His heart is heavy, tired, and worn deep in his chest. It has been caged in the cold cell for so long that the moment someone even gazed at its raw self, it shuddered in delight. His breath is heavy and dry on his lips, dried blood keeps the cut sea...
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The dark ink flows across the paper flawlessly despite the quick pace that he is writing in. The light crawls from behind the curtains, its transparent blood falling like a blanket unrolling for a winter morning, trying to give more sight to the inhabitants of the room. Desperate to serve, eagerly killing and trapping all shade in its lit path.
He moves the papers to the almost-perfect pile, starting the next section. Their people in the Fontainian government had reports and questions. They set up a few camps dressed in wool and silk flower petals. It's quiet, the sound of winged animals clawing atop the branches, nesting themselves between the leaves being his only music apart from the quill's metal tip on paper.
A set of footsteps echoed in the hallway, sharp and heavy. He expects the knock on his door before it happens. "Come in."
The woman that enters the room brings an aura of pride with her. Practically dragging it across the floor that is filthy despite being cleaned daily. She towers over his desk, even if her figure barely came in. She simply took two steps forward, closing the wooden door behind her.
She stares him in the eye, calm despite the fact that even the light seems to try pulling back. Alas, it is chained in place by its own divinity. Temperature lowers, accustoming itself to the Fair Lady's much-preferred cold. She takes a few steps forward, sitting down on the red chair to be at a similar level.
She places two paper folders onto his desk, sliding them closer with her index and middle finger. They look reminiscent of claws, he thinks for the nth time, despite her not even having sharp nails.
He raises an eyebrow at her, unable to contain the annoyances that shows itself with a twitch of his eye; of being interrupted during the day he ordered d be left to himself to solve paperwork. The tall woman's face stays calm and collected as she answers, "You're in charge of the Delusion Mission. I skimmed over some reports; the crystal bone marrow has been getting transported to Inazuma City rather than Yashiori Island. I suggest getting that checked out as soon as possible."
Her finger taps the top folder once as she sits up. Her posture was pinned, La Signora moved as if gliding on even ice. The only indication that she wasn't floating was the two cuts on her dress. The door closes silently, leaving the indigo-haired man alone with the feeling of un-biological blood running in his veins and the two folders on his desk.
Scaramouche forces down a groan, forcing himself to finish the sheet of paper he was filling out before being interrupted with near-perfect writing.
Once filled out, he takes the top folder and reads through it thoroughly. There seems to be a possibility of a traitor among their ranks, or an illiterate moron who messed up names of an important, secret mission and the stock of Snezhnayan food.
Often does everyone praise Her Majesty, her title alone bringing peace to her people's minds. Everyone had seemed to find comfort in her cold, desperately emotionless being. Even those who climbed the ranks trembled beneath her disappointed gaze, be it of fear or regret Scaramouche can't tell you.
