Stolen wants and forget me nots (scaralumi)

Let A Soul Weep

Lumine laid atop his belly, her hand gently caressing the swelled curve of his skin. From her lips poured out a lullaby, an orchestra of the stars and her figure glowing ever so gently like the full moon had blessed him. 

He took and left. He took everything he could, anything, just to have a chance at humanity from what remained of the doctor's. Even if it would never be truly his— he wanted it to be, he begged for it to be.

Under the ceiling of her room, and with rain scattering across the windows, he truly felt like it belonged to him.

The Wanderer had noticed many things the first time it happened hundreds of years ago: he needed to breathe and eat like a human would, and his body wasn't nearly as strong as it often was. Eventually there would come a heartbeat, not his but precious nonetheless. For just a few months, he'd feel... Fragile. Like something in him could break, something in him that already broke many times.

But there he was, rebuilding it piece by piece. The doctor wasn't there, dangers weren't there— he simply had the golden traveler in his arms, and the goddess of wisdom caring for all three of them.

"You don't seem to have DNA of your own." a deep voice sounded from cold lips. The puppet trailed fingers along its abdomen, guiding them through a healing scar. Its eyes searched its surroundings, finally gazing upon a glass tube holding what was within it for so long. "My, what an interesting find..." the doctor mused, humming to himself in delight. 

The puppet watched, lifeless and dull. 

Numb, everything was numb. Empty. 

So it laughed, drowning its tears in mockery. 

Thunder struck, and he clicked his tongue. "How irritating."

Lumine had already stopped singing, so she let out a giggle. "Maybe she's congratulating you."

"There's nothing to congratulate," he responded quickly. "Besides, she doesn't even remember I exist." 

There was always a sadness to her voice, always something hollow in her words. "I think there's something to congratulate." 

She had become kinder towards him since she found out, so her words were laced with pity at times. He'd hate, or even despise it, if it were anybody else. But her pity didn't feel overwhelming, neither did it feel belittling. 

The traveler was anything but ingenuine. 

And he knew, yet his mind would sweep into spirals of memories and thoughts of someone who was the opposite. 

He knew, oh he knew. 

Her honestly was evident, she never left room for him to expect what she wouldn't do.