[Worship] i'll paint them all again

[Messalina]

     

     

     
     M E S S A L I N A . //
     

     

   

She was not at all familiar with this elusive dance. Of fleeting glances, timid steps, heated cheeks—none of it was deliberate, none of it rehearsed. The moves simply eluded her, like a cat that had slipped ever so coyly between her legs, only to dash off as soon as she extended a cautious hand. Yet as foreign as it felt, Messalina wished to dance it again and again, each time more certain than the last—with him alongside her. 

To her chagrin, she could not explain why, could not maneuver through this encounter with grace and charm guiding her like faithful friends. They had abandoned her, and try as she might, she could not make heads or tails of the path she once knew like the back of her hand. But what she did know, what she felt sure of—was that something about the cream and crimson boy drew her inextricably, hopelessly, to him. It defied all reason, all logic. But perhaps… all good things did.

As her trailing eyes wandered to his glowing cheeks (in stark contrast to her stubbornly bloodless ones) she felt her worries diminish just a touch. Perhaps he was feeling as lost as she was. Or, perhaps he is as charmed by me as I am by him. With a start, cerulean blues blinked in frustration as Messalina banished the traitorous voice instantly. 

Much in vain—for as it faded, it left a trail of sapphire petals in its wake.

“I think it’s only natural to want to be understood… to want someone to understand you.”

Did he truly think that? Her wary gaze stilled as it probed the angles of his fine visage for a trace of deception, a tail of a lie. Sincerity greeted her at every turn. 

“If you think it is, then so shall I,” she remarked, a light smile tracing the edges of her solemn mouth. The urge to see the color deepen his pale cheeks again, to know that she was the cause of it, sent the girl’s stomach awhirl in a terrible mix of amusement and abashment. How incredibly light she felt, then, as she entrusted him with her name. Could she consider him a... friend, now? 

Oddly, the term did not taste as sweet as she thought it would have in her mouth. And as if in mockery of her increasing distress, the condemning voice had returned in a flurry of blossoms: You do not want him for a friend, do you? Yet she was spared from answering, by a much more immediate revelation.

The… Emissary? It had been the last thing she had expected him to say. To her horror, Messalina felt her shock drip like corrosive poison into her gaze. Swiftly, she averted her eyes. He could not know. 

"I—Please, forgive my ill manners. I was not aware of your rank,” she breathed, slender back arched as she held her curtsy for one, two shaking breaths—before drawing herself upright again. Head tilted ever so delicately downwards, as Messalina gingerly avoided his cerise gaze. So casually she had spoken, so many indecorous glances she had shared—with the Emissary of her own court! It had been a terrible mistake to remain ignorant of Delumine's inner court. Like an arrogant fool, she had wished to distance herself from nobility and etiquette and crowns, certain she would never again walk amongst them. But Ipomoea... he had smiled at her so warmly, addressed her so gently. All while she had remained blatantly ignorant of his position and duties.

“Girl of red roses.” His words were fatal hits to her spiraling composure. Stop! She wanted to shout. You do not know how I shall struggle to face you, Ipomoea, if you say such lovely things. 

He wished to know of her court. And she did not wish to tell him. "My previous court... it is far away, across the ocean. The Court of Algernon.” Slowly, Messalina dared a glance back into those depths of beautiful crimson. A mistake, for she could never, never hold herself back when she did. "I do not miss it, in the slightest.”

— ♕ —

@Ipomoea
notes: omg this post is everywhere ;-; sorry this took me so long!