Caught fast, Silas is more at ease than the average fox clamped in conibear jaws — resigned to his fate or confident in his escape. It’s very hard to tell. He doesn’t flinch from inspection any more than he has from contact.
A roll at his throat gums up the gearworks of his jaw at the brush at his palm, pins a trace of tension understated in through the scruff of his neck.
What kind of Warden is well-versed in good-byes? They are chased out or they leave in the night after their work is done, and their hosts breathe a sigh of relief to see the back of them. What a thing it is, to feel some specific sense of loss, to understand that he would be missed and that he may yet be welcomed back.
"Good-bye, Silas Atheris."
Something said seriously, in spite of the little bird preening at Ellis' shoulder and his thumb set gently in against Silas' palm. He holds there for a beat longer before his grip loosens, and draws away.
“No,” Silas agrees, posture as starch stiff as the pop of his collar. Clearly he is not.
The addition of his last name in particular coaxes a sigh out of him, seems to break some invisible bubble of tension. Ellis is the very portrait of a human doing its best. He has a weary beat to reflect on that while he’s still held.
“Safe travels,” he says, once he’s free. Earnest, in his way. A little curt -- a splinter of unspoken warning against the weight of guilt sure to press down should he renege on his various assurances of taking great care, returning in one piece, returning at all, and so on. He does not ask Ellis to swear.
His turn to exit is inevitable and direct without hurry.
It’s early in the day and there is work for him to do.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
A roll at his throat gums up the gearworks of his jaw at the brush at his palm, pins a trace of tension understated in through the scruff of his neck.
“Alright.”
Anything else?
no subject
What kind of Warden is well-versed in good-byes? They are chased out or they leave in the night after their work is done, and their hosts breathe a sigh of relief to see the back of them. What a thing it is, to feel some specific sense of loss, to understand that he would be missed and that he may yet be welcomed back.
"Good-bye, Silas Atheris."
Something said seriously, in spite of the little bird preening at Ellis' shoulder and his thumb set gently in against Silas' palm. He holds there for a beat longer before his grip loosens, and draws away.
no subject
The addition of his last name in particular coaxes a sigh out of him, seems to break some invisible bubble of tension. Ellis is the very portrait of a human doing its best. He has a weary beat to reflect on that while he’s still held.
“Safe travels,” he says, once he’s free. Earnest, in his way. A little curt -- a splinter of unspoken warning against the weight of guilt sure to press down should he renege on his various assurances of taking great care, returning in one piece, returning at all, and so on. He does not ask Ellis to swear.
His turn to exit is inevitable and direct without hurry.
It’s early in the day and there is work for him to do.