The rain pattered down; pit pat pit pat pit pat on the cold cobblestones. It was spring, but today it certainly didn't feel like it; there was a chilled touch to the air, and it was the dreariest of dreary -- as if Winter had come back to take her frosty hold. Thea's dark sooty lashes veiled her pale eyes as she stared down at Eleanor Square; from their little balcony, they could see the entire place-- all of the little shops and vendors and shoppers and ants. They could even see Castle Stuart, if they craned their neck enough to look up the hill to see it's imposing, grey silhouette.
Today, the so-called fountains of Eleanor Square were overflowing.
These were the days that she and Elias loved.
Today was the day that few wolves emerged into the streets -- and weren't those sordid souls the most interesting of all? Coming out into the thick of rain, with the insistent pat-pat-pattering of water on their backs, for -- for what? For wares? For some kind of mission so ultimately important that it didn't matter if they got soaked to the bone, got chilled to the bone, got pneumonia from their wet and chill, fell seriously ill from one decision, died from their afflictions?
Yes, these days were truly the days.
"Lia, lia, lia," the girl muttered under her breath in a sing-song fashion out of habit, in tune with the pittering rain atop their porcelain windowsill. She did not know where Lia was haunting today, but she was certain that he would come; they always seemed to find each other in the rain.
