i will burn and burn and burn again, and you will come home safely
We are here, we are here, we are here,
It is the drumming of her heart, the hammering of her thoughts. She can no more stop the words pummeling her from every direction, the plea of her blood reaching for him over and over and over than she can stop the moon from rising and the revelries from halting. No. The phoenix never could stop a party in full swing save for with the fire of her.
Somewhere, Florentine has slipped into the crowds, a goblet of wine quick to come to her, and amethyst eyes glittering wickedly.
Somewhere, there is a King who stamped his name on her heart as he stamped his name on so many letters between them and so many words left unsaid.
Somewhere, Neerja stalks the halls of Denocte to protect the people as Moira brought Terrastella's former sovereign home into the arms of her people.
And now, the phoenix burns. Flora had asked when it was she would set fire again, and her tongue begged to whisper soon, oh so soon. But she could not. Not when looking into bruised eyes that smiled too easily and yet held wells of emotions and stories and history that the Tonnerre girl hoped to discover one day. Those horrors, those pleasures, those memories are meant for the future, not the tittering of girls in front of a mirror.
Instead, she'd braided the golden girl's hair, the Time-girl's hair, and told her of the styles of her own house. The gowns. The towering hairstyles. The many braids. Oh, the glory of it all was almost ineffable, yet she told it all the same while Florentine had stroked Neerja. Much to Moira's surprise, the tigress let another touch her skin, let the two lost-girls comfort one another in a mirror and eye to eye.
That time has passed. Her own hair still hangs loose in its waterfall braid, showing sharp cheeks and sharper eyes. There is no point trying to go home now when the day has already waned into night, when exhaustion would make her vulnerable on empty roads late at night.
So she plucks up her own flute of champagne, simmering and smoldering and ready to combust, stalking through the crowds not as an Emissary, not as a healer, but as an artist whose soul screams and rages for that muse which it has been denied. As a jilted lover in a tragedy of her own making. Moira Tonnerre tips the flute high, lets its bottom reach for the heavens as glasses did once so long ago in another life of hers, lets it burn its way down her throat and burn alongside the fire and fury of her. Oh, there is warmth now in her glacial fire. Warmth and courage and endless feminine charm as she grabs another glass and grabs a brush.
The night is young and her heart is shattering even as it mends in the halls of Terrastella.
@anyone | "moira" "neerja" | notes: this was not supposed to happen ovo ; for the drinking & drawing festival part !
Asterion stands high upon the cliffs above the thrashing sea, his breath billowing out like a ragged spirit, haloed by the bonfire at his back. Above him, sparks leap up to meet the stars; below him the waves spill foam onto black rocks. It is silent but for the crackle of flame and snap of wood and the constant sighing of the sea.
He is warm from drink and from the fire, from a night of revelry with the people he has come to love. But in this moment he is grave as he stands alone and the winter wind rakes its fingers through his dark hair. The king has only a moment before he must rejoin them; beside him is folded a scrap of rough paper, and in a rougher hand yet a wish is scrawled. Let me not fail them.
If he desired, he could call up a creature of saltwater and magic to deliver his slip of paper to the depths below. But the bay only breathes in, deeply and greedily, tasting the salt and brine on his tongue like medicine, like sacrament. And then he presses his eyes closed and casts his wish to the water far below.
It is already lost when he opens his eyes, but Asterion wills it to find the crest of a wave, to fill and sink and go to - where? He is wise enough to know, now, that no gods are listening; not Vespera, not No or Selke. Maybe there is some creature in the deeps who eats his fill desires each year on this night, but the boy does not think so.
They are alone, for better or for worse.
But he is smiling when he turns away, and the fire is warm against his face. There are others waiting and he nods his head to them but says nothing, only slips away until he is in the shadows once again, blue with snow and starlight. Halfway down the cliffs there is another fire, this one leaping and merry and full with song and companionship. For now he does not join them, only watches, caught with a happiness that feels keen and wistful as sorrow.
Until a shadow red as the heart of the flames catches his eye, crossed with a strip of lightning like a kiss from a storm.
Asterion is surprised to see her there, but more than that he is glad - he had wondered, after that day beside that pool so golden and so hot, whether she would stay or whether, like the little phoenixes, she was a wild thing, a drifting thing, a leaving thing.
