eclecticmuses March: Compass picture
http://i39.tinypic.com/2enb0c0.jpg
Svetlana Ivanova was way too aware that her face turned towards him the moment he approached, even if he was not visible yet - and then almost immediately turned away. In a place holding so many people as the Archangel fortress, if anybody was paying much attention, it would look strange probably - then again, because there were so many people, few did pay attention. Except for the children, of course, but most of them were young enough to not really make the connections.
It was strange. Pollux DuMorne had a density to his soul that rivaled, and at times surpassed, that of wizards like Simon and Alexei, while his age was but a fraction of theirs. With the older men, it stood to reason, experiences piling one atop another until the same matter weighted more than those who'd lived less. With the DuMornes - all of them seemed to be more than their ages warranted, as though events gathered and swirled around them and shrouded them in more experience than years alone brought; but Pollux...
People, she knew, tended to dance around pain. To keep their sanity. It's why every wizard worked to keep their Sight closed and why she tried, kept on trying to tone it down as much as possible. Take in a bit, then minds and souls would shy away from it. That was how it should be, both with Seeing and with pain. The cuts on the soul scabbed and scarred and healed with time, and that was how things were meant to happen. She could see that. See it, as most people, even wizards, only supposed and reasoned.
Not so with Pollux. His soul was rent by pain, constantly and incessantly, bleeding all the time. She had no idea why or how, or how he bore it, but it was so. And while pouring out all of the time, pooling in an aura of pain about him, his soul remained and, possibly, was growing more vivid, more stolid in her world of unforgettable absolutes.
The moment he was coming near, she knew. And then couldn't stand to look towards him, to See him and keep on Seeing him, so she turned away.
She didn't know, she didn't understand.
(Later, she learned. Later, she helped. Later, she loved. Later, that density would allow her an anchor, a steadiness to deal with the rest of the world, and then when he came near and her face turned to him, drawn like a hairline magnet dart towards the North, she didn't waver or look away. Later. In the beginning, it was just hard.)
Svetlana Ivanova ~ 436 words
Svetlana Ivanova was way too aware that her face turned towards him the moment he approached, even if he was not visible yet - and then almost immediately turned away. In a place holding so many people as the Archangel fortress, if anybody was paying much attention, it would look strange probably - then again, because there were so many people, few did pay attention. Except for the children, of course, but most of them were young enough to not really make the connections.
It was strange. Pollux DuMorne had a density to his soul that rivaled, and at times surpassed, that of wizards like Simon and Alexei, while his age was but a fraction of theirs. With the older men, it stood to reason, experiences piling one atop another until the same matter weighted more than those who'd lived less. With the DuMornes - all of them seemed to be more than their ages warranted, as though events gathered and swirled around them and shrouded them in more experience than years alone brought; but Pollux...
People, she knew, tended to dance around pain. To keep their sanity. It's why every wizard worked to keep their Sight closed and why she tried, kept on trying to tone it down as much as possible. Take in a bit, then minds and souls would shy away from it. That was how it should be, both with Seeing and with pain. The cuts on the soul scabbed and scarred and healed with time, and that was how things were meant to happen. She could see that. See it, as most people, even wizards, only supposed and reasoned.
Not so with Pollux. His soul was rent by pain, constantly and incessantly, bleeding all the time. She had no idea why or how, or how he bore it, but it was so. And while pouring out all of the time, pooling in an aura of pain about him, his soul remained and, possibly, was growing more vivid, more stolid in her world of unforgettable absolutes.
The moment he was coming near, she knew. And then couldn't stand to look towards him, to See him and keep on Seeing him, so she turned away.
She didn't know, she didn't understand.
(Later, she learned. Later, she helped. Later, she loved. Later, that density would allow her an anchor, a steadiness to deal with the rest of the world, and then when he came near and her face turned to him, drawn like a hairline magnet dart towards the North, she didn't waver or look away. Later. In the beginning, it was just hard.)
Svetlana Ivanova ~ 436 words