Marcus
someone wise told me once
to keep my chin held high
to keep my chin held high
For a heartbeat, Marcus could only stare. The light, the way it wove itself into shape at her command, the soft pulse as the fabric of the world seemed to agree to be something else. Jealousy tried to rise again, sharp and instinctive against his spine, but it was drowned beneath something brighter and louder -- awe. Pure, unguarded wonder.
His eyes followed every movement of her hands, every shimmer of starlit thread as the bag came into being. Grounding himself by placing his hands on the counter and pressing them down until he could feel the texture of the butcher block through his callouses when she began dropping things into it, his brows lifted higher and higher. A breathy, almost incredulous laugh slipped from him at the sight of the honeyed nuts, then the pot, vanishing into nothing. When the spear disappeared, his shoulders actually tensed, a reflex born of a lifetime of respecting weapons and their weight, their presence. The fact that something so solid, so dangerous, could be swallowed by something so small felt impossible.
And yet.
When she offered the opening to him, urging him to try, Marcus hesitated only a second before his curiosity won. "Okay," Clearing his throat and looking around, he reached for the nearest thing first, which was his his mug. It vanished without resistance. He let out a soft, startled huff of laughter, then, emboldened, reached for the kettle next, easing its bulk toward the bag. Gone.
His pulse picked up. He glanced around the kitchen, then the lodge beyond, eyes catching on a thick, fur-lined cloak hanging on a hook near the hearth. He crossed the room, lifted it, and brought it back. The fabric disappeared just as easily, the bag no heavier for it. Bright cerulean eyes looked back at Nova then, his expression open, alight, something boyish and reverent breaking through. "What do I need to do to be able to do that?"
His eyes followed every movement of her hands, every shimmer of starlit thread as the bag came into being. Grounding himself by placing his hands on the counter and pressing them down until he could feel the texture of the butcher block through his callouses when she began dropping things into it, his brows lifted higher and higher. A breathy, almost incredulous laugh slipped from him at the sight of the honeyed nuts, then the pot, vanishing into nothing. When the spear disappeared, his shoulders actually tensed, a reflex born of a lifetime of respecting weapons and their weight, their presence. The fact that something so solid, so dangerous, could be swallowed by something so small felt impossible.
And yet.
When she offered the opening to him, urging him to try, Marcus hesitated only a second before his curiosity won. "Okay," Clearing his throat and looking around, he reached for the nearest thing first, which was his his mug. It vanished without resistance. He let out a soft, startled huff of laughter, then, emboldened, reached for the kettle next, easing its bulk toward the bag. Gone.
His pulse picked up. He glanced around the kitchen, then the lodge beyond, eyes catching on a thick, fur-lined cloak hanging on a hook near the hearth. He crossed the room, lifted it, and brought it back. The fabric disappeared just as easily, the bag no heavier for it. Bright cerulean eyes looked back at Nova then, his expression open, alight, something boyish and reverent breaking through. "What do I need to do to be able to do that?"
and be brave
