09-16-2018, 10:59 PM
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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS
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Vanilla, crisp on the tip of his tongue; she tastes like warmth and honey and golden radiance, the familiarity of her scent hitting the back of his throat as he inhaled briefly at the sight of her. Reverence echoed in his pulse even as the whispers of a lost dream escaped him, the lingering hunger just barely-there and alive in his veins; holy, he thinks, pale blue stare sweeping over her briefly, and the utmost divinity soaking into his skin almost brings him to his knees. There is a sense of devoutness there when his gaze lands on hers once more, and he can't shake it even as the clarity and proximity of her presence seems to wake him up a bit more, drawing him out of the half asleep state that had brought him to her room. It says too much, maybe, but the itch under his skin clamoring at him to never let her out of his sight takes precedence over any semblance of subtly.
"αὐτὸ δὲ ἔκ τε ἐλέφαντος τὸ ἄγαλμα καὶ χρυσοῦ πεποίηται," he breathed, absently, the words coming unbidden before he blinked and seemed to focus on her more fully, her words and the note of concern lining her voice drawing him out. The Greek was neither as fluid nor natural on his tongue as Latin, the faint rasp to his voice giving him away; he was tired, just woken up, and not very apt with the language — a weak quotation at best, but he seemed to forget it almost as soon as he had said it.
"No, nothing, I just—" he started after a moment, giving a shake of his head before raking his fingers through his hair, attention flickering down over her form before his gaze shifted away, to the side; not quite making eye-contact as if his manners had caught up with him the more he shook himself awake. Right. There was no reason for him to show up in the middle of the night unless there was a problem, and he had no way to explain the panicked tightness in his throat, the flutter of his heart beat drumming, the flicker of adrenaline — of his instincts telling him that something was wrong, amiss; that she was slipping through his fingers and would be gone if he looked away.
What happens when she loses her mothers? The question ate at him daily, though he couldn't say why or where it came from, what the sudden urgency was. He could hear gravel crunching under his heels when he breathed out quietly enough, but the remainder of his dreams lay just out of reach, lost. All he had were phantom chills and a prayer stuck in the back of his throat.
"I have—" he started, his thoughts stalling and then focusing on something of substance, some need that he could actually place, something tangible. His pale stare cut back to golden irises, taking solace in the fact that if he didn't look down there was no issue in studying her radiance straight-on. "I have something to show you," he decided on after a moment, swallowing the raspiness and the nervous fluttering in his throat. She was fine. She was right here, and he told himself as much, even as the worry never disappeared. "From... From Margy."
The memories hovered just at the edge of his thoughts, lurking; they came quicker at night, he found, when his defenses were low and the barriers between he and his souls were weaker. Bastille had always found that the witching hour was a very literal phenomena, making one life more salient then the next, and the same held true for the host: Grimm's presence crept closer, fuller, letting him grasp hold of glimpses of the past and glimpses of the secret he bore. He wasn't sure if he was ready to offer those secrets to Hazel, but he looked at her and knew that it had to be now, that she deserved it. "She wanted to say goodbye to you."
[ "The statue itself is made of ivory and gold." ]
[align=center][table][tr][td]"αὐτὸ δὲ ἔκ τε ἐλέφαντος τὸ ἄγαλμα καὶ χρυσοῦ πεποίηται," he breathed, absently, the words coming unbidden before he blinked and seemed to focus on her more fully, her words and the note of concern lining her voice drawing him out. The Greek was neither as fluid nor natural on his tongue as Latin, the faint rasp to his voice giving him away; he was tired, just woken up, and not very apt with the language — a weak quotation at best, but he seemed to forget it almost as soon as he had said it.
"No, nothing, I just—" he started after a moment, giving a shake of his head before raking his fingers through his hair, attention flickering down over her form before his gaze shifted away, to the side; not quite making eye-contact as if his manners had caught up with him the more he shook himself awake. Right. There was no reason for him to show up in the middle of the night unless there was a problem, and he had no way to explain the panicked tightness in his throat, the flutter of his heart beat drumming, the flicker of adrenaline — of his instincts telling him that something was wrong, amiss; that she was slipping through his fingers and would be gone if he looked away.
What happens when she loses her mothers? The question ate at him daily, though he couldn't say why or where it came from, what the sudden urgency was. He could hear gravel crunching under his heels when he breathed out quietly enough, but the remainder of his dreams lay just out of reach, lost. All he had were phantom chills and a prayer stuck in the back of his throat.
"I have—" he started, his thoughts stalling and then focusing on something of substance, some need that he could actually place, something tangible. His pale stare cut back to golden irises, taking solace in the fact that if he didn't look down there was no issue in studying her radiance straight-on. "I have something to show you," he decided on after a moment, swallowing the raspiness and the nervous fluttering in his throat. She was fine. She was right here, and he told himself as much, even as the worry never disappeared. "From... From Margy."
The memories hovered just at the edge of his thoughts, lurking; they came quicker at night, he found, when his defenses were low and the barriers between he and his souls were weaker. Bastille had always found that the witching hour was a very literal phenomena, making one life more salient then the next, and the same held true for the host: Grimm's presence crept closer, fuller, letting him grasp hold of glimpses of the past and glimpses of the secret he bore. He wasn't sure if he was ready to offer those secrets to Hazel, but he looked at her and knew that it had to be now, that she deserved it. "She wanted to say goodbye to you."
[ "The statue itself is made of ivory and gold." ]
BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE [color=#b4d5ee]FLAMES
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Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]