Elchanan TELL THE TRUTH AND RUN
I love to unravel a good mystery, Septimus says, and Elchanan smiles dirty and sly at him, thinks, Dear boy, if only you knew.
His magic is doing something like begging, currently, in the small map of his veins. Elchanan has never been good at self-control in the first place, and since his arrival in Novus he’s noticed more and more of an itch to use it — a consistent gnawing at his already thin grasp on containing the part of him, teeth and claws, that wants nothing more than to be worshipped. When he speaks, he has to be careful not to let it slip out unbidden. Careful to keep things clean. Careful not to ruin any possibilities with too heavy a hand. No, and it wouldn’t be necessary here, anyway; they seem to be getting along just fine. “You’re in luck, then,” Elchanan answers, returning the boy’s wink with a smirk of his own, and his voice vibrates with a thinly suppressed laugh echoing all the way into his chest.
He has almost forgotten about the real errand he is here to run. When they turn a corner and face the seemingly endless length of yet another corridor piled with books, it suddenly comes rushing back to him, and he lets out an exhale just a little louder than normal. He thinks of the patch of blue on his back — the white marking on his face — of what it might be called in the scroll that they’re looking for. Madness? Disease? Something about that makes his bird-bones shudder. But he’s always been an actor, and it doesn’t take much to collect himself, even as a brief tingle of dread moves through him; Elchanan merely shakes it off and evens his step to match Septimus’, falling back a stride as the tunnels (seem to) narrow around them. Unconsciously he closes the space that separates them by another centimeter or two.
“Oh, you do know better, smart boy—“ It would be condescending if his tone wasn’t so terribly light, so perfectly casual — if the dusty-dark of his eyes weren’t aglow with mischief. And his steps are still easy, his path still unhurried. Nothing of him speaks of malice. (This has always been Elchanan’s power: the slightness of his bones, the deep dish of his face, the ability to blend into a crowd of suspects and convince someone with a bright smile that oh, no, it wasn’t me.) This is no different, though the stakes are a little lower, technically speaking. “—of course I’m flattering you.” He’s never been subtle, and today is not the day to experiment.
The archpriest’s next words are casual but effective — though spoken with an easy tone, they’re decisive, carrying an air that says his answer isn’t to be discussed further. “Not from anywhere near here. Are you? You seem to know quite a bit more than I do. About some things.” Another wolfish grin, bright-splitting his pale lips, and he reaches out to prod one of the pretty green jewels hanging from Septimus’ antlers absentmindedly.
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