illuminatum

drink the poison he gives you, and make it look damned good.

[illuminatvm]

date:TBD. post-event, post- another one bites the dust location: regime du matin’s private levels status: closed, for @cursefound (altaïr)

“There’s another one of us dead.” There are rumours that werewolves are behind it, and others say demons have decided to wreak havoc. Mages, however, have yet to say much. At least, they haven’t said much yet within the walls of the cafe or to anyone he’s in contact with. He’s concerned about business of course, and the safety of his employees and customers. The cafe and bookstore is meant to be a place to relax, a place to be at ease despite the world outside. He can sense the worry, though, can practically smell the fear and feel the tenseness in individuals’ shoulders merely by looking at them. No one likes being taunted, nor do vampires like their own to be lost, even if some aren’t as favoured as others. 

“If I have to intervene at all, you won’t like it.” There’s some truth to those words, but it appears to be a comment made in jest, the smallest of smiles curving at his lips as his eyes travel across the quiet room. Carmine intervening? What was he going to do? Talk people to death or make them drowsy with a strong tea? “If it’s the wolves, someone ought to put them in their place. No one likes a pack or rogue that’s acting out.”

[illuminatvm]

date: TBD. post-event  location: so below’s back offices status: closed, for @morbidreveler

Perhaps she can be described as headstrong, or admirably stubborn. However, others may say she’s more than a little obstinate. In the four years since she’d been turned shadow-graced and saved from the very brink of death, her social circle has closed significantly, but in regards to Altan, to outsiders she practically seems disrespectful. But he knows as well as she does that the only reason why the expression on her features exists is because she’s concerned. There’s another vampire dead and Altan isn’t exactly everyone’s favourite vampire. 

“What’s happening?” Feray’s at the other side of his desk, hands dirty from forging new jewelry but fingers glimmering with new creations. Her tone is tight, mouth turned downwards in a note of seriousness that’s not entirely unlike her, but a look she nowadays only gives the inanimate wax she uses for carving out whatever new design she’s testing out. Not a look given to him. At least, not so far this week. “I know you keep your ear to the ground, so you have to know something. Or am I allowed to go snoop for information myself?” Her hands palms are itching, hating the new uncertainty that’s suddenly washed over most beings in the city. Will he let her sneak around? If she tells him that she knows she can weasel her way into werewolves’ typical haunts, is she straying too far from using her new life for the better or is she helping?

Devoted to him, irrevocably tied to him she may be, but at what cost to them both when this unknown danger feels more like a cage than the workshop she’s so happily settled herself into?

[illuminatvm]

cursefound​:

over the years, it had become easy to ignore the encompassing warmth and the feeling akin to butterflies. the farther away she was, the less he felt of it. however, the past couple of years … it has been blaring in the back of his mind. especially tonight, just knowing she was there. he did his best to numb it with a liquor strong enough for an angel, but nothing would work. not even talking to people.

he finds himself somewhere upstairs when he just feels she’s close. closer than she’s been in two years. he turns his head, glances about ( as if he doesn’t already know where she is ). he just had to check before turning his head down, toward the main floor where the dances were held. and there she was. graceful in every move she makes.

and suddenly – everything is on fire. the warmth that he so desperately wanted to pretend was not there happens to be everywhere. and it burns at such an intensity, it takes his breath away. voices aimed at him begin to fade away until all there is is the music and her. all he can think of is how beautiful she is and that she’s okay. 

as if auto pilot was turned on, he holds a hand up to the man talking to him and starts to make his way toward the stairs. the man merely clicks his tongue and turns to find someone else to talk to.

as he walks, he keeps his eyes on annora the entire time. and suddenly he finds himself on the edge of the crowd. watching her in what feels like slow motion. he knows her eyes anywhere. her shoulders. her hands. the way she moves, the way she smiles. by the gods it’s as if two hundred years never passed.

