A/N: Just a doodle of the marauder Noir, almost a drabble. The title comes from W. B. Yeats's "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven," which is actually quite lovely and relevant.
Disclaimer: I do not own Tegami Bachi/Letter Bee or Yeats.
Dark Cloths of Night
Noir loves the open spaces. The empty places. The austere and lovely bones of the earth. He loves wandering the desolation with the light at his back; he loves the cold grandeur of the sand, the silence that surrounds him for miles around. This is a place to find solitude without being alone. Everyone knows that the land is alive. That the desert is sacred. If the passage takes its toll, well, Noir is not afraid to pay the price. And if there is a strange phantom heat in the sand, a noiseless thrumming in his bones, Noir does not mind. The spirit amber runs deep in these parts. The desert is free to keep it, and all its secrets and mysteries; at least the desert cannot lie.