She had taken a few days to think over what her father had told her -- at first, helping him roll out the cookie dough on a kitchen counter, and later in the barracks, in her empty room, staring at the door and aching inside with her insecurities and her uncertainties waging war.
She doesn’t know when the decision is fully made -- perhaps it never truly is, perhaps it is simply an impulse born of the lack of sleep and a lack of bravery. She does not have the answers she needs, the answers she desires; she cannot form the questions in a way that doesn’t sound accusatory, or petulant.
She needs more information, and it is this drive that sends her away from Terrastella once more, this time towards the golden sands of Solterra. She does not wear her armor, nor does she don her warpaint -- she goes not as a soldier, not as Terrastella’s warden, but as herself with only a soft fur collar and a veil of silk draped over her back to protect her skin from the scorching sun.
(Perhaps she wants him to see that she is as beautiful as she can be deadly, to witness the way the static crackles over her skin every time the silk brushes her hip, to know that there is a storm within her far greater than the ocean in him.)
When she lands upon the steps of Solterra’s castles, she can’t help but note with approval how alert the guards are, how they have obviously been tracking her approach -- spears lowered but ready, the two nearest with eyes on her and the rest with their eyes on the streets or the horizon but ears turned towards her.
A point in Oreste’s favor, then, or perhaps whoever he had appointed his warden.
Lyr is staring at a beautiful, curving short-sword. It is displayed neatly—despite the otherwise anarchic shop—and is significantly nicer than the one he is issued by the Warden for patrols and guard duty. It catches the too-blue winter sky above; and where Lyr stands, he catches a glimpse of his own reflection. A bright vermillion eye peers back, impassive save for the metallic waiver of the metal itself.
The shop is primarily used for Terrastella’s elite Halycon unit, he knows. He has no wings, and is no Halycon fighter though he might like to be, in another life. The sky, and flying, seems to him as romantic as the sea. There were several ospreys that hunted the Rapax; Lyr remembers that when his father took him in the woods to harvest for medical supplies or sacred herbs—white sage, frankincense, verbena, mistletoe—he would watch the birds of prey wheel and dive, lunging for unseen and swift fish. The memory reminds him of his father’s nearly pacifistic nature, and, and—
Lyr stops there.
He breathes.
Lyr admires the weapon for several seconds more; and then he clears his throat, looking for a shopkeep or blacksmith responsible for the establishment. It smells strongly of leather, oils, and the much stronger overlay of coal dust and iron. Beneath it is something sweater—wax?—and the slight, lingering odour of sulphur. It smells unlike anything Lyr has experienced before—and yet, it seems strangely abandoned. The forge is not burning; there is no chimney smoke. He enters the shop and, concerned by the lack of light and noise, presses into the forge itself. “Hello?” He is surprised at the clutter; his hoof catches a metal object on the ground, and it clangs so loudly agains the cobblestones Lyr nearly leaps from his skin.
He cringes, and in the silence that follows he detects a strange, soft sound. It is breathy, and then rough—Lyr realises it is a nearly inaudible snoring. He finds the shopkeeper face-down at a workman’s table. Lyr clears his throat, rather loudly. “Excuse me, sir? I don’t mean to disturb you… the sign outside says you are open?”
By all accounts, those are all descriptors of Lyr; he knows it, and if he were another man he might have found humour in the fact the adjectives now regard something else entirely. They are the words that run through his mind as he studies his barrack’s room, having not yet found lodging elsewhere. Although the architecture mimics that of Terrastella as a whole, by nature military dwellings are always less inhabitable than other housing. Or so Lyr believes.
Everything is a hard, unforgiving line. Utilitarian and minimal, his quarters contain nothing aside from the bear essentials. A desk, a lamp, a rack.
There is certainly something disheartening about the fact there is nothing on the walls, and the only personal item in his possession is a journal he has never written in.
(A counsellor his father demanded he speak with a year ago had suggested he begin to write down his thoughts and feelings; he would help him cope with the incident.)
Lyr never did; but rather than wonder why, he thinks of how his mother had decorated their Delumine cabin with poems and breathtaking art. There is a moment when he closes his eye and begins to doze—he has no duties until much later that evening—and Lyr later awakens with a start, some half-remembered dream fresh in his mind. It is the pitching of a ship, he thinks; the sound of wind catching in the masts and the waves breaking against the bow. Lyr would prefer not to dwell on such things and so he rises from his bed; he leaves the room and trots down the long corridor with several conjoined single or double-man rooms.