he watches her laugh as the song ends and another is being prepared. and knows, that this is his only chance. feet walk him forward. hand reaches out. and connects with hers as if … well, as if they were made for each other. 

and they glide across the floor. he doesn’t take his eyes off of her, doesn’t need to as he knows the dance like the back of his hand. ( they’ve done it more times than he can remember. ) when she begins to look up, his heart races just that little bit more. and there she is. eyes like their lake on a clear summer day. lips as soft as the first time he kissed her. hand radiating that familiar warmth. and … a scar. one that sends a sharp pain in his chest, but only for a moment. he does not allow himself to go down that road. not yet.

right now, they are the only people in the room. they move together like they have lived and breathed waltzing. they move like the ocean, fluid and sure. benjamin leads, annora follows as they stare into each others eyes and everyone and everything melts away. and it’s just them. just like that night. he can feel himself smiling just that tiny bit as he watches her watch him. he wants to know what she’s thinking, but refuses to do that to her. he is not entirely sure he has her consent anymore for that.

when he blinks, the song is done. they are the last on the floor, for it seems the others started to trickle off as they started to watch ben and annora waltz across the entire floor. he can feel all eyes on them, but doesn’t take his eyes off of hers for a moment. he doesn’t want to miss a second of her as he drinks her in. 

after another moment of a very loud silence, of the two breathing in sync, he chuckles. “ i think everyone is staring at us, ” he nods to those around them. “ care for a drink … ? ”

...

Two-hundred years ago, she’d reveled in his attention and basked in his favour, fallen into the sweet warmth of his love. Today, it feels as though she had blinked and he had gone, taking the same warmth that warmed her wholly, the happiness and peace she had felt with him away with her. Annora had felt alive with him: how wrong she had been to think that she’d been living at all before then; how sweetly did death invade her soul when he left. 

Tonight, she is back in his arms. And how strange a thing it is that it seems as though breathing had become easier, brighter the world seemed, warmer she felt in such close proximity. In the back of her mind a memory whispers warning, echoes misery. He’d left me. This was how it had all begun once before. He’d rather refrain from words of love, he’d rather lie with the false claim of ‘always’. He will leave. Despite the cruelty of his actions, despite what her mind and heart protest, she does not shy away from him.

Instead, she’s transfixed, captivated by his gaze and his closeness after so long that she’s rendered speechless. Oh, she’s missed him. Their time together had been but a breath of her life and not even that of his, but it mattered little. She loves him still. He is the same. Benjamin still has the same kind, weary eyes that she begged to plead rest and ached to see filled with mirth. Happiness, rest. After two hundred years, she can not ask for love. She can not ask of him what he can not give, what he can not feel. The missing page, the long-gone imprint on the note he'd left proves it. His is the same mouth she had kissed, he the same celestial being that had once held her closer than now and had her realise love. 

How cruel it is to know that in loving him, his abandonment had cursed her. How cruel he is to the immortal heart he holds in his hands. 

What little smile he does give her as they dance is returned twofold: the corners of her mouth curve upwards in a sweet, dream-like expression; her gaze so easily, so willingly locked to the sapphire eyes that seem to burn into her. Love me Burn me, as you have before. Love me Burn me, because your presence now reminds me that I could never walk away from you like you did to me. The rest of the world disappears as they dance and she knows her truth. She knows that no matter how she tries, there is only him. 

She wants to take the mask from his face. She wants to lean close, closer and press a kiss to his lips. She wants, she wants, she wants. How covetous. How perfect he is in her eyes. How she loves him and wishes to tell him so. 

By the time the dance ends she's hardly noticed that they'd slowed to a stop, faintly registered that the ballroom's immediate vicinity had found a certain silence. There was only him. And her hand nearly leaves his shoulder to cup his cheek, to greet her love with a sweet hello, to marvel in a closeness bound by a far more relaxed propriety than two centuries ago— but what does it matter when this is the closest to each other that they have been in years? 

