You'll lose those perfect eyes / Lose that perfect mouth
Name(s): Irene [whoneedsarms]; Complete narrative, open to threading if anyone is interested.
Location: Potions class room
Week: Forty-three
Time: Evening; through dinner.
Lamiaceae; a plant family of underestimated, and yet potent magic.
Aligned with Jupiter, and thus symbolic of “High Fortune”. Purpose, opportunities, happiness. Whether the path be smooth, or rocky. Through Jupiter, it was linked to Sagittarius, the Archer. A fire sign, known for passion, changeability. Optimism and carelessness together. (And so you see, even the stars could be found in plant stems and leaves, earth and sky run together and connected.) All this knowledge passed through her mind like a spring, flowing easily, without resistance.
The sickle's blade pressed against Irene's thumb at the end of the slice, other digits pulling against the handle. An icy menthol aroma burst through the air. Refreshing. Cold.
Though it was a symbol of fire, so it was borne of ice. As it were tumultuous, peace wound through it. Working carefully with her one remaining hand, Irene twisted the curved, silver blade, and sliced once more, before crumbling the leaves between her fingers.
She wondered a moment if tonight it would be served beside dinner. It might have amused her to see such simple uses for such a potent leaf, if mirth had been an emotion allowed to cast ripples over her. Suffice to say it was not. Had not been, for many years. Even before that time.
Irene's hand stilled over the cauldron, regathered leaves caught in her grasp. Teresa. Her name was a song that had turned to a hymn of mourning these last years. A sweet smell drifted past her, silver eyes slipping closed a moment as she simply ran Teresa's name over in her mind, felt the tingle of the crushed mint in her hand, listened to the quiet bubble of the potion.
Finally, after an age that passed in seconds, the leaves fell. Cool breathe rolled off the cauldron. A sigh of relief. At last, it seemed, a little of that pain in Irene's chest had eased.
Mint worked its magic well.
Location: Potions class room
Week: Forty-three
Time: Evening; through dinner.
Lamiaceae; a plant family of underestimated, and yet potent magic.
Aligned with Jupiter, and thus symbolic of “High Fortune”. Purpose, opportunities, happiness. Whether the path be smooth, or rocky. Through Jupiter, it was linked to Sagittarius, the Archer. A fire sign, known for passion, changeability. Optimism and carelessness together. (And so you see, even the stars could be found in plant stems and leaves, earth and sky run together and connected.) All this knowledge passed through her mind like a spring, flowing easily, without resistance.
The sickle's blade pressed against Irene's thumb at the end of the slice, other digits pulling against the handle. An icy menthol aroma burst through the air. Refreshing. Cold.
Though it was a symbol of fire, so it was borne of ice. As it were tumultuous, peace wound through it. Working carefully with her one remaining hand, Irene twisted the curved, silver blade, and sliced once more, before crumbling the leaves between her fingers.
She wondered a moment if tonight it would be served beside dinner. It might have amused her to see such simple uses for such a potent leaf, if mirth had been an emotion allowed to cast ripples over her. Suffice to say it was not. Had not been, for many years. Even before that time.
Irene's hand stilled over the cauldron, regathered leaves caught in her grasp. Teresa. Her name was a song that had turned to a hymn of mourning these last years. A sweet smell drifted past her, silver eyes slipping closed a moment as she simply ran Teresa's name over in her mind, felt the tingle of the crushed mint in her hand, listened to the quiet bubble of the potion.
Finally, after an age that passed in seconds, the leaves fell. Cool breathe rolled off the cauldron. A sigh of relief. At last, it seemed, a little of that pain in Irene's chest had eased.
Mint worked its magic well.