[For Phedre] "Even lovers and stars must part..."

[silvereyedphage]

It might not be till late in the day, or well into the evening that Muraki returns to the cottage. He's spent the evening walking the halls of the house or the grounds. But now he's headed back to the small house he's been wintering with the two ladies, his footsteps likely heavier and slower than usual. He takes some time to scrape the snow from

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[phedre_25]

She might have been in her room, journalling as she always does, her stay at the Mansion.

She's got heartache of her own, that she's learned to carry over the years, and writing has always helped her keep a steady mind.

The puttering about is what demands her attention, and she puts down her quill, steps silently to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. Everything in Muraki's body language tells her he is out of sorts.

A soft sound, then.

"Kazutaka-love?"

[silvereyedphage]

He's stooping to pick up the lid and was in the act of tossing it, but instead, he clunks it onto the kettle, which he thunks onto the hob. He'll look up at her, trying to mask some of his irritation behind a flat look of calm, but his good eye still seethes.

"Phedre, I hope that my clanking about hasn't disturbed you," he says. "The kettle seems determined to bruise my foot."

[phedre_25]

"Only the kettle, aye?" she replies, ambling over, her small frame coming slowly into the shadow his tall one casts.

"Or is it aught else, darling?"

[silvereyedphage]

The flickering fire likely casts a long shadow on the floor, his form framed by the flickering orange light. He'll straighten up, almost wearily. "You see through me, or have I become more transparent, since I rid myself of some of my shadows?" he muses. "I will come clean: my heart is aching, enough to eclipse the pain in my foot," he admits, dryly, trying to mask his sorrow under a jest, but failing.