m e s s a l i n a
when the moon is ready
she will drown you
she will drown you
“T
his is your first festival?” She shifted slowly towards him, to better hear his question, and her heavy head dropped forwards until it was just shy of brushing Ipomoea’s neck. The liquor seemed to have circulated its way through Messalina’s entire bloodstream, at long last. Her limbs had never before felt so heavy, so languid, so free. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he murmured, and she smiled. She was doing a lot of that, smiling, but she found to her delight that she was growing less and less concerned. Why should well-brought-up ladies always pretend to be demure? Why had Mother always required it of her? She had never dared to ask, but tonight, when the stars were so bright, and her heart felt so brave, there was little she would not dare to do.
“The first, yes,” she hummed, pulling away as the music crept to a gentle crescendo. “But I assume for you it is not the first.” Suddenly, as her hooves took a practiced step towards him again, the music picking up its scattered pieces, she remembered the trio of girls who had been on their way towards him. The girls who would have gotten to him first if she had not reached him before.
“If it’s a dream, it’s one I never wish to wake up from.”
A tingle spread up her spine, and her eyes snapped closed. Her mouth parted, but then closed again when an unbidden wave of sickness unsteadied her steady hooves. Her heart raced in her chest, and, biting her lip, Messalina blamed it to the unfortunate curse of intoxication.
Her mind was cloudy and unfocused, like a lipstick-smudged glass that had not been properly polished. Slowly she dragged her steps, hooves catching in the overgrown grass, but before she could halt entirely he pulled away first.
“Messa. I-" he stuttered, and she frowned when the warmth of him was lost to the cool evening air. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the party.” The light of the lanterns was too dim for her to see him properly, and for the life of her she could not puzzle out why he was drawing away. The music had not even stopped, and continued to drift like windblown silk through the glade. Teasing. Too fine and too delicate.
The girls had been wearing silk, too. “Are you saying that because you are leaving?” Her head buzzed like cicadas in summer. She hated cicadas. “I am thirsty. Let us go for some refreshments,” she said, before he could reply, because she did not want him to leave.
And, brushing a curl back into place, she made her way — not yet stumbling, not yet graceless — towards the sparkling pitchers of drink.
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: <3
