Had it not been for the smile on her face as she passed him, deer-fleet, Francis would have wondered if the girl was being chased. Something in the way she moves reminds him of another running girl, and then, unbidden, of a night of torches and pursuit; of a voice, harsh and lovely, singing in Greek.
Seeing the girl go sprawling to the ground brought him back to the present before such memories could take--as they always do--an unpleasant turn. Francis rushed over to where she had fallen. "Hello," he replied, surprised at the incongruity between her calm greeting and the blood beading on her palms. "Do you need help?"
Breathlessly Miranda nods pausing for a brief moment before shaking her head. It does not speak well that she cannot decide which she it is that she wants. Does she wish for aid or to be left alone? It is not in her nature to turn down help, though she knows better than to rush into accepting. What would her mother think of her, needing to be rescued?
Gently she touches the scrape on her palms with the fingers of another, wincing slightly at the blood and letting out a slight gasp. "I do believe that perhaps I might. Tis not an injury that is great or grave, but perhaps," she shrugs looking up at him once more. "I did not expect it."
"Such things rarely are expected," Francis agreed, with a small smile. He pulled out his handkerchief and knelt on the ground next to the girl before taking one of her hands in his and dabbing gently at the scrapes. "It must have been quite a shock--you looked so happy, running."
"Aye, I do suppose so. Thus is the nature of them, is it not?" Miranda nods her hear slightly, eyes carefully darting between his face and the hand that he is touching. Another quiet gasp, which leads her to clench her teeth together and promise herself to utter nothing more unless it is what she wishes.
"I was happy. I found myself filled with an almost lightness."
"Such a heavy thing, then, to fall so," Francis said, with a quiet smile at how the girl's speech brought out the poetry in his own. At her gasp, he looked up from her hand, apologetic. "I'm sorry if I'm hurting you. You're terribly brave, though. I can't abide being hurt."
The beauty of his words is something that Miranda can admire. In this place where language has become a bit crude, lost the elegance that it used to have she can appreciate artful words for what they are. She nods slightly understanding that falling after such a thing can unbearable. It is worse than never having found it at all.
"I do not mind it. I have felt greater pain and shall likely feel even more before I am done for." It does not strike her as being dark or melodramatic and she speaks it like the plain truth she believes it to be. "But thank you for such a kindness."
"I should hope not." Francis said, struck by the bluntness at which she predicted her future pain. "You ought to be happy--we all ought to be happy," he continued emphatically, though more to convince himself of the fact than the injured girl next to him.
"You are more than welcome. I'm glad I could help." He looked at her palm, still raw and scraped, but at least no longer bleeding. "Would you like me to look at your other hand?"
For all that Miranda has known happiness comes with pain. One might experience more than the other, but try as she might the good things cannot last forever. That does not mean that she shall not hold on as tight as she can.
"Aye tis quite true. Tis not a wild or mad thing to wish for or need." Looking down at her now blood free hand, she nods once more. "If you would not mind to do it."
"I don't mind at all," Francis said, before starting to clean up the blood on her other hand.
After a moment, he looks up at the girl again with a soft laugh. "My grandmother would be so displeased with me--we've had almost an entire conversation and I haven't yet introduced myself. Francis Abernathy. And you are?"
"Indeed it would seem that we have." Miranda laughs, almost bewildered by the entire thing. She knows the rules of courtliness and manners, but often she forgets that not everyone knows her. The spirits always knew who summoned them and what purposes they were meant to fill.
"I am called Miranda. Tis a pleasure to make thine acquaintance, Mister Abernathy."
"The pleasure is all mine, Miranda," Francis said, with a brief but deferential nod. He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "You remind me so much of someone I knew, before I came here. Even down to the sound of your names, somewhat."
He looked over at Miranda and smiled faintly. "Her name was--is?--Camilla. We were awfully good friends. I miss her."
"Oh I am sorry. For both the fact that she is not here and that I remind you of her and thus of her absence." There is every bit of sincerity in Miranda's voice that she can muster. To be remind of what has been lost is almost worse than losing it at all. It is the ache of an old wound that does not seem to heal.