Only for a moment does he hesitate before going to her, leaving soft footprints in the softer snow, little moons to melt away. She is on the edges, her back to the pines; when he stops he reaches for her the way he might a doe with eyes so dark and wide as to hold the whole night in their reflection.
For months the stars trapped on earth kept their eyes trained towards the stars trapped in the black web of night. For thirty nights they gathered at the highest peak in the mountains, their sides sides slick with sweat from the pilgrimage. For twenty-nine days they curled up to sleep in the alpine zone with rocks holding up their heads while they dreamed of darkness.
It was on the last night of summer that their waiting was rewarded.
On the last night, as darkness fell, when they all looked up gaunt ribbed and hungry, the stars in the sky looked back at them from the blackness and started to fall like rain. That night the moon wept and the black was alive with her silver sorrows. All the trapped stars knew that she was crying for them, crying because her children that were chewed out of her belly could never return.
They sang to her, their mother, they sang and they danced. Each movement they made said, we miss you and the words singing out of their mouth were we understand.
We understand. We understand. We understand.
Hour by hour the stars and the meteors fell faster and thicker until the sky above the tallest peak was more silver than black. Sometimes the sky almost looked like the moon rising over the sea, brightness for miles and miles. It was a brightness that promised to burn the eyes even as it blessed them.
One star, chewed out from the darkness, looked down at the mountain as it was falling to the earth. It looked and it forgot to fall straight towards the sea. With a trail of silver it fell blazing and bright towards the mountain.
The mountain trembled when the star dashed itself on the rock and moss. The entire word trembled with that bit of dead star even as it glowed as bright as the sun with white-fire for a single moment. The silence sighed--
And that star sat dead and cold on the mountain waiting for the trapped stars to turn their eyes back towards the earth and discover it's fresh gave.
The fallen star might be dead but it still had secrets to share.
@Azrael is with all the shed-stars that have gone on a pilgrimage to the peaks of the Arma Mountains. They've been waiting for a month to see the meteor shower that the shed-stars priests have known about for years. When the night finally comes the weather is brisk with the bite of the coming autumn. The stars have been failing for hours and each hour is brighter with falling stars than the last.
But then one stars falls to the mountain.
Will Azrael will brave enough to explore the fallen star's grave? Might there be magic the dying star has to share before all the light of it finally dies?
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here, in the faerie wood, between sea and sea, I have heard the song of a faerie bird in a tree.
E
very one of her father’s letters is sealed with golden wax. The face of the envelope is left blank, its only embellishment the flakes of real gold embedded into the grain of the thick, creamy paper.
Aghavni has not received one for months.
So when she walks into her father’s office that morning and sees the envelope of gold-flecked paper stamped with golden wax, reflecting bits of sun like glass, she snatches it up and tears it open like it were a divine summons.
She skims the swirling calligraphy eagerly, unaware of the sun that has risen in her own expression. The letter reads like all of his letters do: a few lines of greetings (“I hope you have been well, little dove.”), a few lines of regret (“Urgent matters keep me from visiting the Scarab this season like I had intended.”) and a paragraph of new tasks to complete. Escort a visiting noble, investigate caravan disappearances, sever ties with this or that establishment.
She likes this part the least. She always skims it quickly, impatient for her father’s parting sentences (the only part of the letter he remembers to tell her a bit about himself) so she almost misses it — one swirling line, indistinguishable from the rest.
Her lips ghost over it, and come to a frigid, breathless halt.
She reads over the words again and again, carefully and then faster and faster, until they tangle together into a flavorless, meaningless mass. Writhing snakes on her tongue.
“The new king of Solterra will be visiting a week from when you receive this letter.”
Aghavni wants to think — wishes desperately to think — that her father is wrong. That he has made a mistake. But her father is never wrong. He rarely makes mistakes, and she does not think this is one of those times.
Her father has sealed their fates with the dip of a hawk-feather quill and the cooling of golden wax.
Raum is coming.
She folds the letter into thirds and slips it back into its gold-pressed envelope. Slides it gently beneath a porcelain vase filled with fresh roses, dew still dripping from the thorns like blood.
Her face, when Aghavni gazes into the gilded mirror hung like a portrait above the desk, is bloodless.
