ISLA
It's strange, the sorts of things you learn to get used to. When the prospect of real, bloody war creeps closer with each passing season, it stops being terrifying and becomes more of a distant concern, one that you can mostly shrug away. This seems to be the case for Isla tonight, anyway.
Her little house is lit with a haphazard spray of coloured lanterns, each carefully isolated so that they will cause no harm if they tip over. (No catching fire on date night, please). As for the medic, she's dressed in a pair of shorts and one of Varus's button-up shirts, her hair pulled up into a messy bun and a bottle of wine - half empty, by now - on the coffee table along with two glasses.
Just because they can barely taste it and they won't get drunk, doesn't mean they can't pretend. "You're going to look so pretty," she's telling Varus. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, she's directed the captain to sit on the ground before her so she can braid his hair. And very proud of herself, she looks, too.
Her little house is lit with a haphazard spray of coloured lanterns, each carefully isolated so that they will cause no harm if they tip over. (No catching fire on date night, please). As for the medic, she's dressed in a pair of shorts and one of Varus's button-up shirts, her hair pulled up into a messy bun and a bottle of wine - half empty, by now - on the coffee table along with two glasses.
Just because they can barely taste it and they won't get drunk, doesn't mean they can't pretend. "You're going to look so pretty," she's telling Varus. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, she's directed the captain to sit on the ground before her so she can braid his hair. And very proud of herself, she looks, too.
apres moi le deluge
after me comes the flood
after me comes the flood
