I DON'T BELIEVE IN LIFE
and I won't believe in death until I die
The red girl is beautiful. There is no other way to say it.
Beautiful, he decides, but, distinctly, beautiful in a way that is somehow wrong. Her red too dark against the snow. Her eyes too pale. Those roses, in her hair, half-thorn, spots of blood on ivory – too much a sign of spring. Roses on her skin. A mere image of the ones strewn in her hair, but somehow more alive, regardless. A crooked spiral of a horn with a sharp, sharp point. He is not sure what she makes him think of. Some sort of animal, probably, or a particularly dark and vivid flower. She is beautiful in all the ways that suggest a warning sign.
Her eyes are already on Septimus when he sees her, but he cannot say that they are looking at him, at least in any way that makes sense. It is the way that you look at something when you only half-understand its character, and you reduce it to parts to try to get it right – the sharp point of a cheekbone or the curve of a hock, shades of color without hue. He cannot shake the feeling that she looks confused, though he cannot for the life of him piece together why, and, a look of concern slowly creeping across his dark features (the furrowing of the brow, lips half-open, ears twitched straight forward), Septimus puts aside his paints, disposing the brushes on a towel and closing the bottles of paint, and he cautiously steps around the easel, drawing just a pace closer to the girl.
She is still looking at him. “I’m sorry,” she says, abruptly, and then, before he can piece together a response, “I- hello.” She must be ill somehow, Septimus decides. Were he still in possession of his magic, he could have figured out why. He’d crafted spells for all manners of sickness, during his travels; some were more deep-rooted than others, but no ailment of the body had eluded his understanding forever. (Ailments of the mind were something else entirely. He had never been particularly good at curing those – perhaps it was because he had never understood them. How could a fleeting, immortal creature who only loved other fleeting, immortal creatures possibly comprehend the mystery of the mortal heart? But his had always been half, so he had never been quite so good at ignoring them as his family. He still didn’t understand, but he was beginning to.) But he has no magic, and Delumine has doctors besides. There is no need for that contemplation.
“You’re-?” He cuts himself off, blinking in confusion, then shakes his head. Better not to ask. Better to try to soothe her, instead. “No, no, you have…nothing to apologize for.” He regards her with sharp green eyes, taking another step forward; a thin layer of ice, splashed up on the rocks by the river, cracks beneath his hooves. “Hello, there. My name is Septimus – I’m a scholar in Delumine. Are you alright, Miss?” She doesn’t seem well. If asked, Septimus would not be able to point to why. Perhaps it was the dream-like quality of her pale eyes, or the way she was looking at him, as though she didn’t quite know where she was or why he was here – perhaps it was simply her apology, which seemed such a strange thing to say to someone you’d only just met.
It did not occur to him until the words were out of his mouth that perhaps she would prefer not to be asked, that prodding her about her health might be a bit invasive, and perhaps it would be more tactful to simply ignore her confused demeanor. Still – it was cold, dangerously so, and they were near the riverbank. You would not have to drift so far down the bank to arrive at the rapids, and a part of Septimus is worried that she would fall in if she stumbled upon them in such a state.
@Katerina || <3
"Speech!"
and I won't believe in death until I die
The red girl is beautiful. There is no other way to say it.
Beautiful, he decides, but, distinctly, beautiful in a way that is somehow wrong. Her red too dark against the snow. Her eyes too pale. Those roses, in her hair, half-thorn, spots of blood on ivory – too much a sign of spring. Roses on her skin. A mere image of the ones strewn in her hair, but somehow more alive, regardless. A crooked spiral of a horn with a sharp, sharp point. He is not sure what she makes him think of. Some sort of animal, probably, or a particularly dark and vivid flower. She is beautiful in all the ways that suggest a warning sign.
Her eyes are already on Septimus when he sees her, but he cannot say that they are looking at him, at least in any way that makes sense. It is the way that you look at something when you only half-understand its character, and you reduce it to parts to try to get it right – the sharp point of a cheekbone or the curve of a hock, shades of color without hue. He cannot shake the feeling that she looks confused, though he cannot for the life of him piece together why, and, a look of concern slowly creeping across his dark features (the furrowing of the brow, lips half-open, ears twitched straight forward), Septimus puts aside his paints, disposing the brushes on a towel and closing the bottles of paint, and he cautiously steps around the easel, drawing just a pace closer to the girl.
She is still looking at him. “I’m sorry,” she says, abruptly, and then, before he can piece together a response, “I- hello.” She must be ill somehow, Septimus decides. Were he still in possession of his magic, he could have figured out why. He’d crafted spells for all manners of sickness, during his travels; some were more deep-rooted than others, but no ailment of the body had eluded his understanding forever. (Ailments of the mind were something else entirely. He had never been particularly good at curing those – perhaps it was because he had never understood them. How could a fleeting, immortal creature who only loved other fleeting, immortal creatures possibly comprehend the mystery of the mortal heart? But his had always been half, so he had never been quite so good at ignoring them as his family. He still didn’t understand, but he was beginning to.) But he has no magic, and Delumine has doctors besides. There is no need for that contemplation.
“You’re-?” He cuts himself off, blinking in confusion, then shakes his head. Better not to ask. Better to try to soothe her, instead. “No, no, you have…nothing to apologize for.” He regards her with sharp green eyes, taking another step forward; a thin layer of ice, splashed up on the rocks by the river, cracks beneath his hooves. “Hello, there. My name is Septimus – I’m a scholar in Delumine. Are you alright, Miss?” She doesn’t seem well. If asked, Septimus would not be able to point to why. Perhaps it was the dream-like quality of her pale eyes, or the way she was looking at him, as though she didn’t quite know where she was or why he was here – perhaps it was simply her apology, which seemed such a strange thing to say to someone you’d only just met.
It did not occur to him until the words were out of his mouth that perhaps she would prefer not to be asked, that prodding her about her health might be a bit invasive, and perhaps it would be more tactful to simply ignore her confused demeanor. Still – it was cold, dangerously so, and they were near the riverbank. You would not have to drift so far down the bank to arrive at the rapids, and a part of Septimus is worried that she would fall in if she stumbled upon them in such a state.
@
"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
