m e s s a l i n a
the chains are broken,
but are you truly free?
songbut are you truly free?
I
t was curious — the world was spinning rapidly around her in a blur of color, yet Messalina felt as if she were swimming through syrup. Slow and dizzy and dreamlike.Her limbs did not obey her like they normally did. If she were a touch more sober, the discovery would’ve sent her down into a wobbly curtsy, head bowed to hide her heated cheeks as she excused herself in a flurry of skirts and chagrin.
Three glasses of mead, though, did wonders at locking away one’s sense of inhibition for a time when it could be met with the horror it deserved.
"Messalina." A smile bloomed upon her lips when Ipomoea spoke her name, the way the syllables glided off his tongue — different than Mother’s, different than anyone else’s — wrecking havoc to her already fluttering pulse.
“Of course, m’lady.” Her eyes widened a fraction when the regent brushed against her good-naturedly, though she was quick to school it back into nonchalance. Gods knows she still had enough composure left —
“For you, anything.”
A stunned silence descended over Messalina as Ipomoea turned away and pulled her gently towards a break in the crowd. Barely registering his hold on her, she breathed shakily as a sudden flare of panic infiltrated her liquor-induced haze. No one had ever said that to her. It was as startling as an arrow to the chest.
Limply, she allowed herself to be led forwards as she tried desperately to quell the queasiness in her stomach. She had been the one to so boldly ask for his hand in dance, and when he’d obliged, she was the one flustered. Just like how the girls in the Algernonan court had fretted foolishly over the boys they fancied, here she was, losing her nerve from one softly-spoken sentence.
The more Messalina tried to beat any sense out of her unobliging mind, though, the more her head spun. So, quite happily, she gave up trying. The mead in her blood wouldn’t allow it.
“Tell me.” They had stopped in a secluded part of the glade, the chirping of cicadas mingling with the music, and Ipomoea drew her towards him as he began to dance. Her gaze drifted lightly to his, and she marveled at how they were still as pink as spring roses in the silver moonlight. “How are you enjoying the festival?”
Softly, she fell into step with him, her movements balletic as she stepped closer, close enough to see the fluttering of his dark lashes and the pulse of his pale throat.
“It's… wonderful. I have never been to a festival before — we had them, of course, but I," her voice fell as she glanced away, brow creasing. "I hadn’t been allowed to go. I must say, a festival is far more pleasant than a stuffy gala or dinner.”
She smiled demurely as she pulled away again, eyes fluttering closed as the notes of a sweet, aching waltz drifted through the starlit glade. She recognized it — vaguely, she remembered dancing to it for one of her performances as a child, but the memory faded away as quickly as it came.
"Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself as much as I have today,” she said, the confession slipping quietly from her loosened tongue. "Coming here, being accepted so warmly into Delumine — even gaining a position in King Somnus’ court. Sometimes, I am so afraid that it is all a dream.”
That one day, I’ll wake up, and everything will be gone. Even you.
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: AT LONG LAST <33
