"Oh, goodness..." He's caught in the act of pulling out a small penknife, but before the blade ever touches the plant he pauses. It's the crutches that come to mind, those works of once-living art that he's a little sorry to leave behind, even as much as he dislikes needing crutches in the first place. He wasn't witness to her shaping and growing those, but he has a fairly good guess that's precisely what she did. He was trained, in his youth, about working magic on plants, coaxing unusual growth or otherwise manipulating them, but never to such an artful degree. Horvath's best skills have always been with more inert matter, or raw forces of energy. Living things of any kind are not his strength.
"I... but I live underground..." His protest is quiet, overwhelmed. A new plant, a fresh propagation of aglaophotis when it's so rare and so needed, is not something to be turned down. The contrast between them strikes him hard, though, as he thinks of his cold dark underground lair, while watching this half-wild girl of sun and wind holding a living plant in her hands. "A new plant... would mean more than I can say, but how would it fare in the city, miles underground and away from any light but reading lamps?" Tenderly he reaches out to stroke one leaf with a finger, reverently, then lifts his hand to repeat the gesture against her cheek. They're equally beautiful and awe-inspiring gifts of nature, in his mind. Perhaps her melancholy is contagious, judging from the tone of his voice.
"Would it... survive at the home you took me to, do you think? I know it's often empty but for the cats, but... I can't take a living plant down to the tunnels under Brooklyn. I'd kill it. I couldn't bear that..."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-03-27 01:05 pm (UTC)"I... but I live underground..." His protest is quiet, overwhelmed. A new plant, a fresh propagation of aglaophotis when it's so rare and so needed, is not something to be turned down. The contrast between them strikes him hard, though, as he thinks of his cold dark underground lair, while watching this half-wild girl of sun and wind holding a living plant in her hands. "A new plant... would mean more than I can say, but how would it fare in the city, miles underground and away from any light but reading lamps?" Tenderly he reaches out to stroke one leaf with a finger, reverently, then lifts his hand to repeat the gesture against her cheek. They're equally beautiful and awe-inspiring gifts of nature, in his mind. Perhaps her melancholy is contagious, judging from the tone of his voice.
"Would it... survive at the home you took me to, do you think? I know it's often empty but for the cats, but... I can't take a living plant down to the tunnels under Brooklyn. I'd kill it. I couldn't bear that..."