en pointe
| == |  ===SEP 14 in the EVENING with @Archer DuncanThe rehearsal room was supposed to be empty at this hour. That was the primary reason why Isabella Beatrix Flores always claimed it during the sliver of time between afternoon classes and dinner, when the orange sun fell like slow fire through the high arched windows, painting the air with streaks of ochre and crimson. Evening was a thief, and it was stealing the light inch by inch, shadow by shadow. Slipping into the room and allowing the heavy oaken door to exhale a hushed sigh behind her, Isa let her satchel slump carelessly against the wall, pulling off the shoes on her feet and swapping them for the ballet slippers in her hand. The dress was a classic tutu, a sheath of white satin fitted and boned to create an impossibly sleek silhouette. From the waist erupted a dozen layers of tulle, starched to hold a bell-like shape that stood out from her hips before falling in a soft, translucent cloud that ended just above the knee. With her long caramel locks twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck, the girl peaked out from the wings, making sure no one else was in the room before moving on to the stage. The room was quite impressive to say the least. A vast, domed ceiling was arched over her head, its painted sky fading with age and dust. From its center hung a magnificent chandelier, making it felt less like a practice hall and more like a forgotten ballroom. The pureblood moved to the enchanted record player in the corner and fiddled with it expertly, before finally managing to set the needle onto a spinning record, as the room swelled with the cheerful melody of a concerto. For a moment, Isa was worried she had forgotten everything. Where to put her hands, how to move her feet, where to turn and how to do it - she was worried she would forget it all. But there was really no reason for concern, for her feet seemed to move on their own, carrying her across the hall with familiar steps, moving to the hum of the music. At first, her movements were hesitant, the rust of disuse was evident in the slight tremor whenever she lifted an arm or extended a leg. But it didn't take long for her to adjust to the setting and soon enough she was spinning across the dance floor with ease. Leaping and twirling, the girl threw her entire heart into the dance. She was a blur of white and gold, the dying sunlight catching in the folds of her leotard and threading fire through her hair. There was no place for gentle balancés and sweeping arm movements today. She lost herself in the rhythm, the sharp staccato of strings guiding her feet into a series of pas de bourrées, leading into a pirouette so fluid she felt briefly weightless. But then, just as she launched into a grand jeté that sliced through the golden light like a knife on butter, something shifted. It wasn’t a sound, not exactly. More like the sudden absence of one. More like a breath held. Isa faltered, the tip of her slipper catching on the polished floor as she grabbed at empty air with a shriek. |
== |
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
─── 𝚜𝚢𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚑
en pointe
14/09/25 | rehearsal room
The rehearsal room was always occupied—and he did quite mean always; but as long as it was full of surprises when Archer arrived, he did not quite mind. Of course, it took away from his opportunities to work on his own art form of the piano, but it only gave him for excuses to procrastinate and for that, he was thankful. After all, he would rather note down a few interesting faces than sit at the cursed instrument, one he was desperate to learn yet one he had never seemed to grasp, despite the teachings of a talented teacher.
Archer, at heart, was an observer, and the many people that milled in and out of the room gave him a chance to do exactly just that. It may have carried uncomfortable memories: first of Matthew rejecting his offers at peace, then of him accepting Matthew as his only solace, now of Matthew not being here at all, and the silence somehow so loud it it deafened, but it was still a source of comfort for the boy. He could melt into the music of a violin or the voice of a singer. He could melt into watching a ballerina pirouette their way through the room unbound.
It was like opening those Muggle Popmarts. You never quite knew what was coming. But a ballerina was exactly what Archer received. Her hair was done up in the way ballerinas normally had them, what could have been locks of caramel brown at Archer’s length into a bun. Her eyes blurred as she turned, but Archer could have made out something brown, or perhaps it was hazel, like his. The freckles dotting her cheeks also blurred, connecting stars into constellations. What struck Archer most about her though was the how small she was — perhaps just a first or second year, compared to the talent that came with her dance.
Was there anything more ironic? How, for the love of Merlin, could it have been possible that just when Archer thought to praise her talent, she would fall and show him otherwise? Or perhaps it was not a lack of talent but him, his presence having interrupted her as he entered. It was almost a comforting thought, that disturbance. Even if someone else had to suffer for its sake, Archer knew how meaningful sole his existence was, a breath exhaled, inhaled, or a breath held. He finally knew he was no ghost, could not intrude and go unnoticed and that, somehow, was the best thing that happened to him today. So what if a girl he barely knew fell for his sake? As long as she wasn’t falling in love, he hardly gave a fig.
The scream had been quite pitiful, though. And, thank the Lord, he had a conscience.
On second thought Archer took a few steps towards the girl, slow, long strides that made his boots clink against the marble floor. Spread out on the floor, a mass of tulle covering her legs, she didn’t look as impressive as he thought she would. In fact, she looked like a little girl, which made sense because that was exactly who she was, and why Archer was intervening was beyond even himself. “I hope you didn’t think I was going to catch you,” he started, voice cool. “What a horridly romantic assumption to make on a stranger,” he mused, scoffing.
