Fleurs balafrées

Participating characters:
Lisette Beaumont
Crewe Kastallo Montague

Status: Incomplete/History

Last Post: Unknown





Lisette Beaumont

She sat, posture ramrod straight, on a bench in the middle of the exquisite gardens. She had arrived to Hogwarts only the day before, and several weeks later than most of the other students. However, having no companionship was not something new to the young woman.

Her snow white hair glistened softly in the summer sun, a slight breeze stirring it around her face. Both hands were resting in her lap, atop a book and quill. The book was faded with age, and the cover worn down to a dull grey shade. The quill was remarkably similar in hue to the book, as if the two were long partners. Which they were.

Her lilac eyes took in the flowers, the shrubs and the various statuary without really seeing any of them. Her mind was elsewhere, contemplating everything and nothing.

A warm breeze rustled the flowers, causing the skirt of her dress to ruffle slightly, dancing in the wind. She reached down, absentmindedly smoothing the pale lavender silk rustling around her knees. As she did so, a tinkling sound met her ears, and, pulling herself from her reverie, she peered down at the ground to see the cause of the noise.

On the ground lay an ornate rosary, the beads black pearls. Reaching down, she clasped the relic in on small hand. “Pardonne moi, ma Mère” she murmured softly as she wrapped it around her wrist where it had been previously.

Settling back into the bench, she allowed her eyes to stray to the various flowers that decorated the intricate pathways. To her immediate right, a bed of silver roses, magical she was sure, grew thick, the air heady with their scent. She peered at the flowers, noting that they had no thorns on their slender stems. “Perfection a trouvé dans une fleur,” she breathed softly, a slight glimmer coming into her amythest eyes. A slight smile may have touched her lips, but it was fleeting, a brush and then gone.

She ran a finger along the filigree of scars on right cheek, the thought of thorns striking a chord somewhere within her soul. The design was beautiful, though would naturally be painful beauty for the one it was inflicted on. The symbols were intricate, representations of the angels of heaven. Her thorns had scarred her, forever marking her, a reminder.

Dropping her hand back into her lap, she flipped open the book, and began writing.
Crewe tread down the stoned pathway of the gardens. The branches reached out to the sides, toward him. Grappling his shoulders and occasionally grazing his bronzed arms, He had a feeling as if the plants here were more than just growing. They were practically alive. Crewe had yet to get used to this place he was to call a home for two more years. That was a long time to think about. Eight seasons had to come and past, four in actual, doubling.

Crewe Kastallo Montague

Crewe wore a black shirt with dark slacks. He hadn’t expected it to be so humid here. The sleeves were folded back to his fore arms. Over all, his appearance seemed ruffled and unkempt. His dark hair hung in tousled strands over his skin. His mouth was set in a stern expression. He wasn’t angry but he appeared to be. Unconsciously, he didn’t have control over his facial expressions. His thoughts were elsewhere. All thoughts had trailed off without ends. His pale eyes were hidden far from view. Hidden by something that always was the first thing to catch other’s eyes.

A black blindfold.

A cloth of various folds covered his eyes. It swept over his eyes and went completely around without a seam to tear it off at. He tried everything. Scissors, knives, anything that was able to cut. Crewe slipped the blade of the scissors under his blindfold but as he clapsed the cutter’s ends, he heard a sharp seriers of cracking. In result, the blindfold had not even a tear but the scissor blades had broken into pieces of useless metal on his lap. Hopeless. The blindfold was made of a rich cloth but it was unbreakable and.. He wasn’t able to take it off.

Crewe sighed and overheard a girl whisper to the silence The girl had his back to her.

“Perfection a trouvé dans une fleur.”

Walking silently along, he knew that perfection could never be found. Not in a human and not in a flower. Closing her hand over a flower he had sensed to his side, Crewe tore it from it’s fragile stem. He knew not of it’s color nor did he care. Crossing over to the bench, he stood at it’s back, leaning over.

