it again and perches on the back of the couch beside where Danta’s gotten the kettle settled in the flame, soaking in as much heat as he can.
But rather than have the immediate rage and start that last season may have started, the butcher instead slowly stirs, opening his eyes to glare at the light that pelts him from the crack of their curtains to see the snowlight that blinds him momentarily. And for a split second, the butcher very nearly thinks he’s back in Whitebrim. The cold bite, the throw of blankets, the smell of the fire and the cooler warmth within only to witness the glitter of sun on snow.
Danta’s yawn reaches him before he has a chance to actually register anything, though, and it forces him to relax from glaring back at the snow to flatten onto his back, feeling his spine crack at least three times with the stretch he indulges in after. “Please, darling.” Comes the quiet and hoarse voice, the sound of blankets rustling briefly before Asta is emerging from their den, wrapped up in a knitted blanket and one of their thicker furs, his hair not even straightened out apart from where he’s brushed it out of his face. His lips part to speak before he shuts it again and perches on the back of the couch beside where Danta’s gotten the kettle settled in the flame, soaking in as much heat as he can.
Astaroth
the woods will haunt you like a frigid breeze —
