#frankmathew

One of his first lessons from hisgrandfather was that the most valuable places to watch after yourtarget’s eyes were their hands.

Eyes looked, eyes glanced, eyes peekedand peered and glared and smiled and grimaced and shone and werehooded and were hidden; eyes could tell you all too much about what aperson might intend. Handsoften more told you what they did or would do;they reached and grasped, they hit and soothed, they flexed andbrushed and bruised and struck and held and squeezed and twitched andshivered and caressed and smashed and fondled and betrayed, betrayed,betrayed what couldhappen long before long or short or thick or slender fingers foundtheir way to their target of choice.

Moodyhad been taught to watch hands, and watch he did, watch he did as hewatched everything around him with the sense of vigilance a mortalcould only maintain. He was so busy, he often didn’t watch his ownhands, which betrayed intentions and stories of a different kind.

Hishands, which twitched toward his wand whenever Aisling decided itwould be great fun to creep up behind him while he was losing himselfto his thoughts.

Hishands, which were a twisted collection of tiny scars, the majority ofwhich existed thanks to his potions classes and later experiments.Poisons and antidotes came to him world’s easier than much of what hehad been sent to study, and yet too often the carefully sharpened tipof his blade would inevitably catch the delicate flesh of his fingerswhen his mind wandered to magical theory or the boundary between darkand light, cutting a quick, vicious wound and leaving a glowering redmark that would take its sweet time fading away.

Hisleft hand, the last three fingers of which had been gripped in themidst of a fight with a particularly stubborn wizard who had refusedsurrender. His body had twisted unnaturally with the spell thatstruck him, and more than his crumpling form, Moody remembers thesensation of the last three fingers trapped in his grip being rippedfrom their places, sending bolts of pain through his hand andwrist. Years later, he can’t close those fingers properly, and oftenhas to tuck those last few fingers in with his thumb in order to forma proper fist.

Hisright hand, the knuckles of which would be permanently dyed red andtwisting white with slow-to-heal scar tissue. The first time he hurtthem, he punched the brick facade of his home in frustration. Thefirst real time he used them, he had tackled a bully into the streetin the village he’d grown up near, where he never truly fit in forthe sense of ‘otherness’ that would always hang heavily over those ofmagic blood trying to fit in with their non-magic kind, where he hadhit the boy in the face with his tiny angry fist over and over untilsomeone had pulled him off. The last time he remembered using them,it was to barely escape a Death Eater– and it had been pure chanceon his part they were so close, that so much of the Proper duelingetiquette they’d been taught blinded them on how to truly fight, howto deal with a fist aimed squarely for their faces. His knucklessmashing into their solid mask had hurt like a mother fucker, but hadgiven him the split second he needed to escape.

@frankmathew

Long before she found herself struggling with a mandrake or watching a potion turn just the right shade of purple after the final addition of a few carefully chopped herbs Aisling had been aware of the magic of plants. Growing up darting through the flowers and herbs of her grandmother’s garden and sitting on the counter next to brewing tinctures and bowls of milk left for household spirits it had not taken an owl delivered letter or wand for Aisling to know that her world was magical. Caoilinn McCrae had carried on the generations old tradition of treating their village’s scrapes and heartaches with herbs and kind words of wisdom and Aisling had trailed after her with stars in her eyes from the time she could crawl. Even when she grew old enough that her own inventions began to steal away some of her time and attention she would often wander outside to watch her grandmother when she went gathering in her garden and beyond in the woods along the river listening eagerly to the names and uses of everything she placed in her basket. It was her grandmother who taught her that some of many plants that boasted ugly finger-shredding thorns had the greatest potential for healing inside of them and that nothing should be taken at face value.  “Everything blooms for a reason, a stór,” her grandmother would chide as she carefully plucked yellow flowers from an aiteann bush.

Aisling thought back to her grandmother’s words and her tenderness with the cuts and scrapes that often appeared on Aisling’s impatience hands following such excursions as she looked down at her similarly abused hands. Everything blooms for a reason. She had memorized dozens of herbs by name and sight and learned the reasons under the tutelage of Caoilinn in Ireland and her potions and herbology teachers when she was whisked away to a different land of magic. Now she knew the reason but whatever plant bloomed to fill the need stubbornly evaded her. She had been sketching the plants that grew around their new home since her first hike into the rocky hills but her urgency had spiked since the arrival of their hostile patient and the deadly threat she carried in her blood. Dirty blood…I wonder if she sees the irony… But with inventions gathering dust in her room back in the Port and requests piling up she soon realized that spending her days walking the miles back and forth into the hills were not practical. She had tried dragging back a number of cuttings to study and while they dried nicely and she labeled them known and unknown in small pouches alongside her other herbs a living plant seemed more likely to give out secrets than a dead one. After a disastrous attempt at potting a few of them she decided it would be best to appeal to Frank and see if he might be willing to adopt a few more leafy children into his garden.

Her thoughts, upon hearing the explosion, immediately turned to Frank. He was never far from her side, it seemed, always rushing around the corner whenever she coughed too sharply. He was not a nuisance, though, not like some others were--his presence made her feel as if she had a strong defense at her back rather than a protector to fight her battles. Alice was fairly certain that she was on Frank’s mind more often than she was ever concerned for him, but when her concern rose, it was a sharp and pressing need that demanded resolution.

Frank did not return immediately, nor even later than immediately, and while Alice was preoccupied with Emma for a decent amount of time, her worry about where Frank was when the explosion happened only increased over time. Searching for him was her instinct, but she could never have left Emma alone: the others were instantly suspicious of the Death Eaters, and staunchly defending the other woman’s presence with her was required to prevent them from temporarily locking Emma up until the cause of the explosion was found. That Alice could not stand for abandoning Emma to the whims of her frantic comrades overrode her desire to find her husband, and temporarily she was too occupied to find him.

What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Everything. She thinks of ideas for spells that she isn't quite sure how to fit together yet. She thinks of the ocean waves lapping steadily against the shore and the forces of the moon that act on them. She thinks of the projects she plans to work on. Aisling brain is rarely willing to drift off to sleep simply because the sun dipped over the horizon. Even exhaustion is not a foolproof for sleep when it comes to Aisling her thoughts are too loud to lead to peaceful rest most of the time. Aisling sleeps best when she is curled up with a lover and would prefer her last thoughts before falling asleep to be about pleasure but more often they are about space or the newest scrap she dragged to her room. 

Concept of home and family?

To Aisling home is the blue butterflies who used to flutter over the river's gentle currents. Home is her mother and the smell of fresh herbs. Home is far out of reach in Ireland along with her family. But home is also anywhere where Aisling feels at ease where she can find people she cares about. She knows well that home is not always where you came from and there are family bonds that form without a drop of shared blood. It is a private hope of hers that she can make Port Montrose into something of a home for herself so long as they must remain in hiding.

How misanthropic are they?