I thought I was flying but maybe I'm dying tonight
Virun finds herself caught somewhere ugly and in-between.
She struggles to line up her meandering thoughts.Here is what she knows: she is in the lands of the Dusk Court, Terrastella. She is just outside of the entrance to their capitol city. (She hears the wind whistling through what she imagines are high stone walls, although “high” and “stone” and “walls” register as little more than a concoction of sounds in her mind; they aren’t words with much of a meaning to Virun.) This Dusk Court will likely be willing to take her in. (A significant part of her doubts that. Why would they want to take her in? You’ll only cause problems. No. Celes will come for her, eventually. They all will, and when They come, she’ll be useful again. But, she tells herself, she’ll be useful at home - she can’t stay here. Not when her people might need. Need you, Virun? Don’t be ridiculous. They needed you to deal with the heir, and you couldn’t even do that properly.) She can recover in “Terrastella” and begin her search for Them. She doesn’t know exactly what that will entail yet, but she assumes that she can start by searching for a library, if this…Novus has them. She’ll have to find someone to read for her, though, and the thought of being forced to ask for help in this new, strange land makes her stomach twist into knots. That is, assuming that they read at all, and assuming that they have any literature on Them anyways. She can’t even be entirely sure of who – or what – inhabits this land. When Ein helped her up the beach, Virun thought that he was another equine, but she wonders if equines are the only sentient creatures that inhabit this place. When They used to whisper stories to her at night to help her sleep, They would tell her of strange lands that were nothing like her own and ruled by the most curious creatures she could imagine. (Not that she could imagine much.) They told her that Novus was really no different than the land from which she came, but she knows that, although They are her friends (Friends wouldn’t abandon you, Virun.), They don’t think about the world in the same way that she – or any mortal, really – does. They served as her eyes for years, but she knows better than anyone that it’s not safe to trust their judgement.
When she stretches out her left wing to grasp at the air in front of her, she feels their feathers stroke up against stone walls; whatever this city looks like, she has the feeling that she’s right outside of its walls. With her wing injured, she’s innately aware that she’s at the mercy of whoever happens to find her, and it makes her stomach turn knots. Ein seemed nice enough, and he seemed to think that she would be safe here, but Virun knows the danger that comes with seeming. In this strange, dark new world, she’s alone.
(You’re alone. Hadn’t she always wanted to be alone, to take care of herself, to be treated like she wasn’t made of glass? But now she’s here, and she wants to cry for her parents or her siblings or Celes or anyone who might be willing to hear her – she thought that she was stronger than this, but now she feels like she’s in over her head. Virun tried to swim, once, and she nearly drowned because she couldn’t find her way to the surface after she sunk beneath the waves, weighed down by her wild tangles of hair and awkward wings. It feels a lot like that.)
With no concept of time and even less of an idea of where to go, she’s left to wait, struggling to ignore the throbbing pain of her wing and the copper smell of blood.
tags | @asterion @cyrene notes | takes place just after ein tor dumps her outside of Dusk, or something. she's malnourished, her right wing is injured, and she probably looks pretty mangled.
He keeps waiting for the ground to steady beneath him, for the new strange pieces of his life to fall together, seamless. Instead, it seems that he’s only finding his sea legs; nothing stills, nothing is easy, but he is better at navigating it. For now, it is enough.
Even if it weren’t, he would have Cyrene and Israfel and Florentine, and he is far more sure in their abilities than his own. It’s Cyrene he walks beside now, warm beneath the summer sun, to greet the denizens of Dusk. Her presence is a balm, and it is easy to echo her smiles, easy to reflect her happiness. Easy to pretend, for a moment, that all the blood and betrayal in Dusk and Day and Night is behind them.
Until they step through the gate, and into cool shadows thrown by tall walls, and Asterion turns to say something to his companion and sees a figure, large and dark, tracing a wing-tip along the stone. “Wait,” he says, though he is sure she is seeing her, too. And then his eyes adjust to the light, and the shape of the stranger becomes clearer, and the bay inhales sharply.
He darts Cyrene a look, and clear in its galaxy-darkness it says: not again. It says this is happening too much. And then he blows out his caught breath in a soft sigh, and steps toward the stranger.
