bby gorl (mircea eliade × reader)

The living room was dimly lit, with the vintage wall sconces that hung on the mute coloured walls like earrings on a woman's earlobes.
Thick velvet curtains hid the long windows across the walls, just leaving a shy peak of the woods beyond.
Two antique couches stood the opposite sides of each on the hand-woven rug in front of the ashen fireplace, accompanied by rich velvet and bronze wing-chairs that stood as a sidekicks. The paintings and faded tapestry panels on the walls seemed to blink at me as I scanned the perimeters of the room, clicking my tongue with uneased annoyance.

Were we expected to wait until he decided to turn up?

As soon as the grand clock hit it's final mark - thus signaling a quarter past five: the exact moment our meeting should have wrapped up -, I allowed my eyes to trail back to Mr. Shaw's robust build, searching for his eyes with twisted eyebrows.

Was he playing a game with us? Or, rather, thought so little of us that this whole arrangement seemed absurd to him?

"Conventionally, Ms. (L/N)..."

As soon as that grunt escaped Shaw's dry throat, I couldn't help but cut him off.

"I never allow myself such shallow remarks: but may I be as bold as to assume that Eliade won't be esteeming us with his presence tonight?"

Sitting in a damp room, cross legged, whilst waiting for him (of all people!) to show up was not my ideal way of spending my first evening in London.

To my sharp retort, Mr Shaw falls silent, and the only exchange between the two of us involved back to the urging clock.

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.

Oh, how I wished I weren't alone in this murky place...!

"He did say he'd be busy today, Miss... ah, perhaps we should have insisted upon changing the date..."

This time, to my satisfaction, there was no need for me to bestow any intrusion to his thoughts: for they seemed to come to a halt by themselves.
Thankfully for Mr Shaw, I thought with a smidge of a smile; he hadn't made a complete fool of himself just yet.

"This room is uncomfortably large. It reminds me of a hotel foyer, not just in the space, but in the artwork too."

Whichever force may have deterred me to state my personal queries to that old lawyer, I may never know. And still, I could tell - from the spasming that came from his beard, to the weird twinkle in his eyes - that Shaw was glad I'd have mentioned it.

And yet, immediately thereafter, his whole expression darkened.
The wrinkled around his eyelids deepened even more so, as Jeremiah opened his mouth.

He took a healthy swing at his water cup, almost mimicking patraking in a shot of Brandy.
As he stood, silent, gripping the handles of the armchair he rested upon, I could see my old mentor clearer than I ever had before.

He was an old man, yet I could see the young boy in him, still yearning to return to his train set.
It was as if his soul sat down at one of those little platforms with the tiny trees, waiting at the miniature station for the steady sound of turning wheels and puffs of steam.
Or maybe that inner boy waited for a time to put down the mask of sanguine resilience, and be himself all over again, playful and silly.
I could see the worry lines and how they made crosses with those of joy, the boy his parents welcomed and the man the world asked for, the one who'd love to rise and the one who'd love to rest.