And somewhere lions roam, quite unaware,
in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.
I am almost my old self, here, in these gilded halls.
It is not because I recognise the prosperity, or the culture. It is because my face feels supple in the lamplight, and the music evokes in me something of my past life; I feel more like my father’s son, here, exposed, before others of note. I feel like the man I was raised to be and that, in and of itself, puts me in a sour mood.
But the enigma of it is I cannot break free; no matter how desperate I become, I will always be the man my father raised. Rage will always come more easily than happiness; and even now the sound of music makes me think of useless frivolities, alongside entertainment, love, art, poetry. In this sense, I am surrounded by the very activities I had always been told to disdain—
This, I think, is no place for a captain.
This, I think, is far removed from my destiny. Why then do I feel a need to uphold the legacy of the Starks? Why do I dance when invited to, and listen politely about the statues, and admire from afar the fountains and tapestries?
Why, I wonder, when I would rather the entire thing burn? I cannot look at the surrounding treasures without understanding, with a knowledge borne of experience, how quickly they would be pillaged if invaded. They had wanted me to be the captain to venture forward into other, into lands worthy of invasion, of conquering. They had wanted me to be the emissary of chaos, discord, war.
In another life—one, I think, where I had not loved my best friend with every part of me that was worthy, holy, redeemable—I might have been at the Ieshan party on a quite different note: as a conqueror. And even now, I cannot help but think about ripping the pretty pearls off the servant’s neck—
“Thank you,” I say, instead, as she whisks away a trey of silver and tinkling glasses full of ice and whiskey. The ice, I think, is a statement: who has ice in a desert? And I answer: Adonai’s family.
I sip the whiskey, but even the smell of it makes me think again of my father’s rage.
I am more alike him than I think.
But somehow, I find myself smiling as I drift through the crowd, waiting—
Waiting to find something, I suppose, worth my attention. There is someone--slipping just beyond that woman, and then a man wearing peacock feathers, and the angle of their face and the colour of their hair, something, something, engages me--
I slip past the same party-goers; further, and then I am grabbing a drink from another tray. I offer it, "Would you care to join me?" I ask.
Growing up in the twilight-dark depths of the sea, Anandi had dreamed of parties like this. Music, dancing, food and drink. And in some ways it is exactly what she had expected. But in many ways, it is more. Take, for one, the air. How magnificent! She's staggered out onto a patio where the breeze is dry and warm and smells of night-blooming jasmine. Where it presses to her skin it whispers of moonlit dunes and the ragged trot of coyotes on the hunt.
To be frank, the emissary is shamelessly drunk and on the verge of leaping into the night and dancing with the moon. She has reached a state of inebriation that is charged with bliss. It is the heightened emotional state that is terribly fragile… one wrong look and she would burst into tears, an errant touch from a strange man and euphoria would quickly spiral into fury.
Fury like hers, there would be blood.
It is a fine thing, then, that Vercingtorix interrupts her thoughts with a drink in hand. Anandi turns from the moonlight, brows raised in surprise. “That depends,” she accepts the stallion's offering and takes a generous drink of it while staring at him. Her appraising attention flutters from his green eyes to the charm on his horns to the most intriguing scar on his lip. She does not blink. “On who you are.” Her eyes are meant for drowning in, but for the moment they are full of laughter-- and begging this handsome stranger to impress her.
And somewhere lions roam, quite unaware,
in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.
The first thing that strikes me is her beauty. There are few women I find beautiful; but every so often there is one that tempts, in a way Eve tempted or Pandora opened, and I cannot help the smile that falls guileless across my lips. There is no extra flare or excessive angle; she wears her headdress frill as I do my scimitar horns, and the pale grey of her trim figure reflects the moonlight like a blade, cool and pointed. That depends, she says, as she drinks, her eyes on me. On who you are?
My attraction to men is in their regal softness; the emotion that flits behind hard panes of expression; the lines of muscles; the need to protect and be protected, reassured, held and sent on.
My attraction to women is always to devour. A strange hunger, drunken and ignored, that rises unbidden. My smiles takes on an edge, crooked up at the corner with the scar. “Torix.” I do not lie, only shorten. Her eyes are bright with unshed laughter, and I realise the admission of my name falls a little lamely on the cool night air. It has been so long since I have played the part of entertainer, flirtatious and confident.
