Sun Mote Copse Love me like you love the sun

It was a beautiful woodland, the hellhound knew as such but couldn't help but hold a sense of regret since coming here. He was alone and horribly so. Hemlocke could have also hoped for a forest with much more cover, but as it were this place was one of the brightest forests in the region for while the trees were tall with sprawling canopy, they were sparse and the woodland was quite open.

He endured, as he had within the valley he once called home not far from here. There the land was partially covered in forest but was no more or less dark for him as here. Hemlocke did everything he could during nightfall and so stuck to this routine with wonder of his decision in the back of his mind. He was sure this particular forest was much prettier in the day, but could only imagine this.

Hemlocke often found comfort by the falls, the sound of the water moving down the rocks easing his restless mind, same as this night and allowed himself to relax nearby silently watching, and waiting... for anything, anyone.

some nights she wishes the cicadas would sing her to sleep, to wake her in the morning in a different place. perhaps where the hills blushed white and pink. to the wajo and the apex of the temple, the stones eternally warm to the touch.
most nights she fought for sleep in the same manner she fought for everything; empty-eyed and hollow chested, dreaming more in the waking hours and then fretting once the sun descended.
a day spent roaming a nearby orchard has left satsu haunted.
she seeks the still night water of a pond, unaware of the source of its flow. unaware, in her current frame of mind, of the shadow who lurks and who watches.
she glides in to the water with only the smallest gasp; surprised by the sheer cold of it, given the season. as she sits her body begins to adapt. she soaks, shocked awake by the sensation.

Left to his charge, the hellhound played the role of guardian of this place well. Little did he find those who meant the land harm or meant to claim it their own. So he would stalk the lands, protect them until his allies came to take them. Unable to attempt to lay claim here all on his own, he marked the lands to make others aware that someone did live here, should they cross him, should they find curiosity of what was to become of this land.

Now, another had come. One of few he ran into. She moves with a fluid confidence, the gray of the pelt reflecting a beautiful glow of blue by the waters and moonlight. Hemlocke remains still and silent. And then she moves into the pool of water with a quiver. A quite pleasing wolf in a pleasing scenery. He is content to remain hidden for now, enjoying her presence.

it has been some time since satsu could bathe properly, though she is fortunate to have fine, short fur which is easily managed. this is not like her father's precious spring; there is a beauty to the waters here, but no cherry to perfume the air, no sweetness like that of honeysuckle.
it is not home. it can never be home.
but satsu is glad. she soaks for minutes, then lowers her head so that she is submerged. as she rises again the water lines her face and makes the gray shine silver in her coat.

A peeping Tom. A night stalker. He would watch her soak in the lake of the falls under the twilight of moon. When the little Nymph dips and then rises, she is aglow, silvered and blue shines all over.

Hemlocke takes in a sharp breath, in awe of the beauty of the scenery before him. The quiet of it. The comforting simplicity of it.

The hellhound shifts, quietly lifting from his lay and into a stand so that he might obtain an unhindered view. Though he does not bother to think (transfixed by her) that she too might see him.

the shadow watched; but the girl soaked, she floated, and she was content enough with herself that she failed to notice.

the water was cold. she went down for another dip, slimming every angle of her body upon the rise.
as drops drew along the nape of her neck, or caught at the clavicle, or even stole starlight to frame her face, satsu was not aware.

she thought of her mother; quietly, she began to murmur to herself. keeping tempo as she washed.
shirokane mo
kugane mo tama mo?
nanisemu ni
masareru takara
koni shikame yamo. . .

a sigh; satsu drifts in the memory of this spoken tanka which, until now, had only ever been a lullaby from mother to daughter.

She little Nymph moves still, fluidly, washing away whatever trials of the day had brought her. The water moving down the rock face behind her smothering his noise, whatever little it may be. Even as he now stands, the hellhound blends to the shadows that he wore. She does not notice him. Many did not.

She begins then, to see, a language unknown to him. He had never heard such tongue before, he does not think.

There is a sway of his plum but then it stops sudden. He feels as though by now he has stolen away too much of her privacy and a certain guilt takes hold of him. Hemlocke would turn then, silently slipping away into the forest. Away from the waterfalls and the little Nymph whom bathed in them.

her time within the onsen would help to ease some of her hurt. it was a magical time to nurse her mental wounds, bathing as much in the starlight as the clean, clear water itself.
satsu did not know she had been watched. she did not sense the onlooker during her recitation.
all she had were the stars reflected around her in the pool, the chill that lingered as she drew herself to the shore again, and a sense of peace which would drift with the dawn.