Warset, when she awakens, does not remember how she found herself tucked away in the tropical fronds of the oasis. Nor does she recall listening to the bubbling crash of the waterfall like a siren's call last night. And there is on her lips a slash of blood, metallic and bitter, when she tries to wipe the sleep and sand from between them. She tries not to think of the source but when she rises the press of her collar makes her pulse feel like a war drum instead of the beating of her lonely heart.
Each of her bones feels like steel and rust beneath her skin and her feathers shake from themselves a deluge of sand that sounds a little like diamond-dust burying itself back into the earth. The sound only makes her think of dying here in the dirt, so far below her cosmic sisters and their beds woven out of comet tails. Warset turns towards the waterfall, closing her eyes against the molten sting of tears and the roiling nausea of a half-asleep wildcat dreaming between the fibers of her marrow. She lets the ache, and the grinding feeling of sand and fore caught between her teeth, lead her.
And if the grass whispering against her movement looks tempting, her body has no hunger to drive her to lower her nose like a horse instead of a star trapped in an impossible form. Her belly is full of gore and the last remnants of stardust (like a forgotten religion trapped in the form of a girl...just a girl).
The water almost takes her by surprise as it slips beneath her feathers and washes away the last of the blood from her form. The collar around her neck casts reflections between the sun and the water, painting her in a kaleidoscope of color that is reminiscent of a comet's glory crashing through the night. If Warset had looked down to see it she would have sobbed instead of walking underneath the waterfall. She does not look down.
Against her back the water feels like the pulse of the earth pressing into her skin hungry for the last of the starstuff racing through her veins. Warset, as she closes her eyes and starts to slip away into her own thoughts, does not try very hard to keep it from the water. And in the blackness she prays she will not meet the thing dreaming between her marrow.
Morrighan isn't really sure why she's set foot on the island again. The last time she was here, everything was collapsing. Horses around her were screaming and running for their lives. The land was crumbling into the sea until it was gone. All swallowed up by the waves and the creatures that surrounded it. But that only lasted for a season. She's heard rumors that the island has returned and keeps shifting.
Is it the relic? For something so important, it really seemed to disappear quickly. Either that or the owner is good at staying hidden. She's heard nothing of the thing since the island first disappeared. Given all the strange events that happened before, maybe it never left this place.
She's not sure if it's the curiosity of the old relic or something else that brings her here. There are rumors too of poachers in Delumine, but that feels far enough away not to be her Court's problem. Morrighan always keeps a watchful eye though, so even leaving Denocte's borders like this seems wrong.
But the island's landscape seems even more wrong.
There's not even much to look out at besides grass. Or at least, it seems to be grass, except it's as tall as trees are supposed to be. Instead of woods, it's thick tall grass that towers over her head. In a way it reminds her of the looming corn stalks of the maze from seasons ago, but somehow this is even more ominous. A small part of her wonders if Isra is to blame for this, but it wouldn't make any sense since she left on a boat. Unless… they crashed here?
"Isra?" Morrighan calls out with panic setting in. She tries to ignite her fire, but for some reason she can't get it to work. Something is blocking her magic.
may the flowers remind us why the rain was so necessary
Spring had arrived haltingly, hesitatingly, so tenuous it was almost lost amid all the other noise.
Ipomoea almost missed the first few buds of green sprouting along the branches, and the way the canopies gradually filled in overhead. It seemed strange to him, when he lifted his head to the sky and saw a thousand shades of green in its stead. Wrong, almost; like the world was no longer the same without skeleton branches caging him in.
He used to think the arrival of spring made everything new again; like the blood could be washed away with the snow, like he could pretend it had never existed. There was still a part of him that clung to that, a part of him that smiled a soft hello to the new leaves and the birds that flit back and forth between them. That part of him can almost imagine it’s only another walk in the woods, and pretends to not hear warnings in the birdsong and premonitions in the way a distant deer turned and fled at the sight of them.
You should have stayed home, that voice still whispers to him - or is it the trees? If you hadn’t left us, all those months ago- His smile is fleeting, fading even before he turns back to the path he follows through the woods.
The undergrowth of the forest is trampled, crushed under the weight of someone running. The tracks are fresher now - whatever it is had slowed, but the blood flowing from their wounds hadn’t. It’s thick and red and still warm, as if to proudly say that winter would never truly leave the forest, not anymore.
His heart is beating like a war drum and it, too, drowns out the quiet arrival of spring.
And he moves along at its pace, half-running now through the forest as he chases something dying (distantly he knows that it must be dying, even without knowing what it feels like to bleed the way it does.) He can hear Thana tracking beside him, can see the point of her horn breaking the sunlight that falls across their backs. And the blade still strapped to his leg begins to loosen, the point of it tapering, spiraling, reforming itself anew.
By the time he breaks through the trees and into the meadow it looks more like a unicorn’s horn than a sword, aimed at the bleeding thing that lies in the grass, ribcage heaving with every breath.