— ♠︎ —
She goes the entirety of the day and half of the night without mentioning the letter and its damning sentence to anyone.
She suspects that Charon already knows. The advisor is fond of reminding Aghavni twice a day — once during breakfast and once again after dinner — that he knows everything there is to know about anything that matters.
And this, certainly, matters.
She finds herself staring up at August’s door without remembering how she had gotten there. Perhaps her wandering hooves had wanted to hammer the final nail into the coffin that had been building, plank by plank, around her since dawn.
She considers for a moment, of what she would lose, and knocks on his door before she can consider too long.
When he answers the door, leaning against the doorframe like a tomcat basking in noonday sun, Aghavni blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Will you come with me to see the ice castle?” Her voice ends in a flat dropping of breath, making her question sound less like a question and more like a poorly-strung command.
She resists the urge to scowl, even when it tugs at her mouth like puppet strings.
Before he can answer, she looks away from his quicksilver eyes (ones she'd thought, when she'd first met him, too pretty for a boy to wield) and adds “You can refuse. It is not an order.”
@August | "speaks" | notes: two birds with one stone ;D
The winter chill nipped at his skin as he landed, kicking up snow and ice as he did so, emerald eyes glancing about the frozen structures of Terrastella as he straightened. It had been a long, long time since he had last visited the Dusk Court, back when Florentine had been a newly ascended Queen and the working mechanisms within Novus had been so much simpler. The world had seemed to be less dark, then. Less foreboding. Less daunting... And then, like a dam far too full from runoff, the walls came crumbling down.
Madness descended upon them now. Perhaps that was why he was here. Alone, of course, for he had left Alba back in Delumine with his wife and children. It would be a good means of instant communication should anything transpire during his temporary absence.
Letting out a soft, measured breath, Somnus ventured onward. He could see the courtyard and the spire of Terrastella, the stonework glittering beneath a layer of frost and condensation in the early afternoon sunlight. It sparkled, warming him with memories and familiarity despite the perpetual chill, and he smiled. Beautiful as ever.
A nearby sentry seemed to straighten up as the Dawn King advanced into view, his steps light and graceful despite the steady, heavy crunch of snow beneath every footfall. Somnus’ gaze sought out theirs, and he nodded, an elegant dip of the head to show a mutual sign of respect. “I’ve come to request an audience with King Asterion, please. I apologize for the short notice.” The sentry seemed rather perplexed at his direct request, glancing back over their shoulder towards the stone keep and the civilization of Terrastella behind him.
’And you are?’ Somnus arched a brow at the inquiry, but the warmth did not release or seep from his face. His smile softened into something a bit more level, and he spoke gently in answer.
“Somnus.”
Short and simple, for there were no need for semantics or theatrics here. The sentry, Oriens bless them, seemed to at least know of him, for they motioned for him to follow and guided the dunalino into the heart of the court proper. Along the way they found a messenger, and Somnus watched the exchange of information between the two before the messenger tore away with a clatter of hooves to seek out Asterion.
It would be a wonderful welcome to speak to the Dusk King with vocalized words rather than written. The sentry turned to look at him once more and cleared their throat. ’King Asterion will be here shortly, should he not be otherwise occupied.’ Once more, the dunalino dipped his head in a nod.
“Certainly. I do not mind waiting.” From there, silence grew between them, the sentry standing rigid as they continued to look about but obviously they did not completely ignore their sudden guest. Somnus let his mind wander, head lifting to regard the upper balustrades of the Dusk citadel. His gaze paused momentarily upon the said balcony that he had once seen Florentine dive off of, descending down, down, down to greet him with a smile full of warmth and the fluttering of lilac petals. Turning his head, he admired the passing world around him with a particularly thoughtful expression. Individuals were hurrying about, tending to their duties or whatever business they had awaiting them. It was quiet, a distant murmur hardly disturbing the frozen winter silence, but he could not ignore the subtle ripple of tense energy that seemed to permeate the very air around him.
The pale mare had found herself in a vast snow covered prairie. It stretched before her almost endlessly. Other than being speckled with the odd grouping of trees, the terrain remained a barren, snow covered wasteland. Kos had arrived from the East, finding herself in the middle of whatever this place was. It seemed hours had passed and she was still indecisive of which direction she would go. She tightens her wings to her side, reminding herself that if she could learn to fly this wouldn’t be as much of an issue. Shame clouds her mind as she breathes in the cold air, trying to rid herself of the negative thoughts that disrupt her focus.
