#fxrtissimus

Three consecutive knocks on the wooden door was enough to make his heart race. Every minute he spent waiting was AGONIZING. It had been so long, too long since he’d last seen her. A dull ache throbbed in his chest from an old wound he reopened by the mere thought of their last departure. He still remembered what she’d said to him back then.

"I can't go on watching as you walk away, and not knowing if you'll come back."

                           He could only hope she didn’t hate him. 

Just as he’d turned to leave, he heard the door open. He froze for a moment, silently cursing himself for ever having shown up in the first place. Slowly he turned to face her, and god, she was just as beautiful, if not MORE, than when he’d last seen her. His heart was R A C I N G, and he hadn’t had butterflies like this in years. Yet, his voice was steady. A slight smile formed as his gaze met hers. He missed her so much.

The dark, melodic tune from Peter Pan's flute swept through the breeze, reaching the ears of (boys) who felt a dark emptiness in their lives. Those who had already joined him pranced around the golden flames of the fire, whooping and laughing. His hood cast a shadow over his face, keeping his features hidden from those around him. Every now and then Pan would glance up to see his new 'friends' enjoying themselves. Soon enough, they would all join him in Neverland. 

Pan glanced towards the entrance to the forest clearing where he saw someone standing      a child. He observed as the child entered the clearing. The fire's light illuminated their features, allowing him to see the girl's long black hair and pink night gown. She appeared to be drawn to them just as the other boys had, however, there was something u n u s u a l about her demeanor. Her eyes wandered, appearing to be searching for the source of the dark melody. How could this be? The tones that carried to the town were only to be heard by boys. This girl was clearly quite different. So, who was she? Pan took it upon himself to greet her. 

He made his way across the clearing, walking around the circle of oblivious dancing boys to greet the young girl. His curiosity presented itself in his tone, laced in question. Though he did not appear entirely welcoming ( he kept some distance between himself and the stranger ) there was nothing in his stance or tone that was at all threatening.

               ❛ AH, COME ON. you know what’s like, don’tcha? how important that we gals stick together . . . when we aren’t conniving to stick a knife in some other skank’s back.  & i mean that metaphorically, mind.  but that’s the truth of the times.                   --- can’t be very fun, acting as a prison guard, can it? 

     “Hvat er með ásum? Hvat er með alfum? Gnýr allr Jötunheimr, æsir ro á þingi, stynja dvergar fyr steindurum, veggbergs vísir. Vituð ér enn - eða hvat?”

     Oh, the tongues of old flowed with ease from one who had lived to see them spoken, but no expectancy of fluidity lingered as a stubborn wraith within the serpent’s breast. A duo of languages notched already beneath brave midnight’s belt spoke of an insurmountable mind, commingled tongues of ancestry’s veins and the common parlance of a caged life beating the breath of life against a bleached bone skull, and Jörmungandr would not presume her a scholar to so quickly latch on to the heraldry tattooed within his own veins.

     A slender finger ghosted beneath the written word, elegant script marking out the serpent’s read speech in blackest ink upon a scrap of paper. There it lingered with all the presence of a single breath upon a mirror, a phantom of flesh and imagination, as the divine beast dipped his head to glance at the child seated in his lap.