NOW RUSHED INTO THIS BRIGHTNESS AS IF BY A SHUTTER
that, once opened, can never be closed
Septimus has lived exactly long enough to learn how to enjoy parties.
The festivities are hardly novel to a creature as ancient and well-traveled as Septimus, which, he supposes, is the trouble with wandering his (formerly infinite) lifetime away – every land was new, but every new thing was duller and less impressive than the last, and childlike wonder could only remain a child for so long. (Maybe he was just more cynical lately. It seemed to weigh, like the changing seasons, on his shoulders.) Still, he appreciates them for the way that they are dazzling, for the music and the light and the dancers, even the drunks, and maybe he appreciates them more now that he is mortal too, and he has a better sense of what they have to celebrate in lost seasons. Before this winter, his notion of winter might as well have been a word without definition. Lifeless cold. The world tilted too far from the sun. A bit less light every single day.
But the warmth of this festival, he had discovered, was because something else felt like it was flickering out – like withering. He doesn’t want to put words to it yet.
He slips through the crowds with practiced ease, dancing out of the stumbling grasp of half-aware drunkards and avoiding the bright-eyed gaze of any curious passers-by. Normally, he would be a bit more social, but he seems to be feeling a bit – what is the word? - reflective tonight. Too reflective to entertain men and women with tongues too loose from alcohol, at any rate, much as he’d normally enjoy catching up on their latest gossip or existential ponderings. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Only that he is looking.
He does not notice her. Not initially. He should have noticed her, and maybe he will curse himself and feel a bit more mortal for it later. But he does not notice her, even as he breezes towards the terrace, jewel-adorned antlers gleaming with clinking specks of green as he passes by torches and hanging lights. He pauses at the edge, and-
There she is.
There you are.
She is grey. Pale-haired. Eyes like the earliest green that comes in spring. It is impossible to say why she catches his attention in a room with undoubtably-more-striking figures. Perhaps it is the way she is standing, with all the innate elegance of royalty. Perhaps it is the way her charcoal lips are curled up into a smile, and perhaps it is the way something inside of Septimus cannot quite believe it. Perhaps it is simply that she stands aside from the crowd, in the shadow of the terrace, half a shadow herself. His wings settle at his side. It would be rude to linger too long, considering her-
He tastes the words on his tongue before he says them aloud – half-thinking that he shouldn’t bother her, half possessed (as usual) by his own uncontrollable curiosity. “Bored, Miss?”
The faintest inclination of his antlered skull - an inquisitive gleam to the bright green of his eyes.
@Anandi || I've just gotta say that I'm so excited to finally have an Andi thread.
"Speech!"
that, once opened, can never be closed
Septimus has lived exactly long enough to learn how to enjoy parties.
The festivities are hardly novel to a creature as ancient and well-traveled as Septimus, which, he supposes, is the trouble with wandering his (formerly infinite) lifetime away – every land was new, but every new thing was duller and less impressive than the last, and childlike wonder could only remain a child for so long. (Maybe he was just more cynical lately. It seemed to weigh, like the changing seasons, on his shoulders.) Still, he appreciates them for the way that they are dazzling, for the music and the light and the dancers, even the drunks, and maybe he appreciates them more now that he is mortal too, and he has a better sense of what they have to celebrate in lost seasons. Before this winter, his notion of winter might as well have been a word without definition. Lifeless cold. The world tilted too far from the sun. A bit less light every single day.
But the warmth of this festival, he had discovered, was because something else felt like it was flickering out – like withering. He doesn’t want to put words to it yet.
He slips through the crowds with practiced ease, dancing out of the stumbling grasp of half-aware drunkards and avoiding the bright-eyed gaze of any curious passers-by. Normally, he would be a bit more social, but he seems to be feeling a bit – what is the word? - reflective tonight. Too reflective to entertain men and women with tongues too loose from alcohol, at any rate, much as he’d normally enjoy catching up on their latest gossip or existential ponderings. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Only that he is looking.
He does not notice her. Not initially. He should have noticed her, and maybe he will curse himself and feel a bit more mortal for it later. But he does not notice her, even as he breezes towards the terrace, jewel-adorned antlers gleaming with clinking specks of green as he passes by torches and hanging lights. He pauses at the edge, and-
There she is.
There you are.
She is grey. Pale-haired. Eyes like the earliest green that comes in spring. It is impossible to say why she catches his attention in a room with undoubtably-more-striking figures. Perhaps it is the way she is standing, with all the innate elegance of royalty. Perhaps it is the way her charcoal lips are curled up into a smile, and perhaps it is the way something inside of Septimus cannot quite believe it. Perhaps it is simply that she stands aside from the crowd, in the shadow of the terrace, half a shadow herself. His wings settle at his side. It would be rude to linger too long, considering her-
He tastes the words on his tongue before he says them aloud – half-thinking that he shouldn’t bother her, half possessed (as usual) by his own uncontrollable curiosity. “Bored, Miss?”
The faintest inclination of his antlered skull - an inquisitive gleam to the bright green of his eyes.
@
"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
