There are many kinds of silence. The silence of darkness. The silence of sleep.
Larxene's favorite is that before a storm – tense, brimming, on the edge.
She stands on a balcony, watching the clouds boil overhead. Lightning, flashes of violet and red. Her eyes dance and shine in the cold light.
There is no thunder, only silence.
People, she realizes, think lightning is noisy and violent. This isn't true – thunder is loud and deafening. Lightning is silent as night.
A flash; the world is briefly bathed in light. When the thunder arrives, the balcony is empty, the lightning long gone.