He does not know where he intends to go until he is there.
Lyr hesitates at the door; there is no reason for him to be there, no reason at all. In fact, he shouldn’t be. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, Lyr knocks his hoof against the door in a succession of three knocks. “Euphrosyne?”
The first time Lyr saw the spires of Terrastella's capitol, he had been visiting with his father. The austere man had given Lyr a rigid list of instructions to follow: he was to be polite and conscientious, to ask educated questions, to maintain eye contact—none of that flickering gaze nonsense—and to carry himself with the tact and knowledge of their home Court. Lyr had attempted to adhere to these directions, but when his father caught him shyly playing with a group of Halcyon boys, he was scolded in front of them for a lack of discipline. They were there solely to meet with some of Terrastella’s monks, and in doing so Lyr was meant to be quiet, watchful, and demure.
Now, when Lyr stands gazing out the crenels toward the Terminus sea, there is something as large as a leviathan moving within him. Even now he can bring to mind the precise expression on his father’s face when disappointment thinned the line of his lips, and hardened his brows. Even now he remembers the exact, chilly tone the priest could use to ensure obedience in his son and patron worshipers.
Lyr turns away to continue on his journey as sea birds wheel above him, crying out against the wind. There is a bitter taste on his tongue, and he attempts to console himself by wondering what poetry his mother would have written of the city he now inhabits. Lyr had heard everything about the sea below and the ominous cliffs—but nothing of Terrastella’s quiet, lilac streets. Lyr is a little in love with them, he knows. It is the romantic in him that suffering never staved off.
The soldier twines his way meekly against the battlements, toward the prominent tower of the citadel. An ingenious architect many years ago must have thrown down his plans between Susurro Fields and the Praistigia cliffs and said this is it. Every street in the city seems to direct toward the citadel in a spiderweb; every angle; every line of sight; leads back to the single—nearly lonely—tower. Lyr begins to feel nervous as he comes to the entrance; he is small and plain against the heavy oak door, and the guard standing duty requests to know his purpose there.
“I request to see the Sovereign, if she is available.”
The beauty of the citadel, his father had once said, is that despite the tests of time, the changing of Sovereigns, the presence of terrible devastation, famine, or war… the citadel has always remained strong, and timeless. This is how we know the gods walk among us, Lyr. They have a hand in ensuring what remains eternal in our finite lives.
His pulse is a rising tempo in his veins; he feels the beat, beat, beat of his heart in his ears and his face is flushed. Lyr hopes that she cannot meet him; but his tender and mortal hopes are irrelevant to his greater purpose and so he stands, statuesque if not for the way something moves beneath the tranquil surface of his eyes like a storm. Lyr waits, patiently, quietly, with the sea-breeze blowing fine strands of hair across his face.
I HEARD THEM SPEAKING OF PERENNIAL QUIET, I HEARD THEM SAY THAT SORROW IS JUST HAPPINESS AT A DIFFERENT DESTINY, JUST A DIFFERENT COLOURED LIGHT
Isra is the empress who is beyond time, beyond the confinement that is reality. She is as boundless as the worlds she creates, the empress who knows no fear though it may rattle her bones. Isra who does not cut her teeth on pearls, but sharpens them. Isra who is timeless, fearless; Isra who is worthy.
Isra who is Made of Stars
When one first looks upon Isra, they may not see what makes her so cherished by Denocte, nor should they. That is a privilege to those lucky enough to know Isra, really know Isra. She is one of the most brilliant magicians in all of Denocte, and quite possibly all of Novus. The stories and dreams she spins no longer slip past quivering lips, Isra defies reality. She shapes the world to fit what she sees. To be able to see the world through Isra's eyes is a gift, a gift she shares with the world. Imagine if you could simply breathe the visions and characters you wanted to create, now imagine if those became real. Denocte's empress can do just that, just as she can fiercely defend her home. Isra who befriended a dragon, when she was born from the sea. It is Isra alone who Caligo found worthy to lead her children. Though many flocked to the deity made of a void of great stars, it was Isra who was chosen. She ascended the throne of Denocte shortly after Reichenbach had departed to parts unknown. Caligo called for her children, and they came. Her promises of dreams and hope had paved her path to leading Denocte. Caligo loves Isra, just as Denocte loves Isra. Caligo may have been the first to recognize how Denocte stood in suspension for Isra. She waited and breathed, and then Denocte sighed for Isra brought hopes, and dreams and promises she would later go on to keep.