The least he could do, he figured, was offer the girl a hand. If she were to take it, then would come a slow, almost sarcastic clap. However, if you would ask Archer, he would tell you a lack of genuineness was beyond his simple intention. “My apologies,” he said, laughing slightly, “Beautiful dance though.”
@Isa Flores
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
en pointe
| == | ===SEP 14 in the EVENING with @Archer Duncan The boy’s hand hung in the space between them, so discernibly mocking it was almost an insult in itself. Every aspect of his body, from the slant of his shoulders to the faint, mocking quirk of his brow, screamed that this was all a mildly entertaining diversion for him. Isa’s gaze flickered from the boy’s outstretched hand to his face. She ignored his hand, pushing herself up onto her throbbing ankle with a grimace. “Don't flatter yourself.” she said, her voice steady despite the fire in her leg. Oh god how it hurt. “A romantic assumption requires a degree of desirable possibility. You, standing there, have single-handedly eliminated all such notions from my consideration” That was quite the truth. He was tall and lanky, all limbs and jutted angles. His posture was strange. His shoulders were stiff but he leaned with such carelessness, as if he couldn't quite consistently maintain the grace he was trying to project. His hair was a very dark brown, so deep it verged on black, but lacked richness like bark stripped of its gloss. It fell in dull, undisciplined waves to his shoulders, framing the eyes that held her. They were the same shade as her own - hazel, a deep, warm brown but with startling flecks of gold and olive that caught the light. It was gone in an instant, shuttered behind an unimpressed blink. Isa's own hues narrowed as the sarcasm sank in. “I truly appreciate the compliment.” She said dryly, mirroring his laugh. “And you have a real gift for stating the obvious. A true observer.” She glanced down. The scrape on her shin was worse than she'd thought - blood streaked her skin, and her tousled strands were sticking unpleasantly to her forehead. Still, she shrugged it off. The pureblood had endured much worse back in her days at the Flores Manor - skidding down the hills, skinning her knees, or tumbling headfirst into the stream after tripping on a particularly annoying rock. But a dull ache was beginning to settle in, the very least she could do was utilise her surroundings. "Unless you plan on standing there as part of the room's new decor, you could make yourself marginally useful.” Isa looked up at the boy expectantly. “There's a bench against the far wall. If you're not too offended by the concept of basic decency, you could bring it over.” It probably sounded ungrateful. But if he expected gratitude for dangling a hand like a god from a cloud, he was going to be thoroughly disappointed. She’d bleed out before giving him that. |
== |
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
─── 𝚜𝚢𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚑
en pointe
14/09/25 | rehearsal room
When asked to play fetch with the concept of decency at stake, Archer only laughed in refusal. That notion was as absurdly ridiculous as the romantic knight in shining armour. He was no culprit in the White Swan’s downfall: whyever should he care. After all, Archer reminded himself, he ought not flatter himself. The girl, in return ought not flatter herself either. “You are sorely mistaken to think of me as your dog,” he drawled, smirking. The expectant look of the young, white clad girl only made his denial more satisfying. What did he owe to her? “Fetch it yourself or don’t fetch it at all. One would think a girl as talented as yourself would know some basic independence.”
But then again he was no sadist and would not watch the innocent suffer, as obnoxious as they may be. Instead, he was simply thinking with ingenuity. In a world so rife with magic, why would anyone choose to use a bench of all things to solve their problems. If the girl wanted him to be useful, perhaps it was time to be her knight in shining armour.
“Reparifors,” he casted with a fluid wave of his wand, motion careless, as if it was only an afterthought to her pain. Aiming with delicacy yet with all the laziness in the world, he watched like a cat under the sun as her ankle clicked back into place. “Don’t stain the rehearsal room floor with your precious blood.” His expression flickered, and in a flash that cocksure smirk was gone, the arched brow lowered. In some odd ways Archer Duncan had his own methods of displaying kindness, mercy for a girl so pathetically in pain over a cut as shallow as hers. This, however, was not quite grace for the wounded. It was simply and blatantly an exertion of power.
Archer, undoubtedly, was enjoying himself. He found himself relishing in it, in fact. He had had his fair share of helplessness. He had been beaten down by others, by life, by himself, but he had made a promise to himself never to fail to rise again. He had sacrificed his own comfort, his own past, life as he knew, to reach where he was now—why would he not have the right to use it to his advantage? Finally he was superior; it only ought to have been deserved that he lick his lips after finishing a meal as delicious. Now that he had this delectable power, he had better use it, and he had better be ostentatious about it.
It would have been utterly unfair to deem his actions as insulting, however patronising they came off as. After all, he was simply being of assistance, just like the girl had so aptly asked.
Reminded of the present by the stench of blood through his sensitive sense, he glanced at the crimson creeping down her calf, then at the gentle trail of sanguine she had left in her wake. With his career in the duelling arts he was no stranger to bloodshed, yet his features still betrayed his disgust as they twisted into something unfamiliar and crooked. Finally, meeting the girl’s eyes not without a shred of contempt he enchanted with the same, utmost enunciation, “Scourgify.” If she would rather bleed out than accept his assistance then she could at least spare the floor from a new decoration. With the incantation out of his pursed lips, the smell of iron was gone, rubbed clean.