To the South her eyes can only see so far, the land seems never ending in that direction until it hits the sea. Turning her dome to the North, a strip of tall mountain peaks seem to call out to her. Kos knows mountains well, it’s where her heart aches to be and where she is most comfortable. Yet she still hesitates to move in that direction. She had wandered so far from her own mountain range to see what the world had to offer, not to head back to the same old comforts.
Her wings shuffle at her side as she gives a sigh, Kos had still not decided to go South or North. But the mare had grown tired of staying here, so she decides to go neither way and continues moving further east into the expansive prairie. She shuffles through the snow, keeping an ear out at all times for another living being as the sound of the waves fades behind her.
Smoke, like prayers, rise from extinguished bonfires up, up into the night sky. The only light that falls in silver and bright. Oh when the light of flames is put out, Leto’s body sinks into night. She becoming nothing; another mere shadow stood behind the light of the moon.
That was until the blizzard came. It comes as light as dreams first. Each flake is perfect, each flake falls from an open sky like a star. It draws the shed-star girl out from the darkness, it lies in white along the subtle curves of her spine. It settles in her mane, upon the tops of her bells and in her eyelashes (for she does not draw her gaze from the sky, not when the moon it due to change).
Oh, in her skin is electricity, in her blood is the song of stars. She is so far from her Ilati home, but the earth is only part of her. She is woven together by roots, but her blood beats with star-white blood. The shed-star girl would not be anywhere else. She could not resist the call of night, oh the singing in her blood is as hot as fire. It is a clarion call, a summons she cannot fight, no matter how hard she may try.
Upon her skin is painted sigils, Ilati prayers, Ilati chants, they glow as her white blood flares with the presence of this sky-magic. No longer do shadows own her, not when the Dusk-girl glows with the light of the moon and stars combined. Snow begins to melt upon her skin and then it turns to steam and all over is steaming. Leto is an abony torch, a black flame here to burn the snow out of the sky. She is a black hole struck through with a light than glows from every vein. This girl is a splitting rock, her body holding a star that longs to break forth, to reach up to the stars that shine and the moon that begins to turn red, red, red.
Soon the snow is not white, but red as blood. The moon’s light gives each drifting flake wings, until in the breeze they flutter as fireflies might. They swirl and dance upon prayers and chants, they swirl close to Leto in a dalliance to last only the night.
But no snow can touch her now, not when the sky bleeds red, when the moon begins to hide, when black comes creeping. The stars flare brighter, white as bone, and still the snow falls bright and red. The winds throw firefly-flakes hither and thither, it tugs at Leto’s ebony mane, it turns her wild. She dances as the shed-stars dance and this time her music is not of the earth but of the sky. There are no drums to vibrate her bones, not when there is the violin keening of stars calling like dragons in the night.
A star falls brighter than bright. It douses the flames of falling snow, it steals the red of the eclipse moon, and reminds the earth that it should be white. It falls for Leto, summoned by her magic, enchanted by her bright white skin. And then, just as it should touch her, just as it should smite her like it has a thousand falling snowflakes, it fades in to nothing and all turns to blood again.
The black girl turns, flinching as her skin begins to sear, as her body turns hot, hot, hot. Oh her magic is wild now, oh it heeds the call of the moon, of the stars. It cries with the prayers, it dances to the music of its shed-star people, and Leto is running, she is streaking ebony beneath this night of crimson awe. She runs as close to water as she can. Her limbs find no rest until water from a pool laps, laps, beckoning her closer. But she stands, alight, brilliant and bright. She does not enter but begs her magic to calm, prays for it to ease and settle.
As she stands beneath the crimson snow, still falling, still as thick as a blood haze, she sees silver to rival the moon. Yet the moon is not silver this night. This silver is as water beneath the moon, as soft as the water that beckons her come. And she does, she moves closer, closer to the silver until it makes before her a man. All she feels is the cool of the sea, the taste of salt upon her tongue.