Personally she feels that people continue to dwell in the present tense, despite the change of times. They might become the past in one's memories but they still exist. "I do like the name Camilla. Tis very Roman, Virgil would be pleased."
"For sight of her the youth from field and fortress sped, and matrons grave stood wondering as she passed," Francis murmured in Latin, with a grateful smile at the kindness in Miranda's words. "It's funny you should mention Virgil--Camilla and I were classics students together at the college I was attending, before I came here."
He finished cleaning the last of the blood from her hand. "Well, they're a long way from being healed, but at least your hands look somewhat better. Would you like me to take you somewhere to get them bandaged properly?"
Her eyes lit up at the recitation of Latin. The words were like a familiar song to her ear, so often had she practiced them. She has always admired pretty, powerful words and these were no exception.
"Were you? I do love the Classics, though I must confess that I may be partial to them given that I knew them first." Looking down at her hands, she considers his offer for a moment before shaking her head. "Nay, I do thank thee, but I do not wish to spoil today any more than it has been spoilt."
"They are lovely, arent they? Such harsh words, sometimes, but beautiful nonetheless," Francis said, the light in Miranda's eyes kindling a similar spark in his own.
"A very fair point," he conceded with a nod at her refusal, before getting to his feet and extending a hand to her. "May I help you to your feet, at least?"
"Aye. Though I do believe that words, much like good houses, do dwell things that did start out with beauty in them."
Her spirits rise the more she speaks of it. The lightheaded feeling is still clinging to her, but she misses her time. The words both beautiful and cruel are things that make her feel at ease. Taking his offered hand, she nods. "Aye, thank you. You are truly too kind."
Seeing the girl go sprawling to the ground brought him back to the present before such memories could take--as they always do--an unpleasant turn. Francis rushed over to where she had fallen. "Hello," he replied, surprised at the incongruity between her calm greeting and the blood beading on her palms. "Do you need help?"
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Gently she touches the scrape on her palms with the fingers of another, wincing slightly at the blood and letting out a slight gasp. "I do believe that perhaps I might. Tis not an injury that is great or grave, but perhaps," she shrugs looking up at him once more. "I did not expect it."
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"I was happy. I found myself filled with an almost lightness."
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"I do not mind it. I have felt greater pain and shall likely feel even more before I am done for." It does not strike her as being dark or melodramatic and she speaks it like the plain truth she believes it to be. "But thank you for such a kindness."
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"You are more than welcome. I'm glad I could help." He looked at her palm, still raw and scraped, but at least no longer bleeding. "Would you like me to look at your other hand?"
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"Aye tis quite true. Tis not a wild or mad thing to wish for or need." Looking down at her now blood free hand, she nods once more. "If you would not mind to do it."
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After a moment, he looks up at the girl again with a soft laugh. "My grandmother would be so displeased with me--we've had almost an entire conversation and I haven't yet introduced myself. Francis Abernathy. And you are?"
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"I am called Miranda. Tis a pleasure to make thine acquaintance, Mister Abernathy."
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He looked over at Miranda and smiled faintly. "Her name was--is?--Camilla. We were awfully good friends. I miss her."
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Personally she feels that people continue to dwell in the present tense, despite the change of times. They might become the past in one's memories but they still exist. "I do like the name Camilla. Tis very Roman, Virgil would be pleased."
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He finished cleaning the last of the blood from her hand. "Well, they're a long way from being healed, but at least your hands look somewhat better. Would you like me to take you somewhere to get them bandaged properly?"
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"Were you? I do love the Classics, though I must confess that I may be partial to them given that I knew them first." Looking down at her hands, she considers his offer for a moment before shaking her head. "Nay, I do thank thee, but I do not wish to spoil today any more than it has been spoilt."
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"A very fair point," he conceded with a nod at her refusal, before getting to his feet and extending a hand to her. "May I help you to your feet, at least?"
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Her spirits rise the more she speaks of it. The lightheaded feeling is still clinging to her, but she misses her time. The words both beautiful and cruel are things that make her feel at ease. Taking his offered hand, she nods. "Aye, thank you. You are truly too kind."
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