. . .
"I love you as one loves certain obscure things... secretly, between the shadow and the soul."
—Pablo Neruda
. . .
For someone so lively when they were up and about, Alastor Nyx sure looks peaceful when he sleeps. It's kind of... a surprising change.
If not, a bit endearing.
He does not move or toss and turn in his sleep like Proserpina expected he would. Proserpina had assumed that Alastor would be as restless in his sleep as she (or William) would be... sometimes. Not even Hypnos or his son could keep them safe from the phantoms of nightmares most of the time, after all.
Strangely enough, Alastor remains so still in contrast to how he was when he was awake. The werewolf was literally on the same space where they had left him on.
He was usually moving about around the room when conscious... now that she really thought about it. And even if he wasn't as loud as she had initially thought, there was always an urgent need to move constantly when it comes to him. Proserpina had initially chalked it up to him being a werewolf (and their kind are known to be kind of free-spirited creatures) but after a few days of living on the same space, she had come to realize that it is simply how he is.
If he wasn't messing around in the kitchen baking or eating or watching something in his laptop (mostly with William), he'd be out and about doing this or that. He always had to be doing something.
But now...
Now, Proserpina stared at Alastor.
And for someone who had a Mediterranean complexion, his skin looked almost pale in color, and it seemed to be glowing underneath the moonlight shining over them from the open window.
With his slightly parted lips and curly lashes practically grazing his cheeks, the silvery light of the moon made him look somewhat ethereal in her opinion. But at the same time, that pure gentle glow made her feel like she was staring back at a corpse.
Because like this, Alastor almost looks like he's dead.
"Death becomes you..." she mused to herself.
He's too still, so quiet.
Mostly quiet, Proserpina reminds herself as she pointedly stares at the way Alastor breathes in and out, slow, steady, and so rhythmic... it was almost hypnotizing.
Like a siren's song.
And when the goddess of shadows dares to come closer, the synchronization of the way his heart beats, paired with his gentle breathing instantly reaches her ears and soothes the shadows that were whipping about by her feet.
It was a symphony that eases the tension that never quite go away as she counts them in her head—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—and much to her pleasure, they remain consistent.
It's funny, though.
Only hours ago, Alastor had been the one literally struck by the god of love's arrow. And yet it was Proserpina who was feeling its aftereffect now that all has been said and done for the night.
(Reminder: hunt Eros down later.
...then, Aphrodite.)
Even as a half-mortal child, Proserpina couldn't remember a time she ever believed in the magic of love stories. The idea of a perfect man sweeping her off of her feet has always rubbed her the wrong way. And when she spoke of it, her... William's father would simply laugh and ruffle her hair, calling her 'realistic'.
