09-14-2018, 04:47 PM
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as love filled night gives way to day
Upon Feyre's entry, a harsh gasp escaped her lips, and a stone of zircon flew from across the room while the other gems rattled in their bowls. Rubbing her shoulder where the zircon had hit her, Hazel looked across the room at the young witch, miserable golden eyes tracing not the outline of her odd hat but the faint color that pulsed around her. It was...hauntingly familiar, despite Hazel never having seen that aura color before. For a moment, she simply stared, tears sliding across her skin, looking as though she'd seen a ghost.
A heartbeat passed, and the girl shook herself, disregarding the ridiculous concept that bubbled in her addled brain. People weren't supposed to see her like this - she couldn't drag herself about the clan limp and useless. "No," She blurted, sniffling and setting the ukulele down. "No, I don't live in this room, puer pythonissam." The Latin slipped off her tongue without her recognition, something in her chest prompting the language onto her tongue. She only ever spoke it to Bastille now, as any other outward sound of it nearly put her in tears. (Not that it mattered; she was already in tears.) Hazel pushed herself to her feet, feeling like she had been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to. Hastily wiping her cheeks in an attempt to hide what a mess she was, she froze at Feyre's next words.
"Your father's...neice?" Hazel echoed, her heart slamming against her ribs. Was that why she recognized this girl's aura? Because she was related to Margy or Suite? Her eyes scanned over the flare of color again, wishing she had Bastille's talent at reading them. She found nothing but a frustrating sense of de-ja-vu, and ultimately decided that this child shouldn't be saddled with Hazel's emotional burden. "Feyre, right?" She asked after a pause, bending down to grasp the ukulele. It was also a guise to collect herself, attempting to swallow the thickness of her voice and the heartbeat throbbing in her throat. "You're the girl who tried to speak Latin the other day. I'm Hazel." Hazel found herself smiling faintly at the memory, at the ridiculous thing she said. "You had good pronunciation, but I think your context and comprehension needs a little work."
Hazel stood with Suite's ukulele resting at her hip while she folded a picture and slipped it into her back pocket, cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Ah, thank you...sorry you had to hear it like that. I'm a wreck." She winced, expression growing somber a hand ghosted over the strings and wood of the instrument at her side. "No...it belonged to a very good friend of mine. She bought me my own, actually, so I shouldn't be messing with this one..." It's just the one I learned to play on, and is the closest thing I can get to her... She finished her sentence in silence, not ready to give away that information to a child.
She watched as Feyre sat down, and bit her lip. This little girl was clearly curious to some degree - and Hazel was exhausted, but unwilling to let this child sit in the room of her dead relatives. "Here, why don't we go to my room?" Hazel suggested, squatting down to poke at Feyre's shoulder with the tip of a scarred finger. "I'll teach you some Latin and help you tame that wild mane of yours." She added, reaching underneath the hat to tug at a flyaway curl, subconsciously mirroring the tease that Bastille used with her so often.
(puer pythonissam - young witch)
A heartbeat passed, and the girl shook herself, disregarding the ridiculous concept that bubbled in her addled brain. People weren't supposed to see her like this - she couldn't drag herself about the clan limp and useless. "No," She blurted, sniffling and setting the ukulele down. "No, I don't live in this room, puer pythonissam." The Latin slipped off her tongue without her recognition, something in her chest prompting the language onto her tongue. She only ever spoke it to Bastille now, as any other outward sound of it nearly put her in tears. (Not that it mattered; she was already in tears.) Hazel pushed herself to her feet, feeling like she had been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to. Hastily wiping her cheeks in an attempt to hide what a mess she was, she froze at Feyre's next words.
"Your father's...neice?" Hazel echoed, her heart slamming against her ribs. Was that why she recognized this girl's aura? Because she was related to Margy or Suite? Her eyes scanned over the flare of color again, wishing she had Bastille's talent at reading them. She found nothing but a frustrating sense of de-ja-vu, and ultimately decided that this child shouldn't be saddled with Hazel's emotional burden. "Feyre, right?" She asked after a pause, bending down to grasp the ukulele. It was also a guise to collect herself, attempting to swallow the thickness of her voice and the heartbeat throbbing in her throat. "You're the girl who tried to speak Latin the other day. I'm Hazel." Hazel found herself smiling faintly at the memory, at the ridiculous thing she said. "You had good pronunciation, but I think your context and comprehension needs a little work."
Hazel stood with Suite's ukulele resting at her hip while she folded a picture and slipped it into her back pocket, cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Ah, thank you...sorry you had to hear it like that. I'm a wreck." She winced, expression growing somber a hand ghosted over the strings and wood of the instrument at her side. "No...it belonged to a very good friend of mine. She bought me my own, actually, so I shouldn't be messing with this one..." It's just the one I learned to play on, and is the closest thing I can get to her... She finished her sentence in silence, not ready to give away that information to a child.
She watched as Feyre sat down, and bit her lip. This little girl was clearly curious to some degree - and Hazel was exhausted, but unwilling to let this child sit in the room of her dead relatives. "Here, why don't we go to my room?" Hazel suggested, squatting down to poke at Feyre's shoulder with the tip of a scarred finger. "I'll teach you some Latin and help you tame that wild mane of yours." She added, reaching underneath the hat to tug at a flyaway curl, subconsciously mirroring the tease that Bastille used with her so often.
(puer pythonissam - young witch)
© MADI
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better