𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘴 ೃ⁀➷ 𝘴. 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑬𝑺𝑪𝑨𝑷𝑬

"The poetry of the earth is never dead."

"Iris, Iris wake up," Steven whispered as he crouched next to her bed. His hand was stroking her soft hair, trying his best to rouse her quietly. Sighing, he shook her shoulder, earning an annoyed groan from the sleeping beauty. "Angelus, we'll be late if you don't get up."

"Five more minuets please . . ." Iris never was a light sleeper; nor was she keen on waking up half way through an amazing dream. "Steven, just come lay down, I don't wanna get up-" the girl was cut off by Steven tugging the covers off her body. "Stevie, what the hell?"

"Sorry, angelus, you've gotta get up." Smiling sheepishly when Iris glared at him, Steven pecked her forehead. "If it makes you feel any better, you look lovely even with bed head." The girl trudged across the room, sleepily pulling her old tennis-shoes on.

"You're too kind, love. You're completely blind, but very kind all the same." Furrowing her eyebrows, Iris's eyes searched the room. "Have you seen my sweater? It was laying next to my jacket."

Steven extended his arm, motioning for her to grab the fabric he held out. "I thought you could wear one of mine? You don't have to of course, but it's my favorite and it's really warm," he suggested. Iris's face flushed as she gently held the sweater to her nose. It smelt like Steven, like cinnamon and honey crisp apples and fresh baked pies. The corners of her lips piqued upwards as she tugged the jumper over her body. His sweater was a beautiful shade of forest green, a color that resembled ferns after a rain shower.

"Thank you, solitariam, I love it," Iris admitted. A grin blossomed on Steven's face as his eyes raked over her figure slowly. The sweater was obviously too large, but it still looked amazing on her. Her cheeks were a rosy red, mimicking his own. Steven could barley tare his vision away from the gorgeous girl in front of him, he was whipped and well aware of it. "Shall we be off?" The boy didn't even realize he had been staring until Iris had taken his hand in hers and pulled him out of the door.

- - -

Silently, or as silently as eight teenagers could walk, the group traveled through the abandoned corridors of Welton Academy. The old oil lamps flickered, casting ominous shadows of hooded figures onto the bare walls. The occasional grunt or mumble would be heard, but other than that, nobody was any the wiser that Iris Westworth was leading the seven boys out of school.

"Charlie, I love you, I really do, but could you shut up?" Charlie Dalton had taken it upon himself to shove Cameron, who had let out an ungodly whimper in response.

"Tell Richard over here to stop being a prat, then I'll shut up," he retorted.

Meeks whipped around and glared at the two feuding boys. "Listen to Iris, you two."

"Yes, mother," Neil snickered.

Old paintings became illuminated when they walked past, giving Todd and Knox the opportunity to admire the brush-work. Hellton did pride itself in it's artwork, which was nothing less than phenomenal. Each picture told a story, each face held a tale long forgotten. It seemed that the students had grown too used to the surroundings, because Iris had never seen anyone other than herself gawk over the tapestries that hung low in the entrance hall.