CYRENE
she left pieces of herself,
in everything she used to love.
The swamp, Cyrene shuddered, as she lifted a tentative hoof towards the dark, murky waters. I think I have met my match in Florentine. Perhaps it was simply an aversion shared by all things with feathers (a thought now completely shattered, as she sighed in Florentine’s direction) but to the wine-red pegasus, water was something that brought the fearless fae to her knees.
As she waded reluctantly through the Tinea’s ominous depths, crimson wings stayed tightly folded against Cyrene’s side as she tried in vain to keep calm at every slither of god knows what against her submerged legs. Helplessly, she glanced towards the queen’s effervescent form, a shining saint amidst the algae-strewn muck. By her side stood Asterion, looking every bit as noble as a Regent should. And then there was her. With a soft sigh, Cyrene offered a weak greeting to them both as she settled, with great effort, next to Asterion’s soothing presence.
As her eyes scanned across the gathering crowd, they widened in surprise as the glinting antlers of Lysander rose like ivory branches above the stale waters. The last time she had seen him, the man’s shining coat was painted red with his own blood. For him to be on his feet again cheered her greatly, and the emissary aimed a bright smile towards his head of onyx curls.
And then the meeting began. In pensive silence, Cyrene listened dutifully to Florentine’s speech. In truth, she understood little about the tragic affairs of that terrible night, and even less of what her queen had endured.
Very much, she concluded, from the heavy glances Florentine exchanged with Asterion.
With hearty effort, then, did she stay her tongue when the citizens began voicing their unrest. The first to speak, a fine-boned kirin she knew as Jude, poured his dissent like a sizzling ember into the fray. She could feel Asterion’s anger swell like a tide as he replied swiftly, the flare of his eyes a storm she’d never witnessed. Then came Lysander’s biting remark, and Israfel’s fire. Tempers were igniting, and Cyrene was at a loss at how to quell it.
But how could she call herself emissary if she could not even soothe the pains of her own court, much less a foreign one? She could no longer be but a passive observer when Florentine lived under the weight of a kingdom.
“If I may,” she began, with a soft glance towards the pink-scaled kirin. “I think, Jude, that you’ve been misled about Dusk’s future actions. To ease your worry, the regime is not foolish nor rash enough to wage war with Denocte.” Amber eyes lowered as her expression darkened, her thoughts turning to the lifeless, gaping eyes that had burned themselves one by one into her memories. They haunted her still in nightmares.
“As her emissary, I have full faith in saying that Florentine would never put herself before her people. I do not believe that her actions, whatever she decides, will endanger the Court more than Reichenbach's have already. And precisely because of that, Terrastella cannot be known as the Court that will do nothing but lick her wounds when attacked.”
“If we let Reichenbach and his Court think that he can get away with his crimes without so much as a whisper from Dusk… then we will have failed all of you.”
Lion's eyes as bright as a flame flickered from face to face as she shifted to address them all. It was a mighty effort, to keep her voice steady and soft when anger could so easily consume her. But the lion girl was learning, and Israfel’s words tempered the flames: “Do not condemn him for speaking his mind… You speak of ‘healing’… Then let us learn to heal by listening.” Wise girl.
“Dusk is a court of healing. My homeland was also such a place. We kept to ourselves, and were unbothered for many peaceful years — yet neighboring kingdoms saw us as weak, capable of miraculous feats of healing... and never retaliation. We were destroyed twice over, once by battle and once by a plague spread from those same kingdoms. I would never," pain laced her chest as her words echoed quietly across the waters, "wish for Dusk to make those same mistakes."
As she waded reluctantly through the Tinea’s ominous depths, crimson wings stayed tightly folded against Cyrene’s side as she tried in vain to keep calm at every slither of god knows what against her submerged legs. Helplessly, she glanced towards the queen’s effervescent form, a shining saint amidst the algae-strewn muck. By her side stood Asterion, looking every bit as noble as a Regent should. And then there was her. With a soft sigh, Cyrene offered a weak greeting to them both as she settled, with great effort, next to Asterion’s soothing presence.
As her eyes scanned across the gathering crowd, they widened in surprise as the glinting antlers of Lysander rose like ivory branches above the stale waters. The last time she had seen him, the man’s shining coat was painted red with his own blood. For him to be on his feet again cheered her greatly, and the emissary aimed a bright smile towards his head of onyx curls.
And then the meeting began. In pensive silence, Cyrene listened dutifully to Florentine’s speech. In truth, she understood little about the tragic affairs of that terrible night, and even less of what her queen had endured.
Very much, she concluded, from the heavy glances Florentine exchanged with Asterion.
With hearty effort, then, did she stay her tongue when the citizens began voicing their unrest. The first to speak, a fine-boned kirin she knew as Jude, poured his dissent like a sizzling ember into the fray. She could feel Asterion’s anger swell like a tide as he replied swiftly, the flare of his eyes a storm she’d never witnessed. Then came Lysander’s biting remark, and Israfel’s fire. Tempers were igniting, and Cyrene was at a loss at how to quell it.
But how could she call herself emissary if she could not even soothe the pains of her own court, much less a foreign one? She could no longer be but a passive observer when Florentine lived under the weight of a kingdom.
“If I may,” she began, with a soft glance towards the pink-scaled kirin. “I think, Jude, that you’ve been misled about Dusk’s future actions. To ease your worry, the regime is not foolish nor rash enough to wage war with Denocte.” Amber eyes lowered as her expression darkened, her thoughts turning to the lifeless, gaping eyes that had burned themselves one by one into her memories. They haunted her still in nightmares.
“As her emissary, I have full faith in saying that Florentine would never put herself before her people. I do not believe that her actions, whatever she decides, will endanger the Court more than Reichenbach's have already. And precisely because of that, Terrastella cannot be known as the Court that will do nothing but lick her wounds when attacked.”
“If we let Reichenbach and his Court think that he can get away with his crimes without so much as a whisper from Dusk… then we will have failed all of you.”
Lion's eyes as bright as a flame flickered from face to face as she shifted to address them all. It was a mighty effort, to keep her voice steady and soft when anger could so easily consume her. But the lion girl was learning, and Israfel’s words tempered the flames: “Do not condemn him for speaking his mind… You speak of ‘healing’… Then let us learn to heal by listening.” Wise girl.
“Dusk is a court of healing. My homeland was also such a place. We kept to ourselves, and were unbothered for many peaceful years — yet neighboring kingdoms saw us as weak, capable of miraculous feats of healing... and never retaliation. We were destroyed twice over, once by battle and once by a plague spread from those same kingdoms. I would never," pain laced her chest as her words echoed quietly across the waters, "wish for Dusk to make those same mistakes."
sorry this is messy and long ahh but cy reveals some of her history here!
