Cyrene
she spun herself a crown of gold,
thrones of bones and citadels.
—
His luminous eyes pierced her like a beam of brilliant sun, so full of longing and pain that Cyrene was sure they would set her alight. Her own gaze, leonine and sharp, never wavered. A part of her wanted to burn in that unholy fire, burn until their ashes mingled in a rain of soot and smoke.
The moon slipped behind a silver cloud as he began to speak. There was no other sound besides his voice, low and soft in the wings of his sorrow, and Cyrene listened. She listened, as he told her of the Davke. She listened, as he told her of their suffering at the hands of Solterra, at the claws of a boy-king who had bathed in the blood of a nation.
And most of all, she listened to the memories he didn't put into words. Amber eyes traced the lines of his chiseled jaw, the slopes of his elegant shoulders, as the pieces began to assemble like shards of broken glass. Why had Velorca chosen this room, out of the dozens of doorways that still stood whole and undamaged down the receding hall? It only truly sank in, when Cyrene recounted with widening eyes how he had paused before stepping in, how his golden gaze had ghosted over parts of the room that had been bare. Only to me. Only I couldn't see what this room once held.
“This… is your room,” she whispered, as the revelation fell upon her like a torrent of crushing stones. And then her eyes flew to him, twin flames, as she took in the beauty that had dazzled her that night under the stars, that still dazzled her this night. At the gold that mottled his skin like splatters of blood, at the ring that looped through his nose like the link of a broken chain. He didn’t have to tell her, which role he had played.
Fury crashed upon her in waves. At the injustice of the world, at the suffering that spread across it like plague — at the vile creatures that had been allowed to live like kings, laughing as they drank blood like wine. Her people had been taken by a thing intangible, the sickness something she couldn’t cull in howling retribution. But if they hadn’t — if there had been someone to blame — Cyrene would’ve damned herself to hell if that was what it took to avenge them. His need for vengeance... she felt it painfully well.
She was trembling, from exhaustion as much as anger, and barely registered his next words as Lorca leaned towards her once more. The bandage fell, heavy with blood, to the sand.
“What are you doing here, Cyrene? It's not... The War still rages. There is more blood to be spilled yet.”
With the last dregs of her strength, she rubbed the anger from her eyes like red paint as his question brought reluctance to her tongue. “I — am the new emissary of Dusk.” She didn’t let it sink in, before plowing blindly forwards in a tangle of words. “I accompanied Florentine to Solterra to greet the new queen, Seraphina, but we had barely exchanged our greetings before… all this began. Solterra was short of healers, so instead of fleeing I offered to stay and help.” Her brow crinkled as she leaned forwards, closing the remaining distance until their noses almost touched. “But I won’t pretend like I had nothing but selfless intentions. I knew you were here, Lorca, and I couldn’t leave until I knew you were still alive.” Her voice ended harshly, and she didn’t realize how she had called him until it had passed her lips. Lorca. Of all the times, a blush colored her cheeks that Cyrene raced to conceal by drawing away too quickly.
“This is not the first time I have seen blood, you know,” she said as her heart struggled to settle, and she coughed as her voice caught. “I told you before that I was not from here. My home is far away, a place called Pelion — it doesn’t exist anymore, I don’t think. My people were all but destroyed, not by war, but by plague. My mother, my father… my sister, Cygnus, she died in my arms.” Her voice wobbled and she turned away, so he wouldn’t see the tears that threatened to fall — with a hiss of frustration, a scarred wing glided across her cheek in a flash of red feathers. She didn't even recoil at the sight of it anymore — what a mess she had been reduced to. “Sometimes… sometimes I wish there had been an enemy. So I would be filled with revenge, with anger, with something other than this… emptiness that exists instead.”
Golden eyes refused to meet his; she could not look at him. Not when he now knew of the darkness she was capable of. The way Velorca looked at her… like she was light and goodness and purity — he did not know, of the atrocities she was willing to commit. Of the depths she was willing to fall.
@Velorca | "speaks" | notes: -throws self into the fire-
she spun herself a crown of gold,
thrones of bones and citadels.
—
His luminous eyes pierced her like a beam of brilliant sun, so full of longing and pain that Cyrene was sure they would set her alight. Her own gaze, leonine and sharp, never wavered. A part of her wanted to burn in that unholy fire, burn until their ashes mingled in a rain of soot and smoke.
The moon slipped behind a silver cloud as he began to speak. There was no other sound besides his voice, low and soft in the wings of his sorrow, and Cyrene listened. She listened, as he told her of the Davke. She listened, as he told her of their suffering at the hands of Solterra, at the claws of a boy-king who had bathed in the blood of a nation.
And most of all, she listened to the memories he didn't put into words. Amber eyes traced the lines of his chiseled jaw, the slopes of his elegant shoulders, as the pieces began to assemble like shards of broken glass. Why had Velorca chosen this room, out of the dozens of doorways that still stood whole and undamaged down the receding hall? It only truly sank in, when Cyrene recounted with widening eyes how he had paused before stepping in, how his golden gaze had ghosted over parts of the room that had been bare. Only to me. Only I couldn't see what this room once held.
“This… is your room,” she whispered, as the revelation fell upon her like a torrent of crushing stones. And then her eyes flew to him, twin flames, as she took in the beauty that had dazzled her that night under the stars, that still dazzled her this night. At the gold that mottled his skin like splatters of blood, at the ring that looped through his nose like the link of a broken chain. He didn’t have to tell her, which role he had played.
Fury crashed upon her in waves. At the injustice of the world, at the suffering that spread across it like plague — at the vile creatures that had been allowed to live like kings, laughing as they drank blood like wine. Her people had been taken by a thing intangible, the sickness something she couldn’t cull in howling retribution. But if they hadn’t — if there had been someone to blame — Cyrene would’ve damned herself to hell if that was what it took to avenge them. His need for vengeance... she felt it painfully well.
She was trembling, from exhaustion as much as anger, and barely registered his next words as Lorca leaned towards her once more. The bandage fell, heavy with blood, to the sand.
“What are you doing here, Cyrene? It's not... The War still rages. There is more blood to be spilled yet.”
With the last dregs of her strength, she rubbed the anger from her eyes like red paint as his question brought reluctance to her tongue. “I — am the new emissary of Dusk.” She didn’t let it sink in, before plowing blindly forwards in a tangle of words. “I accompanied Florentine to Solterra to greet the new queen, Seraphina, but we had barely exchanged our greetings before… all this began. Solterra was short of healers, so instead of fleeing I offered to stay and help.” Her brow crinkled as she leaned forwards, closing the remaining distance until their noses almost touched. “But I won’t pretend like I had nothing but selfless intentions. I knew you were here, Lorca, and I couldn’t leave until I knew you were still alive.” Her voice ended harshly, and she didn’t realize how she had called him until it had passed her lips. Lorca. Of all the times, a blush colored her cheeks that Cyrene raced to conceal by drawing away too quickly.
“This is not the first time I have seen blood, you know,” she said as her heart struggled to settle, and she coughed as her voice caught. “I told you before that I was not from here. My home is far away, a place called Pelion — it doesn’t exist anymore, I don’t think. My people were all but destroyed, not by war, but by plague. My mother, my father… my sister, Cygnus, she died in my arms.” Her voice wobbled and she turned away, so he wouldn’t see the tears that threatened to fall — with a hiss of frustration, a scarred wing glided across her cheek in a flash of red feathers. She didn't even recoil at the sight of it anymore — what a mess she had been reduced to. “Sometimes… sometimes I wish there had been an enemy. So I would be filled with revenge, with anger, with something other than this… emptiness that exists instead.”
Golden eyes refused to meet his; she could not look at him. Not when he now knew of the darkness she was capable of. The way Velorca looked at her… like she was light and goodness and purity — he did not know, of the atrocities she was willing to commit. Of the depths she was willing to fall.
@Velorca | "speaks" | notes: -throws self into the fire-
