The Ends of this String

[lucien]

The forest had never actually attracted him, until this moment: such it were the cliches of coming to this place at night, its boarders flitted with the shadows of students out after curfew. It did not hold interest in that sense, for it would be forbidden for a good reason or not. And yet-

It was not evening, though very near: the last vestiges of the day still lingering about on the tips of the leaves as if fingers unwilling to let go. There were golden slivers, left over from when the day was still warmed by the sun and the evening was an imagined thing.

Lucien pulled his bag more securely onto his shoulder, working his way around the thin, lonely trail. Summer was still in the air, the darkness could not dispell it completely, like the echoes of a face in the water: gone? Perhaps not.

His shoes crunched on the gravel path as he neared the edge of the forest: and there is silence of the most unlikely kind. THe books left in their shelves up at the castle- he could still not quite decipher the allur that had brought him out of that safe nook where the only golden light to fall was that of candles and wands.

His own wand was in his pocket at this very moment, untouched for the better part of the leisurely afternoon.

And now, the sun was setting, and in the near distance under the curve of the lawns, the castle was beginning to attract a stream of students, their cloaks billowing about them in the early autumn wind.

It was seen from his point of view: only shafts here and there as the trees were still blocking the better part of his vision. He had resorted to their protection instead, it seemed as though the forest was not a popular gathering place outside the vampirish hours.

Pun unintended, of course.

And yet, as he paused there, head turned to a shaft of such a light, he could smell the pages- old and dusty as if the leaves around him had turned to bound leather, although at second glance, they were still just as green as they had been before then.

Eyes were unfocused, as thoughts took the turns on the parquet of his mind.

[Lillian Ann]

Cerulean eyes watched the other boy for a mere moment, as her feet swung in the air silently. The forest, much unlike for Lucien, had always called for her, a place of rest and quiet. Peace lingered about it's edges, and the further you went in, the more drowsy you became from the dark magic that lingers there, forbidding, though it is merely left overs from decades past. Her eyes flicker away instantly, fearful that he might detect her presence up in the branches, before remembering that it is he who would be in trouble, not her, if they met. The new status of Prefect allowed her to do such things as patrol and watch the borders.

Black hair feathers her pale features, still cut short from her previous training, but for now she has taken a week of rest so that the bags under her eyes may lessen and her strength rebuild. Long, thin fingers wrap around the wand that rests in a human made nest, previously reflecting light upon the pages she reads, now pointing downward at the figure below..

Just a boy.

Unperturbed she slips her wand back into the nest and undoes the ribbon from her bag, resting it within the spine of the book to mark her page. Reading could wait for tomorrow, she tells herself mentally, even as she slips it back into her shoulder bag, tightening the drawstrings before adjusting it on her shoulder. Once again those pale fingers clench the hilt of a cherry wood wand, slipping it within her pocket before grabbing hold of the branch.

And letting herself fall.

She lands on her feet, though in a squatting postion, a mere five feet from the boy, and flinches at her miscalculations, having hoped to land further away to avoid mishaps. Yet he appears unaware, his thoughts taking over most of his thoughts instead, and her smile is shallow and bitter at this thought, remembering the days when she too was allowed to lose herself in thought.

Too Dangerous now a days.

Or maybe she had just become old and cynical, he would no doubt agree, as she notes the identity of the boy. A faint memory of him, of silent arrogance, or cruel injustices, revealing her identity. She is no doubt injust in her opinions of the boy, but this no longer bothers her, as she raises her wand a faint Lumos on her lips as it is pointed in his direction.



Perhaps now.. Perhaps she could...

She should have worn her robes, is her newest deduction, as she knows that she fails miserably at appearing authoritive, or even appearing powerful. Instead she stands in a black long sleeve shirt- which, she notes unwillingly, clings to her sides just enough, showing off ribs- and a pair of black jeans and trainers. Blue eyes watch him once more, waiting for a reaction, for a motion, her wand still up, not threateningly of course, but just so that she can see clearly, the glasses resting on her nose giving away how hard that is these days.

