Blind-Sight

And what a shame it was. So calm, so empty. And yet, he is at home here. For what risk does a cavern of he blind and mad pose to one whom IS blind and mad? None. The caverns were deep, the darkness swelling in heavy curtains that grew only deeper as she, too, ventured forth. The silence could be deafening, broken only by the soft dripping of water in the distance, the constant, soft murmur of a flowing brook that seemed to have been the remnants of whatever flow had helped to carve out the caverns to begin with, and ever rarer, to the soft squeak and scuffle of rats and mice that found themselves here at home. And yet, there was but another, and while this was outside of the territory of what he was familiar with, it was near enough that his comfort was nearly guaranteed, for while so many others deemed the darkness as lesser, below them, or even fearful, to him? It was home. He was a cave dwelling beast and he, one of the rare few who wore the darkness like a cloak, and yet even the deep swaths of ink could not muffle the sounds that echoed through the lower depths.

He sang.

It was a thing he no longer found himself doing often, it had once been a valuable part of his time in meditation, though he had found himself often busy, too busy to even find the time to properly swim in his own sightless psyche.

But now, he had a moment, he had a chance, and however small and brief it may have been, he would clutch it, fierce.

And perhaps it was this, the smooth sound of velvet and honey, a promise of beauty somewhere in the dark-- that would be be a sirens' lure.
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"speak"