Elchanan TELL THE TRUTH AND RUN
“Sure you are. Quite the scholar,” Elchanan replies, easy. But he is distracted, dark eyes roaming the towering stacks of books on either sides of them. Sunlight casts a warm metallic glow on the library, lighting up the scrolls, tomes and bibles in the same shade as the gnarled tree roots. The archpriest nearly trips as he observes the scene. It is awe-inspiring, and a little scary, just how many of them there are — it is the first time in a long time that Elchanan has really had to face the fact that not only does he not know everything, in the grand scheme of things, he knows very little. Only a very few of the embossed titles are familiar to him, and even those are fuzzy and hard to recall, like a years-old dream. He wonders vaguely how many of them Septimus has read and almost wants to ask. (But it would only make him feel inferior, and besides, old poetry is not quite what either of them is here for.) The focus almost blinds him from the way Septimus’ eyes travel down the curve of his neck, sticky-sweet as fresh honey. Almost, but not quite. He catches the scholar’s gaze and grins. But there is a real warmth in his gaze now, vibrant and intensely personal, one that cannot be misconstrued as anything but genuine interest. Elchanan blinks, and the flutter of his thick lashes is almost soft. He does not think much of the gesture that brings him toward Septimus’ antlers. If it were him, he thinks, he’d take it as little more than a casual expression of interest. But the other man turns, almost a jerk, and for a split second Elchanan thinks he might be admonished for crossing a line as thin as cloud against sky. No, it’s worse — the black satin of Septimus’ lips brush over his jaw, and Elchanan cannot entirely fight the tilt of his head back, nor the surprise in his wide eyes, more the slight shudder that passes through his muscles and ruffles the feathers on his wings and shoulders. A wordless heat tingles from the base of his throat down, down into his chest and the pit of his stomach, and he watches Septimus with a slanted gaze that says nothing but more. It is impossible, then, to focus on the rest of the world, Even the pretty pattern of the dappled sunlight. Even the narrowing of the tunnel as they get closer to something Elchanan is not sure he wants anymore. No, none of it matters but for the way there is no space between them, and the patch of pale skin still dark with blooming warmth that pulses against his jaw. When he does look up, Septimus’ eyes are flashing unusually dark; he smiles, then, and Elchanan is dazed to find a row of needle-sharp teeth looking back at him but not nearly afraid. (It’s not fear that makes his heart beat faster, is it?) “What you know,” repeats the priest. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me?” A little wry smile twists at his lips, not nearly as close to a smirk as the previous ones. He is not even sure what he wants Septimus to answer -- if anything, or with only a wink. |
