Ophelia
Their smile only quirks fondly higher at the dumbfounded reaction, appreciative of the protectiveness that had preceded - and in some ways, caused - the reaction. “Thank you,” they utter instead, pleasure suffusing their odd features, large eyes crinkling at the corners. “How long has it been for you?” Perhaps she will find her footing with answering direct questions. Ophelia is no slouch at reading others and Mabel’s discomfort is a beacon, but they are also cursed with a wealth of curiosity that lends itself a little to easily to the act of inquisition.
Hesitation matters little when their lives are infinite, when the gesture is inevitably accepted. Ophelia is a paragon of patience. It makes their smile glow all the warmer when the younger Ascended folds down into the spot. “Mabel,” Ophelia parrots back, tasting the syllable and the intonations that live within it. “I am Ophelia. Athanasia.” It’s tacked on, half-forgotten. The name means little to them personally, but in the Grounds family names were remembered before firsts. Such was the way of barrier life.
Without further ado, eyes scanning a distasteful biased section in the page they are reading, Ophelia rips it free of the binding with a rending noise that fills the space between the stacks. Smiling as if they had not just desecrated a book out of dislike for the author’s opinion, they let the page flutter discarded to the side. “Perhaps we should become writers ourselves, hm?” At least it would facilitate their desire to spread the word of The Voice far and wide.
Hesitation matters little when their lives are infinite, when the gesture is inevitably accepted. Ophelia is a paragon of patience. It makes their smile glow all the warmer when the younger Ascended folds down into the spot. “Mabel,” Ophelia parrots back, tasting the syllable and the intonations that live within it. “I am Ophelia. Athanasia.” It’s tacked on, half-forgotten. The name means little to them personally, but in the Grounds family names were remembered before firsts. Such was the way of barrier life.
Without further ado, eyes scanning a distasteful biased section in the page they are reading, Ophelia rips it free of the binding with a rending noise that fills the space between the stacks. Smiling as if they had not just desecrated a book out of dislike for the author’s opinion, they let the page flutter discarded to the side. “Perhaps we should become writers ourselves, hm?” At least it would facilitate their desire to spread the word of The Voice far and wide.
With your naive heart you praise God above
But how's it working for you honey? Do you feel loved?
But how's it working for you honey? Do you feel loved?
