prayed to keep my soul
H
e smiles and she wants to ask him something. Are we all born from stars? She wants to ask him because he looks like he would know the answer. But she lets it glide by on the passing breeze, remembering that it is a silly question and that of course they are born from stars. Her papa told her as much.And he would never lie to her she thinks.
She thinks but does not know for certain.
He explains things to Elli and she finds herself watching the way his mouth moves, how his lips form each word, and the way his eyes tilt down to her own, she thinks she will paint him, probably, but she may just paint him as a deer instead. So much she is concentrating, remembering every angle of his antlers, every point, she misses much of what he says, clasping only onto that there are boy deer and girl deer. (Male and female mean so little to one lost in her innocence.) She skips forward, closer to him, head nodding back and forth, side to side. “Boys and girls, boys and girls,” she says in a haunting sing song voice. It would not be so chill inspiring perhaps if it were not so high pitched, like the wind, and maybe if it were not sang in such perfect tune, her melody impeccable. She thinks of boys and undoubtedly that leads to thinking of Aeneas and she wonders if he has tried looking for her, and she smiles because he has yet to find her.
“I don’t want to be a biologist,” she says direct. “I’m going to be a paint, you can be a biologist if you want,” she pushes the reassurance into his heart, although she knows her approval means relatively little to adults, she offers it anyway.
She takes the gemstone and leans towards his ear. “I will put it under my pillow,” she whispers like a secret. “I wont show anyone—except Nicnack,” she says. Of course, except Nic. Her mother’s ward was perhaps the exception to everything, as much a part of her home as her mother’s flowers or the smell of the sea. “I have not,” she admits. Spring is a concept that she does not quite understand, she has seen it in books, learned about it in school, but she cannot see beyond the snow.
“Blessed Night, Septimus,” she offers him, a greeting her father taught her to use in Denocte. A phrase she took home with her. A girl of Dusk and Night, who has found companionship in the dawn. She has her mother’s build in so many ways and is lovely in her movement, fluid and soft like the calm banks of a river, so she walks almost carefree until he speaks, and her response is a girlish giggle before she grows quiet. “Wait, I hear something.” She says and turns blue eyes to face the forest.
@Septimus elliana speaks
elliana
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