History has its eyes on you

Sam was coming up from an evening's work in the Guildhall, having finally found himself satisfied with his book so far. Delicate gold ink curled around each page and into the names, each curl of the shining vine painstakingly made with a thin brush of a single hair. It was such absorbing work he found it kept a hold on him long after he had put his things away; as he was walking up the stairs to the main Atheneum he did not leave his own thoughts enough to hear the voices. If he'd had any choice in the matter he'd rather not see anyone that night, so as he became aware of the other people around he stopped dead, tried to slowly back up...but it was too late. He had to have been seen. With a sigh Sam walked up to the figures - lovely gentle Maea and horrible, terrifying Wessex. He looked between them and then said after a moment's consideration (wherein he thought of running but didn't want to leave Maea alone): "I'm very familiar with the Atheneum. What is it you are looking for?" Samuel At seventeen, I started to starve myself I thought that love was a kind of emptiness And at least I understood then the hunger I felt And I didn't have to call it loneliness