#grad school is kicking my ass handily

[kpforpresident]

a precursor to this

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I tried to warn you when you were a child

I told you not to get lost in the wild

I sent omens and all kinds of signs

I taught you melodies, poems, and rhymes

Oh, you fool, there are rules, I am coming for you

(You can run but you can't escape)

Darkness brings evil things, oh, the reckoning begins

(You will open the yawning grave)

The Yawning Grave - Lord Huron

~~~

Clarke’s smile had nearly split her rosy cheeks as she twisted one jolival finger in the air, the same cape spinning merrily in front of Lexa’s disbeliving eyes as it made a neat rotation within the air before landing obediently in Lexa’s lap. 

“I- Clarke this is….”

“Beautiful? Perfect? Incredibly fitting for a promising young witch of newly sixteen?” Clarke had piped up from her seat in the hay-covered loft, having accosted Lexa with a rousing chorus of both “Happy Birthday” as well as a verifiable mountain of sloppily levitated presents upon her entry into the barn. 

“Well, yes. All of those things. Bit it’s also too much. I got you a witchlight for your birthday. This must have cost…” Lexa trails off as she runs an admiring finger down a glistening green seam. The cloak shimmers in response, the trace amounts of magic that were woven into the very cloth reacting to the same power that sung through Lexa’s being. 

Clarke’s smile dims slightly upon seeing the defeated slouch in Lexa’s shoulders. Standing fluidly and brushing trace amounts of hay off of her matching dark blue cloak, she floats gracefully to land, catlike, in front of Lexa. 

They both pretend not to notice how Lexa holds her breath when Clarke reaches forward to gently brush an auburn curl from Lexa’s cheek. 

“I wanted to, Lex. It practically followed me home, you know how these capes are. Besides, I’ve been helping out so much at my mum’s apothecary, I had the extra gold. And, every witch deserves a cape for her sixteenth birthday, it’s witching law. Or so says nan.” 

They exchange a mutual hidden smile at the mention of Clarke’s grandmother, a wonderful woman with twinkling blue eyes who just so happened to produce the meanest Amnesia spell of this side of the Atlantic. Rumor had it Clarke had also inherited her spell casting ability, a skill that Lexa was keen to not try out any time soon. 

“Well…” Lexa draws out the word heistently as she stoops just enough to let Clarke, mouth twitching to hide a gleeful smile, gently tie the velvety strands around Lexa’s slim shoulders. “If nana says so, who am I to argue with the head of the Griffin Coven?” 

Clarke’s fingers linger briefly at the base of Lexa’s neck, pointer finger resting oh so gently on her pulse, which flutters like a trapped hummingbird under the attention. 

“Preciscely, Woods.”