Jack dips a wooden comb into a metal basin of water, dark grey-brown wood-grain shining in the soothing lamplight of Headquarters. Works with careful fingers, not tugging through knots and tangles but rather holding them in place as they’re brushed through. He sits behind them, the basin resting in his lap so that his guppy can’t see what it contains, and brushes out dirt and sleep and hurt. Llyr flinches as a drop of water spatters across the back of arcems neck, and he hums a low note in the base of his throat.
“I have you, guppy. Would you like me to tell you a story?” he asks, speaking soft in the quiet.
“... yes please,” arc murmur back, voice still scratchy and breath hitching, as it had been for days. Nobody has seen one of their old smiles since arc returned, not a single laugh. Their voice got weaker sometimes, but even when they were forgetting anything had ever happened, it was still hoarse.
He tells a winding tale of a tree spirit who exchanges their roots and immortality for legs, who dances to the music of flutes and rides in the back of a farmer’s wagon away from their home. Who watches the twilight from across a canyon and wonders at sights they could never have seen in the depths of a forest. When they die they become sunlight dancing gold and green across leaves, still dancing to the wind and their own tune – and Llyr relaxes into his hold, even when a drop of water slides down their cheek cold and smooth from the comb brushing through arcems fringe.
