I DON'T BELIEVE IN LIFE
and I won't believe in death until I die
In the winter, the meadow feels like a wasteland.
He is alone in the center of it, a spark of rich, warm brown against a landscape of dead grey; in the spring, Septimus knows that this place will be emerald green and ruby red, but now it is miserably cold and monotonous, rolling waves upon waves of tall grass that died in fall but remain upright regardless. Still, if he looks closely enough, he can find some creatures still alive – the little brown-grey field mouse, taking refuge from the winter wind in a matted nest of grass and sprigs of cotton likely stolen from the court, and some sort of little finch perched atop an especially tall leaf of grass, gripping tight to the dead stem in spite of the wind, which blew both bird and grass back and forth with an ease that made them appear entirely insignificant.
This is his first full winter like this, and it is enough to make him ache with longing. In the back of his mind lies endless green. Septimus had forgotten how to miss his homeland, before winter; he had even longed for cold, empty lands, for they were so unlike the endless forests that were so familiar to him. Now he knows that all of that – all of that was not winter. He never knew what winter was, before it came creeping in at the end of his first year mortal. He saw it without understanding it, and that very realization leaves him on the precipice of something very ugly and gaping-
In all his years of studies, has Septimus ever understood anything?
There is no use, he supposes, in thinking too deeply about it. The past is inflexible; what he needs to do now is discover how to reinstate his magic and immortality, rather than wandering Novus aimlessly in search of what creatures and things it might have to offer. At first, he had thought that one might lead to the other – after all, in his godless and wild homeland, magic is intertwined with the landscape and the beings that inhabit it. There is no end to magic. Nothing is without it. Every leaf, every blade of grass, each curling vine…and every strange creature that wanders the woods, born there or otherwise.
That is the danger of entering the forest, why those few mortals that try always disappear or are swallowed up entirely – the magic will find a home inside of everything it touches. There is no choice. The choice was entering at all.
He did not think that it worked in reverse, that what you were could be taken and unraveled, that, once the magic took root in your soul, it could be dug out cruelly, like a weed in a flowerbed – but it could. And he knew it now. And he ached for the weeds, the overgrown vines, the Queen-Anne’s-lace and unnamed little blue flowers that would find their way into places they didn’t belong and grow and grow regardless.
Were it another day, and were he thinking other thoughts, Septimus might have been more observant. He might have been more guided, or he might have been more persistent – more like himself, always searching. But today he was quiet, and the only thing that he was watching was the grey, cloud-covered sky as it rolled over the hilltops, promising winter winds and snow.
@Thana || <3
"Speech!"
and I won't believe in death until I die
In the winter, the meadow feels like a wasteland.
He is alone in the center of it, a spark of rich, warm brown against a landscape of dead grey; in the spring, Septimus knows that this place will be emerald green and ruby red, but now it is miserably cold and monotonous, rolling waves upon waves of tall grass that died in fall but remain upright regardless. Still, if he looks closely enough, he can find some creatures still alive – the little brown-grey field mouse, taking refuge from the winter wind in a matted nest of grass and sprigs of cotton likely stolen from the court, and some sort of little finch perched atop an especially tall leaf of grass, gripping tight to the dead stem in spite of the wind, which blew both bird and grass back and forth with an ease that made them appear entirely insignificant.
This is his first full winter like this, and it is enough to make him ache with longing. In the back of his mind lies endless green. Septimus had forgotten how to miss his homeland, before winter; he had even longed for cold, empty lands, for they were so unlike the endless forests that were so familiar to him. Now he knows that all of that – all of that was not winter. He never knew what winter was, before it came creeping in at the end of his first year mortal. He saw it without understanding it, and that very realization leaves him on the precipice of something very ugly and gaping-
In all his years of studies, has Septimus ever understood anything?
There is no use, he supposes, in thinking too deeply about it. The past is inflexible; what he needs to do now is discover how to reinstate his magic and immortality, rather than wandering Novus aimlessly in search of what creatures and things it might have to offer. At first, he had thought that one might lead to the other – after all, in his godless and wild homeland, magic is intertwined with the landscape and the beings that inhabit it. There is no end to magic. Nothing is without it. Every leaf, every blade of grass, each curling vine…and every strange creature that wanders the woods, born there or otherwise.
That is the danger of entering the forest, why those few mortals that try always disappear or are swallowed up entirely – the magic will find a home inside of everything it touches. There is no choice. The choice was entering at all.
He did not think that it worked in reverse, that what you were could be taken and unraveled, that, once the magic took root in your soul, it could be dug out cruelly, like a weed in a flowerbed – but it could. And he knew it now. And he ached for the weeds, the overgrown vines, the Queen-Anne’s-lace and unnamed little blue flowers that would find their way into places they didn’t belong and grow and grow regardless.
Were it another day, and were he thinking other thoughts, Septimus might have been more observant. He might have been more guided, or he might have been more persistent – more like himself, always searching. But today he was quiet, and the only thing that he was watching was the grey, cloud-covered sky as it rolled over the hilltops, promising winter winds and snow.
@Thana || <3
"Speech!"
AND RARELY, IF THE WOOD ACCEPTS THE BLADE WITHOUT CONDITIONSthe two pieces keep their balance in spite of the blow❃please tag Septimus! contact is encouraged, short of violence
