[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
***
( A re-enact of Hades...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•
Ninety-six degrees celsius was the perfect serving temperature for a cup of americano to intensify its morning-awakening scent and kick off drowsiness out of a soul. Steaming hot liquid gushed down her tongue and she had let the heat burned it off—still, Gammaliel didn't care when it slithered down her throat in an almost familial crisp aftertaste that felt lava-like in her palate.
Full disclosure, she hated coffee. Had it been not for the identical scent of the lingering substance that reminded her of a figure that was haunting in her chambers of buried memories, Gemma would have finished it while it was chilled. But not now, perhaps never.
She couldn't sleep, nor she wished to. Coffee was the suitable offerings into bargain black dream from Epiales. It barely happened—at least not the amount she used to have nine years ago. The Irish sorceress didn't want to close her eyes ever since a symphony echoed in her mind. Her eyesight, her brain, her memories, it was all threaded in a silver string that was ravaged by yesterday's melody.
It was razor-sharp, tormented her the way it froze the hemostasis procedure of her bleeding soul. So she continued to bleed, and ichor spilled out of her soul, pooling over pristine floor until she appeared ghostly. Had it been not for the caffeine shot she might have it worse in her dreams. But the combination of continuous dosage of caffeine that almost equal to Evan Rosier's daily requirement with Martin McKinnon's fantastic broom polisher was too much for her senses.
"For Avalon's sake, Marty. It smells burning in here." groaned the irritated witch, scrunching her nose by the unbearing aroma akin to petrol and wax as the boy rubbed it on his broom eagerly—Gemma doubted he would stop until he could see himself reflected on the handle. Now, McKinnon's recent puberty made him suitable for a beater—the position he held since their third year.
The blond was leaning against her legs, as he stretched his legs on the floor. Gemma on the other hand was reading her copy of Sherlock Holmes he got for her. Legs crossed, a book on her lap. Martin grinned, "Nope." answered the blond, rubbing the cheap linen to the handle keenly until it emitted a squeaky clean sound. Gemma rolled her eyes as he went on, "Next match will be against Slytherin and oh—can you come to my practice this Saturday?"
"Tell me why would I do that?" a sarcastic smile curved on her pomegranate lips as she shut her book. Pressing hands above it before she leaned closer to the boy. "The last time I watched your match you almost cracked your skull and it was . . ." she pursed her lips for a moment, recalling his last season's fall from Sirius's bludger backbeat.
