COMPLETED | ❝ Some journeys take us far from home. Some adventures lead us to our destiny. ❞
━ in which a peculiar girl with gifted abilities and natural wit named ophelia wellington finds herself burning the entire world with a single spitefu...
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THE SPARKS OF MAGIC dispersed as I arrived back in Lucy's room, yet blue clouds of smoke continued to linger on my form. It was the same mist that surrounded Edmund the first time we arrived in Narnia, something that one can fall into distraction as you would wish to stare at it for how long you like. I proceeded to play with it using my fingers, seeing it curl around each one like it had a mind of its own. My bright eyes then turned to my left, glancing at the mirror where the glowing hues were still dancing in rhythm.
Things were visible as I focused on my reflection, even letting me notice how my hair looked messy. So I took down the ties that bound it together, giving the golden strands its freedom to bounce with every action I took. The hazy wind brushed against my cheeks where I felt it in details, a tingling tinge of power placed there like a separated beacon of tranquility. Only now had I noticed that the smokes resembled flames in some manner, their similarities of flickering once in a while being obvious.
Concentrating on the evident trace of released power, I let it come closer to my skin where it seemed to be seeped in. Following that action was the feeling of my energy being renewed, as well as my eyes going back to its natural shade of normalcy. It felt refreshing, as if absorbing the rays of warmth from the sun's early awakening.
“You finally allow me to bring some items from Narnia.” A smirk lined on my face, carefully patting my outfit then led it down to my belt where both my weapons were. My wrists held the bracelets of devotion, intricacy still carved on it even with years passing by its existence.
Out of boredom, I just allowed myself to tour around the house. Starting with the downstairs, I went through every nook and cranny I could find, even trace the spine of the books to see if any of them were interesting. Harold was still stuck there with a newspaper in his hands, feet straightly perched on a low stool.
Going to the room by the left, the scene of a kitchen welcomed me. Turnips were placed inside a wooden container, laid down on a cloth-covered table. Behind it were stained-glass windows, a small light hanging as a centerpiece for when they would eat their feasts.
Upstairs was equally as uneventful, only their quarters which were crowded with their things, and walls with dark colours. Exiting there, I entered the last possible abode I had yet to explore, immediately snickering at the first thing that caught my attention.
“Gold Star Award, issued by Cambridge Public for Personal Hygiene,” The framed certificate was right at the eyesight, other useless objects scattered neatly on his desks. “For Eustace Clarence Scrubb.”
At my right was jars filled with various of insects, clippings of its anatomy being tacked on the wall. Below that same shelf was a desk with books of the same topic, some on his strange addiction to gaining knowledge of random facts. A few of them were recognizable, being the ones I have skimmed through while studying on my early years.