Ismene liked to play games, even if it was with her own life. The frigid winter winds had whipped the ocean's waves into a frenzy. Whitecaps crashed on the sands, each one louder than the last. The small pegasus stared out over the waves with keen yellow eyes - the cold winds sliced right through her winter coat and even split some of her smaller feathers. Her breath came out in great clouds. For a moment she was astounded that her lungs could hold all that steam before it was snatched away by the wind. She'd been running her own private "tests" for a while now, ever since her father had passed away. It was borderline madness. It was suicidal.
The Halcyon, her heart chittering somewhere between her mouth and ribcage, took to the skies. Easy, easy, easy... Flying was second nature to the unit. They prized calm in difficult situations. They were unshakable.
Ismene hovered a few feet above the waves, flapping her wings gracelessly every few moments to stay aloft. She was trying to fly against the breeze - probably more foolish than anything else she was about to attempt, especially for a weakling like herself. Which was why she needed to train. Harsh conditions, stress, dangerous gambits: a regular Halcyon could fly in all conditions. Exhaling another cloud of breath, Ismene struck out across the shallow water. She soared low over the waves, her rear hooves occasionally grazing the water and cutting a small wake. Just as she was about to turn back towards shore, satisfied with her small progress, the wind picked up. It dragged on her wings and blew her backwards. Further out to sea now than she'd ever intended, Izzie's eyes widened in her terror. No, no, no-no-no-fuck! With a final burst of strength and fluttering-flapping-artless flying, she managed to close in on the shoreline just before her wings - and then her legs - locked up.
Only a few feet above the shallow water wasn't a particularly long way to fall but it felt like an eternity while she was stuck in her own mind. The episode only lasted until she hit the water, but by the time the cold ocean enveloped her, her wings were waterlogged and difficult to manage. She had landed just shy of where she would have been able to grab purchase with her hooves. Ismene floundered in the shallow water doing her very best impression of the world's worst shorebird. Swallowing her pride, unwilling to call for help, she resigned herself to death. That's what she deserved for straying so far to practice in secret - it was a big idiot move. Which you are. Idiot. And now you're going to be a dead idiot, idiot.
The Susurro Fields, when slumbering under a white blanket of snow, appears formless under grey overcast. The horizon is hard to discern, as it melts with the sky. The world becomes an ivory bubble, encapsulating those who tread its wide expanse. The brush of wind escaping the coast, the hard earth under hoof and the hidden lumps casting soft shadow breaks the illusion. If only for a moment.
Noëlle stands at its precipice. Bundled by the thick, indigo wool scarf wrapped about her neck. Pressing a silver necklace, attached to the white half-horn, close to her chest. At times it throbs, too close to the skin – but she imagines it beats with her, pulsing in faint memory. The fields spike a feeling of excitement in her flesh, a jolt of electricity that promptly propels her forward. Running headstrong into the wide berth, and trailing hot air from parted lips.
She looses all thought, digging deep into the sensations that begin to flare in the heat of the sprint. Limbs begin to burn with want to rest, and lungs threaten to lose their mechanical rhythm – for heaves and gasping. By then she’s already deep within the fields themselves. Swallowed whole by the illusion of monochrome and off-whites. She pulls back as exhaustion creeps, shifting into a walk with a heavy, bated breath. The heat rolls off her body, and follows along like a flag in the mild wind. She enjoys the coolness surrounding her, revels in its sharp bite and tender embrace. A wayward smile holds carelessly against Noëlle’s lips.
Besides the thrill and simplicities of the challenge, her eyes glittered in sapphire as they scanned the lands. In search of striking blood reds, and obscene orange colored berries taking shelter under snow. Perhaps – a juniper found its roots in the earth, offering hues of deep blue. She finally had a plan for herself, a sustainable business that would take quite some time to cultivate. The young fae licked her lips, and eyed the formless gray above with a narrow gaze. Only briefly, casting her demands on the forces commanding the skies. “A few hours,” she mumbled to them. “And that means three at the least!”
It would snow, again, perhaps sooner than expected. If it did, if it covered the earth again and blanketed the air as well – she would surely be trapped by its fury. Any effort to seek and find, that which held value to her, would prove futile. At least, she could look forward to its cautionary beauty.
The first words we ever exchanged were over parchment, and you mentioned the sea.
