SO MAYBE DEATH IS A GIRL
and she's only one dance away
There is the sound of someone approaching. At first, he could mistake it for the wind – if not for the crunch of snow beneath her hooves and the serpentine drag of her tail. It is a risk that he does not turn to look at her as she approaches. Still, his gaze remains trained on that grey, grey sky, with only the flick of one of his ears to suggest that he notices her approach. It is as though he cannot quite bear to tear his eyes away.
I remember you, she says; it is close enough for him to feel her breath. He recognizes her, too, when she speaks. The strange cadence of her voice. He wonders what she is doing here. Septimus cannot quite place her in Delumine, among the flowers and the city streets. She belongs somewhere far wilder, in the depths of some overgrown forest or the black and skeletal darkness of some tar-filled bog. He does not have to look at her to know who she is. She feels as unnatural as he does (somewhere deep, deep, deep on the inside – somewhere he is forgetting how to reach), here.
“And I remember you,” he says, his voice as faint as a passing breeze; how could he forget her, with her halo of dead fireflies and wilting grasses? If she were not so rich a color, he thought, she could be the winter itself, with the world withering away in her wake. She is close, and he can feel it, but he does not look at her yet. Her breath disturbs one of the jewels dribbling from his antlers, sending it clinking against the bone. He suppresses the urge to shiver, but he does not dare move. He thinks he might be holding his breath.
She is an unusual creature, he thinks. He is not sure what words he could use to describe her presence, the way that she looks, the way that she moves. Those amethyst eyes, and the jewel on her forehead, and her wild tangles of red hair – but the scythe of her tail, and the point of her horn. His gaze drifts to her, out of the corner of his eye. Against the stark white of the snow, she is so red. He cannot decide if that is a horrible thing or not.
He turns his head, finally. I remember the flowers, too, she says, and he is caught between the white of the snow in her hair and on her lashes and the memory of the island, the flowers tall enough to get lost in. The memory nearly burns; he wishes that the strange land had never fallen back into the sea. There is nothing like it here.
“Yes. The flowers,” he repeats, his gaze drifting back to the barren wasteland before them. “Do you miss them, this time of year?” He wonders. He wonders if she aches for spring, just as he does, or if this winter comforts her, in its cold and slumbering way.
(He wonders if he will ever become so mortal that this winter – the push and pull of the seasons, of passing time - becomes comfortable, not because of what it means, but because it is familiar.)
@Thana || <3
"Speech!"
and she's only one dance away
There is the sound of someone approaching. At first, he could mistake it for the wind – if not for the crunch of snow beneath her hooves and the serpentine drag of her tail. It is a risk that he does not turn to look at her as she approaches. Still, his gaze remains trained on that grey, grey sky, with only the flick of one of his ears to suggest that he notices her approach. It is as though he cannot quite bear to tear his eyes away.
I remember you, she says; it is close enough for him to feel her breath. He recognizes her, too, when she speaks. The strange cadence of her voice. He wonders what she is doing here. Septimus cannot quite place her in Delumine, among the flowers and the city streets. She belongs somewhere far wilder, in the depths of some overgrown forest or the black and skeletal darkness of some tar-filled bog. He does not have to look at her to know who she is. She feels as unnatural as he does (somewhere deep, deep, deep on the inside – somewhere he is forgetting how to reach), here.
“And I remember you,” he says, his voice as faint as a passing breeze; how could he forget her, with her halo of dead fireflies and wilting grasses? If she were not so rich a color, he thought, she could be the winter itself, with the world withering away in her wake. She is close, and he can feel it, but he does not look at her yet. Her breath disturbs one of the jewels dribbling from his antlers, sending it clinking against the bone. He suppresses the urge to shiver, but he does not dare move. He thinks he might be holding his breath.
She is an unusual creature, he thinks. He is not sure what words he could use to describe her presence, the way that she looks, the way that she moves. Those amethyst eyes, and the jewel on her forehead, and her wild tangles of red hair – but the scythe of her tail, and the point of her horn. His gaze drifts to her, out of the corner of his eye. Against the stark white of the snow, she is so red. He cannot decide if that is a horrible thing or not.
He turns his head, finally. I remember the flowers, too, she says, and he is caught between the white of the snow in her hair and on her lashes and the memory of the island, the flowers tall enough to get lost in. The memory nearly burns; he wishes that the strange land had never fallen back into the sea. There is nothing like it here.
“Yes. The flowers,” he repeats, his gaze drifting back to the barren wasteland before them. “Do you miss them, this time of year?” He wonders. He wonders if she aches for spring, just as he does, or if this winter comforts her, in its cold and slumbering way.
(He wonders if he will ever become so mortal that this winter – the push and pull of the seasons, of passing time - becomes comfortable, not because of what it means, but because it is familiar.)
@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