Fate nips as her heels, her hips, her cheeks, her lips. It laughs in her ears and pushes her closer, closer, it whispers in her ears and oh its song is sweet and right and so perfect she does not recognize it as Fate at all. Leto stands before the man and her skull tilts, bells chime and the stars begin to scream and not even the moon can look as it succumbs to blood and black.
“Hello.” She says, for how should one greet their fate?
I want to lay my body down, I can't go without
cause I'm forever bound
The cliffsides were abuzz this chilling evening, decorated in a manner similar to the Twilight party held in the same spot over a year prior. The briny seawater fought for dominance over the aroma of delectable, tantalizing sweets wafting in the breeze, and the waves crashing against the rocky ledges were drowned out by cheerful voices and the occasional bought of laughter. Fires crackled away as they were stoked, effectively warming those who huddled around and near them.
In the dim firelight, Atreus sought out the form of one familiar figure, the woman of pale lavender and ivory. He had approached her earlier in the day with an invitation to join him here come evening, and after a tender touch and a promise to see her then, he’d disappeared into the hospital for a day’s work. But standing here now, away from anyone else, he hoped to catch her gentle gaze soon so that he may relish in her company for the remainder of the night. Settled atop the table next to him was a glass bottle, its light blue contents secured by a cork. Around it was a simple leather bag, pulled shut by a drawstring to make it just a little less noticeable in the eyes of a passerby.
Perhaps with a bit of luck, he would also have the chance to finally hear Fiona’s voice tonight, as well.
"When you feel ready, you can find me at my cave… by the river."
The boy's words have been on Mateo's mind recently. His face too. Their entire interaction, really, shines in his memory, a gleaming moment made all the more bright for the dark times that would follow. Since meeting Pan, Mateo had unfortunately been very busy with adult things. The murders in the forest had set the court into a wild flurry of activity, and it had become difficult to find time for oneself. It was even more difficult to enjoy that rare free time, at least for Mateo, with the guilt of knowing that Casper and Moore would never again have that simple pleasure.
Mateo had hardly thought of his young friend until the seasons changed and the cold arrived with its usual indifference. Huddled round the fire one night, the scent of smoke and kindred horseflesh just as much a comfort as the heat, he thought suddenly "I wonder how Pan is doing--" and the boy was suddenly on his mind, on and off, for days to come.
He walks along the river now, a spare blanket folded neatly over his back. It is slightly worn and simply woven, but soft and very warm. Ahead is what seems to be a small network of caves, although he is not sure if this is the "cave by the river" his friend was referring to. "Pan?" he calls out softly as he steps gracefully over a tumble of rocks to what seems like the entry to a large cave system. The air is damp and cold and it seems, to him, a rather miserable place to live.
It was written in the stars – the events that would unfold. For weeks, Azrael had watched the skies with the others, wondering when the solstice would come, praising the heavens with song and offerings. Caligo’s followers had trained their faces skyward, waiting for the fateful moment when the winter moon would hide in Earth’s shadow. And as the time grew nearer, the shed-star had separated himself from the others, preferring a more somber and solitary approach to the celestial event. So, he finds himself in the field, preparing as he beds upon the soft grass, setting up his circle of crystals as he waits.
Snow falls gently to the ground, a hint of the winter which was only now beginning in Denocte. It goes rather unnoticed by the stoic stallion though, who simply brushes the flakes away from his glow, letting them melt around the warmth of his body. His breath is sheer against the night, and the world is still and quiet, waiting in anticipation with baited breath. Even the nocturnal creatures who generally rose to song in the evening were hushed and reverent, and a quiet smile crosses Azrael’s features as the winds begin to shift, his eyes growing wide as they find the silver moon.
The weather grows colder as the first edges of shadow begin to move across the moon, and Azrael lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s holding, witnessing the beauty of the eclipse as if it was his first time to see such a splendor. Though celestial events were hardly rare in Denocte, each was a gift from the gods, and each brought with it a splendor which was unmatched in his mind. His ears prick toward the sound of crunching snow, following the noise with curious aqua eyes as he makes out the approaching form of another… but rather than be annoyed at the intrusion, the dappled stallion simply shifts to make room beside him, his voice a husky boon in the night.
It has only just begun. Plenty of room for company, he supposed, and he offers the stranger a smile before focusing his gaze back on the darkening moon.