It struck me and continues to strike me; there is so much we do not know of one another. I have laid awake at night wondering what the sea may have told you of me; what transgressions or heroic moments, my worst or best days. There is nothing I would rather do more than share with you these things myself and, hopefully, learn more of your own self. There is much we don’t know but there is so much beauty in that.
You do something to me I have not experienced in lifetimes; the newness of this is like experiencing spring for the first time. It frightens me. I am unaccustomed to these things, but I have meant every word I have shared with you, Marisol. I write you not as a Sovereign tonight, but as a friend and a suitor.
Call me cliche, but I have an evening planned for us. In two nights, as the sun is setting, meet with me at Amare Creek. I have an evening planned if you are available, and I would like to hear of how not only your Court is fairing, but yourself. It has been a difficult season in many ways, but better than the last. The first time we met we were both fresh monarchs—me more so than you—and by now, seasons have passed. We have entered a new state of normalcy, which has its own struggles and elations.
DOCTOR SAYS THE INCISIONS WILL ONLY HEAL IF I HOLD WARM SALTWATER IN MY MOUTH. SO THERE IS A WOUND INSIDE ME AND I AM BATHING IT IN OCEANS OF SORROW IN ORDER TO MOVE FORWARD. REPEAT AFTER ME: SOMEWHERE THE MOON RISES OUT OF THE RAIN. SOMEWHERE ICARUS CRAWLS OUT OF THE SEA, UNBURNED AND ALIVE.
The waves crash mightily against the shore and nearby cliffs; the roar is repetitive, nearly soothing, if not for the ominous clouds overhead and the way snow has begun to fall in lethargic, spiralling flakes. There is a straining within the sea and the sky, an aching just within the realm of wordlessness, where something contends beneath the dark surface of the ocean and the clouds. All reason suggests one should not be out much longer in the evening, as the sun wanes on the distant horizon behind the blanket of winter clouds.
But a white figure walks the rocky beach beneath the cliffs, an ear cocked curiously toward the clamouring waves. More often than not, his vermillion eyes are turned toward the sand, and he watches with pragmatic fascination as the snow begins to settle against the earth and the sea rushes in to wash it away.
Lyr is there for a reason, however. He looks out toward the sea in earnest, both ears erect and pointed forward. It is a perfect evening to see them…
When he was a boy, his mother had told him stories of Terrastella. It had been her homeland. There is a nuance one feels in regard of the place they were raised she would whisper to him as he fell asleep to stories of cliffs and swaying fields, a hospital and a citadel. Then she would sing to him songs of the sea. Lyr thinks of it now; the endless prairie which, at times, undulates like the ocean itself. The dark cliffs stretch above him, a natural fortification to whatever darkness lay below. His trek to the beach beneath them had been treacherous and unsteady; the pathway that cut its way down winding, narrow, and often unstable.
Lyr had thought he would never live here.
He had thought a lot of things would never happen.
But they did.
And in their own way, these occurrences—fate, chance, whatever they may be—had led him to the bottom of the cliffs that evening. He stands there attentively—nearly at attention—and listens for something beyond the sound of waves. He listens to that realm of wordlessness, straining to become a language eligible to men. Lyr scans the water for a sight of the legendary Gealach, wondering if his ancestors would recognise him as their own blood, or view him as prey.
There is a part of him that has grown comfortable to city-life again. It has been many years since he ventured North; and there is a bit of arrogance in his search for the monstrous that evening. He nearly gives up the hunt, when down the beach five of the legendary horses surface from the sea. Their arrival is magical, flourishing. They come running from a spiral of white-water as the wave breaks, collapsing in on itself.
There is nothing plain about them. They stand painfully still as they assess Lyr, as if slightly surprised by his presence on the beach. They come in an array of colours but the scent that wafts toward Lyr is alien and frightening; dead fish, rot, and salt. Their long manes tangle about their legs and drag against the sand, interwoven with bits of bone and kelp. Lyr is momentarily dazzled by their fierce beauty; then one steps forward, and another, and they are running. Lyr realises he has outstayed his welcome and with deft and nearly panicked swiftness, he begins to ascend the same treacherous path he had ventured down on.
His second mistake: Lyr underestimates their swiftness. In an increasing flurry of snow and darkening of the sky, two of the Gealach are at his heels before he can make the ascent.
He wheels on them with a snarl, clipping the air with his blunt teeth. One of the Gealach laughs; the sound is as musical, sharp, and crystalline as breaking glass in silence. It cuts Lyr to the quick.
