It is the clatter of bones he hears first, overlaying the rustling thump of steps over damp leaf-litter. As he shifts to peer at the approaching stranger, his features are a mask of languid curiosity. The whispers of anguish that have long filled his soul drift away, leaving behind an almost youthful lassitude. He had always found it easier to bury his problems in the face of strangers.
They always asked too many questions. Questions he would greatly prefer not to answer.
Wren clings closely, a faint trill of alarm fading quickly as he burrows into the tangled strands of Ion’s mane. The beast of bones rattling alongside the woman is unnerving in a way he cannot quite put a name to. He’s not certain he wishes to either.
As his gaze shifts, he’s quick to note the master of those bones is no less unnerving.
Her question stirs him, causing him to wonder just how much she had witnessed. He had not been schooling his features then as he is now. He never could when he found his reflection. So he waits for perhaps a beat too long before answering her question.
“I am speaking to you,” he replies slowly, as though it should be obvious. He suspects she would not fall for such an obvious deflection, but he has little interest in telling her the truth. He considers turning the question back on her, but ultimately, he has no particular interest in going in such a trivial circle. “I’m Ion,” he continues after a moment by way of compromise. “Who are you?”
ion
in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain
@[violence]