The Written Word

There was a need to hide away, to return to the solace and silence of the repository where hardly no one saw fit to bother him. His discomfort ran deep, wanting to spur him on into and episode where his hands spoke for him instead of his voice. Instead, he reached for the small piece of flint on the windowsill near him, using it to strike a flame to life in his hand, settling on his fingertip as it was offered to Ruth to light from. The fire never burned him, a deep seated part of what made him himself, instead being treated with a layer of reverence to his own magic.  

I do not mind. he replied, no change to his reserved and guarded expression. If you can do both at the same time, then I will tell you of what you've brought me, and perhaps tell you of something I'm seeking if you are willing.