Scientia
Author: RavanaSnape
Title: Scientia
Prompt: 096 (Writer's Choice: Seasons)
Rating: PG-13 for mild slash
Length: 601 words
Summary: Beauty attracts her, in all its forms and seasons.
She surrounds herself with the things of past, because nothing else can define her. Kaleidoscopes of colours swirl around her head as she sinks further and further into her mind. In her world she is as solitary as Crusoe without his Friday and as inventive as Nemo. Should she have to, she would hunt the ocean beds. She explores words, moods, themes. She memorises persuade and suspicion and destruction. She feels the weight of every syllable, heavy on her tongue. When she dreams, it is in colour. Life for her is not a static thing - it is a myriad of charms and illusions. There are so many, almost tangible things. If she stretches her arms she can touch a thousand worlds.
For twenty years she has studied, delved into books in the dead of night. For her mind and for her soul she has read everything she can lay her hands on. To read a dictionary, to memorise entries is to be ordered, realistic, too thorough. That which she seeks comes naturally, as piecemeal. Absorbed through thousands of lessons, moments of attention and distraction.
She is attracted to beauty, in all forms. Autumn, summer, spring, winter. All these seasons have something to recommend. She has her gothic period, and her fashionable one. She likes the quirky, the odd, and the unexplained. The explanations she looks for are not found in textbooks. She cannot decide what she would do with the answers, were she to find them. And for that reason she keeps on looking, bypassing anything that looks like a finite end.
She likes women for their softness, the gentle touch and the smiles, dimples tugging at the corners of mouths. For them, subtlety and an inner strength. A core hardened by years of oppression, not quite sure that the longed-for equality has come to fruition. Scared to do, scared not to.
With men it is the outer strength. The idea that gallantry and the knights in her faerytales exist, albeit watered down, in the blood of their ancestors. It is the eyes, quick and shining in the candlelight. The wristbones, sharp and somehow delicate - a queer turn of phrase for a man, but appropriate nonetheless. It is the smell, when she closes her eyes, the smell that says safe and warm and protected. That, if she would let it, would say home.
But always, forever, the books draw her in. She could sit in a room, Plato’s philosopher Queen, alone save for her thoughts. There are not enough words - Wittgenstein was right, she understands that she is constrained. But she makes do with what she has and finds that, in most cases, it is sufficient.
She shares the fear, the fear of the unknown. As much as it excites her, makes her thrill for the chase of adventure, she wishes to be rid of it. It is not dying, but death, that keeps her up at night, burning the candle at both ends. What comes after is an obsession. Cause and effect; methodical exploration in everything.
She dreams of a love that will never die, but knows it to be just that; a dream. For her the Universe is infinite only in theory. In the meantime there is the Knowledge, pure and brilliant, shining bright in her eyes, her heart and her soul. It burns away the cobwebs of ignorance and fosters a hope in her that grows daily. When she thinks no-one is looking a smile curves her lips. She knows well that one can be alone in a crowd and in good company when solitary. Scientia is all.
Title: Scientia
Prompt: 096 (Writer's Choice: Seasons)
Rating: PG-13 for mild slash
Length: 601 words
Summary: Beauty attracts her, in all its forms and seasons.
She surrounds herself with the things of past, because nothing else can define her. Kaleidoscopes of colours swirl around her head as she sinks further and further into her mind. In her world she is as solitary as Crusoe without his Friday and as inventive as Nemo. Should she have to, she would hunt the ocean beds. She explores words, moods, themes. She memorises persuade and suspicion and destruction. She feels the weight of every syllable, heavy on her tongue. When she dreams, it is in colour. Life for her is not a static thing - it is a myriad of charms and illusions. There are so many, almost tangible things. If she stretches her arms she can touch a thousand worlds.
For twenty years she has studied, delved into books in the dead of night. For her mind and for her soul she has read everything she can lay her hands on. To read a dictionary, to memorise entries is to be ordered, realistic, too thorough. That which she seeks comes naturally, as piecemeal. Absorbed through thousands of lessons, moments of attention and distraction.
She is attracted to beauty, in all forms. Autumn, summer, spring, winter. All these seasons have something to recommend. She has her gothic period, and her fashionable one. She likes the quirky, the odd, and the unexplained. The explanations she looks for are not found in textbooks. She cannot decide what she would do with the answers, were she to find them. And for that reason she keeps on looking, bypassing anything that looks like a finite end.
She likes women for their softness, the gentle touch and the smiles, dimples tugging at the corners of mouths. For them, subtlety and an inner strength. A core hardened by years of oppression, not quite sure that the longed-for equality has come to fruition. Scared to do, scared not to.
With men it is the outer strength. The idea that gallantry and the knights in her faerytales exist, albeit watered down, in the blood of their ancestors. It is the eyes, quick and shining in the candlelight. The wristbones, sharp and somehow delicate - a queer turn of phrase for a man, but appropriate nonetheless. It is the smell, when she closes her eyes, the smell that says safe and warm and protected. That, if she would let it, would say home.
But always, forever, the books draw her in. She could sit in a room, Plato’s philosopher Queen, alone save for her thoughts. There are not enough words - Wittgenstein was right, she understands that she is constrained. But she makes do with what she has and finds that, in most cases, it is sufficient.
She shares the fear, the fear of the unknown. As much as it excites her, makes her thrill for the chase of adventure, she wishes to be rid of it. It is not dying, but death, that keeps her up at night, burning the candle at both ends. What comes after is an obsession. Cause and effect; methodical exploration in everything.
She dreams of a love that will never die, but knows it to be just that; a dream. For her the Universe is infinite only in theory. In the meantime there is the Knowledge, pure and brilliant, shining bright in her eyes, her heart and her soul. It burns away the cobwebs of ignorance and fosters a hope in her that grows daily. When she thinks no-one is looking a smile curves her lips. She knows well that one can be alone in a crowd and in good company when solitary. Scientia is all.