@zaratustran
“ Upon a night such as this, did sorrow reign, And bliss took flight, leaving but aching pain. When hearts did swell with grief, a father's plight, From son he parted, banished to the endless night. Into Webway vast, the son was cast afar, Safe from the birthing god's beguiling star. ”
The way he speaks is like a lullaby sounding to the woman on the Medicae table. His voice that soft, gentle emitting rhyme and rhythm as if beginning an ode; and in truth? He was. In this instant, this fleeting moment, his Gothic was melodic and a low sonata of a performer's hum. He exists in the edges of vision, his presence inside the room was the shimmering form of a phantom that existed only in her vision, her gaze its very own Palais Garnier.
And an hour passes. She drifts to sleep, before dreams and terrors inflicted upon her cause her to wake. His second verse comes softer this time still, his visage only present a moment as alien, unnaturally slender fingers turn the dial on a lamp down to settle her in a dimmer light. A small kindness, as if to lull her back to a semblance of night.
“ Thy allies gone; Primarch anew is wrought. Mourn not, my love, nor raise a protest's plea Thy world yet lives; the rest thou'lt soon decree. Now sleep, my dear, thy weary mind find reprieve,”
A finger raised, timed perfectly as a sedative did the rest. Hours passed, body and mind allowed the space to go without dreams to heal and process all that had occured. The psyker's finding one mind beside her own, the nature of its thoughts a memory of a composition. Two musicians seated in a pit, playing pipeless organs with black and white keys. It was a quiet, demure melody. Meloncholic, yet peaceful. The perspective of the one viewing it was one above the stage, in the shadows of the catwalk sat on the edge to listen. Only once she began to stir of her body's own volition did the memory change, shifting in a way alien to all that had occurred thus far. The concerto fading in volume just quieter than the words,
“ Reject not this hand, my love, take wing; It is thine own, eternally to hold. Through bitter spite, in tales yet to be told, Joy, ruin, love, and hate in endless plight, I am thine own. A wretch through darkest night. ”
The vision of memory fades to one of present moment, darkness returning like the curtain call of slumber. His bow before his absence the presence of lips upon the back of her hand, then gingerly taken to her lap where it could comfortably land. Without a second moment or thought felt, the Solitare's presence was not. The clattering of the Tech Priest's stride following him, the phantom that was the Harlequin fading out of all sight; flesh or iron-wrought.
