A boy sits in the fork of a tree, balanced cross-legged with a book upon his lap. His eyes run down the lines of characters rapidly as he turns the pages until the blank portion is reached. A small brush materialises between his fingers. He sets the tip to the parchment, and makes the first stroke.

His hands are small but deft; the characters formed precise and jet against the paper. They flow down the page as if running straight from his thoughts. He does not pause to re-ink his brush, but continues until the page is complete, and then turns it over and begins another.

His hair is glossy and raven, graduating to lavender around his face. A lock falls forward, obscuring his vision, and he tucks it back behind his ear impatiently. His expression is serious upon his heart-shaped face; the look of a child concentrating on an important task.

The canopy of the tree above hides him from the prying sun. From the ground, he is invisible also, nothing more than a smudge of shadow in the fork of two great branches. Black leathers are laced snuggly to his legs. A Chinese tunic of burgundy silk is sashed at his waist, the tails fluttering slightly in the breeze. From narrow shoulders falls a cloak, black as liquid darkness.

Another page is filled and he turns it quickly, beginning yet again. His bright eyes follow each brushstroke, ever-alert, brown with flecks of amber, lashes long and black. The lines spill onto the page as if they can no more be contained in his mind than the sea within a bucket. The strokes form words, the words form sentences. The sentences weave events into a tale that binds time with every character.

Finally, he breathes a sigh and lifts the brush from the page, holding it poised for a moment, and then closing the book with loving care. He brushes a smattering of dust from the cover with gentle fingers, and then tome and brush disappear somewhere deep within his cloak.

The boy smiles and hugs his knees. His secrets are safe once again.