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✧ young summoner, won’t you come from your bower ? kingsguard, spare me a moment, won’t you walk the courtyards with me ? old friend, your influence lingers, can’t you see that i’ve missed you ? neva, what is the matter ? don’t you remember me ? don’t you remember ANYTHING ?
( No. . . I don’t. )
❛ I would find a loophole. There’s always a loophole. If you think there aren’t any loopholes, you aren’t very creative. ❜
do not reblog unless you have a tag for neva on your blog !!
declan quinn
She thought it was almost poetic, how this tempestuous boy demonstrated so much undeniable softness; like a storm who would rather be an early Spring shower, a bolt of lightning who would rather be a gentle firefly. He wanted simple, but he was dealt the hand of someone who would never have the chance to know just that.
Before he was her boy, he was her friend— he was Declan Quinn, who confusedly let her take his hand while being chased by bounty hunters, who agreed to help her ( a stranger ) so long as it meant rescuing his friend, who so badly wanted ( it was there, clearly in the eyes, as it so often is ) not to leave her behind in the vast, cruel Northern continent. He was the boy who seemed to brighten, sincerely, whenever their paths would cross once more, and the one who— with his cigarette held off to one side— wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, comforting her with a steadying, “Don’ cry,” time and time again. He was the one who’d seen through fake smiles, who’d called her out on lies, who followed after her stubbornly, recklessly, when she tried to isolate herself, and who’d gone with her on seemingly futile quests just because he— the first one to consider it— didn’t want her to be alone, and the one who’d shown her, by example, that friendship is a most dedicated thing. When tragedy struck him and he found himself consumed with inexplicable divine rage, he despised it, and again, she could see it in his eyes. To Neva, he was a lesson in self-awareness, in knowing ones most horrid faults, and confronting whatever could be controlled, no matter how difficult, because it matters less what is done to us, but what we do in return, and he never wanted to hurt anyone, not like the consumptive beast within him— Etamin— did.
Declan was mellow, and shy, and learning— constantly learning, just like her. He was incredible. Glancing up at him from the kitchen floor of the quiet Treno house they stayed in, Neva wondered to herself how she hadn’t seen it before their relationship was furthered. She smiled lightly, and met his wandering, dark stare with her luminary one. Already, a blush crept over his cheeks. “Huh?” He prompted, shyly, glance averted to the side for a moment. In front of him, she could hear the light boil of water on the stovetop.
Neva’s smile widened, reaching her eyes, and crinkling at the corners; even just from that, she could see painfully ( cutely! In her opinion. . . ) timid nerves fill his expression. She shook her head and her features softened. “. . . Oh. . . I was just thinking about how much I love you.”
( She’d said it dozens of times before, but still: he, shy and in shock, mumbling to himself while running hand back through his messy hair, almost knocked the pot of water right off of the stove. )
7/??? SIDE CHARACTERS: DECLAN QUINN.
zaynah nevoir
How honestly terrifying a thing, she thought, to be able to enrapture so many with nothing but a song. The stage belonged to her sister, clad in flowing, silken white gown— of purity, of beginnings and of ends; how she’d trademarked that colour into one of her own fierce resolve. She filled the room with the sort of stillness that is one part adoration, one part awe, and two parts overwhelming emotion ( shock, perhaps, spine-tingling suspense; a terror that leaves one wanting for more, greedily, breathlessly frozen in place with widened eyes and lumps in throats, aching for another note, even for another word. )
But Zaynah did not need these performances to be evocative: they were a means of simplifying, a means to an end. The tail of her gown trailed across the stage, following her movements loyally, just as her audience did. Neva stood corner-bound, a hand resting absently on the hilt of her sword, and her hood drawn to shroud her face. Behind Zaynah, the set was decorated with anti-regime propaganda, and everyone in the room— Neva and Zaynah included— knew that should they be caught in attendance of such a production, it would be seen as treason.
Yet there they were, with eyes of devotion, turned towards their songbird of anarchy.
6/??? SIDE CHARACTERS: ZAYNAH NEVOIR.
❛ Do you remember when I asked you for lessons? What's your rate for that? So I can save up, or swindle it from Jonah, or Rhys, or the Charons’ down the road from the Lafayettes ?? ❜
do not reblog unless you have a tag for neva on your blog !!
loring agasa-saitou
Was it terrible for Neva to wonder if this was all a falsehood? Because she did think as much. Loring’s fingertips wound through still damp strands of Neva’s hair and her touch was jarringly gentle. She exhaled— a deep, peaceful sound ceased only by the catching of her bottom lip between her teeth. There was so much uncertainty between her and Loring, but the moment was a light one, and it almost granted enough ease that all of the chaos in their relationship could be forgotten. Except Neva did not forget it.
Remember when you back-handed me a few months ago when I was only trying to help? Good times, she almost said, barely holding it back. She knew that if she dared to utter it, Loring’s comeback would be ten times as cutting. Of course, Neva didn’t blame Loring for her actions— it was likely she deserved it, for one thing or another. Whatever softness Loring spared her, she knew was only done for Jonah’s sake. . . a mutually beloved. . . her adoptive father, and Loring’s lover.
“Neva, you’re making a face.” She said, snapping Neva out of her thoughts. Her tone was even, and Neva almost grimaced nervously in response.
Instead, she cleared her throat. “I’m making a face?”
