NOBODY KEEPS ANY OF WHAT HE HAS
and life is only a borrowing of bones.
She is red. She is so red, and he wonders why the color is beginning to make him think of death; perhaps it is that violet-eyed unicorn and the way that he saw the world withering behind her, once (it feels like a long time ago, now), or perhaps it is the way that he is beginning to understand what it means to bleed in a way that matters. She is red like a spreading pool of blood, red like a gaping wound, or like violence. He wonders, a bit, how she is still so beautiful for it.
For a moment – for a moment, when he prods her, she is so stiff that it almost makes him cringe. It occurs to him that he has certainly prodded a nerve, but the tension is quick to melt out of her. He could almost believe that it was never there at all.
She insists that she is fine, and she smiles. (He has been alive for long enough to discern that it is not entirely genuine.) She claims that she is prone to - spells. He eyes her, and he considers simply letting it go; that doesn’t seem like the kind of claim that it is polite to push.
But – his curiosity has always been just a bit stronger than his social graces. (And besides, he tells himself, if she is sick enough to wander into the woods with no recollection of her own actions, it might be better to figure out what her spells entail.)
“Spells?” He pauses a moment, and then he adds, as though it makes his intrusion a bit more legitimate, “I have some – medical experience. Is there anything that I can do to help?” He does certainly have some medical experience, though he has not devoted his life to it like he has to his naturalism; thousands upon thousands of years of travel do allow for some experience, however, and, when he still had his magic, he was quite adept with healing spells. They were another form of creation, another way of inspiring life, and, if there was anything that Septimus cared for deeply enough to make something out of it, it was life itself. The way it ebbed and flowed beneath the gentle pressure of his magic, the way it wove through an unstitched wound – it was as fascinating as it was nauseating.
Katerina, she calls herself. Another scholar. He dips his head, a particular gleam in his eyes; it is always a pleasure to meet another researcher, of some sort or another. “Katerina. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “What are you doing out in the woods?” He – hopes – that it is a less invasive question than the question of her spells. Something softer, to wash the taste out of the mouth.
His eyes never leave her own – jewel-bright and scientific, his stare somehow meticulous.
@Katerina || f i n a l l y
"Speech!"
and life is only a borrowing of bones.
She is red. She is so red, and he wonders why the color is beginning to make him think of death; perhaps it is that violet-eyed unicorn and the way that he saw the world withering behind her, once (it feels like a long time ago, now), or perhaps it is the way that he is beginning to understand what it means to bleed in a way that matters. She is red like a spreading pool of blood, red like a gaping wound, or like violence. He wonders, a bit, how she is still so beautiful for it.
For a moment – for a moment, when he prods her, she is so stiff that it almost makes him cringe. It occurs to him that he has certainly prodded a nerve, but the tension is quick to melt out of her. He could almost believe that it was never there at all.
She insists that she is fine, and she smiles. (He has been alive for long enough to discern that it is not entirely genuine.) She claims that she is prone to - spells. He eyes her, and he considers simply letting it go; that doesn’t seem like the kind of claim that it is polite to push.
But – his curiosity has always been just a bit stronger than his social graces. (And besides, he tells himself, if she is sick enough to wander into the woods with no recollection of her own actions, it might be better to figure out what her spells entail.)
“Spells?” He pauses a moment, and then he adds, as though it makes his intrusion a bit more legitimate, “I have some – medical experience. Is there anything that I can do to help?” He does certainly have some medical experience, though he has not devoted his life to it like he has to his naturalism; thousands upon thousands of years of travel do allow for some experience, however, and, when he still had his magic, he was quite adept with healing spells. They were another form of creation, another way of inspiring life, and, if there was anything that Septimus cared for deeply enough to make something out of it, it was life itself. The way it ebbed and flowed beneath the gentle pressure of his magic, the way it wove through an unstitched wound – it was as fascinating as it was nauseating.
Katerina, she calls herself. Another scholar. He dips his head, a particular gleam in his eyes; it is always a pleasure to meet another researcher, of some sort or another. “Katerina. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “What are you doing out in the woods?” He – hopes – that it is a less invasive question than the question of her spells. Something softer, to wash the taste out of the mouth.
His eyes never leave her own – jewel-bright and scientific, his stare somehow meticulous.
@
"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