Magic, as they said, could solve any problem. But he hoped it did nothing against the damage to her falling dignity.
@Isa Flores
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
en pointe
| == | ===SEP 14 in the EVENING with @Archer Duncan What a showoff. Isa scoffed, folding her arms over her chest. The girl leaned against the rehearsal room wall, the stench of sweat and blood filling her lungs as she watched the boy with a mixture of frustration and humiliation. He was saying something, his voice a drawl, a smirk dancing on his lips as if he found amusement in her pain. She winced, not from the throbbing ache at her ankle but from the realization that perhaps he held some truth in his callous words. Why should he care? Why should anyone? The dim light from the overhead candles caught the glint of his wand as he waved it carelessly. She felt the relief in her ankle as his soft spell filled the air, the sharp pain dissipating as if he had merely waved away her suffering. For a moment, gratitude flickered in her chest, but it was quickly snuffed out by the weight of his condescending manner of talking. Does he think he is some sort of savior? “What a gentleman.” the girl rolled her eyes and stood up. “Such a knight. How very heroic of you.” Even as she scoffed, the girl couldn't deny that there was something captivating about him, even in his arrogance. How could he dismiss her so easily? She was used to being adored, pampered, and spoiled. In her world, being the center of attention meant her every need was catered to, a life far from the struggles of those around her. But here, in this moment, Archer dared to belittle her. She clenched her jaw, feeling an unexpected wave of bitterness rise up. She was no one’s dog, thank you very much. His words stung, leaving a sickening taste she couldn’t shake off. Isa twisted her hair around her fingers, dealing with the anger bubbling within her. “Why can’t you just… be nice?” she muttered under her breath, half-hoping he would hear her. It was quite the irony, seeing that she was normally the girl who dismissed others with the wave of a hand. She despised the idea of being seen as weak. In her mind, she pictured herself as the star of this performance, the girl everyone applauded, not the one writhing on the floor for help. = = |
== |
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
─── 𝚜𝚢𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚑
en pointe
Accompanied by a roll of her eyes, the fallen swan uttered a few lines on chivalry and heroism, traits she referred to with sarcasm. Archer offered a show of his own whites back at her, unimpressed. If she so wished to be adored, pampered and spoilt, she could before her doting parents or her loyal dog, but Archer would not stoop to such indignities. His efforts to assist, from the healing of her sprain to the cleansing of her stage, were treated with disdain, and worse so ingratitude.
He should not have expected anything more from a girl such as Isa Flores, and was largely undeterred.
His actions were not based on dismissiveness — quite the opposite. To influence someone with power dynamics acknowledgement came before any rejection, the crooked play of a game he was winning at. Perhaps genuineness hid under a masquerade of petty control-manipulation, yet pride was too large an obstacle for a sincere nature to pass.
“Why can’t you just… be nice?” A few muttered words caught Archer’s attention, and his head turned sharply. The words were meant for no one, yet him only, the sort of comment one both wished to go unheard and desperately sought a reply to for. The relationship was evident: she weak, he strong, and how she would deign to further fall into her own pitifulness Archer could not comprehend. To admit to his lack of consideration was a show of a feeble constitution, for his choices were meant to be brushed off and considered a salvation from humiliation and emancipation from pain rather than some demonic attack. To mistake help for mockery — that was only her own misinterpretation, and she would face her own consequences.
“I am quite nice,” Archer stated, deciding she deserved, at least, the bare dignities of a reply. He squared his shoulders, and with the benefit of a lanky height, looked over her, reiterating his godliness. She was at her mercy, and he, just so happened, to be a merciful deity. He circled her, assessing, analysing, criticising, yet granted her the mercy of staying silent to her flaws. Instead, he continued to speak, undiscouraged, “It is your mistake that you would ever think of me otherwise, and I would call you an ungrateful creature for your decisions on human nature. I have been nothing but helpful to you, no?”
By all means, his actions signified no devil nature. He was the saint, and the girl, in pain, was the damsel in distress he had saved. Perhaps not the kindest play on the traditional roles of the story, but it folded out the way he had expected it to nevertheless. Archer had scoffed when he deemed the ballerina expectant of him to catch her, yet now, she was falling, and he was catching her anyway. He granted her the leeway of emotions, and even though he had chosen graciousness, she had not gratitude. If anything, she was the one who could use a lesson on nicety.
Ironic, almost. Flores deemed Duncan as dismissive, when she was the person dismissing his assistance. Flores deemed Duncan as spiteful, when she was the person showing no signs of thankfulness in the face of his magnanimity. Flores deemed Duncan as a fiend for her actions, when she was the person on the receiving end of his kindness.
And yet, come his decision on the world’s credibility, Archer is the one shut down for his lack of belief.
He was not the true source of mockery, no, for under the grand lights they were all players on, it was the cruel director who mocked until they were all abashed.
@Isa Flores | banner by Adeline Spinks
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht