MESSALINA
she smelled like white roses and felt
as fragile and satiny as her dress.
The day had finally come.as fragile and satiny as her dress.
Her ivory curls ghosted like satin over her shoulders as Messalina moved with a dancer's grace through the castle, her hoofbeats as light as air. Freed from their usual braids, strands of her flowing mane danced like liquid mercury in the breeze, bleached white by a halo of golden sun.
After weeks of careful preparation, it still dazzled her how perfectly the regent had pulled off such a grand event. Though she hadn’t contributed much in the end, seldom had her wandering eyes strayed from Ipomoea as he’d rushed in and out of his chambers like a tempest, a storm of vibrant petals fluttering in his wake. She’d offered light suggestions here and there when she’d worked up the courage to knock softly at his door (always to be greeted with a smile equally soft by Po, however tired he had looked); yet her visits had always been made more out of concern than anything.
It pleased Messalina beyond words to see his plans come to fruition so wondrously.
The normally tranquil court was transformed into a spring of bubbling mirth as the festival commenced with cheers, but she didn't linger long before leaving the citadel entirely. The scent of wildflowers caressed her skin as she made her way towards a blooming (quite literally) booth nestled a stone’s throw away from Delumine’s gleaming gates.
His booth, of course.
As she neared, she kept her arrival deliberately sly — only to be discovered almost immediately by Odet’s keen gaze. Messalina widened her eyes in a silent plea as she halted midstride, her curls rustling as she gave an imperceptible shake of her head. Whether from understanding or sheer disinterest, the bluejay turned his head mercifully away, and the girl breathed easy once again.
Cerulean eyes, once as cold as a tundra, softened into summer skies as she watched Ipomoea lay a flower crown gently upon a child’s sable curls. She hesitated only a moment more, before moving to the back of a growing line of patrons all waiting to claim one of the regent’s beautiful creations.
“Good morning! Care for a crown of your own?” he chirped, head still lowered as he fussed over the leaves of a carnation and baby’s breath garland.
It had been a spur of the moment decision — and when her own boldness finally caught up to her, she was already finished. She stared pointedly into his cerise eyes for a beat, until, in a rush of (far too late) embarrassment, she lifted the nearest crown from the table and placed it upon her silver curls before drawing away.
And with a flourish, she was gone in a flutter of silk and roses.
@Ipomoea | notes: why is she like this c':
