“Answer the Question, Dallyrasse,” the man in the cloak singsongs, dancing away from that big, formidable, grasping male hand with all the stolen grace of the daughter Rassilon had named so long ago, as he’d gazed out over fields full of ash and dreamed. “Would Tzipporahkoczeskatilya have wanted to see you like this?” Then he edges closer, just out of reach of those fingers grasping for him like descending lightning, and Rassilon goes for black cloak’s throat, too.
The fingers float in the air, curving out into the empty space between them. Deeper in and running through endless fields of charcoal and pitch and starry sky, Rassilon squirms his hands through the darkness, searching for flesh beneath so he can wrest his daughter’s name from the cloaked man’s barbed and seething lips.
But the blackness is like branches in the night, the branches more spine than limb. They claw at him, tearing and ripping and shredding his clothes until he is naked- he falls on the ground before them and they shudder, dropping their small, juiceful blackish fruit upon his face. He closes his eyes, and his nose is filled with the rainy scent of the fleshy black fruits. More and more of the fruit, as they ripen and fall down, cover his eyes like a shroud, and he weeps as his vision is obscured like a window being closed, by the glossy black hips of grey roses, full and subtle and thick with the perfume of ash. They pile and pool and press upon him, and he trembles beneath their weight at last, and is still.