#solaregina

It had been child's play to eliminate the immediate threat once the dagger had gone through the poor girl's chest, given a reaper's speed and weapon. For the time being, they were safe.

...Insofar as the definition of safe was: no-one was outright attacking them at that present fraction of a millisecond.

Rarely, Grelle Sutcliff considered saving those who were quite suddenly and randomly added to the to-die list— these things happened, after all; the list was a powerful force, but free will was ever such an adversary to play against— and really, human lives were plainly and evidently fragile. Decades were mere eye blinks; illness and violence were simple hazards of drawing breath.

But this girl...

Not only was she a significant part of the entire mess that upper management had been frustratingly tight-lipped about as of late, but she was also...

Well.

She was Angelina's.

So, the reaper's scythe was temporarily abandoned nearby, as she removed her coat— Angelina's coat— and, in quick succession, first yanked the blade from the wound, before pushing down upon it with inhuman strength, gritting her teeth against the very real doubt in her mind.

Grelle Sutcliff wasn't a doctor.

Her hands had never been made for healing (they were quite literally the hands of a corpse, for god's sakes!).

But, frankly put, this girl, under absolutely any circumstances, could not die. Grelle simply refused to let her.

So, she had to stop the bleeding, first. Then, she could worry about things like germs and stitches and the girl's physical pain (the dear thing...).

To calm both her nerves and the girl's, Grelle took up a quiet song, humming aloud sections of the third movement of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique.

"Don't close your eyes." She whispered between bars. "And don't reminisce. Think of your future. Think of how badly this hurts. Think of..." Grelle struggled to recall details of the girl's life. It was easy to lose track of such things among every other human she'd learnt about that day alone— but this one was special. She was Madam Red's niece, and she...

now i can totally picture lizzy like

Send 🌹 to give my muse a flower-ACCEPTING!

“Oh my stars, what’s ‘ave we here now?” Jillian asked, green eyes bright and sparkling as she accepted the sunny yellow flowers.

“Oh, we’ll aren’ these just absolutely beu’iful! Jus’ like the li’l sunspot wot picked ‘em.” She said, reaching out and pulling the young lady into a hug, careful not to rumble her pretty dress.

“I love ‘em, Lizzie dear. Here-lemme me pin one in my hat, and I’ll put the rest in a vase to stay nice.”

//flashbackflashbackflashback//

“Hm? My favorite flowa? Oh, that’s an easy one-gotta be sunflowas!” A younger Jillian would say, as she say in the garden with a much smaller Elizabeth (no more than 5 or 6), holding the little lady’s tiny hand as they walked.

“When I wasn’ much bigga than you are now, my Johnny would come over to my dad’s home, an’ he’d always bring me a sunflowa from the field by his house without fail.” Jillian leaned in, sniffling a pink rose that’d caught her fancy.

@solaregina : "Careful, you're testing me." (Ask Meme)

meme . || accepting.

a bristle along his spine -- blink && you'll miss it. he has fought the undead, has outsmarted demonic entities whose hunger drives their very meaning, has been in close contact with grim reapers && monsters of all sorts, both mortal && immortal. && yet, facing off against any number of such villainous foes seems preferable over the current situation he is in. lizzie, in all of her skirts && bows && dainty, ladylike elegance, is a force not to be toyed with. to believe otherwise is to be made a fool, && ciel is certainly no fool.

it takes considerable effort to smooth his expression into something much more reasonable, something better befitting of ones betrothed. it was not out of anger at lizzie so much as it was at himself ; for letting his exhaustion show, for allowing a slip in his otherwise pristine mask. he rights it swiftly && can nearly feel the pieces of the person he has become shift back into place.

"i do not mean to displease you," he says with a level of sincerity that almost surprises himself, "that is never my intention. i was merely trying to say," ciel waves his hand in the air at the wrist, as if searching for the right words to grab, "is a winters ball truly the type of festivity you wish to be bothering yourself with? the holidays are nearly over, and i am doubtful that the weather would be agreeable."

not to mention, he had no desire for socialization. his birthday had come && gone once more. another turn around the earth && another year older. another year of clues to decipher. another year closer to his butler finally enjoying his meal. another year without them. he pulls a thin smile && has to refrain from tapping idly at his desk.

Thank you dear ;v;

♞ㅤㅤㅤA benevolent God shouldn't demand knees bloodied from hours knelt in prayer, or fingers blistered from multiple passes across a rosary...

... but a simple butler such as myself has no authority to point that out.

Spooky Season Starters ✮ Accepting

The question would have made her laugh, were she not a better actress. If there weren't a word for what she was, there could have, perhaps, been a halfway decent argument that she befitted the definition of such a phenomenon. Undead, barely tangible, invisible (for the most part). It was just so hopelessly ironic, she wanted to snicker.

But sweet things like this girl— this poor girl, betrothed to a boy Grelle knew was unlikely to see their wedding day— didn't deserve her scorn on top of what the reaper was about to answer with.

"Do I believe in a ridiculous thing like a moaning spectre in a bedsheet? No. Though, do I believe in unsatisfied souls wandering about, shambling for something that which even they have little comprehension why they seek, nor that they will never reach?"

She shrugged.