Now.. Now she could..

No. Maybe not.

"Lucien?"

That was much better. Just ask what he's doing here, with his name of course. Logical train of thoughts weren't neccessarily at their strong point at this moment, where the light meets darkness, and a yawn is present in her throat. It is not released though. Lillian does not allow herself the pleasure.

"You shouldn't be out here."

[lucien]

He started- turned away from the thought in a jagged movement- without grace nor anything that may have hinted composure.

At first,there were no marked features upon which to draw a memory, recognition or otherwise, other than the gender and approximate age of the girl- older than he-

Then two names: One he associated, none he used. He had read about the forest on countless occasions, and it was only when he had willed his heartbeat to slow, did he dare himself to speak-

"On the account of lack or skill...or otherwise?"

He let his eyes flicker of the absence of badges or other representations of authority, though not a challenge, a mere statement of the surface that coated a personality he did not, at times, recognise. Remember a story, tell a story, be the story-

He was aware that his wand was in his pocket- too slow to draw-

Vaguely, he noted that she looked rather...ill, and yet he had not noticed her arrive- had she walked or...

Lucien resisted the urge to let his eyes wander about him: it would show nerves, show insecurity, show weakness- much more of that than he had already shown, for surprise was most certianly noticeable, if not from her abrupt entry than from his own abrupt exit.

That, and the fact that Lucien could not seem to decipher her as the various people he met could be- habits, personality, indulgences and yet...seemed unimportant when concerned with someone who did not seem to hold substance on the mundane things that flowed around them, and yet seemed to be the oarsman which guides the boat.

Manipulating and subtle-

He wished he held his wand; the fact that the other's was in her hand made him feel as though naked- He knew how he looked: young, naive, lost; and detested himself for it.

On the edge of his mind, he noted that the weight of the bag on his shoulder was slipping, and yet he did not make any other movement than the words he had spoken-

The instances in which, once the thread was broken, something worse or even more undesirable was sure to follow. That being said, he could feel the same, uncomfortable sensation in his chest he had come to associate with people.

But the honest answer was, he did not know how to act.

(occ: sorry for the late reply...geh. )

[Lillian Ann]

Pink lips open to speak, and then close again as she coughs softly into the leather palm of the fingerless gloves she wears. Blue eyes watch him unsurely, before she shifts to put her wand into her front pocket, though the lumos still shines, as does the wafts of light that sift through the leaves, sparsely illuminating the ground about them.

She is surprised to have caught him off guard, he does not seem the type to leave himself so unguarded, but she allows herself to pass it off as simply not expecting anyone to join him in the forest, especially not someone as skilled in undetection as she. After all, it's what Lillian does best, as she has spent a great deal of her life trying to avoid the public eye.

"It's not a question of your skill, simply a question of your aut"

The sentence dies of her lips, as she is forced into a coughing fit, and she brandishes her wand, summoning a glass of water with simple flicks of her wrist, a shaky hand reaching out to grasp it before she swallows and shakes her head. The eyes that watch him are weary, wary in their own means, glad though that he is not among her friends. That he wouldn't scold her for letting her health deteriorate. Most likely, she noted, he could careless for her state.

A pale hand cards through her hair as the glass dissappears just as easily as it came, and she allows blue eyes to examine him thoroughly. He is a quiet character, whether it be shyness or simply one who doesn't appreciate being around others -though something tells her it is the latter- intelligent, and from his usual composure, she'd place him the pureblooded ranks.

"Your shoulders are tense."

It is a statement. One that shows her personal knowledge of body language, that she knows that he is nervous, or hiding something. A pink tongue darts out to lick at chapped lips and she tilts her head to the side. A sign of curiosity, and trust, though she feels neither at the moment, it is more to put his mind at ease, whether he recognizes this or not.

