just an illusion ; |LEVVY|

[VIVIAN JOSEPHINE BENVIOLET.]

She had not held a book in her hands in a long time. It had been even longer since she had actually opened a book and attempted to read its contents. She could remember a bit, however, from Elijah’s lessons when they were children, and from what little she had learned of the Bible. Unfortunately, it was not the Bible that she held in her small, lightly tanned hands as she seated herself upon the grass. It was Sunday, yes, but she had been to church already, and she wished not to waste any more time regarding the Bible. It was words upon paper, words she found difficult to make out occasionally, and she had enough of it for one day. Besides, how was she to know if she was reading the text correctly either way?

Vivian relaxed on the grass, feeling the roots of the maple tree behind her against her legs beneath the cotton skirts she’d gathered around her legs so carefully, folding them for a mixture of comfort, appropriateness should anyone come along, and mobility. If she required a fast rise, she wished not trip over unnecessary hazards caused by her simple, emerald green dress. It was not her Sunday best, admittedly, but she had reason enough for that: after all, which Lady in her right state of mind would willingly ruin her dress with stains from the grass and possible mud upon which she now sat?

The brunette glanced down at the book she’d placed atop her thighs and stroked the cover once, gently, almost lovingly. The woman who had given her the book was a customer, a friend of sorts, who frequently carried one on her person but rarely bothered cracking open the cover. At Vivian’s observation that perhaps other aristocrats might note the book looked unread, the woman had give her the leather-covered pages and insisted she read it, if only to tell her the story later, if only to allow the customer to appear smart. Despite herself, the young seamstress had jumped at the opportunity with gladness.

A book. It was a real book.

She smiled, drawing her navy blue shawl from her shoulders and placing it upon her lap, beneath the book. Then, she lifted the cover carefully, and turned to the first page. At first, the ink appeared as worms or some other infernal bug upon the spotless pages. Yet, as she concentrated, she recalled the letters and words Elijah had taught her all those years ago, and after a moment, she was reading. Her pace was painstakingly slow and rather laborious, but she read the first page, and, as far as she was able to tell, understood the meaning behind the words. She smiled to herself, and then returned to the book, glad the sunlight spattered through the leaves above onto the pages.

[LUCIEN ALEXANDRE NOIR.]

Gouge out your eyes, pull your heart to the floor
Sweetness loves me, tastes me, hears me
Stand back, drop to your knees,I'll stand back as you bleed
Sweetness loves me, tastes me, hears me.
This blade it feels so cold,baby hold me while, I'm shaking.
This knife has pierced my soul, I sit alone while, I'm shaking,
And yes I'll laugh out loud, with blind eyes I'm shaking...

[/size][/font][/color][/b]

Long obsidian locks of hair cascaded down the shoulders of the young undertaker. His eyes were beautifully crafted with the purest and most gorgeous cerulean one could imagine. His looks were almost otherworldly, if you think about it. He had long, smooth ebony hair, pale skin and piercing sapphire eyes that could go through your soul like a knife through skin. He always had a certain mystery to him, like there was something hiding behind those eyes. Truthfully, there was something hidden behind that curtain of arrogance and narcissism. He always said that he had nothing to hide...but was it to be believed? Lucien was a liar...and a very good one, too. No one has ever really cared enough to ask about his history and what made him the way he was. With his arrogance, bad attitude, insensitivity, and vanity, you'd think that something had to have happened to make him like that. Some thought he was an angel because of his flawless complexion. An angel kicked out of heaven for the deadly sin of pride, if you wanted to believe that. Lucien, however, did not believe that nonsense. He didn't even believe in heaven, hell or God. There was no way he was in any way, an angel. Judging from what he's heard about them, he was far from having the soul of an angel. He might have the looks of one but when it comes down to it, he had the soul of a demon, if you believe in that kind of stuff. He was a very talented wizard who could destroy vampires, werewolves and even another wizard or witch. He was confident in his abilities. Actually, 'confident' didn't even scratch the surface. He was smug, arrogant and believed that he was perfect in every way. He was always too busy worrying about what he looked like to sympathize with other people, which didn't make him the ideal person for the job of an undertaker. He always succeeded in pissing people off, often insulting them and degrading them.


He had just gotten back from that damn church and sat through about half of that preaching bullshit before he got up and left. Why should he have to sit through it anyway? He was the undertaker and he was just in charge of the the funerals. The young funeral director was a bit irked by the idiotic fairy tales that the priest insisted on telling. He just let it go in one ear and out the other until he couldn't take it anymore. But he came to the countryside to possibly get his mind off of those children's stories. He was dressed in black and no other color. He rode on top of a stocky white andalusian stallion who he had named Adrion. He didn't even have one piece of tack on him. Lucien had built up such trust with the stallion that he could control him with a mere tug on his luxurious alabaster mane. Lucien would not burden his beloved pet with a saddle and those damned metal bars that were connected to the leather bridle. Adrion used to be Lucien's brother's horse. Stupid Achille mistreated the poor creature...so, fueled by a hatred for Achille and a friendship with the horse, Lucien stole Adrion before leaving home. The fact that Achille mistreated the beast wasn't the only reason Lucien hated him. There was other reasons for that. Let's just say Achille is a fucking backstabber when he's jealous. The white steed was at a slow walk, his neck arched. Lucien gracefully reached forward to scratch between Adrion's triangle shaped ears. He leaned back into a comfortable position on the sturdy back of the horse. A warm breeze swept by, rearranging Lucien's midnight hued locks. He stopped the horse beside a pond and easily got off the equine. With a concerned gaze, he stared at his reflection on the surface of the icy liquid, sneering as he noticed his hair was a bit...frizzy. Frizzy?! His hair was...frizzy? Oh, hell no! That simply would not do. Oh, Lucien...that is not very flattering, he thought to himself, frantically smoothing out the little stray strands sticking up like spikes. "Adrion, how does it look, my friend?" he muttered quietly to the beast. Adrion's velvet muzzle came up from eating grass and he looked at Lucien for a moment before nudging his cheek. He chuckled, scratching the equine's forehead before noticing he was looking at something in the distance. Or someone, perhaps? Adrion was quite nosy when it came to people.