The moon is sacred to them, his mother had said. They run beneath it and hunt for horses to turn or eat. It is dark now, and they make sharp and striking silhouettes.
Lyr realises, as they surround him, that the stories had been more romantic than their actuality. He begins to speak, but stops, pinning his ears. He doubts it would do much to confess they are his relatives, in their own way. They make a game of toying with him as a pack; one may lunge at his hock as another snaps at his long hair, as Lyr scrambles to face each in turn.
Yet, a strange and strategic calm comes over him. There is a certain light that enters his eye as he assesses various escape routes; there is a firm resolution within him that he will not die today, and as he thinks it he lunges to the nearest water-horse, nearly ripping an ear off. The Gealach back-peddles, snarling, and then resumes the circling pack.
They are edging him further from the cliffside and closer to the sea. Lyr knows it, and begins to wonder in a detached sort of light if this is the way he will die.
SOMEWHERE WE ARE POLISHING THE WORD ABSENCE WITH OUR TONGUES AND LEARNING NOT TO BE TERRIFIED OF ALL WE LACK. ACHE FIRST, YES, BUT THEN LET THE CUTS CLOSE. SPIT OUT THE BLOOD. WATCH YOUR BODY PULL ITSELF BACK TOGETHER, IN SPITE OF THE LOST WINGS, THE STOLEN BONES, THE HALTED SONGS. WATCH YOUR BODY PULL ITSELF BACK TOGETHER, THEN LET YOUR SOUL DO THE SAME.
eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone
The smooth texture of unmarred marble beneath his cloven hooves is both alien and familiar. An uncomfortable tightness builds in his chest as the walls of the palace close in around him. His muscles are taut with apprehension and he can’t seem to unclench his jaw. He’s never been one to enjoy the luxuries of indoor life (why does it always feel like he’s walking into a trap?) and that hasn’t changed any since he last spent time in the capitol under Seraphina’s reign.
Guards escort him on either side until they reach the entrance to the throne room. One enters to announce his arrival to Orestes, while the other remains posted in front of the door. The young guard doesn’t stare vacantly into nothingness like most trained guards do. Instead, the young guard ogles Jahin like he is some sort of carnival freak. Damn capitol fools. To be fair though, it’s probably not every day that a Davke warrior (one in sore need of a bath, at that) waltzes around in the palace.
“Have I sprouted another eye or appendage that I’m not aware of?” Jahin growls, flattening his ears. The young guard startles to attention with a stuttered apology and then does not meet his stony gaze again. Jahin snorts with amusement, satisfied with his handiwork. These capitol pups are too soft.
He thinks about pacing while waiting to be admitted into the throne room but that seems like an unnecessary waste of energy. So he stands motionless, trying to shrug off the uneasiness resulting from the four walls that surround him. He occupies his mind by agonizing over every choice that led up to these past few weeks (which in retrospect, ruminating on things he can’t change also seems like an unproductive way to spend his time and energy).
He doesn’t know what hurts worse--Makeda’s death or the loss of Avdotya’s respect. Both had been a dagger straight to the heart. He’d seen it in her eyes--his khan thought him weak. He’d like to say he hadn’t lost any sleep over it--that it didn’t matter what she thought of him--but that would be a lie and Jahin didn’t much care for liars.
But it does matter. She matters to him immensely. And her opinion? That matters more than anything. But maybe that in itself was true weakness, and in a way, an obscure form of slavery. So why doesn't he feel liberated? Why--of all the possible things he can feel at this point--does he simply feel like a massive, worthless pile of sandwyrm shit?
A question for another day.
The doors swing open silently. The outflow of cool air ruffles strands of fire-colored hair across his face. The older guard motions for him to approach. To his surprise Orestes is nowhere to be seen. Hurry up and wait. He cocks a hoof on its tip and resigns himself to more waiting.
The throne remains relatively unchanged since the last time he’d stood in these halls. Ornate, elegant, expensive-looking. A symbol of everything he has been raised to hate, everything the Davke detest, everything that is supposedly wrong with Solterra. But as he stands before this symbol of destruction and tyranny, his blood doesn’t boil, his teeth don’t grind. Overall, the experience is rather underwhelming. Jahin figures that the only reason it holds such sway is because people unwittingly give it power by making it out to be more than what it truly is in essence: a harmless, grossly ostentatious eyesore worth a pretty penny or two.
J A H I N look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
