A/N: Meep. I got really freaked out writing this…It’s quite disturbing; I have no idea where it came from, and further supports my suspicion that something is not quite right in my head. Read and review…if you feel you must.

The Death of a Nightingale

By Akira Ichijouji

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Light fabric as icy and as transient as air seemed to shift across his thighs, even as he lay motionless, eyes flickering through the darkness, from wall to wall, from inexplicable highlight to the mysterious depth of penetrating shadow.

His hands clutched involuntarily at the black silk, fingers tightening around the thin, impersonal fabric, so tightly that each thread seemed a tiny wire, pulled tautly and searing against the damp skin of his palms.

He thought desperately, afraid to call out, afraid to make any sort of noise that would give himself away. There was no answer out of any of the five corners of the room, nor from the expansive canopy shading the already shadowed bed.

Swirling patterns in the silk twisted haphazardly around each leering bedpost, mocking his loneliness, mocking the pain he felt gnawing deep in the pit of his stomach, nibbling and tearing flesh and muscle away from white bone marred with the thick, lucid red of blood. Even through the robes and the covers and the high curtains covering his bed and the sweat breaking out on his flushed brow he felt naked, stripped to the bone and cold as death.

Fear uncoiled from underneath the bed, sending tendrils and tentacles upwards to writhe unfettered before his staring, fevered eyes. He wanted to scream, to yell, to shriek out in abject terror but the sound, aborted in his throat, never made it past his dry, gasping lips. Too much.

Too much anguish since his bird of light had flown to faraway lands. Too much darkness, too much desolation, too much of the overwhelming, all- encompassing fear since Tamerin had left and gone away.

The boy shifted suddenly, pulling the black silk covers over his head, burying his burning face deep in the still frigidity of his pillow, gasping for cool air around the murky, choking smoke of the incense.

An unbearable pressure built up behind his eyelids, dark, hot tears rolling out from beneath fair lashes to soak skin deep in the pillow he clutched to his face.

A hitch in breath; a whimper; a long, shuddering sigh; the curtains hanging from the bedposts quivered with the slight movement, shaking evenly in time to the boy’s racing heartbeat.

And relief came. A warm figure slipped under the covers beside him; unmoving, the boy let his tears flow harder.