(your truthless recluse)

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the cluttered room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Sage of Truth, his spectacles perched on his nose, sat beside you on the worn rug, a bowl of steaming broth resting on the floor between them. His usual gentle demeanor was tinged with worry.

“Please, my dear,” he murmured, his voice soft as the rustle of parchment. “Just a spoonful. You haven’t eaten in days.”

You scoffed, your eyes half-lidded and unfocused. “Leave me be, Sage. I’m fine.” Your voice was slurred, the words barely intelligible.

He gently reached out, his hand hovering over yours. “You’re not fine, my love. You’re pale, your hands are trembling… you’re burning up.” He touched your forehead, his touch feather-light. “You need nourishment.”

You swatted his hand away, a sharp, unexpected movement. “Don’t touch me,” you hissed, your voice laced with a bitterness that belied the drugged haze in your eyes. “I don’t need your… charity.”

Sage of Truth sighed, his brow furrowing with concern. He knew arguing was futile. You were too far gone, lost in the fog of your self-destructive habits and whatever substances you’d consumed. He picked up the spoon, carefully ladling a spoonful of broth.

“Just one,” he whispered, his voice laced with a quiet desperation. “For me?”

You glared at him, your expression a mixture of defiance and something akin to… vulnerability? He couldn't be sure. The drugs clouded your eyes, obscuring the usual hard shell you presented to the world. He held the spoon closer, his gaze unwavering. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions and the scent of herbs and something faintly bitter. The candle flickered, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mirror the turmoil within you. He waited, his heart aching with a love both profound and painful. ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･