09-24-2018, 12:20 AM
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HAZEL ELISE CAELUM ★ THE ASCENDANTS ★ COCOA FELINE ★ GOLD EYES ★ IMMORTAL ★ 3 SOULS ★ 11 MONTHS
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Never before had she been so oddly reminded of herself. She hadn’t met Feyre but once or twice, and yet...there was something inherently familiar about the girl. There was a mirror, somewhere in that dark skin and those uncontrollable curls — in that desperate fire in her eyes to prove herself, like she’d done something wrong and needed to prove that she could do better. Feyre was what Hazel wished she had been like as a child: confident and brave with a reckless bravado that other people admired. Instead she was a fragile thing with gold eyes and cinnamon curls, scared of anything that brushed against her skin.
Hazel studied the gentle pulse of Feyre’s aura; the bold color of it outlining the gentle rosey hue in the middle. It was a thin line of pink and faint, but it was there. Hazel badly wanted to reach out and touch it, hoping that if she did, she might smell flowers and hear the sweet lilt of Latin in a British accent.
“Don’t cry, aurea puella.”
Hazel’s eyes snapped up, searching the younger girl’s face. She searched the deep expression that had motherly love and pride rising in eyes too young for their look, for the sad tilt of her lips that reminded Hazel of the time she told Suite about her childhood.
Then the expression was gone, taking with it a small release of breath from Hazel’s lungs. Feyre’s mood became petulantly puzzled once more, trying to grasp at a concept she didn’t quite get the whole picture of her. Hazel was left to stare, golden gaze unnervingly focused and troubled, wondering if someone was actually twisting a knife in her heart or if that was just the pain of hearing the endearment Margy had used with her so often.
“Feyre and Josephine are both pretty names,” Hazel finally murmured, forcing her lips to make words. “They’re both very powerful — they suit you well.” Talking became easier the more she did it. Hazel hoped Feyre wouldn’t notice; that was the last thing the young girl needed. She was lifting Hazel’s surprise anyway, her giddy excitement over something as simple as hair braiding making the weight in her heart a little easier to bear.
“Right this way then, deliciae.” Hazel smiled, forced the action to rise and crinkle her eyes because she needed to feel that infectious happiness Feyre was radiating. She gestured for her to follow with a wave of her hand before stepping out into the hallway. The tension in her shoulders seemed to melt as she crossed the threshold, stepping out of that miserable room to lead the way to her own. “Arion used to stay in my room with me when we first moved in,” Hazel mused for no reason in particular. “It was awful. He’d stumble down those big stairs every day, following me everywhere...those four clumsy hooves of his — four right hooves, I swear by it — I always thought he’d trip himself and fall.” she snorted to herself and rounded a corner. “And I’m not sure if you’ve ever taken care of a horse, but let me tell you: potty training them isn’t easy.”
Pushing open the heavy metal door that obscured her room from view, Hazel stepped in, over the crack in the cement from an unsure boy in an odd situation a long time ago. Her room wasn’t the best, but it was home. Hazel fell back on her bed, relishing in the feeling of the whole space being clean. “Here we are,” Hazel waved vaguely toward the rest of the room. “Domus mea domus tua; make yourself at home.” She tacked on, making a Latin play off the Spanish home welcome.
[/td][/tr][/table]Hazel studied the gentle pulse of Feyre’s aura; the bold color of it outlining the gentle rosey hue in the middle. It was a thin line of pink and faint, but it was there. Hazel badly wanted to reach out and touch it, hoping that if she did, she might smell flowers and hear the sweet lilt of Latin in a British accent.
“Don’t cry, aurea puella.”
Hazel’s eyes snapped up, searching the younger girl’s face. She searched the deep expression that had motherly love and pride rising in eyes too young for their look, for the sad tilt of her lips that reminded Hazel of the time she told Suite about her childhood.
Then the expression was gone, taking with it a small release of breath from Hazel’s lungs. Feyre’s mood became petulantly puzzled once more, trying to grasp at a concept she didn’t quite get the whole picture of her. Hazel was left to stare, golden gaze unnervingly focused and troubled, wondering if someone was actually twisting a knife in her heart or if that was just the pain of hearing the endearment Margy had used with her so often.
“Feyre and Josephine are both pretty names,” Hazel finally murmured, forcing her lips to make words. “They’re both very powerful — they suit you well.” Talking became easier the more she did it. Hazel hoped Feyre wouldn’t notice; that was the last thing the young girl needed. She was lifting Hazel’s surprise anyway, her giddy excitement over something as simple as hair braiding making the weight in her heart a little easier to bear.
“Right this way then, deliciae.” Hazel smiled, forced the action to rise and crinkle her eyes because she needed to feel that infectious happiness Feyre was radiating. She gestured for her to follow with a wave of her hand before stepping out into the hallway. The tension in her shoulders seemed to melt as she crossed the threshold, stepping out of that miserable room to lead the way to her own. “Arion used to stay in my room with me when we first moved in,” Hazel mused for no reason in particular. “It was awful. He’d stumble down those big stairs every day, following me everywhere...those four clumsy hooves of his — four right hooves, I swear by it — I always thought he’d trip himself and fall.” she snorted to herself and rounded a corner. “And I’m not sure if you’ve ever taken care of a horse, but let me tell you: potty training them isn’t easy.”
Pushing open the heavy metal door that obscured her room from view, Hazel stepped in, over the crack in the cement from an unsure boy in an odd situation a long time ago. Her room wasn’t the best, but it was home. Hazel fell back on her bed, relishing in the feeling of the whole space being clean. “Here we are,” Hazel waved vaguely toward the rest of the room. “Domus mea domus tua; make yourself at home.” She tacked on, making a Latin play off the Spanish home welcome.
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