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Author Topic: falling | smarcy  (Read 111 times)

Marcella Bryce

    (12/04/2018 at 03:35)
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the first day
late evening
after dinner

JULY 01, 1955



Standing in the middle of the empty pitch, Marcella took a deep breath in-- and out.

Her hands wrapped around the knobby handle of the borrowed broom, tightened, creaked under thin hands strengthened from long hours manually kneading dough with her mother at the bakery. Though it had only been a few hours she already missed that place, her home, her family. It would be her first time away from them all for such an extended time, but she had insisted she had wanted to go, even if she technically didn't need to.

And as the sun dipped steadily lower towards the horizon, Marcy's green eyes swept over the small pitch of the dancing lawn with its ring of elms, up into the clear sky as the wind whipped her braids behind her.

She knew the best way to take her mind off of things.

Angling the broom just-so, Marcy kicked her leg over and adjusted just as she had on the old practice brooms Eugene had borrowed over the years from his friend's for her. With a kick she was off into the air, swirling and weaving, arching up and diving down much too steep and much too fast-- and she laughed, wooing loudly as she pulled back up in the last moment and glided fast over the grass.

Grinning, beaming, heart soaring just as she soared, she almost didn't see him.

* Samuel Whitmore

    (12/04/2018 at 03:59)
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On his first day of camp, in the late evening after dinner, two amazing and terribly important things happened to Sam Whitmore, which was saying something, as the day--his first ever properly living in the magical world--had been filled with amazing things.  None of them, not the dinner he had eaten (roast beef) or the strange, squashy looking creatures who had served it to him (house elves), not the realization that the castle he sat in was Cair Paravel (like from the books about Narnia) or the one that someone (the boy who had checked him in, maybe) had used magic to make the whole place look like this, could stand up to these two events:

One, he saw for the first time in his life someone flying a broom.

In his chest, Sam’s heart stopped, green eyes honed keenly on the broom itself.  Part of him reeled that it didn’t look terribly different from the one his mother used to sweep the stoop in the back garden, and yet there it was, up in the sky, carrying a person who clearly was having quite a good time in a breakneck dive.

Two, the person flying broom was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

He could tell because suddenly she was very close, barely skimming the grass as she rocketed towards him, sending his stilled heart thudding again behind his rib cage from the shock of her.  He just caught a glimpse of her as he dodged out of the way--a flash of blonde hair in braids framing a freckled face and what he was almost certain were eyes even greener than his own.

In that moment, he didn’t know which he wanted to know about more--the broom, or the girl flying it.  He turned and watched them both as they streaked away.

“HEY,” he yelled at the top of his voice, his hands cupped around his mouth in hopes that the sound carried over the wind.  “YOU LOOK GREAT ON THAT THING.”

Marcella Bryce

    (12/04/2018 at 05:04)
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As their eyes met for the very first time, she just caught a glimpse of the boy, of green eyes and dark curly hair and the most startling look on his face that she couldn't quite pinpoint-- because she didn't have time when she was aiming right for him and he was coming up fast. Marcy's grip on the handle tugged to the side and she swerved, inching around him before it was too late. And she heard his voice carry as if caught on her tail, the broom riding off its momentum and zipping on by, feeling a flush touch her cheeks but not knowing if it was from the boy's words or the adrenaline pumping through her or the wind that had whipped at her face.

Pulling the broom to slow and curve back around, Marcy aimed back towards him. The approach was short, but enough for her to look him over better, for her to realize he was cute and probably her age. Quickly, Marcy felt compelled to smooth back the golden fly-aways that had whipped around her head.

"Thanks!" She laughed, leaning forward slightly as she came to a stop just a few feet away and two feet up, one scrawny leg dangling to just brush the toes of her shoes against the grass while the other comfortably hooked its toes over the kickstand. Despite not diving down from the sky anymore, her heart still hammered like she was, "It's, uhm, to be completely honest not mine. I borrowed it from the camp."

She hadn't been sure if there was a check-out system or what. Technically the door had been open when she had been snooping around and, well... She would have it back before the night was done.
« Last Edit: 12/04/2018 at 05:06 by Marcella Bryce »

* Samuel Whitmore

    (12/04/2018 at 20:48)
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About a dozen questions shot off in his head in rapid succession, they just check those out here, just like that? and would you marry me, please? chief among them.  Sam swallowed them down and covered them with an easy grin.  Incredibly casually, he stood in front of the girl where she hovered on her broom--or not her broom, she had just said that, Sam--with one hand on his hip and the other held loosely but not too loosely at his side, like neither of them were the most amazing things he had ever seen in his eleven years on this earth.

“It’s not your first time, though, right?”

From what he had seen her do, he couldn’t imagine it would be, though he had to admit to himself he was no expert when it came to flying broomsticks.  For all he knew, it could have been that instinctual.  Still, he guessed not, for when the girl and her beautiful blonde braids had been racing through the air, there was a kind of fearlessness about that motion that he thought could only come with being sure in a skill.  That, or being terribly and hopelessly stupid, and Sam could already tell that this girl was certainly not that.

“I mean, you did look really good up there,” he said, wanting to confirm his theory.  “The way you--”  Sam’s hand, his right, dipped low and shot forward as if doing so very close to the ground.  “--and then--”  From there, his hand swooped up sharply just like the girl had on her borrowed broom.  “--and--”  With a kind of grace that didn’t belong to him but to the girl he was mimicking, his hand slowed in its mimed flight to a hover just like the girl in front of and above him was doing.

“Those were expert moves.”  She had the kind of skill he was sure came with practice, like the older boys on the football field of his old school, only much prettier and (he thought he could catch on the air) much better-smelling.  “You’ve been doing this a while, haven’t you?”

