On Dreaming
While he tended his injured master, Legato settled down into a quiet town to wait. Said town lay in the outskirts of somewhere, in the middle of nowhere, and could have been anywhere. It was large enough that the occupants of the town hadn't contracted horrible diseases from inbreeding, but was too small to have a name. It was perfect.
There was only one minor nuisance. Whenever he walked through the dusty streets, people stared. Only a few openly gawked at the freak that passed by, but Legato could feel their eyes burning a hole in his cloak, which was eerily white in contrast to the black clothing underneath.
A bubble of quiet surrounded him while he bought his necessities. People would stop talking when they saw him stride through the streets. They would drop their conversations so that they could pretend not to notice him, but Legato knew better. The silence surrounding him teemed with the thoughts of ignorants.
"What a freak."
"Blue hair... disgusting."
"He's a demon. He must be."
The man would just smile an eerie half-grin, and let the corners of his unnaturally golden eyes crinkle ever so slightly. After all, Legato knew better.
Demons don't dream, and every second he lived was a fantastic nightmare.