Empyrean [March 14th] [Doumeki/Watanuki/Himawari] [xxxHOLiC]
Title :: Empyrean
Prompt :: March 14th, “when the darkness falls under your hair, there I’ll be” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Doumeki, Himawari; Doumeki/Watanuki/Himawari
Rating :: PG
Warnings :: Post-volume ten; allusions to spoilers.
Wordcount :: 275
Summary :: She came to his temple, some mornings, to pray.
She came to his temple, some mornings, to pray.
He greeted her with a nod, generally sweeping before setting off to school (or to the shop, or wherever else the idiot might be found), and she would smile back, gaze fixing upon him as she delicately folded her hands.
And he watched her in return, as if to try and keep even the best of wishes from going awry. (She would visit no other temple but his, he knew, not when it was his safety at sake, that they prayed for; and he knew that this was why.)
Her hair spilled down her back in waves, moving with the wind as if in entreaty all its own, as if attempting to part and show the proof of her intentions etched upon her skin.
And her smile never wavered, even as her mouth formed the soft strings of words, reminding them both (and whatever else might be listening) of the strength and conviction laced into pleas.
It was less fake and simply faithful, there.
(And even if he did not speak himself, he still thought the expression suited her well.)
And he offered no benedictions, no promises beyond the watchfulness of his gaze; but he would lay his palm between her shoulders as he guided her back out the gate, and she understood.
Even if the heavens chose to stand against them, they would still stand.
Prompt :: March 14th, “when the darkness falls under your hair, there I’ll be” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Doumeki, Himawari; Doumeki/Watanuki/Himawari
Rating :: PG
Warnings :: Post-volume ten; allusions to spoilers.
Wordcount :: 275
Summary :: She came to his temple, some mornings, to pray.
She came to his temple, some mornings, to pray.
He greeted her with a nod, generally sweeping before setting off to school (or to the shop, or wherever else the idiot might be found), and she would smile back, gaze fixing upon him as she delicately folded her hands.
And he watched her in return, as if to try and keep even the best of wishes from going awry. (She would visit no other temple but his, he knew, not when it was his safety at sake, that they prayed for; and he knew that this was why.)
Her hair spilled down her back in waves, moving with the wind as if in entreaty all its own, as if attempting to part and show the proof of her intentions etched upon her skin.
And her smile never wavered, even as her mouth formed the soft strings of words, reminding them both (and whatever else might be listening) of the strength and conviction laced into pleas.
It was less fake and simply faithful, there.
(And even if he did not speak himself, he still thought the expression suited her well.)
And he offered no benedictions, no promises beyond the watchfulness of his gaze; but he would lay his palm between her shoulders as he guided her back out the gate, and she understood.
Even if the heavens chose to stand against them, they would still stand.