Snip. Snip.

Every day that goes by continues to cripple Fever’s mind – she is haunted by imaginary scissors coming to cut the length of her tail, to sever the only cultural tie she has to her slave-mates, her mother, and the buried past of her childhood in Solterra. The abstract woman has spent the beginning of her spring season occupied at the festival in Delumine – and now she is home, festivities and false prattle now distant, and she can refocus her attention to the root of reason for her homecoming.

To find her mother.

To see her previous slave-mates free.

To rekindle the very few yet precious relationships that she was sure had blown away in the wind, like ash, to slip through her fingers and forever remain unattainable.

It was hard to imagine when she was a child, sneaking over the wall, desperate to reach the place where the sun rises. Just a filly running through the adobe streets, forever eager to reach the capital, to see where the King sits on his throne. 


At the time, Fever truly believed she would see the throne room, certain that every pleasure she was ever denied as a kid would manifest and become tangible gifts: gold riches, luxurious silks, strings of diamonds that reflected the prisms of the sun. All the nobles that surrounded her often, they were such beautiful people – at that time – their elegance and sophistication, the way they effortlessly charmed one another, kissing their friends’ cheeks, enjoying tea and exotic fruits.

Enjoying clean water.

The soldiers in the barracks were treated like royalty as well; showered with blessings, praised like they fell out of Solaris’ womb, and they could never do any wrong as they grabbed their pikes and armor and raced into the sands, hungry to slay the monsters that roam the deserts tirelessly. 

Fever would never get that praise. She’d never effortlessly be accepted in the socialite circles of the elite, and her body didn’t carry the muscle or scars of a warrior. She had been born a slave, and so she remained at the bottom of Solaris’ foot – an afterthought as He steps on her.

She was so tired of warring with everyone.

Convinced that the world needed to suffer because no one ever showed her a helping hand when she was a baby. No one ever came to the rescue – the other slaves content to live within the exhibits like work animals.

Fever was exhausted as she climbed the stairs of Day Court, finding an open courtyard that overlooked the countryside – lolling hills of dry brush and sand, and there at the horizon, the ocean. As the sun was beginning to set, she would watch the colors metamorphosized, pale yellow to rose pink, and then to rich salmon and amethyst clouds. 

Once upon a time, Fever promised a friend they’d escape Solterra and go see the ocean.

She feels the rims of her eyes sting and she softly closes them, leaning against the railing, taking a deep breath – she swiftly checks her surroundings to ensure she is alone, and although the city was always full of chatter, she was certain no one would approach her here. So she lets down the walls, and with the weight of her responsibilities finally dragging her down, she’d carefully slide down to her knees, crumpled and pressing the side her face against the clay banister. Quickly, the viper bites down on her lip, and she curses Solis, the flame in her ignites into a wildfire that threatens to burn her alive.

But she doesn’t cry like she needs to, she just furrows her brow, hugs herself to the cool adobe stone, trying to breathe through her anger.

She was supposed to take her mother to the capital – and here Fever was, experiencing it without her.

It makes the bile in her stomach bubble and simmer, it makes her mouth taste like rot, it makes her want to scream Temper’s name into the night.

But she doesn’t. She knows that if Temper is still enslaved, that announcing her only saving grace would certainly be the death of her.

If she wasn’t already dead.

Fever kills the thought of her mother possibly never surviving the assault on their masters. 

Instead, she remains crumpled, desperately blinking away the rage, determined to pull herself together and continue searching this damned city. Certainly, a few moments alone wouldn’t hurt. Her long tail swats and wraps her up, like a comfort blankie, and she patiently waits for her temper tantrum to pass.

God damn - Fever misses her mother immeasurably.




@Cordelia

inspirational piece for the music played at Fever's tent