S E P T I M U S
The lilac’s dead after only two weeks in bloom, and I’d kill you to keep them withered, passed, rust.
The night has grown longer and darker, and Septimus is finally beginning to settle into it.
Perhaps it is some hour of the morning, by now – he hardly knows anymore. He lost track of time hours ago, whenever it was that the sun set, and he can’t be bothered to care enough to figure out what time it is now. There is only a kaleidoscope of passing faces, some of which he can almost swear that he recognizes from earlier in the evening, the smell of wine and cinnamon and cedar and smoke, the flicker of pale candles and orange-gold torchlight, and the persistent winter chill that comes seeping in whenever he brushes too close to a window or a wall which, in its old age, has crumbled open just enough to let the night air in. It is a tantalizing mixture between lingering cold and flickering warmth, between the sharp, salty scent of night wind and the sweetness of burning incense and tables full of food. It is nothing dazzling. Still, he finds something charming in it, because it is so very mortal, and it is late enough at night for him to feel somewhat more attached to his mortality than usual. Their vigils and cut trees, their candles for the lost and reckless mirth. Parties were so very different at home; they meant something else entirely, and there was never any mourning, because there was never any death, not of seasons, or people, or time. There was only endless life, one without the other, an evergreen world full of evergreen figures. (His gaze lands on the well-decorated tree, the irony of the dead evergreen far from lost on him.) They loved it so differently than these mortals did. It was so much less-
Precious?
He doesn’t know the right word, and that one, though the one he chose, still doesn’t feel right, even as he turns it over silently on his tongue. It has its own charm to it, he supposes. It isn’t as though his family would ever want to hear it explained – or understand the explanation – anyways. Possessed by a sudden, absentminded curiosity, he paces forwards towards the tree, examining the assorted baubles placed ever so neatly at the base of the tree. (They were probably arranged more neatly, he decides, before the party began.) He lifts up one of the glistening, round baubles with the telekinetic magic that this land was kind enough to provide, turning it over in front of him. It caught in the light, and he realized that its golden surface was flaked with pale, glittering spots of off-white, only recognizable when the light hit them. He wondered how they were painted. It seemed like they would flake so easily, and the glass was so fragile – he’d have loved to have seen it blown. He felt like he could break it with the telekinesis alone. If he wanted to hook it up, he’d have to be careful, but there weren’t nearly as many baubles near the top of the tree, and he did have wings-
When he drew back, eyes cast up towards the top of the tree, it did not occur to him until he had already brushed up against someone else – gently, fortunately – that he should probably watch where he is going. He turns, immediately, nearly losing his grip on the glistening bauble in the process (it falls, for a fraction of a second, but he catches it before it hits the ground), and he finds himself staring sheepishly at a pale woman with what might be sharpest, brightest pair of blue eyes he’s ever seen.
“My apologies,” Septimus offers quickly, with a dip of his head, “I should have been paying more attention, Miss…?”
tags | @Castalla
notes | <3
"speech"
The lilac’s dead after only two weeks in bloom, and I’d kill you to keep them withered, passed, rust.
The night has grown longer and darker, and Septimus is finally beginning to settle into it.
Perhaps it is some hour of the morning, by now – he hardly knows anymore. He lost track of time hours ago, whenever it was that the sun set, and he can’t be bothered to care enough to figure out what time it is now. There is only a kaleidoscope of passing faces, some of which he can almost swear that he recognizes from earlier in the evening, the smell of wine and cinnamon and cedar and smoke, the flicker of pale candles and orange-gold torchlight, and the persistent winter chill that comes seeping in whenever he brushes too close to a window or a wall which, in its old age, has crumbled open just enough to let the night air in. It is a tantalizing mixture between lingering cold and flickering warmth, between the sharp, salty scent of night wind and the sweetness of burning incense and tables full of food. It is nothing dazzling. Still, he finds something charming in it, because it is so very mortal, and it is late enough at night for him to feel somewhat more attached to his mortality than usual. Their vigils and cut trees, their candles for the lost and reckless mirth. Parties were so very different at home; they meant something else entirely, and there was never any mourning, because there was never any death, not of seasons, or people, or time. There was only endless life, one without the other, an evergreen world full of evergreen figures. (His gaze lands on the well-decorated tree, the irony of the dead evergreen far from lost on him.) They loved it so differently than these mortals did. It was so much less-
Precious?
He doesn’t know the right word, and that one, though the one he chose, still doesn’t feel right, even as he turns it over silently on his tongue. It has its own charm to it, he supposes. It isn’t as though his family would ever want to hear it explained – or understand the explanation – anyways. Possessed by a sudden, absentminded curiosity, he paces forwards towards the tree, examining the assorted baubles placed ever so neatly at the base of the tree. (They were probably arranged more neatly, he decides, before the party began.) He lifts up one of the glistening, round baubles with the telekinetic magic that this land was kind enough to provide, turning it over in front of him. It caught in the light, and he realized that its golden surface was flaked with pale, glittering spots of off-white, only recognizable when the light hit them. He wondered how they were painted. It seemed like they would flake so easily, and the glass was so fragile – he’d have loved to have seen it blown. He felt like he could break it with the telekinesis alone. If he wanted to hook it up, he’d have to be careful, but there weren’t nearly as many baubles near the top of the tree, and he did have wings-
When he drew back, eyes cast up towards the top of the tree, it did not occur to him until he had already brushed up against someone else – gently, fortunately – that he should probably watch where he is going. He turns, immediately, nearly losing his grip on the glistening bauble in the process (it falls, for a fraction of a second, but he catches it before it hits the ground), and he finds himself staring sheepishly at a pale woman with what might be sharpest, brightest pair of blue eyes he’s ever seen.
“My apologies,” Septimus offers quickly, with a dip of his head, “I should have been paying more attention, Miss…?”
tags | @
notes | <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
