the moon rises alabaster to her soft humming.
she looks almost innocent as the pale night holds her like a wish, melting like wax into her eyes of warmest ice and pooling in her collar bones.
she would be completely pure.
wholly, splendidly vulnerable.
if not for the blade.
the razor at her hip
that makes the darkness uneasy, wild-eyed as a horse;
that is alive and writhing, a snake to scare the night-mare.
she is grateful for the blade that bites.
she does not take kindly to those who patronise.
the streets are open, beckoning, and she turns a corner.
and...
there.
something slinks, darker than pitch itself, and she stops.
for she has been watching out for a gap in the night since before night dreamed itself into happenstance.
and here it is.
the slinking something straightens itself into a them.
she hasn't whispered in years, but before she can think to end the hiatus, they beat her to it.
they speak themselves into a she. and though she manages but one word, encased in italic husk, it has more melody than even apollo could ever muster, and the end of it rises with more heartstopping grace than the sun god's own chariot in the yet-to-come dawn.
it is the best thing the owner of the blade has ever heard.
"patience?"
