Sep. 17th, 2014

for Robin

Sep. 17th, 2014 09:31 pm
harrowgate: (foxy)
When Felix was caught immobile in his research and his work, unable to progress, the words of magic and history and philosophy tangled up hopelessly, meaninglessly, before his eyes and in his mind. His usual refuge, the Cabaline libraries, became quickly useless to him, only further sinking his thoughts in the quagmire of words. The books, the scrolls, and the disapproval of his colleagues did nothing to open his mind, so Felix escaped, and went to a place where words did not reign.

The Museum was already a frequent haunt, but today he turned in a different direction than the archives, and stalked in among the paintings and sculptures from bygone days. Modern art meant nothing to him. Art without historical context, without story, without the echo of years impacted by its existence, carried no weight. Felix kept to the classics.

His violet velvet trousers and subtly patterned shirt were muted and bound together by a rust-colored waistcoat and lightweight silk scarf in warm tones, highlighted by touches of purpose. He did not dress, nor carry himself, like a man who liked to be ignored, but in the middle of a weekday, the Gallery was quiet. There were few to stare.

However, when Felix entered an unfamiliar room, he was the one who stopped to stare. Somehow, impossibly, he had seen... he had met... the green-eyed man spread beautifully in a field of flowers, framed in a painting at least five hundred years old.

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Felix Harrowgate

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