There is nothing of Denocte’s castle that reminds her of the world she once called home. Not Corellon, standing cold and pious on the ocean cliff—open to the rising sun—all white marble and looming columns and those damned statues of the gods. Antiope only remembers it bathed in red, red, red; burning, ending.

It doesn’t remind her of the jungle kingdom she had been sent to live in, to lead into war. There had been no castle, but humble, sturdy homes built high in the canopies like they were one with the trees. It was a wild place, an untamed place, full of shadow and dappled sunlight and equines fierce and devoted.

Denocte’s castle is a different creature, not unlike her. It is dark, with hidden corners and hallways draped in shadow, and burning, alive with the light of flickering flames. Every time she steps inside its stone walls there is a feeling of reverence, of mystery. Every echo, of her steps, of her breaths, are like prayers she doesn’t know how to speak.

If this castle is a church, Antiope is surely some fallen angel searching its walls for meaning.

She meets Isra by the doors, with the bells tolling over the streets like a keening cry. There is a burning inside her that is different from all the burning her skin has ever felt. It is settling in all the empty places inside her like brick and mortar, filling all the holes, growing, growing. Antiope looks into her eyes, and knows. “Isra,” I know, I know.

Antiope wants to tell her that the court will be strong, even in her absence, because she has made it stronger. With every flicker of magic, every tidal touch and iron stand Isra has built her people into something more, something other than what they were even when she first set foot on its shores.

The door opens to the courtyard and the streets and together the woman step out of the shadow of the castle’s gaping mouth. They are limned in white-silver light, it dances across their spines, marking them as the moon’s. Isra will always belong to the moon, even across the sea, even across the world. Antiope hopes she knows that. That she will leave a piece of her here, even after she has stepped off the docks and onto her ship and disappeared over the horizon.

There is a firmness to her skin when Isra’s nose brushes over her shoulder, like her determination lives not only in her eyes but in her every cell. There is a promise in her eyes, as she looks at Isra even though Isra looks forward. It is a promise that says both I already do, and, I will.

“Isra,” Antiope says her name again, and the sounds of their steps is like a feral, rising heartbeat. Growing, growing, growing. There is nothing to say, no words that can possibly give back to the other woman what she has given to Antiope. Their time is dwindling down, like a setting sun dipping below the skyline, and she is not sure if she will ever be ready.

Antiope has followed this warbeat drum that is calling to Isra, has let it carry her to a temple on a cliff and bathed it in fury and death. She does not regret her choice, could never regret the fight for the lives that had been stolen of the ones she loved. “You are not a godess, you are stronger,” Antiope cannot help but think that she is not a godess either, but she knows she has often looked like one, “You are a storm, bend them to their knees.”

The wind is pulling them along and the streets and the walls and all of Denocte is shifting under their sea-queen’s influence. It is shimmering like stars in the moonlight, but Antiope knows it can never be the last gift that Isra leaves them with. There is so much more, much deeper, in all of them, that will stay long after she is gone.

She doesn’t tell her not to go; she can’t. “We will listen for tales of your triumph on the wind.” Antiope doesn’t have to doubt her, she never could. If she has learned anything about Isra, she knows that she will not rest until the land her eyes see across the ocean is free. “I will care for them.” She wants to say so much more, but what else is there?

"Speaking."


@Isra