“You’re making a face,” Loring affirmed with slight amusement. She twisted a measured bundle of Neva’s hair tightly and wound it under a different section of it. “If this is hurting you, it’s presumably because your hair was disgusting and that doesn’t get fixed with one wash. You’ll have to deal with it.”
Neva snorted. It was obvious that Loring wasn’t joking, but she took no offense. The truth is the truth, after all, and Neva knew her personal upkeep was severely lacking. She shook her head, and immediately shot Loring an apologetic look because of the movement. “No, that’s not it. . . I was wondering. . . are you only pretending to like me because of Jonah? I won’t be upset.”
She paused in braiding Neva’s hair. “Why would I care if you’re upset? For the most part, you’re right.” Another moment of silence hung between them, and then Loring continued. “You may drag mayhem with you everywhere else, but I don’t want that here, in our home, and so I won’t be a part of it.”
Neva frowned.
“— But, Neva, you should never forget who it was who found you in that cage and gave you your freedom last year.” With her head turned, Neva didn’t see it, but Loring narrowed her eyes, giving way to a measure of gentleness in her otherwise eternally unyielding gaze. “And I’m not so cruel to say that I regret doing so.”
4 / ??? SIDE CHARACTERS: LORING AGASA-SAITOU.
scamp jackson
SCAMP LOOKED UP from her journal only three times throughout their entire conversation. She spared cursory glances every so often, as a natural norm of interaction between people, certainly, but her eyes never really lingered beyond such fleetness. Neva may have been glad for this; it was universally true and infamously known that Scamp Jackson had a way of looking at people that left them feeling as though they had no secrets she could not uncover in the blink of an eye. But Neva knew it wasn’t any form of magic or ability. Scamp was naturally perceptive. . . so much so that it was almost scary.
The first time she looked up was to stare just past Neva, thoughtfully. Her pen lingered on its page and Neva glanced down at it, and then back up to watch Scamp’s expression halt in contemplation. “I think your adventures are a little intense for me, Neva. I did ask Noir— do you remember Noir?— to let me know if he was going on anything tame, so I could tag along; maybe when he does, you could come, too.” she said, slowly resuming her writing.
Neva considered this with a half-frown on her lips. Too intense? She swallowed and nodded a few times to herself. Logically that was a fair thing to say, but she found herself reflecting on it. Maybe. . .— She cleared her throat. “Scamp?” a pause, “Does being around me make you feel unsafe?”
Her pen scratched across the paper semi-messily and she looked up again. “Huh? No way.” Her dark brows were furrowed, knitting close to genuinely surprised light green eyes, which looked at Neva with fond judgment. “Your life’s a total disaster, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t mind. You’re the expert, right?” She smiled, hinting dry amusement, and Neva felt herself smiling, too. Scamp lowered her gaze once more, but ended up looking at Neva again within seconds. “If something goes ridiculously wrong, I know I can count on you, Neva.”
3 / ??? SIDE CHARACTERS: SCAMP JACKSON.
steffan vito
IF HE WAS NOT to be found making some passive, lazy comment, he was with nose buried in the pages of a leather bound journal whose edges frayed from turning and turning and turning by his eager fingertips. And his alone, one might add—— the journal stayed eternally out of reach from everyone else. In that regard, she likened him often to her dear friend Scamp, who noted everything she saw in her notebook, but Neva never thought them exactly the same. She knew Steffan Vito was not observing the world analytically.
“You never share any of what you write. . .” she pouted and leaned to attempt a glance. He pulled the pages out of reach, sparing her a lazy half-grin with a look to the side.
“That,” Steffan began, “is for you are a snoop, Snoop. Ye might steal it.” The idea was funny, at least. Neva let a few more buildings pass them by, still with a pout on her lips— there was a florists shop and a chocolatier side by side with artsy displays to catch the eye outside each of them; she wasn’t really impressed, but Steffan turned his gaze to them, and then back to her, brow quirked. “Not that type of girl, Snoop?”
She had half of a mind to ignore him completely. Instead, she mimicked his risen brow and shot her stare towards his book again. “I prefer beautiful words,” she said, fibbing. “Not that you’d have any worth stealing, you kind of don’t have a brain, so there.”
Steffan pursed his lips in amused thought and it was his turn to let a moment pass before responding. She rolled her eyes at him, prompting a dry snort. They turned a corner. The street emptied out a little bit and she canted her head expectantly when he exhaled a deep sigh and spoke, entirely different in tone, and without looking towards his journal at all.
“— O’, strange is pain when it comes not from a sharp-edged graze But from Her once tender and warm brown, turned to rancorous gaze. Man can think himself well heeled; it is She who turns him to beggar, yearning, for ecstasy, bliss, salvation itself comes in the form of Her, and I am learning: let idle fancies pass mine wanderer’s eyes, let vain whims die as such. No Crystal, no temple, no church might thrill or uplift my soul— no, that... that—”
He paused only to smoothly, as a dancer would, turn on heel and place himself before her. His expression was worn soft, and he reached out, took one of her hands in his own, half-bowed, and brought it to his lips, to press a lingering kiss to the back of it; he looked up at Neva through his lashes, warmly. Her eyes were widened, surprised, not by his actions, but his words.
“ — can be done only, only by Her touch.”
2 / ??? SIDE CHARACTERS: STEFFAN VITO.
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