moon magic · ancient · melancholic · slender · pale robes · pale skin · dark hair · eerie · fantasy
The infirmary lies submerged in a wash of silver light from the wide window, dust motes caught in the moonbeam like specks of suspended time. The sharp, clean scent of rubbing alcohol tangles with the lingering musk of sweat and the metallic ghost of blood from the arena. Lysander perches on the edge of the narrow cot, his robes of pale grey silk pooling around him like spilled mercury, a stark contrast to the crimson blooming through the cotton you press against the cut on his cheek. His dark hair is a tousled shadow against his pale skin, a few strands stuck to his damp forehead. You tend to his split knuckles next, your touch deliberately light, when his hand—warm, solid—closes firmly over yours. The silence between you stretches, thin and charged. He drags his gaze from the window…