POISON.

     ❝ it’s just a scratch. ❞ well, a scratch on his cheek and potentially a minor concussion resulted from the fall. really, the school needed better safety for flying lessons and clubs ( not that epel would ever be one to advocate for that, though ). nevertheless, once his vision stopped spinning every time he stood up, he would be just fine. and – hopefully – she’d never find out and force him to get himself looked over. in his mind, a few scratches and scrapes would make himself look less weak. he didn’t want to go back to looking like a pristine doll again.

     rumor has it that barbara has some kind of healing-based unique magic, although he’d never actually seen it done before. but it does make sense. on one hand, she obviously cares for people’s well being, perhaps even more than her own. her magic could, and should, reflect that. on the other hand, epel could’ve sworn he saw a small bruise on her wrist the other day ( from someone grabbing her, maybe? ). if she truly could heal people with just one spell, surely she would have used it on herself.

     THE BROKEN MIRROR REFLECTS BACK his obscured face – eyes wide and white but reflecting no light. hollow. blood descends from his knuckles onto the scattered fragments of glass on the floor, but he can’t feel the warmth or wetness over the numbingness, or hear the drip drip drip over the deafening silence.

     he can still see it, in his mind, the look on rook’s face as he casted that spell. the agony of tearing your own heart in two. losing both of the people who were always supposed to be here with you, by your side. epel turned him into a murderer. how dare he how dare he HOW DARE HE–

     he feels vil’s arms wrap around him from behind. it should be startling – to suddenly have someone touching you when you never heard nor saw them coming, but in this instance it’s only comforting. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why she was here – the mirror. she must’ve heard it him shatter. had he screamed, too? he can’t remember. he doesn’t recall ever getting up from his bed, or the following action of slamming his fist into his own reflection when looking at himself hurt too much.

“C’mon!  The view’s awesome from up here!”  Gone is the playful cruelty or the self - loathing that seems to cling so perpetual, lost in the face of her bright joy, shining like the sun that breaks through the forest’s many trees and falls in patches across her bright smile.

For once, they seem WHOLE — high in a tall tree, bare feet and palms cut with the process of getting up this high but not seeming bothered.  One of those palms is wrapped around a branch, allowing them to lean out from the one they’re standing on and wave at their companion.  There’s twigs in their hair, dirt on their cheeks.  THEY FEEL ALMOST ALIVE.  “Oh — can y’ not climb trees?  I can carry y’ up if y’ need me to!”

     ❝ nah, i got it. ❞ THE FEELING IS NOSTALGIC — remembering days spent watching the sun rise and set from whatever high perching point he could find. loosing rack of time while gnawing on the apples at the very top, out of reach from everyone but the village’s youngest who dared to climb ( dared to fall ).

     he’s not supposed to be doing this. it’s unrefined — ugly — for someone from his dorm to have dirt under his fingernails and scrapes on his face. but he’s never really cared about that anyway. he feels free.

you can dislike me all you want but you will not be rude to barabra young man

we’re friends? 🥺

makovu​:

doesn’t seem like you tried hard enough if you’re still there.

both of you stop that this instant

it’s never too late for a dorm transfer.

“Your uniform is wrinkled.  Fix it.”  So it begins.