Elchanan TELL THE TRUTH AND RUN
The ground is not marble but dappled. It is light and dark and light again. No luxurious tile, just the easy, beautiful pattern of sun shining through the moving leaves - and though Elchanan is no wilderness explorer, he smiles at it, surprisingly warmed by the sight. There is some humble beauty to finding something he simply cannot find in the sky, though he will always belong to it. He blinks contentedly at the the fox as it skitters away, the movement of its paws warping the pattern of light underneath. After the briefest, watchful pause, Elchanan turns down the hall. He walks slow and untroubled, strides collected, tail swishing absentmindedly against his haunches, and for the first time in a long time is totally quiet, content to do nothing more than observe: the shining dark wood of the shelves, the spines of so many leather-bound books turned out from the walls, decorative rugs gilded with lavishly dyed fabric, piles of pillows, stacks of quills. Something almost like admiration shines in the priests’ dark eyes. He is, for the most part, not so easily impressed by petty mortal accomplishments, but this is something - different, if only for the way it is overwhelming. Elchanan’s staff drags lazily behind him. It leaves a little furrow, the sharp end breaking a line into the hard ground. The weight of it in his telekinetic grasp is as comforting as a childhood blanket. He reaches out to ruffle an egg-shell blue feather against a particularly pretty embossed title, debating whether to take it off the shelf, and eventually decides against it. There are more important scrolls to be unfurled. He wonders if, in this corner of the world, his homeland has been given a name. He wonders who would know. A pitter-patter sounds on the dirt behind him, and Elchanan turns his head over a narrow shoulder just as the question comes: Are you looking for something, friend? The priest stops short. At once his whole face changes: his expression brightens, a charming smile breaks over his lips, his hazel eyes narrow into something sly and clever as he turns in a neat circle to face the stranger. And ah, what a handsome stranger he is — ! Tall, dark and lean with thick lashes and a forest-green gaze partially obscured by a pair of clear spectacles. A neat blaze and snip interrupt the otherwise perfect hazel of his skin. It reminds Elchanan of the white markings on his own face, though the stranger’s are less creepily exact than his. Indeed. His answer is almost wry. Elchanan is not shy about meeting the man’s green eyes, and when he does it is with a significant and yet utterly shameless measure of interest. He blinks with measured slowness: with him, with those thick, dark lashes and too-intense gaze, the movement is almost salacious. (Only almost.) International scrolls. Walk me? The magic does not leach into his voice, not yet. He’s sure they’ll get along fine without it. |
