[ There's a unique sort of sound that only a fresh snowfall brings. The blanket of silence is comforting, and the world hushes beneath the majesty of the cold.
It must be that sort of winter night, because there is a muted hush in the way the fire crackles, in the way his wine glass taps softly against the wood of the end table, in the way the page crinkles as he turns it.
Perhaps there is a softness, even, in the way the quick patter of little feet rush through the hall. His attention narrows on the footsteps, cautious, alert.
There's the soft tap, tap of his finger on the page; he clearly cannot concentrate while the other runs about.
He inhales, perhaps to speak, but he is quickly interrupted by the loud clack of the door opening, of the little footsteps rushing towards him.
There comes a child's voice, delighted and eager. His clothes rustle as they're tugged.
"Do not run, Arthur," he speaks, his voice low, smooth, calming. "You will hurt yourself."
But it seems the child pays no mind to his warning; the young voice goes on and on and on, cadence delighted, eager to share knowledge he already knows. On occasion he inhales, ready to speak, but cannot speak fast enough. The child talks over him, and he cannot keep up.
"It is late. You should sleep," he interjects eventually. But the response he receives is a whine. There comes a soft thud of a book landing on the sofa cushion beside him.
A pause. He sighs.
"Very well. I will read to you. But only one story."
There comes the rustle of clothes, movement on the sofa as the child nestles in beside him. The pages flip open, and he begins to read. His tone is even, quiet, comforting...
And soon the crackling fire and the hush of snow is all muted beneath the soft snores of the child's breath in slumber. His voice quiets, and he no longer reads. He sighs, fond.
no subject
It must be that sort of winter night, because there is a muted hush in the way the fire crackles, in the way his wine glass taps softly against the wood of the end table, in the way the page crinkles as he turns it.
Perhaps there is a softness, even, in the way the quick patter of little feet rush through the hall. His attention narrows on the footsteps, cautious, alert.
There's the soft tap, tap of his finger on the page; he clearly cannot concentrate while the other runs about.
He inhales, perhaps to speak, but he is quickly interrupted by the loud clack of the door opening, of the little footsteps rushing towards him.
There comes a child's voice, delighted and eager. His clothes rustle as they're tugged.
"Do not run, Arthur," he speaks, his voice low, smooth, calming. "You will hurt yourself."
But it seems the child pays no mind to his warning; the young voice goes on and on and on, cadence delighted, eager to share knowledge he already knows. On occasion he inhales, ready to speak, but cannot speak fast enough. The child talks over him, and he cannot keep up.
"It is late. You should sleep," he interjects eventually. But the response he receives is a whine. There comes a soft thud of a book landing on the sofa cushion beside him.
A pause. He sighs.
"Very well. I will read to you. But only one story."
There comes the rustle of clothes, movement on the sofa as the child nestles in beside him. The pages flip open, and he begins to read. His tone is even, quiet, comforting...
And soon the crackling fire and the hush of snow is all muted beneath the soft snores of the child's breath in slumber. His voice quiets, and he no longer reads. He sighs, fond.
Good night, sweet prince. ]