But, Benjamin speaks first. He wakes her from her dreaming and brings her back to reality, back to the room filled with so many others. Her hand on his shoulder now instead drops to her side and she takes a small step back, peering at him through mascara-stained eyelashes. Her other hand is still in his, leaving him the decision once more to release her or guide her hand to his arm. Release me or lead me in another dance. Leave me now, or leave me later. He offers a drink. 

"We should let the others enjoy a dance,” Annora quietly muses in response. For a second, she forfeits her eyes’ claim to his to glance beyond his shoulder, beyond the delight of him to see the band preparing to start again. It wasn’t her intention to steal the floor, least of all not with him. But in the same fell swoop her eyes leave his, her hand squeezes his with the lightest of pressures, insistent that she is here and she wants his company. Benjamin may leave in the next second, in the next minute, in the next hour. She does not intend on losing the opportunity she has now to spend whatever time she can with him tonight. 

“A drink would be lovely.” It takes everything in her not to tighten her grip on his hand, to not stand here and ask him why. After her blatant avoidance of him spanning two years, after now seeing the scar that cuts her previously unmarred features, after everything the questions do not matter. Perhaps if there is some promise of more time, some vow to sit and talk somewhere elsewhere, she may venture to say more. But, instead, she follows. Annora holds his hand and keeps her eyes on him, doesn’t let him go even after a flute of champagne has found its way to her free hand and nods towards the grand staircase that leads towards the upper balconies of the opera house as a silent suggestion. “Unless we’d rather stay here?” Flashes of memory remind her of a time they’d stolen away from another party: her hair falls free in long golden ringlets; her mouth follows the path her hands take to undo his shirt— She has to blink the memory away, hoping he hasn’t sensed, hasn’t thought of the last time.

Whether they stay or go up the stairs she still remains close to him, an action instinctual and she unwilling to fight against the desire to draw closer to him. After she takes a sip of her champagne, her eyes meet his: clear cerulean meet a commanding royal sapphire. And though wariness aches within her, she smiles up at him, her words quiet but chosen carefully. Annora will give him reason to flee, or grant absolution for what he’d done two centuries ago. She, as much as it hurts, will risk losing him again now. Another two hundred years without him has given her many a lesson to learn: continuing to love him was but the easiest of them. “I am glad to see you, my love.”

[illuminatvm]

—a letter received.

she is alone. her hand wanders to the other side of the bed as she rouses slowly to consciousness, pushing past pillows, past an arm's length of fabric she reaches yet all she is greeted with is the smooth sensation of fabric against her skin. the opposite side of the bed is cold. her eyes stay shut, and doesn’t dare to breathe. 

he has to still be here. he wouldn't leave so abruptly. 

but he had. 

annora wakes and wishes she were still sleeping, still blissfully unaware of the short note that wavers now between her fingers until it falls once more to the desk, a petal broken from the stem it belongs.

I wish you well.

he's left her. 

with everything.

tears flood her vision, and something between fear and self-loathing, something somewhere within her cracks. its as simple as this: the fissures and faults of a rose petal cannot be erased; in fact, they are likely to fester. 

please forgive me.

there is nothing to forgive if he had no true desire to stay. how could she fault him? how could she resent him? she cannot. she will not. she does not. but, she sways slightly and she trembles despite herself. there is no evidence of his being here other than the page upon the desk.

always yours,

her eyes cling to those words, to the stroke of each letter like a lifeline, sacrificing the strength it takes to hold back the tears that stain her cheeks. always yours. it feels like a blade turning cruelly within her heart. always yours. is this the lesson that she had to be taught? the lesson that only he could have taught her? always yours feels like a threat, the two words put together taunting her. this is not love. but, it is.

he is hers as she is his, and yet he is gone. 

he has left. 

she is alone.

when she takes a steadying breath, another look at the paper reveals the remnants of an 'i love you' scratched by a pen. but, the sheet is gone. those are words he does not want immortalised. annora lets out a laugh akin to a sob, a breath that sounds like a whimper. it matters not if she cries, the one she cries for is not here. this feels like mourning, but is that not love, too?

she nearly throws the letter into dying flames. but instead, she folds it up and takes it far away with her. annora does not go looking for him. if he is to leave her by choice, he can choose to find her again. if he has wished her well, that is his goodbye. 

she does not return to that place again.

