Antiope can sense the fissures in the woman at her side, in the way her voice sounds like the wind passing through a cracked window. She can sense them as though she can see them, but Antiope was never made for repairing, only destroying. So, she doesn’t know how to fix them, to seal them off, to stop whatever it is that’s leaking out of this woman Isra. She can barely stop the things inside of her from emerging, like the lioness that calls the cage of her body home, who is bloodthirsty and indulgent.
She sees the window of lovers and stars and it should remind her of Rezar. It should remind her of the thing that she had, but all it reminds her of is the thing that she lost. She looks at the window and hates the soft, sweet couple she sees because she hates the memory of the lover and the child that she lost.
Not lost, they had been stolen from her. Ripped from the world and her grasp and her heart.
“I am Antiope,” she responds in kind. They called me Antiope, she thinks, and she thinks that they did not think very hard when they gave her a name that would put her against them. Gods, who can see so much, know so many things, make and give and take, but how stupid they are to overlook such simple things. She may have been their downfall, but only because they had been their own first. There is nothing in her blood that feels regret, nothing in her bones that sings of remorse.
When Isra asks her what she would carve into a window Antiope can see it, like she can see inside herself, like she can see the stars in the sky even as they fade away against the morning sun. She sees a temple on fire, with blood like lava rushing through its doors, and all the anger in the world knocking down each pillar and bringing the whole thing to the ground. She sees statues, crumbled and bodies crumbled and so much fury spiderwebbing across it. Antiope says none of these things, however, only, “Death.”
And her eyes are an ocean but her heart is a blaze, all-consuming. “Because it is all-around and inescapable and sometimes,” she pauses, eyes dancing across the rubies glittering in the snow and to the eyes of the woman Isra at her side whose cracks can only be filled with one thing: the thing that she too is filled with, “necessary.” And she wonders, and wonders. She doesn’t know this unicorn, and Antiope has not come to this world for war (she does not want to fight, for what is there to fight for now) but,
“Would you carve it with me?”
"Speaking."
She sees the window of lovers and stars and it should remind her of Rezar. It should remind her of the thing that she had, but all it reminds her of is the thing that she lost. She looks at the window and hates the soft, sweet couple she sees because she hates the memory of the lover and the child that she lost.
Not lost, they had been stolen from her. Ripped from the world and her grasp and her heart.
“I am Antiope,” she responds in kind. They called me Antiope, she thinks, and she thinks that they did not think very hard when they gave her a name that would put her against them. Gods, who can see so much, know so many things, make and give and take, but how stupid they are to overlook such simple things. She may have been their downfall, but only because they had been their own first. There is nothing in her blood that feels regret, nothing in her bones that sings of remorse.
When Isra asks her what she would carve into a window Antiope can see it, like she can see inside herself, like she can see the stars in the sky even as they fade away against the morning sun. She sees a temple on fire, with blood like lava rushing through its doors, and all the anger in the world knocking down each pillar and bringing the whole thing to the ground. She sees statues, crumbled and bodies crumbled and so much fury spiderwebbing across it. Antiope says none of these things, however, only, “Death.”
And her eyes are an ocean but her heart is a blaze, all-consuming. “Because it is all-around and inescapable and sometimes,” she pauses, eyes dancing across the rubies glittering in the snow and to the eyes of the woman Isra at her side whose cracks can only be filled with one thing: the thing that she too is filled with, “necessary.” And she wonders, and wonders. She doesn’t know this unicorn, and Antiope has not come to this world for war (she does not want to fight, for what is there to fight for now) but,
“Would you carve it with me?”
@Isra
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