He forgets, then, that he’s supposed to be looking for the killer, and not the killed; and he forgets to worry about his own safety when he wades through the sea of grass like he’s treading water. Ipomoea only falls to his knees beside the creature, and stares at the bits of crystal half-torn from its head that should have been beautiful, that should have glowed in the sunlight, that are smeared now with blood and mud and sweat. And as the whites of the deer’s eyes roll towards him, and its legs thrash against the ground like it thinks it still is running, he only wonders how the world turned so green overnight,
or Mesnyi, the world was a stage. Sometimes she wished it wasn’t, but how could it be helped? She belonged at the forefront, and even if she didn’t turn out a performer, her beauty and exoticism went unmatched. And if they didn’t…well, she did her best to bring that girl under her wing, just below her. It was good to have friends you could toss at boys who fell too hard or got too close. The heart was meant to be kept in a box somewhere, key hidden under a flowerpot, only for when you locked yours inside. It wasn’t a place for visitors, no matter how many knocked, and it certainly wasn’t a home for two.
She was at it again, dancing in the center of town, violin scratching out foreign tunes. While working, Mesnyi never allowed herself to become lost in the dance. She remained alert, always searching for her next target. If she shook her hips at him, would he throw some coins in her pot? If she smiled at this one or winked at that one, would they offer her food, a drink, a bed? This was her focus always - it was work, after all. She did this to afford a week of frolicking amongst the flowers. Spring brought more wild food, so she wouldn’t have to work as hard, but sometimes it simply got lonely out there.
Perhaps that was because she only had one head.
Mesnyi had danced through her fair share of oddities. Some violent, others hilarious or attractive or otherwise distracting. But this - she’d never seen a two headed horse before. It was - stunning and…grotesque, all at once. The glass violin trailed into silence as Mesnyi slowed her dance to stillness. My, if I’d been in a caravan… This was just the kind of creature the Benevolent loved to collect. The glass bow bounced on the strings quietly, patiently, waiting. ”Excuse me,” Mesnyi called out. ”Miss - might you be a dancer?”
The sensuality of the sea draws ardor from him in the same way a fresh wound draws blood; it dances; it covets; it rises in eagerness only to withdraw with shy sensualism. Perhaps Orestes asked her here for that very reason. The fickleness reflects their tentative affection; bold to reticent, outright to withheld. There are questions he assumes she will ask, perhaps on his prolonged absence or distant nature. It is not her, but a part of him riles with envy and the question whether her skin will smell like salt.
Orestes might explain more if only he knew how; if only he understood it himself. Instead he waits, and hopes she comes. Instead he waits, and stares at an impassive sea, one that flirts at his ankles, one backed by Terrastella’s ominous cliffs. They are just dark enough to evoke something primitive within him; a visceral fear, tied in no comprehensive thought, only the feeling he should be afraid of such a height, such a jagged edge…
Yet Orestes waits at their base, on a small beach that during high-tide must become nothing more than more sea. There is no sand; instead, rocks shift under-hoof. His eyes follow careening gulls; and then the sea; and then the sky. Ariel lounges on a distant rock spire; he, for once, is not luminous. Out of Solis’s territory and beneath the undercast Terrastellan sky, the Sun Lion looks nearly nondescript. He says nothing, but Orestes knows his thoughts are dubious. Matters of romance, to the lion, appear a waste of time. But Orestes cannot agree—although there is a part of him deeply uncomfortable in front of the spring sea, in another Sovereign’s land, with a creeping apprehension of the cliffs shadowing him.
Please come, he thinks. The invitation, sent by raven, had been brief. But they had minimal interactions since Orestes—
Well, since…
He swallows. The gulls careen overhead. The sea goes shush, shush, shush.
I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I ought to want anymore. At least in the past I thought I should want for duty and Orestes’ love. Now, having neither, I am lost. What would it mean to have wealth? That pursuit is foreign to me, though I know for certain that I am impoverished. Hunger prickles at my stomach every hour of every day. Should I seek fortune, then? Perfect my skills as a - a - craftsmen? I have only ever know war and the preparation for it. I sought love, once, or thought I had it, but what would it mean to simply come upon it, as others claim to? It is not real. I’m sure it’s as flimsy as loyalty in the face of hunger. The only thing that anyone believes in is gold.
Saphira stands in the midst of the Dusk Court’s market, her meager wares arranged before her: seashells, seagrass, amateurish jewelry and braided reeds. None of it is worth buying, but she does her best to convince outsiders of its Terrastellan authenticity and to tempt spoiled children’s parents. The more they whine, the more she sells.
Having been lost in thought, she returns to the present moment and calls out to a pretty little filly in a pretty little cloak, all wool and satin. ”Hi, sweetie. Looking for a necklace for your dolly? Maybe she’s a mermaid, or” - she leans in close - ”a kelpie queen?” Saphira’s smile is wide and maternal as she can muster (which might, actually, look threatening.) The little girl frowns and looks Saphira straight in the eye. “My dollies only wear the best.” She turns on her heels and marches off with her mother.
“Well, fuck you, too, you little brat,” Saphira mutters, poking at a particularly crude necklace to obscure it beneath the tattered fabric on which it is displayed. She thinks back on when she could turn into the sea and go diving for pearls, and sighs.