@cursefound​

[illuminatvm]

date:14 février 2021 location: starlight opera house event: dieasancto ball // the before status: closed, for @cursefound​

She promises herself she will dance at least once before she leaves, but all too easily, it quickly turns into two, three, then a handful as she trades off with partners between songs. What she feels in her chest is as familiar a weight and warmth she could ever recognise. Maybe, she’s dancing to distract herself from it, from the all too devastating knowledge that he’s here. 

Annora twirls in a flurry of feather-white satin and blonde curls, curtsying playfully as yet another laugh tumbles from her lips and the song ends. And though some leave the dance floor, others remain, partnering up as a waltz slowly begins. Caught up in the moment she simply turns towards the the figure she feels approaching her from the side, arm already raising to assume the proper form and yet— ‘It would be awful to abandon him in the middle of the dance hall, it would be rude, she cannot—’ No, she will not. Her hand settles, a gentle pressure against the top of his shoulder; and the other is warm, is small, is delicately placed into his grasp. 

Two years and this is how he catches her off-guard. Despite the war, the bitter siege that takes place within her chest that aches everywhere in her heart and lungs, filling her chest cavity with smoke of what was attempted to be forgotten in agony, Annora practically glides with him along the dance floor. He leads, the dance is as easy a call/response as once could manage. But, had they not failed that simple thing in other ways before? For now, she keeps her head turned: scar hidden, eyes averted to the lapel of his suit coat. But, propriety wins out, enchantingly intertwined with unexplainable ease. His doing, the same way the pressure of his hand at the small of her back reminds her to keep her form relaxed. It is a waltz after all. 

In another few heartbeats she exhales, and her clear gaze travels from his suit to the cotton collar of his dress shirt. Then upwards she goes to his chin and like the edge of a cliff her gaze finds its way to the stark white edge of his mask. Higher and higher her eyes go until suddenly she plummets into the abyss, into devastating beauty and the most exquisite forlornness that begs she pay no mind to the world that surrounds them. Annora says nothing. But the light in her stare seems to glow, and even if he says nothing, she’ll at least have seen him and be seen by him for the first time in years. Like a fool returning to the place they’d nearly drowned, her attention is his, and she waits. She knows he does nothing without careful intention.

[illuminatvm]

date: 14 şubat 2021 location: starlight opera house event: dieasancto ball status: closed, for @viktorruman

Shadow-graced meant being bonded, means a second chance at life, means that that her mortality is still hers but telepathy and precognition serve as a temptation that she can not resist. Not when her life had been spent stealing those very thoughts, those details, assuming that foresight for her own gain before she became what she was now. Maybe this is why it’s better she remains in the shop, in her workshop than left to her own devices. Even now, her eyes are glittering with a stifled sense of mischief, being careful not to disrupt anyone Altan didn’t favour. Though, of course, the sight (or rather, whisper) of a particular lycan has her hiding a cheshire cat’s smug grin with a sip of champagne.

Viktor Ruman. 

No, he didn’t know her. How could he? They’d never met in person, communicating by proxy when she was posing as an insurance agent for fine art in London. She’d cost him hundreds of thousands (not that anyone could ever prove it), and while she knew his main hub was Seattle she didn’t think that of all places she’d recognise him here. Double-checking that her mask was secure, and picking up a new flute of champagne, she faux-distractedly makes her way towards his him. And she nearly entirely passes him, if not for the well-placed fabric that began at her shoulders and flowed behind her to the ground making its way beneath his feet.

