If I could hold you for one more hour

The boy's genesis is a mystery to all but he himself, and it is not information he discloses.
What facts there are however, are thus; he is not a creature born of the forest, and he has never experienced a childhood. Perhaps it is this reason that the little ephemerality seems to bear an almost childlike innocence to his being, having never experienced it, perhaps he has never escaped it.

the Pale Dawn is not however, in any real way, a child, despite the smallness of his stature, his tremulous voice, the edenlight innocence of his eyes, he is as the first man was in those times now lost to all but twisted pages and scripture. Yes, it would be easy to ascribe some aspect of the divine to Yuuto, this is not so much the case however, as his is a world ruled by ancient gods, and not those of abraham's lore.

The form befits this, one must suppose, for he is the pale white of dew-coated spider web, each silk fine hair shimmers just so in the right light as to give off an opaline sheen in so many hues. His is a shape of gentlest curves, and hardly ever a sharp angle. Even the bannered tail is but a flowing wisp, lighter almost than air, for even the slightest breeze pulls it as if a playful kitten with a string.

The neck is an elegant curve, and though most of his appearance is that of short rabbit-soft fur, the neck, like the tail, is longer, a cushion upon which to lay himself against the form of another, for Yuuto is a most tactile creature, the demanding, fussy need of an infant for its mother with most anyone who will give him the companionship which allows it.

Each frail leg ends in a hoof of ruby, such shining shades of rust and blood, of love or lust, a tearing between ideals, it seems almost too violent a colour for so sinless a soul. That same hue is most often strewn about the antlers as well, The antlers, not His, for the Tenderheart bears no tines of his own, they are but a piece of the mask.

The mask...

It seems in some ways, its own being, though it does not smile or speak nor is it home to any manner of soul, the tines regrow when damaged, the mask proper fit to heal itself as bone might. And a beautiful mask it is, for just as the fur shines so too does it, as if so carefully carved from some strange exotic gemstone and framed in the ink-jet feathers of what may be something as mundane as magpie or raven but which are far more likely something their own beast entire.

If the facade is beautiful, the truth is moreso; a rarity in the world, each feature is a delicate work of art, the curve of the nose, the boyish slope of his cheeks and jaw. Wide eyes are bright, sincere, onyx pupils resting upon a pool of blue, of clearest dawn, imbued with twinkling starlight, they seem at lengthy glance to shimmer as if the sun off the sea.

Plush, baby pink lips frame the mouth, so often set in either tender smile or thoughtful repose. And as so much the rest of him, his hair too, fluffy and slightly curling, is ever so pale. And yet that face, so befitting of so petal-soft a heart, is only rarely seen, and only then by those individuals most trusted.

By all means, a creature of longing, lonesome habit, his desire for companionship borders on the necessary, he is simply not himself when he is alone, or perhaps he is, and it is that which he despairs the most, a lily which withers without the sunlight of another's presence.

He makes his home in the hearts of others, seeking sacred safety in the cage of their proverbial ribs.
Hopelessly, helplessly, imperfect, there is almost a manic possessiveness to his actions when he feels threatened by the infringing of another, and in this way and for these reasons, he is perhaps not so guileless a babe as one might think; or perhaps he is ever moreso, hating to share what he thinks of as his with the other children in the sandbox.

In the end, as so many are, Yuuto is as he is, a complex creature with an aching midas-touched heart of gilt and love.

would you lie with me among the flowers?

The Mask
A shimmering, beautiful mask in the form of a bird's piercing face; rimmed in onyx black feathers and crowned in tines of ivory most often adorned in blooms the colour of heartsblood. Difficult to damage, and prone to the curious ability to regrow as if living bone should it come to harm.

I wrote you a letter every day

No one of note.

but the garden of Eden took my love away

Myself
...

Others
_{Fjording/Drom}