@Caspian || John Marr and Other Sailors ”who will grieve for this woman?“ does she not seem too insignificant for our concern?
oh, whatever happened to the life I gave to you what will I do with it now?
Saphira stared out at the water. She wouldn’t have woken up today, given the choice. She’d crept down the cliffs from her perch mid-day, once the sun had become too hostile to sleep beneath. “...find myself a sea-cave,” she muttered, but it was still too cold to sleep underground. Every night on the cliff-top, she would bury the hot coals, and every evening she would kick up the fire again, threading bits of shell and seagrass for necklaces to enchant children and tourists. She thought they were ugly, but she hadn’t starved…not to death, at least.
Carefully, she picked her way down the shoreline, pausing only to nibble a reed or a bit of seagrass. Now, she stood, hooves sunken into the wet sand, legs dark and black and cold. She could feel the wind curl around them, sticking to them, trying to pull her along. She remained unmoving. She’d have looked a statue if not for her flanks trembling as she sobbed. Things had gotten better. Most mornings she didn’t wail at the sea to take her back. She thought she wouldn’t today, but then it was out - a raw, lonely scream. Something about wailing always made things worse. It wasn’t cathartic. It simply hurt. She coughed, and sobbed, and collapsed into the sand, the soft sea-foam washing her chest, trying to pull her along with the kelp and the rocks. “But you won’t take me back,” she whispered. She stretched out her neck to the horizon and screamed, “you’ll never take me back!” Saphira stared out at the waters, moving as always, unresponsive to her pleas. She laid her head down on the ground, whimpering as the stones and seaglass dug into her skin.
@Orestes || she's on the shores, somewhere near the dusk court ”who will grieve for this woman?“ does she not seem too insignificant for our concern?
he sun is bright and warm on her back, boosting Antiope’s energy without need of magic. The heat is nice, welcome even, as the light falls across her striped back. It passes through the glassless windows almost lazily, almost leisurely, and spreads across the far wall like a spotlight. She pictures Orestes’ great lion, Ariel.
The way he had sprawled upon the floor like pooling light.
Antiope presses down the hallway with sure steps, a heartbeat rhythm against the tiled floors, echoing almost longingly through the open archways. Everything here is warm, warm, warm, all the colors and the smells and the sounds. All heat and passion and aching. She can feel it all around her. The shadows are sharp and solid, not as encompassing and soft as in Denocte.
The night court Sovereign pauses outside the door that a guard had kindly told her belonged to Aghavni, wondering if the unicorn was in. The last she had seen of the verdant-eyed woman had been in the maze, in the fall, under the cover of the witching hour.
She thinks of the way her ivory hair had fallen from the pestilence mask after Aghavni had lifted it from her head.
She thinks of their walk through the tight rows of stalks, in the shadowed gloom.
Now Aghavni has stolen herself a court away, to a place of sun and sand, and bears the title Emissary. A funny thing, how their roles have both changed since the last time they had stood together. Antiope, eyes sapphire sharp and white practically gold in the light, finally raises her voice to be heard through the heavy wooden door, “Aghavni.”
He is quite sad, in there. Somewhere, nestled amongst his ribs, just beneath his heart, is a little dove. A mourning dove, of course - you knew it - and every day and every night that mourning dove sings its sad and quiet song. Coo-coo, coo, coo, coo… And it sings it through midday, dawn and dusk. Always there is a sad song in the nest below his heart. What could he do about it? He does not know. He would be free of it, but he deserves it. That, he knows. No one is more worthy of a mourning dove than a tyrant’s executioner (perhaps, except, the tyrant, who is incapable of mourning, we like to assume). Even the brief respite of bliss that is his love is not enough.
The dove is always singing.
Dawn, now, is where he is and the time it coos, soft and nestled amongst its feathers. El Rey is thinking of poetry, slipping between the morning shadows, and reciting different phrases to himself. He hears not the approach of another as he mutters, ”…Incarnadine sky - no. Ruby, crimson, sanguine…No, no. Feathers breach the wall of mist and I…I…”
@Sparrow ”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“ I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
Shadow between the trees. Sink into the darkness, the background. Do not stand out. Be one with the blackness, be the blackness. Come out of the blackness only when absolutely necessary, and alone. Do not be seen. Do not be seen. Do not be seen.
Do not be seen.
El Rey finds himself in the forest, and he likes it. It is perfect for camouflage. He can explore near-freely, without too much fear. He fits in as the other woodland creatures do, only where they are made for collecting acorns and hatching eggs, he is made for murder. He thinks about it always in his not-thinking about it. But this is a beautiful place, undoubtedly; it is easiest for terrible things to hide amongst beauty. It is most inspiring for poetry, oh how the contrast is striking. He wants to bring Juniper here, if only they could be seen together. He would have to feign kidnapping her, to save her from a stranger’s wrath, and she would never go along with it. If only, that one time.
But that’s not what is happening.
El Rey finds himself beneath a beam of sunlight, one long dagger of lightning across his golden cheek.
Do not be seen.
@Sea ”in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown,“ I pledge you now, to death they all are bound,