The small gasp of shock as she’s prevented from stepping further with his weight on the fabric is real. The fact that she nearly spills her champagne on him, however, is not real. But it looks real, and that’s all that matters. So it’s a hasty, flustered: “Oh, goodness!” That tumbles from her crimson-stained mouth, “I— You’re stepping on my—”

[illuminatvm]

𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖂𝖍𝖎𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖗'𝖘 𝕯𝖎𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖙𝖔 𝕭𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘...

                                                                             𝓔𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓪 𝓚𝓪𝓸

@kelxna

[illuminatvm]

Ｄｉｅａｓａｎｃｔｏ  Ｂａｌｌ — 14  Şｕｂａｔ 2021

𝔽𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕪 𝔸. ℂ𝕖𝕝𝕒𝕝

[illuminatvm]

𝕯𝖎𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖙𝖔 𝕭𝖆𝖑𝖑 — 14 𝕱é𝖛𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖗 2021

𝒜𝓃𝓃𝑜𝓇𝒶 𝒢. 𝐿𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽

[illuminatvm]

date:14 février 2021 location: starlight opera house event: dieasancto ball // the before status: closed, for @kelxna

Something old with something new. Though those were typically the beginnings of a bride’s short order for luck on a wedding day, for Annora it was merely a matter of her wardrobe on any day— and any night, one especially like tonight. Subtle, simple jewelry sparkles against her skin, nonobtrusive against her gown like stars against her skin. She loves nights like these, formal gatherings for holiday celebrations. They don’t happen as often, or the same way like they used to. If she could revive them the same way she could heal others, she would. 

“You haven’t spent all night being a wallflower, have you?” Her voice is light, comment made in jest as she smiles towards the other. “I wonder who’ll be the first to try to insist on an Allenmande... Or some variation of a Viennesse waltz. Around and around they’d go...” A laugh leaves her, brief as she shakes her head. “Please don’t tell me you’re mothering anyone tonight and hovering...”

[illuminatvm]

𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐓,

elliot knew the life he chose to lead would not allow him to stay in one place very long. he knew he would have to give up love as a viable option for him. but a fling ? one that was able to hop between countries and span nearly a century ? he certainly didn’t mind the convenience. but all it took was one night of thoughts swarming in his head like a hornets nest. 

possession was unbecoming of him. or was it love ? he wasn’t entirely sure then, and he isn’t entirely sure now. the only other time he ever loved someone was before he started training to be a mage. but she was just a mere mortal, and rather than hinder elliot, who would be able to learn immortality, she let him go. it’s been a very long time since that, and he never found anyone else. and has been unsure since.

which is why he says nothing of the last time they saw each other. nothing of the letter he left for her to read when she awoke the next morning. the two merely pick up as if they had just seen each other a few months before. and though he feels a thickness in the air, he decides to proceed cautiously on and sit across from her.

and then it hits. you stuck to your word. “ i did, ” he finds himself saying a moment after as he begins to set the board up. the thickness in the air tightens its tendrils around his throat. i didn’t meant to get too attached. his eyes flicker up for a moment, catching her gaze and what seems to be … longing ? somewhere hidden inside before looking back at the board. i’m sorry. after another moment of silence and finishing the board, he looks back up with a small smile. 

“ and look where that got us. had i known you were here sooner, i would have said hello. ” he is not that cruel, after all.

how many has she loved? lost? hers was an affection that would always be imbued with hope, irrevocably intertwined with the silken softness of dreams— always slipping out of one’s grasp, by her making or their own. their dalliance is but an example of this, a tryst built upon mutual warmth that after centuries alone she had always been loathe to part. yet, it had: by his design, by his choice, and annora would not go against his wishes. his life would be his, just as annora’s was her own. 

