The Tale of Seral Amanae

[Seral]

The autumn leaves scattered the ground, a crisp golden carpet that layed waste to the once proud trees, leaving their branches stark and bare. October had turned the skies to an odd shade of grey, clouds forming high above the naked tree-tops so that the distinctive scent of rain was constantly present, threatening one as they wandered through the sparse outskirts of the forest. Summer had passed in a whirlwind of balmy days, the air often so hot that one found it difficult to breathe, while the scent of honeysuckle was almost suffocating. Now, however, the sun had taken its golden presence far away, leaving the air tainted with an almost ethereal frost - winter lurking behind every chilled breeze.

Through the light foliage of the forest, two figures could be seen drifting along the golden woodland path, their voices rising above the rustle of dead leaves beneath their feet. The smaller of the two appeared to be a woman, clad in a periwinkle blue dress - although the fashion was not quite fitting for the time. The collar of the dress swept low so that pale shoulders were bared to the chilled air, while no large net caused the skirts of her dress to fan out ridiculously, instead allowing them to flow loosely about her legs. Clouds of inky hair acted as a shawl, framing a delicate featured face - although her expression was anything but so; her nose held at a slightly haughty angle, while a small grin danced upon cherry-red lips. Her arm was interlinked with the other's - a man who, although somewhat taller than her, appeared nearly as slender. A waterfall of platinum blonde hair brushed against his hips as he sauntered alongside her, the grey of his immaculately fitting tail-coat the absolute match of the stormy shade of his eyes. Perfectly sculpted features seemed roguish, however, an air of arrogance eminating from his wintery aura.

"Mother has another of her dreadfully boring lodgers arriving this evening." The young woman glanced up towards him, her hand waving indifferently. "I have to make my way back now, otherwise she'll never forgive me for making a bad impression. You know how strongly my mother takes first impressions.."

The two moved out of the forest, starting down a wide lane - green furtile land upon either side. They were not crops, the grass was far too overgrown, the wind catching it up in its arms and hurling it from side to side.

"Mhmm, I remember from last time." He sniffed slightly, drawing an ebony velvet scarf a little further about his throat. The sound of his voice was akin to a purr, low and smooth although infringed with a coolness that made him seem anything but kind and warm. "Who is it now? She insists upon only cultured lodgers, but everyone she's had in the house appears anything but."

She shrugged a little, her free hand rising to catch at the careless dark curls that flew all about her face, distorting her vision quite irritably.

"I think he's a teacher, but I'm not quite certain of his subject." Scarlet lips quivered with hidden laughter, and large hazel eyes swivelled towards the ashen-haired man. "You know, if all else fails then I'm quite open to becoming a governess? I won't have them marry me off to someone that I barely know, and I'm fully aware that that's what's coming next. I'm nineteen years old, and show no signs of moving myself; they dislike that."

With a roll of his eyes, the taller man simply set his mouth to an odd angle, muttering something incoherent beneath his breath. It appeared that she heard, however, because she gave his arm a light squeeze, her cheek resting against his shoulder affectionately.

"They're already thinking of sending Lyssa away, aren't they? She looks older than sixteen, and I must say - she looks nothing like you. You look slightly German, really, and I've always thought she seems French." She paused slightly, and they walked in silence for a few moments. "A wedding to a French aristocrat is good for a family's name, Loclaen. I can't imagine losing a sister to another country, but you should be aware..."

Trailing off, she merely lowered her head, focusing upon the road in front of her. As harsh as Loclaen seemed, the bond he shared with his sister was exeedingly strong, the two having gone everywhere hand in hand since she was able to walk. The first time she had layed eyes upon him, he had been leaning out of a carriage window making rude faces to passersby - Lyssa covering her face with humiliation and attempting to supress her laughter. Frowning slightly, the dark eyed woman remained silent, the gesture returned by Loclaen.

