[ Dorothea falls silent as Claude speaks, listening, taking in the words of the poems and the way they roll off his tongue. When she'd transferred over from the Black Eagles, this wasn't what she'd been expecting, if she was honest. Claude was a schemer, it was said--someone who (mildly) poisoned other people as part of his wildly elaborate schemes.
But that isn't him, is it? That isn't the whole picture. He's like her book: a beautiful cover, full of words she can't understand--yet--a poem to be interpreted verse by verse. What would their classmates think if they could see him now, reciting poetry? Maybe it wouldn't have done anything for them, but for her, it's enthralling.
Dorothea leans in, eager for the next line. I have washed the floor with tears for you. She watches his eyes as he recites the words, taking in the rhythm of the couplets. They don't rhyme but it would be easy enough to change up the wording a little. Music didn't always have to rhyme, anyway--the emotion behind the words was what was most important.
And, oh, what emotions he's revealing to her now. He's excited, enthusiastic in a way she hasn't yet seen, yearning for a gentler and more understanding world--a world where people could be friends across arbitrary borders; a world where the language you spoke wasn't an impassable barrier.
Maybe even a world where it didn't matter if you were a common-born girl without a crest.
When he looks up at her, a warm pink blush has bloomed across Dorothea's cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She knows it, too, can feel the heat in her face. Her eyes widen just a touch, and she sits up straighter, playing it cool like she isn't hanging on his every word. ]
I think that sounds like the kind of thing I'd like to see.
no subject
But that isn't him, is it? That isn't the whole picture. He's like her book: a beautiful cover, full of words she can't understand--yet--a poem to be interpreted verse by verse. What would their classmates think if they could see him now, reciting poetry? Maybe it wouldn't have done anything for them, but for her, it's enthralling.
Dorothea leans in, eager for the next line. I have washed the floor with tears for you. She watches his eyes as he recites the words, taking in the rhythm of the couplets. They don't rhyme but it would be easy enough to change up the wording a little. Music didn't always have to rhyme, anyway--the emotion behind the words was what was most important.
And, oh, what emotions he's revealing to her now. He's excited, enthusiastic in a way she hasn't yet seen, yearning for a gentler and more understanding world--a world where people could be friends across arbitrary borders; a world where the language you spoke wasn't an impassable barrier.
Maybe even a world where it didn't matter if you were a common-born girl without a crest.
When he looks up at her, a warm pink blush has bloomed across Dorothea's cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She knows it, too, can feel the heat in her face. Her eyes widen just a touch, and she sits up straighter, playing it cool like she isn't hanging on his every word. ]
I think that sounds like the kind of thing I'd like to see.