“it was your choice, i couldn’t be angry with you for it.” and she hadn’t been, not when she’d woken up decades before to find that note; not now as she sees him again sat in front of her. he’s healthy, he’s alive, he’s living and she can only hope he’s been happy. it’ isn’t her place, it isn’t her nature to dream up of anything else for him. “i’m still not, if you’re concerned about that.”

while she watches him set up the board, annora takes her cup of tea between her hands, leaving the edge of the teacup pressed against her bottom lip as she takes in what next he says. ‘had i known you were here sooner’ elliot says, and she stifles her laughter. she’s been in this city for ten years. a whole decade has passed and it’s taken until now. but, what was a decade but a mere blink of her eyes, time passing before she can realise it? 

“i haven’t been here that long,” the blonde gently insists. “besides: most of my life isn’t spent.... here. i travel quite a bit.” that was an understatement. she could blink and be in her home in paris, take a breath and be in her favourite hidden hideaway in tuscany. and he had no idea. maybe it’d be better to tell him now, better to let him know. he could be gone before her, and if there’s any guilt left, any longing— better for him to understand that she’d accepted the ideas of leaving and the lack of permanence in her life as her reality. “i hope you’ve been well? you seem... the same.”

[illuminatvm]

— ｔａｌｉａ．​

       glancing at him from the corner of her eye, talia laughed abruptly and pointed at him with a plastic cupid’s arrow.     “  i bet you’re a minimalist, huh.  “    grinning, talia dropped the arrow and pushed her hair behind her ear as she wandered down the aisle opposite his, a table separating them full of, as he called it, clutter.     “  you probably have white on white walls and a bowl of fruit for colour.  “     amused, talia scrunched her nose at a particularly tacky looking poster as she turned at the end of the aisle and walked in to his. she frowned at his observation, reaching up with her hand to brush at her hair though she wouldn’t know if she had succeeded in removing it or not without looking in a mirror.     “  did i get it ?         when did i walk in to glitter ?  “  she genuinely, for the life of her, couldn’t think of where that came from.

       a minimalist? a chuckle reverberates in his chest before he finds the words to respond, and though it may be quiet, there is no denying that the chortle of laughter existed, short-lived as it may be on his stern features. “     not at all, actually     .” carmine gestures towards the bears, then to the novelty vases, cheaply made in bulk he’s sure. “     i’m just     ...     i’m picky. most of my walls have floor to ceiling shelves, if not wood paneling. brown, blue, and gray     .” what good would white furniture or white walls be when they were likely to yellow and dirty as the years went on? besides, exposed stonework seemed to be what was ‘in’ nowadays, and that was perfectly fine by him. glancing at her again, he nods. “     i have no idea, but, yes. it’s gone. for now, anyway. stuff always seems to come back     .” on a whim, he picks up a roll of ribbon from a shelf, turns it over in his hands. he could make decorating simple, tie a bunch of red ribbon to the candles at every table. for now, he keeps it in his hands. “     did you really call me a minimalist     ???     me     ???”

[illuminatvm]

— Ｂｌｙｔｈｅ．​

“Hmm, maybe not my favorite, but definitely in the top three.” She corrected after giving it a second thought. “I’m guessing valentines day wasn’t even a thing in your day, so the novelty of it is lost on you?” She asked raising an eyebrow, amused yet again by the thought of just how old he really was. Though perhaps it’d cease to be so once she accepted that she too would possibly live for several more lifetimes than the average person. “One or two…” She said in response though she kept her attention on smelling some of the novelty candles lined up on the shelf before her, all in various shades of red and pink. Really she’d only ventured into one, and hadn’t gone back as of yet. Not prone to putting herself in situations of discomfort. Sometimes it felt like the closer she got to embracing the supernatural world the further away she drifted from her human life, despite her lack thereof one.

“The Victorians were who made the holiday romantic to begin with,” He amusedly corrects her. “It’s the past... Fifty or so years that have made the holiday less about love and more about the—” Ring for sex. It’s a bright red bell that he spots on the shelf and he can’t help the snort of derision that escapes from him before he continues. “More about that.” Carmine points at the bell he sees, half-smirk having found a home at his mouth. “Novelty items.” Of course, he’d never claimed to have been a gentleman when he was young or a newly turned vampire, but the world had been different. Certainly, it had been far less lewd. 