He looked over in the same direction Adrion was looking and noticed a girl in the distance, sitting under a tree with a book in her hands. She looked very much like an angel with the sun shining through the leaves in unstable bursts upon her brunette hair. He looked over at her for a few seconds before gazing back into the pond at his reflection in pure awe. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of Adrion walking off toward the woman under the tree. He rolled his eyes, going after the horse. The steed went into a fast trot and that instantly made Lucien actually sprint after him to keep him from disturbing the young lady. He was too late because the white andalusian was already over there, sniffing her in a nosy fashion, no pun intended. He stopped beside the white horse, pulling his mane and forcing him to step away from the dark haired girl. He sighed, irritated with his steed's disobedience. He looked at he girl, bowing politely. "I apologize for my beast's rudeness, ma'am. He likes making friends with all the pretty girls,"

[/color] he said, smiling politely and moving out of his bowing position. He once again, messed with the locks of hair around his shoulders and face until they were perfectly aligned as they should be.


-------
words; 947
muse; not bad
character; lucien noir <33
tagged; lali with vivian benviolet <3
listening to; afterlife - avenged sevenfold, black rose dying - blessthefall and a bunch of other stuff.
lyrics; black rose dying - blessthefall
notes; let me know if you'd like me to add more for you to reply to. =][/blockquote][/size][/color]

[VIVIAN JOSEPHINE BENVIOLET.]

An angel. That was Elijah’s nickname for her, and one of the very, very things on which Alessandra agreed. Although Vivian could not remember ever hearing of an angel with hair the color of midnight ink, the two insisted her behavior made up for the unlikely hood. Physically, she might not be, they argued, but psychologically, there was none purer than she. They spoke highly of her, she knew, and she disliked that their words exaggerated her kindness so, but there was nothing to be done. Although Alessandra was more so than Elijah, both were stubborn to a degree, and both insisted she refused to see who she was when looking in a looking glass she occasionally came upon. It was… difficult to speak of such things, so she tended to change the subject of the conversation when any relevant topics occurred.

Vivian was better at giving compliments than receiving them, honestly, because she knew enough of humility not to be proud. Indeed, pride was not her strong suit, but that did not mean she was weak. Vivian wasn’t sure exactly what she was, except that she a was a witch, and she was female, and, currently, she was reading a book. In a way, she supposed she was also a seamstress, and a peasant, as the population was largely identified by their status in society and their occupation. She was a brunette, too, if you wished to use her hair color to identify her. She was a semi-devout Churchgoer (honestly, who could go every single Sunday and not be bored out of their mind?). She was a good citizen, obedient, respectful—she paid her taxes on time and had not once been apprehended by a constable for misbehaving in one way or another. She was a good girl.

Alessandra was not, and that worried Vivian more than she occasionally liked to admit. Alessandra knew her sister worried about her, but the vampiress was no quite aware how much the witch worried. She tried, Vivian supposed, by not informing her sister of her troubles, but Vivian knew all the same. The night in the brothel had frightened her in particular. What had Alessandra been doing there in the first place?! The vampiress had been completely silent when asked the question. Surely she hadn’t requested a job in a place like that? Surely not. And yet… Vivian worried.

With a deep breath, she closed the book. With her mind so occupied, how was she to concentrate on the words like worms on the page, how was she read them and comprehend them? It was a hopeless task, when her mind was so tumultuous and mercilessly distracted. Reading required effort, work, because she did it so infrequently. In a way, she supposed there were countless other things she did infrequently that weren’t difficult, but all the same… Reading was not like riding a horse, easy to remember no matter how long the intervals between activity were. She imagined if she were not to ride for a year—which was unlikely of itself—she would be able to return to the horse and, after perhaps a bit of thinking or metaphorically stumbling around, be able to saddle and ride the creature successfully. It would not be difficult, but reading was.

The witch replaced a loose strand of hair behind her ear and rested her head against the bark at her back for a few moments. Perhaps, if there weren’t interruptions of a sort, she might sleep. As it were, she felt a horse nuzzling her slender neck, jaw, and cheek gentle, sniffing curiously. Her eyes flew open, revealing the hazel orbs beneath the lids, focused on the great beast which had approached her. Had she been so preoccupied as to not have noticed the clopping of its hooves?

A man was sprinting in her direction as well—the horse must be his. At his apology, a smile graced her lips, and she shook her head. “It isn’t a problem,” she replied sincerely, her voice a gentle admonishment of the unnecessary apology. She stood, placing the book softly on roots beneath, and brushed her hand against the animal’s neck. “You have a magnificent horse, sir, but pray tell, what is your name?” Undoubtedly, it would have been more polite to introduce herself first, but she was willing to make an exception in this case. After all, he had approached her, not she him. Besides, it would do well to learn the identity of the man who claimed ownership of such a beautiful animal.

[/size]