“Rien n'est parfait.” Crewe’s hand was open with the gray rose in his hand.

His voice strongly pierced the air despite it’s form in a whisper. He closed his hand to form a palm. Opening his hand moments later, the rose petals fell graceful from his grip and scattered to the planks of the bench. The petals wilted where they lay. Perfection did not die. The girl still sat with her back to him but he hunched over the bench in which he leaned forward with his shoulders.

“Les fleurs ne sont pas même une exception.” Crewe spoke softly.

His accent was crisp. Though, he felt surprised to find someone else who could speak his native language here. Crewe wondered if he was just not being observant enough.
“Rien n'est parfait.”

Lisette Beaumont

“All Gods creations are perfect, Lisette. But you… I do not think God had a hand in you, child. No child of God would be capable of your acts. So we must work to make you perfect in the eyes of God. I do this for you.”

Another slice, another scar, red tears streaming down the face of a young girl, spilling onto the church floor. A whimper in the darkened narthex, only the glow of the candles lighting the room, blood reflecting black on the floor.

His breath tickled her ear, stirring her hair as he whispered into the quiet afternoon a response to her observation. She sighed, knowing that the speaker, whoever he was, was right. “Vrai,” she said simply, a slight defeated tone to her voice. A tone that was almost always present in her voice.

Her eyes followed the fall of silver to the bench, watching the graceful arch of the petals as they floated in the air, coming to rest next to her. She reached over, gently grabbing one of the petals and placed it on the open page of her book. Tucking the quill within the pages, she shut the journal, turning her face up to meet that of the young man who stood behind her.

He was stern looking, with handsome features and dark hair that lay tousled in an endearing manner. She made these observations with no change to her facial expression, nothing to give away what was going on beneath the surface. Not that he would have noticed, she amended to herself, for the young man wore what appeared to be a blindfold around his eyes.

He had surprised her with his coming, and perhaps he would have noticed that she jumped slightly when he spoke. But she made no notice of surprise to his appearance.

“Judge not, less ye be judged, Lisette” her fathers voiced roared in her ears, splitting her head.

“Then why do you judge me, Papa.” The little girl had asked, wincing away as he swatted at her, enraged by her insolence.

She wondered vaguely what the blindfold was for, and then dismissed the curiousity. After all, if he wished to discuss such things, then he would. She would not start off this new place, (finally… freedom) by offending the first person she met.

He appeared to be about her age, perhaps a year or so older, yet his stern manner made him seem much older. But then the same had often been said of Lisette, so she dismissed the thought.

“And who are you, cela parle la vérité si hardiment?” she questioned, her voice neither cold nor warm, not necessarily inviting, but not intimidating either. Lisette was a somber young woman, and while others might look around and note the beauty of the world, she noted how her presence detracted from that beauty. A mar on the masterpiece of God, as her father had called her.

She brushed the pale strands of hair from her eyes before tucking the book beneath the bench on which she sat. Reaching over she brushed the petals of the crushed rose into one small palm, their fragrance still strong despite their untimely death. The petals felt like satin in her fingertips, and she shifted her position on the bench, leaving room for the young man, should he opt to take a seat. Spreading her fingers, she allowed the petals to run through them, like silver water spilling onto the courtyard.
“And who are you, cela parle la vérité si hardiment?”

Crewe Kastallo Montague

A spark of amusement played on his face. He set a layback tone of response.

”Un jeune philosophe.”

Crewe jumped the bench and sat down beside the girl. She spoke with a sense of ill interest that intrigued him. It was as if her voice were promoting monotones. He could sense no sense of warmth or emotion embedded in her words. The voice told a lot of things about someone’s personality. First off, Crewe could tell this girl was secretive. A lock that was complicated. No key could easily undo her. Mystery was an intrigue.

