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I P O M O E A Her voice is so lovely.’ The thought slipped through his mind like water, unbidden and reckless. Embarrassment burned hot at his cheeks for a millisecond, before he ducked his head and stared at the painting to hide it. It was true; Po doubted he would ever grow tired of listening to Messalina’s voice, of hearing the gentle thrum of emotions that slipped through despite her carefully trimmed exterior. Almost jealously, he let himself believe that he was the only one in the world who could hear it, that to anyone else she was a reserved and proper lady who never said a word out of place. That only Po could hear the airy chuckles and breathless whispers of delight, who could see the gentle shine in her eyes when she looked at something beautiful. It was naive and foolish, but a nice thought all the same. He hung on her every word, an ear remaining tilted in her direction as he admired the work with seemingly new eyes. She called it melancholic—and with a second look, he could agree. Something about the painting of the stars looked sad, distant and detached. He wondered if the artist had felt the same number of miles that separated each star, also separating himself from civilization. If perhaps his only joy had been the paintings he’d so meticulously crafted, his love of art replacing his love for humanity. ”Duty calls.” Once again, the young Emissary was pulled from his thoughts. “I passed the lake on my way in,” he mused thoughtfully, remembering how he had walked through the plains beside Nimue and Reichenbach, the lake glowing like the moon, a million colors decorating its banks. “I would love to get a closer look.” And with that, the Night King was gone, disappearing in the same flurry of smoke and shadows as he had appeared. Messalina and Ipomoea were only, two children of the rising sun in a room of stars and moonlight. A sheepish smile stretched across his lips, silence stretching between them, pulled taught with unspoken words. “I’ll only be in Denocte for another day or so...” his words trailed off into silence again. One heartbeat, then another, and another. He drew in a slow breath, his eyes flickering up to meet her’s. “Would you like to walk with me to Vitreus? I have the rest of this evening free.” He took a tentative step towards the same doorway from which Reichenbach had exited. His voice grew softer still. “I would like to spend it with you, I think. If you would, too.” He knew he was supposed to be here to learn about Denoctian culture, to build bridges between the northwest and the southeast—but his eyes and his heart were so full of hope that she would say yes. He loved the Night Court, with its perfumes and spices and love of life. But even here, standing beside Messalina, he realized he loved the Dawn more. Another small smile, with his heart worn proudly on his sleeve and every emotion, every thought shining brightly through his eyes. Another series of steps and he was leaving the room of art behind, along with Ixion and his paintings, hoping that the freckled dancer would go with him. @messalina figured we could (finally) end this here?! c’x po is out, on his way to the lake! ”here am i!“ |
neverrmind art