As the conversation drifts to what references history less and is more in the present, he nods. “They’re fun. A good way for someone as young as you to get to know others in the community.” The little candle holders aren’t too bad, and he holds one to test the weight of it. They could go on some of the tables. “You haven’t made any enemies yet, have you?”

[weltenwellen]

Rebecca Solnit, Hope In The Dark

[illuminatvm]

𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐓,

usually elliot’s weekends were saved for protecting the city. however there was the rare occurrence of a lull in mysterious things happening, giving him a much needed break in between. and this was one of those.

he likes regime du martin for the amount of supernatural beings that come in, all peaceful and not wanting to bring destruction ( or so he hopes. ) he’s also a fan of their coffee which, in his opinion, was far better than starbucks. it’s why he leaves his bike locked outside and smiles when he’s greeted by the employees. he never meant to become a regular, but he didn’t have a coffee maker at home, and so…he came here. he only orders a black coffee and a warmed up croissant, thanking them when they say they’ll bring it out to him.

but then he turns around, ready to sit at his usual spot … and he sees her. not in his usual spot, no. but in the corner, next to the fire place. he’s not sure how long it’s been since they last saw each other, time seems to stand still when you’re immortal. but he remembers the circumstances of his leaving. ( he never wanted to. ) 

as if on cue, a couple of rays of sunshine poke through the grey clouds of seattle and shines through the windows of the cafe, casting a sort of glow around her. elliot can only smile, though there’s a twinge of pain that shoots through his heart. still, finds himself being pulled toward her, and suddenly he’s at her table, watching as she rearranges the board for another game.

and as she moves around, placing her chin in the palm of her hand, he realizes she’s still as graceful as before. a small smile tugs at his lips, shaking his head at his indifference to tea or coffee. “ that’s alright. i have something on its way, ” he says, still standing, marveling at the very fact that they are both in seattle – and yet his heartbeat races loud and clear in his ears. been a while, he comes close to saying. but instead… “ have you found yourself a worthy opponent yet ? ”

—

one would think she’d tire of it, the social aspect of living where she’d spend even her idle time around others. but, there is something so easily familiar, so calming about being able to melt into that exact environment— be it the court of Versailles, a pub in Elizabethan England, or the crowds of balletomanes at Teatro alla Scala, she finds it simultaneously invigorating and calming at once. perhaps it is the idea of belonging that brings her to this place, too.

she neither startles nor excites at the sight of him. there may one day be a reason for the former. as for the latter, if she weren’t so poised, if it hadn’t been as long as it had been, then there might have been a chance. but, that is not the way things are. it is not the way they are, and there is still some part of her that could so keenly be pinned to the word ‘disappointed’ if she ever allowed such a bitter spike to catch her. instead, her reaction takes form in the faint upwards curve of her mouth and clear gaze gleaming with something, something between amusement and wariness. 

her chin leaves her hand at his question, and she moves from the way she’s strewn out, neatly rearranging herself like an awakened feline: crossed ankles switch to overlap with the opposite at the front, pulled to the other side of the chair as she sits up; the exhale like a soft waking breath as though she’d been dozing playing chess against herself. then annora gestures towards the open seat opposite her. ”please. the other seat isn’t taken.” what distance was a little table in comparison to decades? she drinks in the look of him as though starved of the sight (as she has been), but says nothing of missing his company (as is the way they are).

“of course,” she answers. “the past few matches have been sluggish yet difficult at best.” her hands fold neatly atop her skirt with a short breath. “but one’s worst opponent tends to be the mirror.” with her eyes flitting briefly between the half-reassembled chess board and elliot, annora hesitates for just a heartbeat more before she speaks what’s glaringly obvious: “you stuck to your word. no letters after that last note.” her tone is lukewarm at best. it’s been decades, it shouldn’t matter. there have been others, and yet. the mage before her is handsome as ever. her words imply that he has not only been thought about, but missed. 

does he know yet? has he learned by now that the white mage he’d met once was not merely what she presented? she misses and she wonders— isn’t that the most damning part of her existence? 