I remember, briefly and with bitterness, the night of my coronation. It had been after Bondike told me the truth of himself, but before I had confessed that truth to everyone else—and all night, those crimson eyes had followed me as I danced, and laughed, and took Dagda to bed out of pure, burning spite.
I don’t let the memory colour my expression. I toss my own drink back instead and say, “Trust me.” A twitch at the edge of my emerald eyes; an almost smile. “I’m worth knowing.”
I hear whispers behind us as a pair of girls walk onto the patio. Isn’t that Anandi? The Emissary of Dusk? They giggle, high and bright and juvenile, and I send a flippant glance over my shoulder toward them. When I turn back, the smile is burning-bright. I know nothing of her. But I pretend to. “Tsk, tsk—the Emissary escaping her royal duties?”
There is a small, whispered detail from black markets and city squares and dockyards that is escaping me—
What was it, about her, that I should know?
Right now, it doesn’t matter. She holds herself like royalty, like a charmed princess; I wonder why, and nearly ask. Instead, I offer: “Tell me, Emissary, what’s the most reckless thing you’ve ever done?” And there is laughter unshed in my voice; laughter unshed in my eyes. And that damnable smile that I know offers, charming and insufferable, whatever it is, I can show you better.
One glance at his crooked smile and she knows he’s drunk. There’s no shame in it- she’s drunk too. It dulls the excruciating pain of mingling. And it puts a curb on her hunger- not that these events were particularly appetizing. Something about seeing all these horses crowded together, livestock cramped and sweating, she finds a little repulsive. They made it so easy to hunt. She didn’t want easy, it made her feel dirty.
And although she takes a deep measure of his smile (that scar is just so fascinating) it’s his eyes that truly strike her. There is a sea behind them. It is deep and roving and restless. She has the sense that even though he’s here, he’s also elsewhere. And something about that just doesn’t sit right with her. Anandi wants his full attention. All of him, here and now, or nothing at all.
She leans a little closer just as he says “Trust me. I’m worth knowing.” He smells like whiskey and grit, smoke and salt. She laughs freely, leaning back again as though unimpressed. Really it’s just hard to balance on legs, even after all this time in Novus. And, of course, the alcohol is not helping. “We’ll see about that.”
She rolls her eyes, mildly annoyed. Don’t remind me. Yet she was simultaneously flattered: it was hardly impressive that he recognized her, but it pleased her anyway. (and if she learned he didn’t know of her at all, that he had merely heard some gossips in passing… he would leave here tonight with at least one new scar. Hell hath no fury…) “It’s called diplomacy,” she says with tart sweetness, ears flicking backwards to signal that this line of conversation was over.
In all honesty, she was escaping- or rather avoiding- her duties. She hoped to see Apolonia tonight. And the last thing she wanted was to be reminded of work. Even though the reminder of her prestige was intensely satisfying, she found the politics of Novus so disappointingly bland.
“Oh, I’m never reckless.” And although her voice is lush with humor as if she speaks in jest, she’s entirely truthful. Anandi considers recklessness beneath her. Every action, every word, is carefully calculated, analyzed, and decided upon based on a complicated network of factors. Most of the time, the choice comes down to what will most benefit the kelpie: either in reputation, long-term strategy, or simply personal satisfaction. The kelpie would not be ashamed to admit she placed a lot of value in pleasure.
If she behaves in a matter that seems risky- and it’s true she sometimes (often) does- I assure you the risks have been considered beforehand. Recklessness is not something she indulges in. (It is hard to tell if this is really true or something she believes in so fiercely, and so wholly strives for, that she has successfully convinced herself it is. Take, for example, the turning of Lucinda- that didn’t seem terribly calculated... But we leave that digression for another day.)
A waiter walks by with a tray of drinks, which she turns down with a subtle shake of the head. The room is spinning enough for now, thank you very much. “And you, Torix?” She says his name like a small treasure, a bit of light in the dark or warmth in the cold. Something to keep. She says his name like mine.
She hopes he can keep to the promise in his smile. It would keep the evening interesting.
And somewhere lions roam, quite unaware,
in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.
We’ll see about that, she says. I do not mind; she is not the only one dissatisfied with easy prey.
