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"WHY IS IT you have yet to rest, my lord?"
Keres watches Tom Riddle from the window sill where she sat, the frame slightly ajar to welcome the fresh scent of midnight air into the room. The subtle breeze merely weaves through his raven curls, the strands bristling and tickling his forehead before he runs his hand through them. He thrived in languid contemplation, considering the angle at which she served the question, and Keres speculates that it was of utmost impropriety that she ask such a thing.
"My lord, forgive me—"
"There is no need for contrition, Keres," he dismisses with a keen eye, coming down on her hastiness with vivid amusement that enlivens the glint of his irises; the first signal of exuberance he'd displayed since their entry into the room. "The answer is simple: I do not feel safe."
Keres is not as astonished by the answer as she is sorrowful. The Dark Lord had led his Death Eaters into a war they both promised and/or were coerced into fighting, and as the palisade of Aurors advanced, avoidance before the perfect moment to strike was becoming harder to maintain. It seemed the plan he'd spent blood, sweat, and tears musing over was unraveling gradually, and his independent labor alone was not enough to hold it all together. She was not witnessing a man wallowing in commemoration, but instead one asphyxiating on all the darkness that consumed him. He'd bitten off more than he could chew, and now there was no choice but to let it engulf him.
"I will watch over you, my lord," she musters with adamance that could not be doubted.
"Then who will watch over you?" And that dimple of his reappears, and Keres feels heavy emotion bursting in her heart for him; silvers and golds, all melting together into a rich elixir she could live off of if he wanted her to.
A creak erupts from the chaise as he stands up, his gaunt form casting shadows that impended from the walls of the parlor. He rolls his shoulders back, a partial moan tugging from his lips as the tension in his muscles alleviates. Keres shifts on the sill, allowing space for him to sit beside her, and now that he is close, every feature of his amplifies in beautiful layers she couldn't even depict in a dream. His veins were apparent beneath his ghostly skin, almost transparently so, and within the darkness beneath his eyes, she witnesses violet splotches mixing with sangria and merlot undertones. The glimmer of moonlight dances across the side of his face, burnishing the color within his eyes. Keres could see not only the apparent clover shade, but along the circumference of his pupil was the frailest hint of red. He parts his lips to exhale a sigh, and the bluish tint upon the cracks captivates her, the hint of his morose creeping upon his features and consuming the once-peony shade. Riddle was changing, deliberately, albeit without any disinclination.
Keres trembles within his proximity, and she wants to rest the palms of her hands on his skin, his neck, and feel the veins working beneath her touch, the signal of the only humanly components that will remain of him in the near future. She wants to paint his portrait and hoist it upon every wall, every billboard, and allow the world to behold the unadulterated beauty he bequeathed.