Not too near – he does not want to frighten her, or to threaten her, though the idea of either is almost laughable, given how she towers over the both of them. He cannot remember ever seeing a horse so large, not even the gods of Ravos. Even from a few lengths away he catches the copper-tang of blood over the smell of the new summer grass, and that and the sight of her injured wing turns over something sick and ugly in his stomach. All he can see is Aislinn, bandaged and drugged, the silver of tears limning her eyes.
Again he looks toward Cyrene, hating his uncertainty. Finally he clears his throat to speak with an assuredness that nothing in him feels. “Miss? Can we help you?” And then, after a beat (and feeling foolish, for even with her injury and clear disorientation she looks more capable than he ever has,) ”You’re safe here.”
@Cyrene @Virun not as good as ralli's beginning would have been, but woooo
To the untrained eye, nothing had changed. Dusk was still a kingdom of lavender sunsets and quicksilver nights. Florentine was still a queen gilded in honey and gold; Asterion, a regent of moonlight eyes and ocean-tossed hair. Nothing had changed.
And yet, and yet — everything had changed.
The shadows that had stayed always at the edges of Terrastella, little more than whispers, had finally swallowed her whole. The bloodshed, the betrayals, the heartbreak. They had sucked and sucked and sucked at her light, until —
Night no longer chased dusk. Because dusk had lapsed into night.
- - -
A smile tugged at Cyrene’s lips like it always did, as she waved merrily to the citizens who’d come to greet the sable-haired regent and lion-eyed emissary. She’d taken care to memorize their faces, and addressed as many of them by name as time would allow when she passed. Basked by shining sky, wreathed in golden sun, the two of them were radiant.
“How refreshing it is, to be out of the castle at last!” Cyrene sang as she turned towards Asterion, her smile never faltering. It was, perhaps, the only constant to a girl as fleeting as a lunar eclipse. Her ability to laugh in the face of death, to grin through crystalline tears, had never failed her.
Yet as Asterion’s warm eyes met hers, as his lips moved to reply, Cyrene wondered quietly if it ever would. What then? What would be left of her then?
“Wait.”
Immediately, those lion’s eyes sharpened. The lovely smile of before darkened into something feral, something razor-edged, as her amber gaze swept towards the towering shadow yards away that had drawn Asterion’s nerves as tight as a bowstring. After the Davke attack, caution had carved a path through all of their hearts. Every stir of the grass, every creak of a branch, startled Cyrene more than she cared to admit. She had a feeling that Asterion shared in her paranoia.
Yet still, he approached the stranger first. Hesitating for the lightest of seconds, Cyrene followed quickly after him as he made his way towards the bloody, mangled form that trailed so desolately along the castle wall. Female, Cyrene deduced, from her scent — though even that was foreign, like the stranger had come from someplace farther than even the crimson emissary herself.
The closer they approached, the more Cyrene’s eyes narrowed as she took in the odd angle of the girl’s vast wing, the milkiness of her wandering eyes. Her thoughts refused to settle, as memories of gruesome, distorted bodies filled her heart with increasing alarm. Where had she sustained such injuries? If there was one, was the attacker still here, hiding in the shadows like a coward?
“Her wing looks broken, and I think she’s… blind. She needs to be treated,” she murmured to Asterion, her curls brushing against his neck as she leaned in with a furtive frown. She drew away again before he could reply, his stare boring into her back as she gingerly approached the dark-pelted enigma.
"You’re safe here.” Cyrene nodded as the regent’s words drifted softly from behind, even though she knew the stranger couldn’t see it. “Yes, you are. Please do not be alarmed, I am a healer and you’re badly hurt,” she said gently, though her eyes remained alert. The mysterious girl was so much taller than she, and to startle her would escalate matters needlessly. “My name is Cyrene, and with me is Asterion. May I approach you, to examine your wing?”
She paused carefully, just shy of the silver-haired visitor's wingspan, as she waited for a reply.
"speech" | @Virun @Asterion | notes: ahh hush griff, I am forever in awe of your writing <3 (and jeanne's!) so excited for this thread c:
I thought I was flying but maybe I'm dying tonight
She is not alone for long.