I am pleased to have pegged her correctly, if only on the basis of the whispers surrounding her at that moment. It’s called diplomacy. “Where I am from, they call diplomacy the death of pleasure.” I know it is out of context and even noncommittal; but she may take it however she likes. I am not ashamed to admit I descend from warmongers and soldiers who, if they were not soldiers, would have been killers or nothing. It is a war that gives purpose, I suppose; and diplomacy is the end of war, too.
Oh, I am never reckless.
I would be a liar if I were to say her answer didn’t disappoint me. When the waiter offers another set of drinks, I take one; but it is to drink languidly, with leisure. I appraise her over the glass as I take a drink. “What a shame,” I say, but the comment is softened with an edge of playfulness. If I were to know her thoughts, I might think we were, perhaps, more alike than outward appearances would suggest.
I am not reckless in the traditional sense, either.
And you, Torix?
“Oh, I don’t give that story away for free.” The smile is still playful, I know; but there is an edge now. I step closer; our proximity has gone abruptly from polite to intimate. “But, perhaps, we could change that. Do something reckless with me tonight, Anandi. You choose what, if you are so bold.” There is a bit of goading; a bit of challenge.
“Or,” I suggest, more quietly. “We could simply dance.”
The death of pleasure. She laughs at that. “They might have a good point.” With the right attitude, and the right participants, diplomacy could be fun... But mostly, it was dull as eating rocks. “Though I like to think I make it fun…” She trails off with a grin as another waiter passes by with a tray full of drinks. She takes one with a gracious smile. This was a decent party.
She doesn’t care that he looks disappointed. If anything, it amuses her. Did he think her some freewheeling trollop, setting ablaze the rife opportunities that Novus presented to her? No, she was smarter than that. She planned, and strategized, and analyzed the outcome of every move that was taken.
Each of them takes a sip of their drink. It's strong. Her eyes narrow as she sees him looking, but she lets him. Why not? He was, at least marginally, more interesting than everyone else she had met tonight. (Apolonia’s absence was noted with sour disappointment.) Her attention is drawn once again to the scar on his lip. She watches it when he says "Do something reckless with me tonight, Anandi."
The kelpie grins. “Fine.” She knew what she wanted. Dancing was boring. (More importantly, she was not particularly good at it.) She brushes past Torix with a simmering look, and she leads them through the crowd and toward the room of statues. “I want to destroy something, Torix,” she leans in close to confide in him with a giggle, then a hiccup, then another sip of the drink shakily grasped. Their shoulders brush, because she is not walking straight. She feels like a fuse lit by the heft of his gaze. It is a feeling she wants to trap, bottle, and savor for a long, long time.
The crowd thickens and she steps forward to lead him, single file, cutting through the room like a shark on the scent of blood. “Where's that scar from?” She asks over her shoulder, because she’s still thinking of the cleverness of the death of pleasure. "The one on your lip." Obviously. The drink is held closer to her chest as she politely (sometimes not-so-politely) nudges strangers out of their way. They’re almost to the hall of statues now, and to her surprise she finds she's excited by the thought of a little chaos.
And somewhere lions roam, quite unaware,
in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.
“I’m sure you do,” I toast her with the glass of my drink, which is quickly emptying. I am not taken aback by how readily she accepts my challenge; even the way her smile breaks does not surprise me, predatory, hungry, bright under the Ieshans tinkling chandeliers. Her eyes when she measures him (never looking away, he finds) belong in the face of a great cat, a leopardess or similar beast. It ought to have unsettled me.
If I were anyone else, I am certain it would have.
Instead, it awakens in a dormant hunger; oh, I want her. I want her in the same ways I have always wanted war: as something to defeat, as a conquest of land, will, wealth. I want to destroy something, she says, and the words strike a resonant chord within my monstrous soul. If there are leopardesses in the world, there are leopard slayers.
Yet, there are many ways to seduce a beast; she remains girlish but sharp-edged, even as she giggles, even as her shoulder grazes his in casual confidence. “How diplomatic of you,” I savour the sarcasm, the way it hones my voice like a special kind of blade.
I follow her readily; the room passes in a blur of colours and scents, of vibrant life and drunken decay. There is a chorus of laughter bursting in my ear; perfumes and strange, foreign fragrances. I follow the silver of her haunch; the bright flick of her tail. We make short work of the crowd and emerge on the other side of the swirling, drunken colours side-by-side. I eye the garden of statues, knowing it is where Adonai resides; but the night is full of chaos, and already has opened a chasm in me so wide it must be filled.
