"She laughed and danced with the thought of death in her heart"
The thing which called herself Anandi could not decide what she wanted more: to be terrible or lovely. She was very fond of Anandi, but of course there were other names she went by. Kelpie, water horse, princess, sister, daughter, beloved, lady (she liked lady, especially on the lips of a king) monster, Andi, Emissary… the list went on, and each name or role or title brought a different part of the beautiful creature to the surface.
Half of her was charmed by these festivities, the other was restless, hungry, and terribly bored. On one hand, the novelty of it all-- the lights, tinsel, gifts, dancing, music, alcohol-- it was all so much more and so much brighter than everything she’d ever seen before. On the other, it was all so terribly…tedious. She quickly learned how disgusting men could be when they’ve had too much to drink (occasionally women as well, although they leaned more towards annoying) and, perhaps worse, how terribly unoriginal when approaching a lady.
Most annoying of all was that she could not let her disgust nor her annoyance show. Her station was above such base emotions, at least in so public a venue. So she was patient, and sweet, and coy but unavailable. All the while, she was starving.
(picture this: a wolf trapped in the sheep’s pen, made to dance with what should be its supper, and maintain a smile the whole time.)
In the crowded court-- most of the drunkards were here, but it was at least more entertaining than the vigil at the hospital-- Anandi stands near a terrace, a smile painted on her dark lips, and she wonders if anyone would notice if she… slipped outside, for a little bit. Just long enough for a dip in the ocean, and a snack.
NOW RUSHED INTO THIS BRIGHTNESS AS IF BY A SHUTTER that, once opened, can never be closed
Septimus has lived exactly long enough to learn how to enjoy parties.
The festivities are hardly novel to a creature as ancient and well-traveled as Septimus, which, he supposes, is the trouble with wandering his (formerly infinite) lifetime away – every land was new, but every new thing was duller and less impressive than the last, and childlike wonder could only remain a child for so long. (Maybe he was just more cynical lately. It seemed to weigh, like the changing seasons, on his shoulders.) Still, he appreciates them for the way that they are dazzling, for the music and the light and the dancers, even the drunks, and maybe he appreciates them more now that he is mortal too, and he has a better sense of what they have to celebrate in lost seasons. Before this winter, his notion of winter might as well have been a word without definition. Lifeless cold. The world tilted too far from the sun. A bit less light every single day.
But the warmth of this festival, he had discovered, was because something else felt like it was flickering out – like withering. He doesn’t want to put words to it yet.
He slips through the crowds with practiced ease, dancing out of the stumbling grasp of half-aware drunkards and avoiding the bright-eyed gaze of any curious passers-by. Normally, he would be a bit more social, but he seems to be feeling a bit – what is the word? - reflective tonight. Too reflective to entertain men and women with tongues too loose from alcohol, at any rate, much as he’d normally enjoy catching up on their latest gossip or existential ponderings. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Only that he is looking.
He does not notice her. Not initially. He should have noticed her, and maybe he will curse himself and feel a bit more mortal for it later. But he does not notice her, even as he breezes towards the terrace, jewel-adorned antlers gleaming with clinking specks of green as he passes by torches and hanging lights. He pauses at the edge, and-
There she is.
There you are.
She is grey. Pale-haired. Eyes like the earliest green that comes in spring. It is impossible to say why she catches his attention in a room with undoubtably-more-striking figures. Perhaps it is the way she is standing, with all the innate elegance of royalty. Perhaps it is the way her charcoal lips are curled up into a smile, and perhaps it is the way something inside of Septimus cannot quite believe it. Perhaps it is simply that she stands aside from the crowd, in the shadow of the terrace, half a shadow herself. His wings settle at his side. It would be rude to linger too long, considering her-
He tastes the words on his tongue before he says them aloud – half-thinking that he shouldn’t bother her, half possessed (as usual) by his own uncontrollable curiosity. “Bored, Miss?”
The faintest inclination of his antlered skull - an inquisitive gleam to the bright green of his eyes.
@Anandi|| I've just gotta say that I'm so excited to finally have an Andi thread. "Speech!"
AND RARELY, IF THE WOOD ACCEPTS THE BLADE WITHOUT CONDITIONSthe two pieces keep their balance in spite of the blow❃please tag Septimus! contact is encouraged, short of violence
"She laughed and danced with the thought of death in her heart"
Anandi takes a long glance at the open terrace. Outside, the snow begins to fall in slow, silent whorls of white. A few more steps out the door and she’d be free...
When her gaze returns to the festivities, there is a bay stallion looking at her. On first glance, he is nothing special, nothing at all like herself. She knows wings, and antlers, and bays. But the longer she looks the more there is to see. The inquisitive tilt of his head, the keen brightness of his eyes (careful not to look too deep there, she thinks. He looks back.), and the matching green gleam of his gemstones to match. But of all the suddenly many things there are to notice about him, her attention is caught by the smoothness of his skin. It gleams like fire in the lamplight of the great hall.
“Say something,” she almost demands. “Talk to me.” Anything would be better than standing here with a smile painted on her lips like a doll. Anything would be better than constantly dragging her eyes away from Apolonia and Aghavni, draped over each other like spring blossoms, or Marisol and Orestes and the velvet fire between them.
She was at the point where if he did not say something-- her reputation be damned-- she would scream.
When he finally speaks, it feels like her desire pulled the words from his lips. “Bored, miss?” Anandi exhales, something like a sigh, and for a moment her expression is unreadable. “Absolutely not,” she lies breezily, with the faintest roll of her eyes that says of course I am. “We’ve spent months preparing for this.” Party planning was one of the less touted, more complicated elements of being a member of the regime. She had thrown herself fully into it despite almost never understanding what she was doing or why. The entire concept of the festival-- fending off the darkness of the longest night, not sleeping less misfortune befall you, dressing a poor tree in silk ribbons and glass baubles-- made absolutely no sense to her.
Call it culture shock; she’d rather be celebrating out in the dark, cutting through black waters. But the people needed distraction and entertainment. She found their whims a bit charming and a bit annoying, not unlike children, but it was her duty now to please them, or at least try.
Her attention wafted away for just a moment, but it soon returns dutifully to the stallion with an apologetic flutter of the lashes. “Going somewhere, sir?” She quickly glances out the terrace, then back to him, with a precise raise of her brow that both suggests and commands (whichever he would rather see): It’s a bit warm in here, isn’t it? You’re going to step outside. You’re going to take me with you.
If she left alone, it could be seen as evading her duties. If she stepped outside with another, it could be seen as enjoying the festivities. Technically she was just using him to skirt what seemed to be her responsibility, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy his company.