A voice comes, distinctly male – perhaps a bit nervous, but far from unkind. “W-“ She jerks, head whipping to stare at the source of the first voice; then a second comes, and, for a moment, she looks back and forth in their relative directions, unseeing eyes unfocused and frantic. Without her blindfold, her condition is obvious – they are so pale as to be colorless and completely unmoving. She straightens, then, and swallows hard, looking towards the ground. Your eyes are frightening, Virun. Do you really want them to see them? No. No she doesn’t. Their words are kind, and the woman – Cyrene, a healer – offers to help her, to look at her broken wing. Broken. The thought of it makes her chest clench; even without Celes, she can navigate with some relative ease in the air, where she can feel everything. Without her wings, she is stationary, stuck, trapped, entrenched within her own head and her own body, a prisoner. Fixing her wing must be her priority, but, even though Ein said that she would find help here, she doesn’t know anything about this new world, or this Dusk Court, or these…people. Cyrene. Asterion. “I…thank you.” Her voice is even more quiet than she is accustomed to, more uncertain; she isn’t aware of how tall she is, really, but, if she were, she might think it strange that someone so imposing would sound so anxious. Her head throbs painfully, and she doesn’t know who they are, or where she is, and even though their voices sound kind, while living in a world that is almost entirely composed of noise, Virun has learned that she can’t trust anything. Not without her friends. Not without Celes. “Ah-stair-eon. Psy-reen,” Her accent stumbles clumsily over their foreign names, and she flinches, slightly. These are not the words that she is accustomed to – their pronunciations are all wrong, the accents different, though comprehensible. It begins to sink in that she’s in a completely new world, and she has to force down a sudden, painful lump in her throat. It stings like salt. “I am…Virun. Approach me, please…”You sound so pitiful, Virun. Shut up, shut up, shut up- Didn’t you want to be on your own? Irrelevant. She is injured, but she can’t really tell where anymore; pain has become an incomprehensible throbbing in the blackness. Her wings shift back into place at her sides, and, in the sudden absence of their presence, her limber form is visible; her stomach turns inward awkwardly, and her ribs jut out at her sides. She’s no longer aware of the hunger, though. It has become so omnipresent as to be unnoticeable. “…but don’t do it quietly. I need to hear you.” They’re both strangers, and she doesn’t know anything about them – for all she knows, they could want to hurt her. Besides, if she isn’t careful, any sudden movements could send her careening into them, which could be dangerous or humiliating depending on the circumstances, and Virun would rather avoid either. You’re too flighty, Virun. People expect trust, you know, especially when they offer you aid. She doesn’t move an inch.
He is grateful for Cyrene’s presence beside him, as much as a friend as a healer. Asterion needs both, especially as her words wash over him – blind, with a broken wing. Once again the image of Aislinn strikes him hard enough to stagger, and only the brush of his friend’s curls keep him grounded.
The bay keeps his eyes open, and pulls in a shuddering breath, and steps alongside the healer. His gaze remains on the stranger, though one black-tipped ear is trained on Cyrene.
She is a fearsome, striking creature, violet as a thunderstorm on the horizon with clouds of silver hair. It is a natural thing to wonder how she came to be so injured – but her voice chases the question away. The words are soft and unsure, the shape of his name unfamiliar in her mouth; when she flinches so does his heart.
How frightened she must be, though it is almost laughable to think of himself as someone who could cause any fear. He comes no nearer until she says approach, and even then he waits, glancing again at Cyrene.
But his gaze sweeps back when she tucks in her mighty, wounded wings, and he sucks in a silent breath at the washboard rises of her ribs, the jut of her hips. I need to hear you, she says then, and almost guiltily his attention returns to her face.
He still doesn’t understand how one could be in such a state – not here, where there were so many comforts, so many soft creatures in a court of stone and silk.
“We’re approaching,” he tells her, forcing his voice above its normal seawater murmur. It is strange to raise it at all; he can’t think of the last time he had. “Cyrene’s going to examine your wing – she knows what she’s doing.” There is almost a smile in his voice, at that, and he dips his head toward the chestnut, knowing what he’d said was true.
As for himself, though – oh, Asterion is always discovering just how useless he can be.
The bay steps into the shadow of the wall, near the mare’s head. “I’m glad you made it here, Virun,” he says as he moves. “Can you tell us what happened, or where else you might be injured?” An ear twists toward the gates; a few passers-by are starting to get curious. Asterion looks at Cyrene then, raising a brow, his expression asking if he should go seek other help.
