A/N: A book based oneshot I came up with. I own nothing but the idea =)

THIS HAS BEEN POSTED BEFORE BY PHANTOM-VOICES, WHICH WAS MY OLD ACCOUNT THAT I SHARED WITH A FRIEND THAT WE ARE NO LONGER USING, SO IF YOU HAVE READ IT BEFORE, I HAVE NOT STOLEN IT.

Reflections

Christmas 1826. A small town near Orleans. A lone boy wanders the windswept streets, boots crunching in the snow. The night is dark, and every so often, shadows flit through the gloom, but the boy neither looks round nor quickens his pace, and no one bothers him in the blizzard. He is young, perhaps eighteen, but he walks with a confident stride, head up, the gale tossing his wet blond curls over his squared shoulders as he wanders unhurriedly through the squall. His coat, barely visible in the dubious light of the street lamps, flaps across his chest, concealing the slightness of the figure beneath, who barely feels the icy bite of the air despite being clad in just a waistcoat and shirt, expensive and fine though they are.

One might wonder, if one was there to follow his haphazard progress through the town, why he has chosen such a night to make his journey, why he is not celebrating with family or friends, but perhaps he would not answer, simply drift away like the snowflakes that flutter from the sky as the storm begins to let up; indeed, he seems almost surreal as he wanders to and fro, and I wonder now if he is not but a figment of my imagination, a beautiful angel sprung from my loneliness. But no, he turns now and I see him clearly as he looks out across the lake, and I find myself studying him as he contemplates the water, his face carved as if from marble. He is evidently younger than I first imagined, but he has the look of someone much older. His cerulean eyes, filled with emotion his face could never show, appear to sparkle like sapphires in the weak light as he sighs, lifting his arm, perhaps to run his slender fingers through his wavy hair. This seems to pain him, for although he shows no sign of this in his face, he scowls and rubs thoughtfully at his shoulder as he returns his attention to the water.

I wonder what he is thinking, as I find myself [sentimental old fool] pitying this child who stands without shivering in the lightening snowstorm. Why is he there? Perhaps he is lonely, perhaps he has no friends with which to talk...But I digress...

My eyes are drawn one again to his face. His skin is pale like a girl's, but there is something about him that is decidedly male. Perhaps it is the way he stands, with a startling sort of elegance that resembles that of a swordsman. Or perhaps it is those eyes, strikingly blue amongst the curls that tumble over his brow. Or could it be that it is just he himself, complete: his fire, his beauty, his pride, his elegance. I do not know, and thus I return to watching.

He seems peaceful, studying the ripples in the dark water, but his body is tense even as his mind flies free, and every now and then he glances round with unseeing eyes, until upon swivelling his head so far, he is stopped, and turns back to the lake, leaning on the railings. Most of him is in darkness now; the street lamp is guttering, and I feel compelled to light a candle to brighten my work. Despite the sudden illumination in my window, the boy does not stir from his position, except to, after a few moments, rest his head gently on the cold iron of the fence. Behind him, although he cannot see it for his hair, free from its ribbon, is obscuring his eyes, a lantern is now moving through the darkness towards him. As it lights up the road, I draw back from my window to watch.

The man behind the lantern, although I cannot see his face well, seems angry as he searches the street, and my suspicions are confirmed as the flame lights up the boy and a shout pierces the night. From my position, I do not catch the words, but the boy leaps up with a certain amount of guilt and turns to face the man whom I now presume is his father. Memories of my own childhood make me flinch as the latter strikes his son in the face and hauls him away. He is shivering now, poor boy, but I suspect it is from cold rather than fear; he still walks tall, even under the wrath of his parents. He is a brave boy, and I can't help thinking he will be destined for greater things. And I will not pretend it is without bitterness that I say this, but he has the money and education to do so.

But he is gone now, leaving me to my musing. Who is he? I do not know. He has come and gone in my life like a lightning flash, but he has left behind these fleeting emotions, which my trembling fingers struggle to convey as I grip my quill and dip it unsteadily into my fading inkpot.

But I leave you now, with nothing but a name.

Emilié Babineaux.

A/N: Please read and review.