[lucien]

Those shoulders shrugged- and even that was an uncommitted gesture which he immediately regretted. He was rather unnerved, and what unnerved him was that fact that he was simply so. Clichés and fugue set aside, there was nothing really that he knew about Lillian except for the house and age, at which he could do more than hazard a guess-

He let his fingers curl around themselves at his side; like the laces of the fleur de lis, or the photographic movements that shed light on sepia memories- it was that, a moment ago before the sun disappeared over the leaves. Whether or not it coincided with this intrusion, Lucien could still not quite put the finger on right, nor left- and such as it were, left it be for the moment’s torment, and pushed it to the back of his mind.

And yet he could not quite shake away that simple comment- under the low lighting of the forest, the characteristic flush to his cheeks would hopefully go unnoticed- or at least, unmentioned. His wand lolled languidly against the fabric of his robes:

The atmosphere was so thick with unspoken words, it felt as if someone had held a hand over his mouth and all he bear to do was to stand there, feeling oddly delicate like some helpless ornament and simply breathe…

“As so do your voice from which you speak-”

There was an echo still from which the unfinished sentence had lingered after her, and then abandoned. He now finished that echo, leaving the word hanging like leaves clutching at the last vestiges of autumn colour.

He wondered if she slept at all; her pale face seemed to emanate something hidden beneath cloth and sweeping hair, it seemed to merge her features seamlessly into the forest background- perhaps that was why he had not…

And yet the lapse was unforgivable. Had it been any other-

The thoughts broke at the ends of their string, as if a child was standing there, methodically severing the lines on which he held onto reality.

[Lillian Ann]

A tilted eyebrow is the only response he receives in return for the flush of his cheeks, and a curt nod to the assessment of her voice. There is an almost amused glint in her eyes, as breath slips softly between her lips, scratching at her throat, and a pale hand slips into her front pocket, before she extends it's clenched fist forward, an almost childish gesture for she opens her hand, showing the prefect badge that rests there, before placing it back in her pocket.

I have the authority here.

This is the silent statement she presents, but it is not the one she means, behind the obvious is the sad glint in blue eyes. I'm no longer adequate. The little golden badge reminded her so much of the lectures she recieved as a young child, all the 'It doesn't matter how you dress up a failure, it is still a failure' about blood purity, about staying in the line.

She is quite aware of what her teachers would think if they saw her now, skin far too pale, too many weeks spent in the dungeons, and sunk in eyes from the days she spends without sleep. Lillian knows these things make her weak, and the fact that she continues to allow them to progress makes her even weakier. The idea causes pale fingers to curl into fists, and then out once more, as she watches him.

"Marionettes should never be left with scissors."

The statement drips off her lips like a poison, waiting to leak into his airways, and the glint in her eyes is hard. Her message is clear, even through the weakness in the voice, he has invaded her territory. And unless he plans on playing by a new set of rules, he had better leave now. Lucien was a pureblood, an intelligent one at that, rare these days it seemed, and she was a halfbreed from pureblood lines, bred to be nothing more than a tool, bred to destroy.

Her rules are not complex, nor are they hard, but one thing that Lillian does not accept is ignorance, or statements that could just as easily be said to the face left unsaid. She has an appreciation for subtlety, but it does not mean she wishes to be mocked. Simple. But definitely not the same ones she had been taught as a child. She does not expect him to remain on guard, as though something may attack.

"You are in no danger though."

That one she will lay into the obvious, thought she means not to insult his intelligence. Simply to make sure that he understands that while he stands on this side of the tree line, he need not worry attack from the creatures, she will deal with them as they come. For the very same reason he need not fear attack from Lillian, as she has not enough energy these days to ensure safety of even herself alone should she chose to attack for no reason.

Lillian is hardly stupid.

The forest is her place of solace, and comfort, and bad memories she hardly wishes to associate with anymore still linger closer to the center.. But here, in the skirts of the forest, it is simply peace, and she has no wish to taint it. Too much of her life has been spent killing everything she touches, too much of it spent hurting others with no rhyme or reason, simply under command. This is not the type of life she wishes to live anymore, and she is the only one who an change this.

Might as well take the first step.