Ironic. Crewe had enough mystery in himself to amuse people for years of story unravelings. It was a shame he chose to reserve himself instead. Information was a powerful thing. Even death could be provoked. It was a play with fire. Crewe wouldn’t let off and finish personal ideas of himself. Sentences would often go unfinished. Often, more than not, he would end up trailing most sentences leading to possible threats.

The truth. He kidded about being a philosopher. The only ideas he came with was from his own reasoning. Crewe did not want to compare the truth with his knowledge. He knew he would easily lose. Though, his opinion stood as his own opinion. No information could stare him down to defeat.

“Ce n'est pas la vérité. C’est mon avis.” Crewe continued.

He reached swiftly out and caught a petal in his palm before it fell from the girl’s open fingers onto the stony ground of the courtyard. It was delicate. A fragile wit of withering silk. How could it be perfect?

Lisette Beaumont

She took a gentle breathe, the intoxicating scent of the flowers causing her to feel slightly lightheaded in the warmth of the afternoon. She felt so out of place here, and yet not. There was such beauty around, so much she was trying to learn to appreciate. It seemed bitterly ironic that she would have to teach herself to appreciate the beauty of her surroundings. It should come naturally to one.

”Un jeune philosophe.”

She watched as he cleared the bench, her interest increasing with every moment that the young man continued in her company. The blindfold seemed to do little to thwart him in his actions, as he seemed to operate as though he had full function of his sight. What was once a mere idle question, now was forming into something more. Lisette rarely, if ever, found herself questioning into the nature of other individuals, especially individuals that would be considered her peers. She'd been given only the most fleeting of contact with children her age, and even then it had been heavily supervised. Furthermore, that contact had been forced, most individuals her age balking at her physical appearance. The pale snowy hair, the lavendar eyes.

And of course, the scars.

“Ce n'est pas la vérité. C’est mon avis.”

"Ah, oui," She replied softly, a full smile brushing the pale pink lips for the first time in ages, reaching up to her eyes and lighting them with an inner glow. With it, a certain warmth came to her voice. "Il n'y a pas de vérité, seulement la perception, n'est pas? " She turned her face up toward his, the pale silken hair whispering on her bare shoulders in the slight breeze that constantly kissed the courtyard they were in. She relaxed visibly, the ramrod posture becoming less strict and more comfortable, and she leaned a pale arm on the back of the bench, resting her head in the palm of one small hand.

Reaching up with her right hand, she brushed the tendrils of hair back, tucking them behind her ear, revealing her scar with ease. The rosary, still wound loosely around her wrist, tinkled against itself, the dark beads catching the rays of the sun, and seeming to ignite with a myriad of oil-like colors on their surface. Such action and blatant display was uncharacteristic of Lisette, who often did her best to hide the injured skin behind a curtain of white locks. But with this young man, she was different. Such relaxation came from the knowledge that he was not silently judging her, viewing her as an abnormality before giving her a chance to be herself. Lisette had become what everyone expected her to be, and this situation offered her a chance to let go of societies enforced stipulations on her personality. Few would give her a chance to prove herself different than their percieved notions.

People like her father, who disliked her for being different from the moment he saw her.

This young man was a welcome change.

She peered at him from beneath thick lashes, watching as he agilely caught a petal, again noting this "second" sight he seemed to operate with. She wondered if he himself had suffered much ridicule, and for what purpose. She doubted the blindfold was self inflicted, but why keep it on beyond the reach of the one who had placed it.

Unless it had magical qualities.

She had to get used to thinking that way now, now that she herself was beyond the reach of her father. Her thoughts were her own in this new world, and she was still much like a babe, learning to walk on it's own.

Turning her gaze back up to his face, idly brushing another rogue strand of hair out of her eyes, she asked simply "Quel est votre nom?"

It was almost as if she were a different person from the young woman who had been seated on the bench moments before. Her voice was still soft, but the monotonous tone was altered to one of innocent curiousity, of a young woman who was painfully shy, but was making an effort.

Of who she really was, the Lisette that could not be seen from the surface.