[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
***
( A re-enact of Hades...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•
Sugar quills trapped between pomegranate lips, both same saccharine yet gave different thrills for Martin's eyes. The crystallized pineapple between his tongue tasted bland compared to her alluring side profile. He quickly shook his head, noticing the witch's furrowed brows as she caressed her owl's wings, Verity. On its feet, tied an azure box full of delicacy and a small note. The owl stretched her wings before she took off to the Owlery.
"Nana just arrived home." her voice came in a huff, a hint of bitterness glossed her placid features tenaciously. The disappointment was apparent in her tone, while he peered at the apology note.
It was the third time in a row, Martin counted, the Irish witch had opened her Christmas presents alone. Fidelya had hoped her little box of delicacy would make up for the time she had left the young witch in the manor. In which Gemma wittily uttered, "I should have given her time-turner for a present."
"Don't be like that." the blond elbowed her on the arm, cast a small smile. The rationale of her frown was explained, albeit, the blond's intuition said otherwise, there was something more.
Because one; Gemma's eyes lacked its beams of jewel she usually had in the morning. When they were usually bright sapphire against her peach face—tired lines had emerged, cast of greyish patch right under her eyes. The blond suspected it was from the amount of caffeine dopping and lack of sleep. Two; The Merlin's heiress hardly found her Switzerland sweets package from her Nana interesting. His eyes shifted to trace the frown on her face, it nested there since Saturday. Three; she didn't touch his messy hair or fixed his loosened tie.
Martin was profound, something had been bothering the witch's conscience that she decided to nearly poison her gut with coffee, as if she had seen something so terrifying. Like a ticking clock, his silence fished out the truth from the girl.
"I lost the book." The witch's declaration made the blond froze, McKinnon blinked as he discerned the confession. Tilting his head, her unattentive eyes radiated guilt as if she had commited a murder. He remained silent, watching the girl sighed. "I'm sorry, Marty. It's just my mind are really everywhere—I hardly sleep with ugh—I forgot where I put it . . ."
Martin blinked, lips drawn into a line. The girl translated it as disappointment, then continued her ramble. Yet the boy pursed a small smile, "Is that what's bothering you, Sherlock?" he teased, timbre light as the summer breeze. "Because you forgot where you put your book."
