Fleur Delacour Weasley (mourant_fleur) wrote,
Fleur Delacour Weasley


Je n'aime pas du tout ce sense d'être entraîne de tomber lentement ce qui semble être parti du fièvre. Je ne me sent pas très... solide. J'ai l'impression que tout le monde est fait de l'eau, que n'importe quoi pourrait entrer par ces murs blancs, que je peux flotter comme du bois sur les vagues. Ridicule, evidemment.

J'aimerais bien sentir encore le vent effleurer la peau, le soleil sur le visage. La mer me manque.

I don't at all like this feeling of falling slowly that seems to be part of the fever. I do not feel very... solid. I've the impression that the whole world is made of water, that anything could enter by way of these white walls, that I could float like wood on the waves. Ridiculous, evidently.

I should like very much to feel the wind brush my skin again, the sun on my face. I miss the sea.
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The first day you are home, I will take you to the sea, for however long you like. I promise.
Perhaps not the first day... but I would like that.
No, the first day might not be so good. When you're ready.
Absolument, ma chèr.
At the outer edge of the world,
Where the long grey mists arise,
Between the sunset and the sea
I gaze with longing eyes.

Forgive the overt romanticism, madame. I see nothing ridiculous in your sentiment.
What is the poem? I do not know it.
Braithwaite. I forget the title. He is not very well known, and indeed has little to merit fame. Your words recalled this particular verse to me, though.
I rather like it.