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Prelude / I Know The End
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Everyday had become a symphony for the orchestra lining Eir's ambition. The string section crowing sounds of cold cases, the brass a bruising ache in her mandible, woodwind the soft exhale of something hungry, and craving resolution. Again, and again, and again; she'd fallen into exhaustion.
There had been one hundred and fifty cases since Eir had stepped foot into the department, clad in Mary-Jane's, and warmly lined black stockings. Some, she found, would disappear somewhere beyond her pale fingers and doe eyes; escaped behind mirages of justice, and fortitude. Tirelessly out of reach, and cast in the smell of defamation, these were things that she had learned to stay keen and silent about. Others seemingly fell into the hands of self-proclaimed Nightwing; some purgatorial purifying sharp tooth, and a vengeance-like liberty. His ambitions seemed lined not unruly. A vigilante.
Some Eir would get her hands, faintly smelling of vanilla and flour, on. These would be subject to a rabid incursion and a creation myth that she'd eagerly find a way to prove true, with more lingering ache. This was a constant motion; one Maelstrom and Gotham and her Heart had left her in.
Here, now, fifteen minutes had passed since it had chimed ten o'clock. Since Eir had stepped out of the warmth of her shower; hair still damp and steam from the room clinging to her skin like a hug. Sitting on her reddish couch, there was the eerie thought of some half-return to peace. There were pages of work scattered across the coffee table, and a petite stapled pile in her lap subject to scrutiny and the sound of a humming accompaniment to the radio. Her mind was, for once, somewhat silent, but her resolve took the shape of a crumbling, ancient tower. Still, here was nought touch but the warmth of a drink and her throat, and nought sound but the far distant cars, and the faint hum of soft music in the background.
Her cat Mr Tumnus, half auburn and half sandstone, stretched against the soft of the rug, taking this to be an opportune invitation to becoming company. He leaped, finding himself the snug crevice between her thigh and the sofa to circle and nudge into. She cooed softly, combing her fingers against the scruff of his neck, to which was earned an equivalent; soft animal sounds of comfort and familiarity.