[illuminatvm]

𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐑,

She was a beautiful creature, blending all too well with the artworks of the gallery. A Guardian Angel. Who could’ve known. Viktor Ruman raised the champagne glass to his lips, tasting the thought of her. She had him wiggling inside her head and crawling around like a parasite because she thought there was hope for someone who bathed in sin. A few meetings here and there, and she still didn’t get it.  There was truly nothing to be found, for he was a humanized monster - in every interpretation of the word. 

He did not think twice before approaching perhaps the most interesting guest to attend this exhibition. Questions. Always questions with her, bringing a smile to his face. “Take a guess, Annora,” he paused, no longer staring at the painting. His eyes were trained on her face, studying her as intently as she studied the photograph. Oh, to analyze one of the most confounding beings. “Or should I lie and say yes so I can be in your good books?”

Attention back on what hung on the wall, he swirled the champagne in his glass. “But enough of that, let’s talk about you,” he spoke, his voice lowered to a richness - his British accent apparent. To him, Annora was nothing short of a pleasant surprise on this fine day. Normally he would wrap his arm around a woman’s waist, let her melt under his touch, but she was different. He forced himself to be careful around her or God knows she would disappear entirely. With brows drawn up, he feigned sadness for his next words, “I missed you. You even didn’t call.” No such thing, for they weren’t even that close and yet, he played his game with her. 

She was still considered young, and by all accounts Annora was at barely more than half a millennium old. But, in the past six-hundreded and some odd years that have gone by in practically the time it had taken to take a breath, she’s seen so much more than she could have imagined: the rise and fall of empires, the devastation humanity could deliver to one another, and of course its kindnesses. To her, anyone less than a century old still had yet to open their eyes, and if she’s learned anything in her life it is that it is possible for those even older than she to be redeemed.

Hope is a fickle thing, quite like love and trust. But, it still lives in her soul, and as such, she unflinchingly turns her gaze towards someone that other beings have bowed to. Annora’s petite frame holds the same proper posture it always has— certainly something they don’t teach anymore either.

“Lie if you want,” She easily responds. “I’ll still point to my favourites as a recommendation to visit.” Her gaze flits to the image of the Palais Garnier first with a nod, then she delicately places one foot over the other, crossing ankles before she pivots lightly to nod towards the printed photograph of the Mariinsky Theatre. Gilded things, glittering and beautiful and enduring— none of that minimalism that seems to have caught on. No, she isn’t a fan of that at all, and perhaps that is why she’s never done away with golden curls in favour of whatever that big-haired blow out fad was in the 90′s. Finally, her eyes find Viktor again.

If he sounds British, she wonders what others hear in her voice. French? It would make sense, Annora had spent most of her lifetime there. But, it’s been marred by her time in Italy, and her beginnings were born from the bloodbath of Britain’s line of succession. “I prefer letters. And, I thought you were too busy a man to miss anyone, let alone myself.” She doesn’t warm his bed, nor does she seek his favour. “But,” The faint curve of her lips finally graces him with a smile, rosy moue parting to reveal a bright set of teeth. No fangs, no sharpened edges, yet powerful all the same. “I suppose I should be flattered you’d even say so. Maybe I shouldn’t be so scarce here in Seattle.” Her gaze measures him, drinks him in only interrupted by a blink. “I would, however, like to hear how you’ve been.” She’s curious all the same. Always has been.

[quotemadness]

You’re going to come across people in your life who will say all the right words at all the right times. But in the end, it’s always their actions you should judge them by. It’s actions, not words, that matter.

Nicholas Sparks (via quotemadness)