Marcella Bryce

    (12/05/2018 at 19:22)
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Marcy watched the rise and fall of his hand with rapt attention, her shy smile widening to a large grin as she held on to his every word detailing her ride. It was one thing to hear her family's praise-- they were family, they were supposed to-- but it was an entirely different feeling hearing it from a different, unknown source with fresh eyes.

"Just a little while, really. A few years max," Marcy hummed thoughtfully, a mite bashful as she began to ramble on with cheeks tinted pink, "My brother's helped me out a lot. He doesn't fly much, but he has friends who used to and they have old brooms they'd let him borrow, so I could learn."

Years from now she would realize she had a lot to thank Eugene for, him keenly noticing her knack for flying and indulging her in it being top among them. But it had started with a toy broom years ago, one that hovered just the smallest bit off the ground and went no faster than a slow and steady pace, a Christmas present from Kate. Her mother would often say she had taken to it faster than walking, that she was meant to fly.

"I'm Marcella Bryce, by the way." As if suddenly remembering her manners, Marcy leant forward on her broom, one hand holding strong on the handle while the other reached out for the boy, head tilting slightly to meet her shoulder, "You can call me Marcy."

* Samuel Whitmore

    (12/08/2018 at 17:29)
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So that was it, then.  She had always known all about magic.

If something shifted--and it did, and it was Sam, and it was almost imperceptible but it was there in the way he held his shoulders, once jaunty and sure and now only just the slightest bit slumped--it was slight.  Sam, who had quite enjoyed feeling like he was pretty worldly especially for someone his age only a few short weeks ago, was still not used to the idea that there was a whole new world--this one, with flying brooms and beautiful girls with magic in their blood--that he knew absolutely nothing about.  He didn’t fault this girl--Marcella called Marcy, and what a fittingly lovely name--for it, but certainly did himself.

He took her offered hand nonetheless, and in his it was small and warm except for the backsides of her fingers, cooled, he guessed, from having just zipped around so quickly on a flying broom in the nighttime.  In the moment he wanted to warm them, compulsed to cup his freehand over them, but instead he gave a firm shake with just the one.  The space of a breath and a half passed before he let it go, acutely aware of the cool air touching the space where Marcy Bryce’s hand had just been.

“I’m Samuel Whitmore,” he said, “and you can call me--”  Anything, probably, and he’d answer, but her prefered, “Sam.”

And maybe it was because he could still almost feel her hand in his, or because she was so close, or because it was a flying broom that brought her so close and that was still the most fantastic thing he had ever seen barring maybe Marcy Bryce herself, he spat out his next words as if they were hot in his mouth.

“Teach me how to fly a broom.  I don’t know anything about them, and you’re the best I’ve ever seen.”

She was the only he’d ever seen, too, strictly speaking, but Sam Whitmore was willing to bet that if there were ten other girls on ten other brooms hovering a meter above the grass, she’d still be the best.

Marcella Bryce

    (12/14/2018 at 02:08)
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"Sam," She repeated with a solid nod of her head, and if the pink tint to her cheeks brightened any she couldn't tell, and if their hands held a moment longer than any boy's she had ever shaken before she didn't take notice. Except, when they finally released, for the fact that she would have been perfectly happy to keep holding it.

She was just pulling said hand back to refortify her lean on the broom when the boy-- Sam, Samuel Whitmore-- spat out his question. She stared wide green eyes for a moment, because she had never really taught anybody anything before, especially not something she was still learning herself. Sam's compliment, however, certainly boosted her confidence and made her back straighten proudly. Maybe there was something she could help him with.

"I can try," she laughed, and dipped the handle of her broom to descend slowly until her lowered leg touched ground and bent at the ankle. She swung off it, then, straightening up before turning back to the boy and holding out her borrowed broom in both hands, "So when you say you don't know anything about them, you mean you've never flown one, or seen one? Do you know about Quidditch?"

She asked them honestly, curiously, without a hint of malice or disbelief. She was not a stranger to muggleborns-- if that was even what Sam Whitmore was, not that it mattered.  She knew they were out there, oblivious to what she had been so privileged to grow up in. Marcy wanted nothing more in that moment to help the boy out, to prepare him, and most importantly to gush about the greatest sport of all time if he would let her.

* Samuel Whitmore

    (01/08/2019 at 02:26)
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They were going to do this.

Something flopped in Sam’s stomach as Marcy with the blonde hair brought the broom down, flopped harder still when she held it out to him.  He couldn’t be sure which it had more to do with--the broom, or the girl whose hands held it then.  It was a little bit of both, he decided, for both seemed too good to be happening at once.  A grin, much less composed that he might have liked, plastered itself to his face as his hand closed around the handle, just above where Marcy’s was.

“I don’t know anything about any of it,” he admitted, much more honestly than he might have been if it had been anyone else--a boy, his age or older, a girl who was less pretty, his stepfather--who had asked the questions.  Maybe it was because she was that disarming, or maybe simply because this was something Sam was so eager about he didn’t much care that she would know he didn’t know what he was talking about.  Besides, he had already asked, so surely she could guess.  The earnest look in her eyes seemed to say so, green and curious and without judgement.  “It’s all new to me.  I only found out I was a wizard a few months ago.  Until then, the only one I knew was Gandalf the Grey.”

Sam’s smile twitched just a little.

“You’re an angel for teaching me,” he said, eyes still light, hand still resting close to hers.  “Though I’ll probably be a sorry student.”

And for once, here on the green grass with Marcella Bryce, he didn’t mind that.

“So what is Quidditch?”

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