Presently, the lane gave way to a road, the mud marked by carriage wheels and horses hooves. Ahead of them, the shape of a house began to emerge - grey-stoned and only mildly imposing, due to the well tended lawns and the baskets of flowers that sat neatly in the arching door-way. It had been preserved from the fourteenth century, or so they had been told upon arriving in England, something which had caused her mother to flinch and exclaim how such appearences could be amended. Within a month, the slightly rambling old building was colourful and almost ghastly - neither comforting nor homely.

"There is a carriage outside, Charlotte." Loclaen's drawling tones disturbed her reverie, and her eyes snapped upwards, blood rising to colour her face furiously.

"I'm late!" Her grip on his arm loostened at once, as if he burned her, and she looked about furiously as if expecting someone to step out of the quickly descending gloom and chastise her. "Mother will murder me, Laen--"

Smirking slightly, he gave her a small shove in the centre of her back. "Then you'd better run before I have to save you."

Without a moment's pause, she lunged forward and grasped his hand, gathering her skirts half-way up her leg and setting off at a sprint towards the house. With an exasperated sigh, Laen suffered himself to be dragged along, unsuccessfully attempting to keep a firm hold of his scarf as the wind threatened to peel it away from his exposed throat. Moon-beam pale tresses and glossy, obsidian curls intermingled as they ran, short bursts of breath escaping them as both of them fought back the inevitable stitches forming in their sides. Just as the lawn came into view, a mortified shout reached their ears, causing the two of them to stop dead, spinning around simultaneously.

"Charlotte! What on earth do you think you are doing?" A middle aged woman tottered towards them, her dress reminiscent to the feathers of a peacock. In her right hand a parasol was held, despite the obvious cold and inevitable rain. "How dare you come running in here like that, you are a woman not a peasant girl with no manners. We have a guest, for goodness sake, I think that he's...he's around here.."

Her twittering dwindled away into nothing, and she glanced around expectantly, her painted-on eyebrows rising with confusion. With a furtive look towards Loclaen, Charlotte released his hand and half-heartedly began to smooth down her skirt, though the creases were already somewhat unforgivable. A light poppy-red had caught her cheeks, and above the corset her chest rose and fell quickly, causing her breath to come in short gasps as her heart thudded away mercilessly. Loclaen, however, barely seemed riled by the sudden run, although his fingers combed through his hair and a frown creased his brow, as though the thought of apearing in disarray was quite dispicable.

"Ah! Here he is, yes," Her mother rounded on them both with a despairing scowl, her voice an irritated hiss. "Don't you dare be rude - my husband is just inside and I warn you, he is displeased already."

From the confines of the carriage, a figure clad in an inky-black tail-coat and equally dark trousers appeared, although his shirt was a crisp-white - the details making him appear reminiscent of an undertaker. Beside her, Charlotte could feel Loclaen begining to shudder with laughter, an absolutely contagious thing, that never ceased to cause the same reaction in herself. Refusing to give in and look at her friend, she forced her gaze to remain upon the man, noting how ebony hair had been brushed back carefully from his face, a somewhat odd style that she had never before seen. The rest of his face was obscured slightly, and it became obvious that he was attempting to remove his luggage from the carriage, unaided.

Within seconds, her mother had shrieked out across the garden, her voice making the man's shoulders tense for a moment. It seemed that even strangers could not abide the shrill tone in which she spoke, and it was only after a few moments that he turned around.

"Don't you worry about the luggage, we shall have a servant come out and collect everything for you." The woman glanced around despairingly, finding it quite obvious that the servants had busied themselves elsewhere. "Ahh..actually, let my daughter and..and...yes, Loclaen help you."

With pursed lips, she ushered them forwards slightly until they stood before her, her boney fingers pressed against their backs as she marched towards the guest. It was Loclaen who noticed it first. Unthinkingly, a small snort escaped him and he clapped long fingers over his own mouth, affecting a false sneeze and turning towards Charlotte with a gloating expression already wild in those sea-grey optics. Frowning a little, she shook her head at him, not quite certain as to why on earth he was begining his usual nonesensical behaviour. The moment her eyes drifted coolly towards the guest, however, she became fully aware - shame creeping over her heart as she listened to Loclaen's breathing stiffle and attempt to return to normal.

He had a cleft palate. It would not have been quite so amusing to Loclaen, she realised, had it not been for his obvious attempt to fix this. It seemed that he had undergone some form of botched operation to return his mouth to normal, instead only making it appear worse. In the past, she had seen men without noses, although these had been covered by small metal sheets and the full shock of the actual disfigurement had been left to the imagination. Slowly, her eyes took in the rest of his face; he was not young nor was he particurlarly old, perhaps reaching his mid-forties. He had a relatively long nose, and his eyes were a vivid aqua shade - a shade reminiscent of a man too well known to Charlotte, although unlike that certain person's, they did not slant upwards exotically, instead they seemed to turn down ever so slightly.

"This is Florian Devétte," Her mother had come to stand next to him, removing a ridiculously large fan from her breast, and begining to fan herself at a furious rate. "Monsieur Devétte, let me introduce you to my daughter and her friend." The woman nodded so very much that Charlotte thought her head just might fall off, gesturing to them to introduce themselves accordingly.

"Loclaen J`Adore, pleased to meet you, I'm sure." With a glacial stare, Loclaen offered the smallest of bows, his hands remaining firmly at his sides.

"Loclaen's family live close by, his mother and I often wander to the town together." The older woman interjected again, her voice eager as if desperate to make a good impression - cutting out Florian before he even had a chance to reply. Her bird-like gaze moved to Charlotte, and she raised her brows chastisingly.

Slowly, Spanish eyes lifted to Florian's, widening momentarily as she found his gaze fixed calmly upon her. Something in his gaze made her slightly uncomfortable, yet she simply straightened her back and extended a fragile hand to him, her voice unwavering.

"I am Charlotte Amanae," inclining her head slightly, she returned her gaze to his eyes. "Well met, Señor."

She could not help noticing the slight elevation of his brow when she extended her hand to him, nor the barely visible tremble in his fingers as they took her own for a moment. It was as though he was not accustomed to touch, and for a moment she regretted the gesture although all thoughts of such were shot from her mind when he spoke, his voice melodic and quiet.

"Charlotte? How strange, I believed your name to be Seral." His mouth twitched, causing the scar to twist a little. "Strange indeed."

Her hand suddenly felt like a leaden weight, as it hung in the air, and when he released it her arm fell to her side as if of its own accord. Vermilion lips opened and then closed, though she was saved from speech by her mother's voice.

"Charlotte, Loclaen - take Monsieur Devétte's things into the house, and then find the servants. Tell them to hurry!" Her hand shooed them away, and speechlessly, Charlotte moved to the carriage, lifting long rose-wood case from the interior and begining to move towards the house.

The sky overhead began to darken, rain threatening to burst the clouds. Somewhere behind her, Loclaen was murmuring horrendous little insults, each sentence interjected by a malicious laugh. It all seemed unimportant, somehow - and it was in this moment of dazed confusion, that Charlotte became Seral Amanae.

[Ria]

Ah, squee! I'm looking forward to hearing more about Seral. *Giggles* And Laen, for he does so amuse me.

[Seral]

-giggles-
Seral's an odd thing! I like writing about her when she was younger. As for Laen...he's just the nastiest piece of work alive - at least Julien has the excuse of madness! xD'
But I love writing about them together. xD'

I'll try and write some more tomorrow!

[Ria]

It's shiny to read about them together, too! I look forward to hearing more of it. =D

[Seral]

An hour or so later, Seral found herself stood motionless by her bedroom window, her nose almost pressed to the glass. Rain drove down mercilessly outside, drowning out the sound of horses hooves as Loclaen raced down the garden path, mounted on a borrowed stallion; silvery hair tearing out behind him in a shocking whirlwind. Her mother had finally tired of his constant complaining and malicious interjections, telling him that he would do far better at home where he could ask for all he wished, and mock his mother's servants to his heart's content. Of course, he would return tomorrow with some extravagant story or interesting item - most probably stolen - from his grandfather.

Florian had been shown to his room, the largest one upon the third floor, fitted with a large bay window that overlooked the back of the house. This was lucky for him, really, Seral's room was at the very front of the house, and her view of the moors and the distant forest was spoiled by the garish lawn. She had been saved from the duty of bringing him to his chambers by the sudden appearence of Belle, a plump house-maid with a somewhat humiliating adoration for Loclaen. The girl had shyly sidled through the door, having previously fled to the attic after seeing Loclaen appear, and offered to take Florian and his luggage upstairs, leaving Seral enough time to slip through the conservatory doors without being noticed. Something about the guest made her uncomfortable; whether it were the manner in which he looked at her, though it was nothing but polite, or his dismissal of her true name. Either way it made little difference - she would be forced to stumble upon him now and then, but as long as she kept her distance as best she could, then her sanity could remain in tact. There was no way of dismissing the subject of dining with her family and Florian that evening, however - her mother had already invited him to join them, in order to lay down several rules about lodging in her house.

Releasing a shallow breath, Seral turned away from the window as Laen passed from her view, becoming enveloped by the sheets of rain. Downstairs, the sound of music was apparent, drifting up the heavily carpeted stairs and sliding beneath her door, reminding her of her duty in the dining room. The clock upon the wall read half past seven, which left her merely five minutes to dress and re-arrange her rebellious tresses, before her mother came rapping upon the doors to her chambers and shrieking at the top of her voice.

Unceremoniously, the Spanish woman unlaced her corset, allowing her dress to fall in a heap about her feet. Stepping out of the periwinkle blue pool, she crossed the room, rummaging through an assortment of dresses - each of which caused a slight scowl to touch delicate features. Eventually, she settled upon a dress of emerald taffeta, the sleeves bell-shapes that finished at fragile elbows, tiny lace frills flirting with pale skin. With an indignant little smirk, she discarded the several underskirts, leaving only one petticoat and a chemise - quite enough for her. Hastily, she bound glossy curls up in a ribbon before rushing from her room and snapping the door shut.

The scent of herbs assailed her senses even as she stood upon the landing, the flagrance intermingling with that of the burned candles which lined the stair-way. Over the soft tones of the piano, she could just make out the voices of her parents and the servants, her mother's false laugh floating through the air like a badly tuned violin. Perhaps if she entered now, before Florian had even left his room, then she could settle herself in a corner and plant the seed of a fake ailment that would aid her in leaving the meal early. They would not make her stay and eat with them if she appeared ill enough, surely.

Her thoughts were shattered by a soft rustle of material behind her, a light breeze ghosting the base of her exposed neck. Thin fingers increased their grip upon the oak banister, while long scarlet nails upon her other hand dug into the soft flesh of her palm. Closing her eyes in an attempt to calm herself, she took a breath of air, quite surprised to find that it was wavering and unsteady, causing her lips to tremble. Her plan had been foiled before she had even put it into progress; her parents and servants were in the dining room - it could only be Florian standing behind her. His smell was distinctive, akin to old musty books that have sat in a library for too long - although it was not repulsive and held the ability to make one's head swirl if they inhaled too deeply.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned about upon the stair, unwillingly lifting her gaze to his. He was paler than she remembered, his cheeks slightly gaunt although not due to well defined cheekbones. The disturbing scar and crease that distorted his upper lip trailed upwards to his right nostril, causing it to appear a rather odd shape now that she stood beneath him upon the steps. It was his eyes, however, that frightened her the most - they seemed to hold every single feeling that Seral had ever felt, each of them intermingled with a haunted emotion that made her tremble unreasonably.

"Forgive me if I startled you." He lowered his head slightly, descending another step so that he was parallel with Seral, although he stood a little away from her. "I could only guess the time for dinner, your mother was not specific."

Blinking slightly, she found her mouth had settled open and quickly regained her composure, although it remained obvious that she was flustered; ivory cheeks laced with a hint of crimson.

"Dinner is at a quarter to seven, although she will be expecting us presently." Her voice weakened on the last word, and she removed her eyes from his again, fixing them anywhere but his mouth.

"Then we ought to go down."

He did not extend his arm to her, she noticed, as they descended the rich vermilion carpeted stairs. It was as though he had an odd aversion to touch, his hands alternating from clasping behind his back, to hanging awkwardly at his sides. They were such wonderful hands, she found herself noticing shamefully - long and slender, and when he spoke he used them in an odd over-exaggerated manner. Blinking slightly to dispell the odd thought, she directed him silently into the dining room, feeling his eyes upon her back the entire time.

"Ahh, Charlotte! You found Monsieur Devétte!" Her mother had been stood close to the majestic fireplace, her painted face caught in the warm orange glow, the oils threatening to melt and drip down upon her dress in colourful spatters.

"He found me, actually." With one last glance to Florian, Seral moved further into the room, seating herself at her father's right hand at the long mahogony table. An assortment of food had already been set; a large chicken sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by other roasted dishes.

With an impatient face to Seral, the older woman ushered Florian to sit down in the seat opposite her daughter, before flinging herself down at the opposite end of the table, sipping at her wine in a manner that she deemed flirtatious. Without another word, Florian lowered himself into the seat, his gaze moving across the different foods slowly.

"You are not a man of many words, Devétte?" Her father grinned from beneath his mustache, helping himself to the chicken. "We're quite used to that with Charlotte, it seems she only ever speaks to complain."

Peering at Seral over the rim of his wine-glass, Florian gave the smallest of shrugs, his voice lacking the jovial and brusque tones of the others.

"To speak when it is uncalled for, is often seen as a crime in itself."

With that, both of her parents exchanged sly glanced from across the table, although neither of them replied. Seral had the suspicion that the two of them would spend the evening discussing the conversation later on.

The evening passed with very little words - Florian introduced himself as an artist and a writer, briefly relaying how he had taught in France. Throughout the entire meal he barely lifted his eyes from his plate, quite missing the humorous smirks passed between Seral's parents, although judging by the frown that slowly grew deeper as the evening progressed, he was fully aware of the ridicule that was taking place.

When at last the meal came to an end, Seral staring at Florian's hands, her chin cupped in her palm, her mother rose from her chair to stand before the fire as before.

"Dinner is served at five o'clock, you may either eat with us or in your own chambers." The fan worked rapidly, that sickly smile never fading. "If you need anything at all, you only have to ask, Monsieur Devétte."

"Most gracious of you, Madame." He stood carefully, smoothing down the coal-black tail-coat as he rose.

With a small courtsey to him, she called for Belle to open the door, ushering both he and Seral into the hallway with hushed goodnights. As they exited the dining room, the servant bid goodnight to them both and scurried away to the kitchens, leaving them to ascend the stairway in silence. Florian walked with his head slightly bowed now, Seral noticed as she observed him from the cover of dense lashes. The frown that had written itself into his face refused to go away, and it was with a slight pang of annoyance that she concluded it must have been her parents behaviour that upset him so.

When they reached the first landing, she stood close to the banister, finally turning to face him. Once again, she was caught by the shock of finding his eyes upon her already, that odd expression having returned to his face.

"I bid you goodnight, sir." Ebony curls climbed down against her cheeks as she inclined her head to him, cherry-red lips offering the faintest of smiles.