If she had asked of the other scar--the one splitting my brow in two--I might not have answered. For this one, I smile; but the gesture is almost entirely through the wicked gleaming of my eyes. “Would you believe me, Anandi, if I told you it was from a shark? I was a fisherman before.” I tell my own inside joke and the wickedness manifests itself into the glint of a hunter; of a wolf’s eyes on the edge of the famished winter herd.
I pull away from her, into the hall of statues. I am relieved to find Adonai has vacated the premises (and simultaneously concerned: where had he gone?) But then--I only fill my eyes with all the beauty wrought of wealth and prosperity, the statues with their hollow eyes.
“It is the lady’s choice,” I invite, with a sweeping gesture of my chin.
I have yet to take my eyes off of her; she opens within me a voracious baying, the sound of hounds on the heels of the boar. She opens within me a hunger that knows no bounds, monstrous, cannibalistic. It consumes me; igniting a feverish glow to my face, I can think only:
How much does marble cracking feel like a bone breaking underfoot?
With a tip of my head, I finish the drink and drop the glass.
“Look at me like I’m a painting, a sculpture. Drink your fill, eat me up. Savor every moment like it’s the last-- because you know it is.
You know it is,
don’t you?”
The way they say each other’s name--
The way they say each other’s name, like tasting caviar. The little spoons, the delectable slurps. Indulgent and indulging; succulent; luscious. Ludicrous and mouthwatering. Syllables on syllables, absurd in the way it escalates, and escalates, and every time you think a plateau is reached-- you ascend once again, dragged upward in a way that feels… part divine, part not. The thrill of the chase, the high of desire- Anandi spirals up, and up, and up. (And down, and down, and down.)
"Would you believe me, Anandi, if I told you it was from a shark? I was a fisherman before."
Her name on his lips almost makes her shiver. “I believe you,” she exhales. She knows she’s drank a lot (how much, exactly, she couldn’t say) but it’s not the drink which makes her believe him. It’s this place, Novus, and all the magic here. Why wouldn’t a man be struck by a shark and live to tell the tale? The funny thing is that he smiles like a shark, like he once had too many teeth to fill his mouth... and he moves like one, like a king among peasants. Like the shark left behind more than it meant to.
Oh oh oh, she’s a sucker for confidence.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” She croons with a bleary, drunken smile. She thinks he’s on her level, if only because she’s so far gone she thinks everyone is on her level. This is normal.
Then they make their way to the hall of statues. And- we know she pledged reckless, but, if we’re being honest (someone here has to be, right? And it isn’t Anandi) she’s already planning her escape route and her excuses. (“oh he made me do it, the vile criminal!”) She physically cannot do recklessness. There must always be a next step, a way out. A way to shift the frame of view to benefit herself. It’s terrible, but it’s true: Anandi is never reckless. Not even when she seems to be.
Eventually- too long, and not long enough- they find themselves before a fine work of art. Pink marble is exquisitely carved in the shape of a unicorn leaping into the air. Sculpture is an art form Anandi will never quite understand- how do you take solid rock and transform it into something that looks soft and delicate as the mane of a unicorn, blowing in the wind?
It’s practically magic.
But here’s what’s (... in this world) not magic: Anandi’s telekinetic grip, wrapped around the unicorn’s stupidly delicate horn. She looks at Vercingtorix as she tightens her grasp and pulls down sharply- snap!- on the masterpiece.
Delight floods in; wicked, delicious. It occurs to her how drunk she is; thrills don’t usually thrill quite like this. Temptations like this stallion don’t usually tempt like this. Most would have the self-preservation to want to stop here, but she wants more. She is hungry, and she hates it, and she loves it. (much like how she hates herself, and loves herself, in such equal and opposite ways it feels like she will burst and collapse in on her emotion, not so different from a black hole.)
Anandi lifts the sharpened little piece of marble and gently drags it along Torix’s sharply (beautifully) defined jawline. The things she could do to that jaw. “Your turn,” she purrs.
And although she does not turn her eyes from him, her ears search the room cautiously. You never know who might be watching, listening. You never know when fate will turn, or how good fortune can bleed from you before you even realize you’ve been cut, quick as a sliced artery.
