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2010-01-26 06:48 pm (UTC)
His home is but a door, enchanted to appear in different cities and times. Outside looking in, just a narrow row house. Modest with worn wood floors and shelves piled with mountains of books and artifacts. The opposite of the expanse of stone and tall of ceiling of Morgana’s dwelling. This does not come as a surprise to him. She is storm, he is quiet. She is a flash of light, he is the in between. He smiles, slowly, following her inside.
He would take her coat, but it is not his home, and more importantly, her coat seems to know where to take itself. He’s not worn a coat, even against the cold of Cornwall. It is not as if they traveled long through the temperature to get here.
Looking up at the endless arching windows through the thick stone of the walls, he appreciates the light against the richly colored tapestries against the walls. Indeed, it is raining and he cannot hear the drops on the edges of her home, just the pattern of the weather on the windows.
“Your hall, it is…” he smiles, “great.”
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