"And I you, Señorita." That strange mouth moved into what could have been a smile, and he turned on his heelm noving briskly towards the next set of stairs.

Thin hands flexed and then clenched at her sides, curiosity suddenly threatening to overpower her and spill across her lips. It had ever been one of her greatest weaknesses, asking too many questions, yet when confronted by someone who posed such a mystery as Florian, she found herself unable to remain demure and ladylike.

"Why?" Her voice rang out falteringly, and he stopped with one foot upon the stair, turning to face her silently. "Why am I Seral?"

He laughed then, the sound almost like piano notes. "You will find out in time, you don't need to think on it."

Nodding to her, he quickly ascended the stairs to the next floor, leaving her trembling and gaping, her eyes glassy.

[Ria]

Another beautiful installment, cheri! *Claps*

[Seral]

Dearest Lette,

I hope I find you in good health, although enquiring about your temperance is quite a useless endeavour, I have come to learn.

I write to you from the Orient, and this letter will be amongst my briefest. Business has cropped up, and I find myself unable to stay in England for perhaps several weeks. People and situations from my past catch up with me, and before I am allowed peace of mind, I must attend to such things.

You have a new lodger. Be careful, and do not drown too soon.
You will understand in time, Lette.

Yours,

Azia.

PS. The Chinese are quite apt in toffee making. I shall bring you back a bag of their finest.

Wrinkling her nose with disatisfaction, Seral folded the letter in two and placed it upon the breakfast table before her. The vermilion ink had seeped through to the other side of the paper, seeming grotesquely akin to blood, although she knew perfectly well that the idea was ridiculous. Azia was an eccentric, and would simply have purchased the oddest and most expensive ink that he had layed eyes upon. She had stumbed across him when she had turned fourteen, and had spent at least three days a week in his company ever since. He had become her confidante, although she barely knew a thing about him. Even his age was a mystery - he did not appear any more than thirty, yet wove such colourful tales of centuries past, that she found herself wondering if he was some guardian angel sent to watch over her. He spoke in riddles, and refused to even disclose his country of origin, though Seral was certain that he was from Japan or China.

His warning about Florian caused her to shudder slightly, and she found herself re-reading his crimson scrawl in search of some hidden message. The sound of footsteps behind her stirred her from her indepth inspection, however, and she hastily lowered the letter to her lap, and snatched a croissant from a silver bowl. The warm buttery scent soothed her over-active mind, and she found herself relaxing - returning to her usual state of nonchalance. Belle's voluptuous form scurried across the morning room, her arms piled high with bed linen, while her usually neat bun had come loose about her shoulders. With a flustered nod towards Seral, she vanished into the next room, the door slamming sharply behind her.

With raised eyebrows, Seral merely shook her head and tore the croissant in half, idly begining to spread jam across the surface. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Florian as he sidled in from the hall. His eyes drifted across her, and she kept her gaze fixed firmly upon her croissant, continuing to spread the jam despite having almost flattened the pastry. For some reason, she found herself extremely unwilling to speak with him - his behaviour the night before combined with Azia's warning, causing doubt to hound at the back of her mind. That tall form of his crept about the table, as if unwilling to be noticed, although the attempt was in vain and appeared somewhat amusing. Without thinking, a slight smirk began to spread across Seral's lips, and before she even had the chance to disguise it, he had turned his face to her, those pale aqua eyes glazing over.

"Good morning, sir..," the croissant dropped to her plate with a light thud, and she felt the blood begining to rush upwards to burn her cheeks. An odd note of fear infringed itself upon her voice, and she twined her hands together upon the table.

"Yes. Good morning, Miss Amanae." He took a step back from the table, glancing to the breakfast and then to the open door just behind Seral. "If you will excuse me, I will skip breakfast. My apologies to the cook, I'm sure."

