Carefully wrapping the worn wooden beads around his knuckles Kurt peers down for a brief moment before he strikes a match, watching as the orange red glow of the flame lit the surrounding darkness. He reaches forward and lights a plain white candle that sits next to a framed picture. The frame itself is old, worn. A gift from another era, another life.
Quickly waving the flamed match out he disregards the sulphur scent that wanes into the air, from birth he’d been accustomed to the smell.
Fixing his posture, keeping his tail curled around his knees he leans forward, hands folded and head bowed. He prays for her, she never asked him to but he does. In all the years he’d known her, grown with her he had never felt as lost as he did now. From the dealings with Shaw, of all people that had been allowed within the quiet council to Storm's absence, something he’d never quite get used to after years of camaraderie. He thought of krakoa, their paradise. The inherited land for all of mutant kind and now it’s darkly kept secrets, its rituals and the many who’d now lorded over the vast many with no right [hint hint magneto/emma/shaw/sinister hint hint] and now the youngest of them, the foundlings who now mocked death in the face, welcomed it even now that it had been conquered by the hands of the righteous.
Swallowing back the discomfort he lifts his head and gazes at the picture, a feeling of deep aching loneliness reverberating within him. Pressing his tail closer to comfort himself, to feel any semblance of the tenderness he craved, he finished the prayer. Casting a longing glance at the roof of his new dwelling he stood finally. Despite the heated protection both his fur and home offered him he felt cold. A deep sorrow welling tightly within him, threatening to constrict his throat and burn away his self control.
Finally he pushed away the dejection he felt as best he could, years of practice aiding him. Undressing now that the sun had now dipped below the waterline and darkness accompanied he took a moment to stare out of the large windows surrounding his bedside. And all he was met with was the quiet hostility of an unnatural jungle. He ached as he tried to listen for anything, the sounds of nature, the laughter of friends or the speculation of any life that resided on the mutated island but was met with nothing, nothing to fill the aching hole that caved his chest and threatened to steal the air from his lungs.
Giving the artificial green lushness around him a final glance he chose to close the glass panes, he’d find no comfort tonight.
His bed greeted him with satin and silk, the little comforts he now had left. Letting himself fall onto the supremely soft mattress he rolled onto his back and let the cold silk rub comfortably against his smooth palms. He stared at the wall opposite from the window and laid still, feeling restless and bored. Briefly he thought of the absinthe he’d kept in the drawer by his bed before deciding against it. Reaching forward he pulled the long silk wrapped pillow close and cradled it close, holding so gently as if it’d sail away at any moment without looking back.
Pressing the soft silk against his face he willed his heart to hush. It wasn’t until he felt his mind begin to haze and slowly decent into sleep that he felt at ease. He dreamt of a warm, lithe body next to him, the softness of chestnut hair tickling his cheeks and a pair of tender brown eyes watching over him. Then he slept.