m e s s a l i n a
he found the colors to paint her,
where the world had left her grey.
where the world had left her grey.
H
ad the stars always looked so lovely? Like diamonds atop a black mink stole, wrapped like a ribbon around Mother’s milky white throat. Mother. I wonder… where she is. Under a spill of soft moonlight, Messalina stood as still as a doll, lashes fluttering closed as she tilted her head towards the midnight sky.The world spun, spun like it did when she’d twirl too many pirouettes in a row — yet when she counted to three and opened her eyes, the world did not stop spinning. Blurs of silver, streaks of yellow. Music — a harp, as soft as a lullaby — drifted from a faraway corner. The festival at night was like a dream, and Messa wished for it to last forever.
A delicate throat angled upwards as she swallowed the remnants of her drink, the glass goblet twinkling like a chandelier. The mead tingled as it traveled languidly down her throat, leaving a trail of warmth and sweetness behind. Delicious, she hummed, as she licked her lips clean and set the goblet aside on a passing tray.
It was her second glass, drained in dizzying succession after the first. She had not been able to refuse when Eros had offered it to her, a half-empty glass already floating by his side — and she was glad, so glad, to have accepted. The drink was delicious, far better than the bitter wine she’d sipped with a stiff smile in front of Mother’s guests. Far stronger, too, though the girl had realized that fact perhaps a little too late.
Cerulean eyes, bright as a lark’s, swept the moonlit glade around her. There was no gold in her vision anymore. Somewhere between the first drink and the second, she’d lost sight of Eros’ gleaming tail in the crowd. By then, Messalina had been too enraptured by her own fading inhibition to care.
The dancer’s hooves felt as light as air as she followed idly behind a trio of giggling girls, their vibrant silks drifting like gossamer in the evening breeze. An ivory curl drifted in front of her eyes, and she blew it back with a puff of air. She’d started off the morning with a head of beautiful braids, and with each toll of the castle’s clocktower they had unraveled like unfurling petals. Now, her hair cascaded in white curls down her back, tangled in flowers and scented with the smells of the forest.
“Look, over there — the Regent!” Messalina’s head snapped up, quicker than lightning, as one of the girls motioned towards a cream-and-crimson figure standing a few paces away. “We should go and greet him, tell him how wonderful Delumine’s festival is. I’ve heard that he was the one who planned the entire affair,” the same one babbled, and Messa wondered with a frown how one could sound so much like a chittering bird. Blue eyes narrowed, as she realized just how much she didn’t want them to tell Ipomoea how wonderful the festival was.
Ivory hooves moved of their own accord as she brushed past them without so much as a mumbled apology. The alcohol in her blood scoffed at the word ‘reputation.’ Her heart raced to a crescendo as she neared, though she paid no mind to it as she halted a hairsbreadth away from his mottled back.
“I — po — moea,” Messa whispered, leaning towards his ear as she dragged out the syllables of his name until they tasted like honey on her tongue. “Were you hiding from me? Ah, but it’s useless — I shall find you every time.” Her eyes shone as bright and blue as sapphires when he turned. A second’s hesitation, and the words fell from her lips like a song. “Will you dance with me?”
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: (takes place after this thread) get ready po she's comin for ya
