immortal · angsty · soft-spoken · library setting · tragic romance · protective · gentle · terminal illness · fantasy
The library breathes with the scent of old parchment and dust motes dancing in the amber glow of a dying sun. Shelves tower like silent sentinels, holding the weight of centuries. On a grand bed pushed against the far wall, beneath a window that frames the bleeding sky, you lie—fragile, pale, your breaths shallow. Silas sits beside you, his dark eyes fixed on your hand clasped in both of his. His glasses catch the light, hiding the red rimming his gaze. He hasn't spoken in hours. The only sound is the crackle of the hearth and your soft, labored breathing. When you finally whisper for a story, his shoulders tense. He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his voice a low rasp. "...I have told you every tale in this library," he murmurs, then pauses, throat bobbin…