Forever
“I’m on a writing hiatus,” she says stubbornly, squinting off into the distance.
On the wind, you hear the silent laughter of her muse and brain as they conspire against her, “sure you are.”
All of that is merely to say, that I just spent the last half hour (maybe a little longer, honestly have no idea) writing a little drabble. I blame @colubrina for talking about vampires. Truly I do. Which, I suppose is fair enough, because the Christmas drabble I wished to gift her with didn’t wish to be written, and I didn’t have time to write her a birthday drabble...so this, in a way, is what happened instead.
Honestly, have no idea where it came from, but here is a little Gin N’ Tonic for your Monday. (I cannot for the life of me remember who to tag, so a massive apology on that front.)
For Collie, for she is lovely, and she inspires me endlessly. She deserves all the nice things.
“Do you want to live forever?” He asks, as if he is talking about the weather; the snow is gently cascading from the sky, and the white powder clings to everything in sight. The frigid snow litters her ginger hair, dusts her eyelashes, and sticks to her dark coloured robes with fierce conviction.
She shouldn’t be out here alone. She shouldn’t have left home without one of her many brothers—six of them to be exact—simply because she wished to go for a stroll through the knee high snow.
The forest was quiet, that is, until he showed up. There is a graceful, calculated way in which he strides towards her. There is no rush; it is as if he has all the time in the world.
His eyes are dark, darker than the inky night sky when the stars are absent, and when the moon hides her visage. His skin is as pale as the snow all around them. His hair is possibly the most chaotic thing about him, dark curls that seemingly have no order to them.
She knows she should leave; he is a stranger, a stranger that feels dangerous. Yet, there is something compelling, entrancing about him.
She cannot tell how old he is, but she doubts he's much older than she—she just turned seventeen last summer.
The words stumble out of her mouth, and she has no control over them, “doesn’t everyone?”
He makes a soft sound of amusement, getting much closer now, so close, she can almost touch him.
The wind howls, kicking up some of the white powder, and it flies in a flurry all around them. She can taste it in the air, something big is about to happen.
“Perhaps...” He whispers, and his voice is smooth as velvet, and rich as a pot of melted chocolate. She errantly thinks about how she could do with some right now, she is chilled to the bone—her fingers are beginning to ache.
“Who are you?” She asks, her tongue darting out to wet her slightly chapped lips.
“The more pertinent question is, who are you?” He counters, his slender fingers cautiously reaching out to twirl themselves around a long lock of her bright ginger hair. She shivers, but not from the cold, much to this contrary, her skin now feels as if it could burst into flames any second.
She hesitates, looking up into his dark eyes, drowning in the bottomless pools. He looks as if he had been carved from marble by the Gods themselves. Swallowing thickly, finally regaining the ability to speak, she says, “my name is Ginevra...”
“Ginevra.” Her name rolls off his tongue reverently, and suddenly she is a beautiful creature as well, she is worth all the stars in the sky, and she burns as bright as an everlasting flame. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance...my name is Tom.”
Part of her doesn’t believe him, how can such a ordinary name belong to such a magnificent creature. In that moment she realises she is wrapped up in a daze, he has cast a spell on her. She finds she doesn’t mind.
“Such a pretty thing you are,” Tom smiles—it is a close lipped smile, and wonders what he looks like laughing without abandon.
This strange man from the forest has captivated her.
“Tell me Ginevra, how would you like to be a Queen?”
She snaps out of her daze enough to narrow her eyes at him. A Queen? She's never been one for pompous circumstance, or following all the dainty rules of the upper class socialites—plus, even if she is from one of the Old Families, her family's poverty and destitution caused the other families to turn their noses up at them.
“A Queen?” She repeats with a snarl.
His fingers untangle themselves from her hair, and move to gently grasp her face—his fingers are as cold as ice—and he smiles widely, his rows of perfect teeth on full display. Except, there is one difference, his canines are far pointer than normal. It is only then, that Ginny Weasley comes to the conclusion that Tom is a vampire.
She hasn’t heard any news of a nest around here in years. Yet, standing before her, is the epitome of polished grace, not to mention, a vampire. She has only heard tales from when she was a child, nothing rooted in facts, only myth and superstition.
“You are a feisty girl aren't you?” He asks, stepping forward until his face is inches away from hers. “Perhaps not a Queen in the traditional sense...how would you like to rule the world with me, Ginevra?”
Truthfully, Ginny had never cared for her full name, but hearing him say it makes her like it. Well, more so, she loves hearing his velvety voice utter her name.
Ginny doesn’t really care to rule either, but then she recalls the snubs and sneers she's gotten from those fancy dressed witches and wizards over the years. Their lives are filled with frivolity, and complacency. Things have remained the same for centuries, and they are quite happy to let it continue on like that. She thinks it is time for a change.
Ginny wishes to tear apart the fanciful world of grandeur and opulence that they enjoy. Not because they have earned it, but simply because of their names and the families they were born into.
So, with a broad grin of her own she replies, “yes, Tom. I think I would like that very much.”
To think, her life would have continued down its monotonous path—destined for a life of squalor—if not for the spontaneous decision to take an afternoon stroll in the forest unaccompanied. Though, perhaps it had been fate driving her, or him calling to her. Whatever it was, she decides not to ponder on it for too long. She doesn’t have time to ponder on such things; she has a world to rule.