OUR FOREST OF THORNS | tbosas ✔️

004 || Train of Thought

CHAPTER FOUR —    Train of Thought ..

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          Had Daphne not been there with him, Coriolanus knew for a fact that the train running this late would have driven him mad.

They had arrived at the station during the first minutes of sunrise, when the previously cold night was still making its freezing touch felt, but now, the sun high above the glassed ceiling overlooking the empty platform was cooking them alive on their little bench, as if they have in the meantime turned into flowers trapped inside a greenhouse. Both of them have had to give up their fashion sense and remove something in order to not start sweating under the haze of sunlight, which is why, to Coriolanus' right piled his uniform's red jacket, with Daphne's pristine white coat on top — blood mixed with snow.

He scarcely cared to notice the fashion sense behind what fellow students and citizens of the Capitol wore anyway, but it was hard not to appreciate the beauty sitting now to his left. From the moment he had laid eyes on Daphne for the first time that morning, something in his heart was blissfully put into motion, with the promise to remain so for the rest of the day spent in her presence. The white of her shoes, of her long coat and of her trousers, reminded him of the rose he carried for Lucy Gray — a gesture Tigris had insisted it would be proper of him to go through with —, tucked in an inner pocket of his coat.

To look at her was a generous distraction from remembering the horrors from the war that lingered and waited around every corner of the Capitol to get the jump on him. Staring at the white Daphne wore, he ignored the memories of the train station, each time he had waited for his father to get back from the frontlines and that one single time in which only the news of his death returned with the usual train, and instead focused on the memory of snow in winter, blocking the street and creating an obscure light of its own during the night.

Daphne appeared to have anticipated the long wait time that this trick he wanted to pull on every other mentor was going to entail, because she had brought with herself a purse which, surprising Coriolanus with its spaciousness, contained two decently sized books.

"This one is yours," she extended one thin book towards Coriolanus, taking his mind completely off of even the idea of being there to anxiously wait the arrival of a train in the first place. "A gift," Daphne clarified for him in hopes that his hesitation would be vanquished faster.

With great reluctance and some warmth rising to his cheeks, he took the book from her hand and studied its fragile cover. "On the Internal State of Russia," Coriolanus read out loud the title, taking a moment to spell out the author's name in his mind before continuing, so as not to make a fool of himself and mispronounce it before her. "By Konstantin Aksakov. 1855." His gaze turned inquisitive and he shifted its focus towards Daphne, "To what do I owe the pleasure of such an unique gift?" He's heard some of the Academy boys with less conduit and class than him complain about girls and their obsession with dates and anniversaries, so the thought hammered like lightning upon his head, making him gulp dryly before leaning back and trying to hide a true concern behind a chuckle, "It must be a special occasion."

Daphne however expected that borderline confused reaction from him and was even amused to see him insinuate that there had to be any occasion at all for her to share knowledge with him. "Open to chapter three," she gave him directions through a stiffening of her giggle.

Curiosity had Coriolanus open the book and flip its pages with the distinct hunger of an avid reader. He stopped once his eyes landed on the roman number three, circled with a red pencil. From that red circle, a short arrow pointed to a similar brief message in the messy writing he recognized as being Daphne's without much struggle. She had the writing style of someone whose hand could not keep up with the speed at which the mind fired away the words, however, she knew enough about what was proper to try her best to keep the letters intelligible. Even if she failed each and every time at achieving true calligraphy, as Coriolanus' own handwriting was a mastery of, she never stopped trying to remain a step ahead of hieroglyphics, making of her messy style one so undeniably unique.