There were things he did not understand. There were things Alyxa did not know how to explain. Like pain. There was something childlike in the way he played with sunlight, letting it run over his fingers like some acidic liquid. It left marks, like strings of red and yellow yarn tangled over his skin. They might have hurt – they certainly looked like they should – but Alyxa couldn’t tell; he did not seem to register things the way humans did. Time was alien in itself, perhaps pain was too?
She watches him now, from the corner of her eye as she turns the television off. She hadn’t been paying attention to the episode anyways. Morpheus stands, a statue of perfection, amber-pale skin glowing in the soft fluorescent lights that set alight the thrown open French doors leading onto the veranda.
“Morpheus?”
He turns his head, looks at her with that smile that both kills and resurrects in one blow.
“Are you alright?” Alyxa asks him, realising that she’s murmuring because she’s trapped in the emerald green of his eyes.
There are lights in those eyes, like an archipelago of stars afloat in some unfathomably green ocean. Alyxa realises that she is standing in front of him, but how she got there she doesn’t know. He presses her back against the open doors, he tilts her head slightly to the side. There is a soft brush of pain, timid almost, as fangs break open her skin. He feeds. She hopes vaguely that it will not scar.
“Too much...” she whispers, but he doesn’t heed, and she is too far lost to push him aside.
Darkness crawled into her vision, first in spots and then in strove lights, flashing. Pain. He cradles her, laying her gently on the floor, laying beside her, crooning.
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