With a brief nod, he brushed past her towards the door, the sound of his footsteps quickly dissipating into nothing. Frowning with annoyance, Seral slumped forward to lean against the table, picking at the squashed croissant with long nails. Florian had been in the house for less than a day, and already he had faced Loclaen's mockery, her parents obvious teasing and, despite his odd show of kindness towards her, Seral's amusement at his strange mannerisms.

The croissant and jam were left uneaten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Want it?"

Azia's letter dangled just out of Seral's reach, held firmly between Loclaen's index finger and thumb. He lounged against a tree at the bottom of her garden, just out of sight from the house and her parents ever prying eyes. Grey eyes glittered with amusement, and he gave the paper a light shake.

"It's mine, Laen!" She made another lunge towards the paper, this time almost reaching it. In one swift motion, however, he had caught her wrist firmly in his hand, lifting her arm above her head and drawing her closer. "Give it back, I keep all of my letters and you know it, he won't be back for months--"

"Mhmm, I bet you're counting down the days," his voice lowered, becoming a silky murmur as she moved to snatch her letter. The hand that caught her wrist turned, causing her to pivot about with him, so that their places were exchanged and she was caught between Loclaen and the tree. "Why should I give it back?"

"You're mad, Laen, you think of such twisted things," she stared up at him cooly, her brow furrowed. "I keep every letter that I ever receive from anyone. Whether they're from you, Azia or the damned bakery - it's not up to you to steal them from me. You have no reason to be so defensive when Azia is mentioned, it's quite ridiculous of you. Did I complain when you spent Christmas Eve with my chambermaid, when you were invited to the party? No I didn't, so you have no need to be so petulant when I miss a friend."

Grey eyes rolled, and it seemed that he was considering something, although the vice-like grip upon her wrist never once loostened. The day had gone from bad to worse - the guilt over mocking Florian, alongside Azia's sudden departure, had been topped off wonderfully by Loclaen's accursed envy. It was a trait that Seral had ever seen in him, noting the protective manner in which he would escort his sister about the place and then finally realising that he behaved in a similiar manner with herself. She could not, however, find it within herself to deplore the trait, simply giving in and allowing him to protect her - though his attempts were always quite fruitless.

"Very well, you take your letter and lock it away in your little red box." Arching one brow, he leaned a little closer and lowered the letter. The tips of cold fingers brushed her skin as he slipped the paper inside her bodice. "But I will be mindful of my duty to you, Charlotte."

Scowling at him, she gave one last shove against his chest and stepped aside, folding her arms in annoyance. With a languid flourish of his hand, Loclaen resumed his position against the tree, crossing one ankle over the other as he watched her.

"Have you spoken to Monsieur Devétte, yet?" He tilted his head slightly, curling a strand of ashen hair about his finger.

Sighing slightly, she gave a light shrug, hazel eyes drifting towards the house. "No, not really. He came to dinner last night, which really wasn't all that exciting. Mother and father spent the hour bragging...whenever he tried to speak they dismissed him, so he decided not to open his mouth. I can't blame him, speaking to them is quite useless."

Snorting ungraciously, he began to wander away from the garden and towards the lane leading out to the moors. With a brief glance over her shoulder and without a second thought, Seral drew the navy blue hood up over inky curls and followed after him, walking quickly as to reach his side. His gaze was fixed upon the road ahead, a slightly dismal expression tugging at blood-red lips. It was another of his silences, the begining of a long afternoon spent in mute companionship. For hours upon hours, they would wander the moors until their feet ached and the pains of hunger became so very strong, that they would come to a silent agreement to turn back, reaching the house as the skies turned dark.


Dinner had passed by the time they returned home that evening, and the lights that burned in the windows of the house seemed to flare with anger. With a rushed goodbye to Loclaen, who vanished into the darkness soundlessly, Seral slipped inside, confronted at once by the nervous and tear-stained face of Belle.

[Ria]

Loveitloveitloveit! *Fwees* And Azia! *Fwees again*

I love your writing, dearest...
<3

Write more! xD