m e s s a l i n a
it is the sinking of things.
always, always, the sinking of things.
always, always, the sinking of things.
In the darkness of the room, Messalina watched the shadows grow.
She had never been afraid of the dark. What was there to be afraid of, when your mother was a sorceress? (When you loved and feared her in equal measure?)
Mother had never told her tales of monsters and repentant children. Messalina had not needed to be scared to keep away from the woods. She had not needed to be warned into being polite, tricked into being obedient.
She had always been obedient. She had always been polite. She kept away from the woods, because Mother had forbidden it.
“They’re still out there?” came Po’s soft voice, and there was a trembling in it she could not place. The shadows in the room swelled like a blood-starved mosquito, until Messalina could think only of monsters and men and bodies and blood.
She forgot she was clutching onto him. When she remembered, her grip on the regent tightened like a hangman’s noose (her thoughts shifted to legs kicking, tongues blackening) until a foggy piece of her mind wondered if she was hurting him.
She let go of him like she had been scalded.
A soft “Yes,” was Messalina’s only answer. She watched, guilt growing in her chest like the shadows on the wall, when his cerise eyes widened in dawning realization. When his mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. A thousand words clawed through her head, but none of them felt right, none of them were right, so she did nothing but watch him with her darkening eyes.
“I’m coming with you.” A featherlight breath rushed past her lips, one she had not known she was holding back. Then – no, he cannot come, he must stay here as the regent! She did not know where Pavetta was, but there was no time to send for her – if Ipomoea left, and if something happened to them all –
But he had already turned back around, and when she saw the way the regent held himself she knew she would not be able to convince him to stay. And a black part of her heart had never wanted to.
“Take this,” and she mutely took the lit candlewick he handed her, bringing it closer to her chest when the warmth of the flames soaked into her frozen bones. She had not realized how cold she was. Before a shiver could set in with gnashing teeth, Messalina clutched the candle tighter and tighter, and prayed the wax would hold.
She lifted her chin up to him when he finished lighting his own candle, and tried to school her expression into one that would appear brave. “Are you ready?”
“I am. If you are, too.” Frowning, she leaned towards him to probe behind the mask of his determination. (She knew, because she was wearing one too.) And then, before she realized what she was doing, she reached up to smooth over a piece of his curling mane with her muzzle. (Later she would convince herself it had simply bothered her – the regent’s disheveled hair had been just a bit too endearing.)
“I have faith in them, Ipomoea.” She lifted her lips into a not-quite smile, before turning on her heels towards the still-open door.
“They will be alright.” They had to be.
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: so much love for these two <33
