flowers in your hair

Isla

"It's a doctor thing," Isla says, laughing and stepping inside. There are no need for lanterns, but she goes to light some anyway, careful of the flames as she shuts them inside their little glass prisons. It's an old habit, and one that Isla doesn't plan on breaking. Fire might be dangerous for them, and they might be able to see in the dark, but there's just something so human about the light that she's keen not to forget.

With a girlish snort, she moves to a small table to set down the flowers, raising a hand for him to sit wherever he likes. Isla's home is small - a kitchen that's barely used, some comfortable, mismatched furniture, and piles of books without shelves. "I was dead up until last Deepfrost, too, if that's any consolation," she remarks, leaning down to get a vase out from one of the kitchen cupboards. "Like actually dead. Not switched off. Aamu led us all back from it."

Starting to arrange the bouquet, Isla can only scoff at his remarks. "You're lucky that I don't have your arm around to beat you with," she says. "But since it's a bit of both, yes, you do look good for three hundred and forty-one years old." And as for her home? Her smile softens. "Thank you. I don't spend nearly enough time here."

passing by, you light up my darkest skies
you take only seconds to draw me in