Never regret thy fall,
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.
Time and again, Ianthe finds herself longing for the mountains. Her mind wanders in the still-aired chambers of the capitol and she thinks of ragged peaks. Her wing aches and she longs for narrow paths. When her sworn duty has no need for her (and this is often, for at least the moment) her feet carry her away until she’s looking up at jagged rock.
If she made it to the top, she knows how the air would taste. She knows how clouds would slip about her like thick mist and cover her in dew drops. She knows that depending on the height of whichever peak she made it to, she might be able to look out over the tops of clouds.
Ianthe does not climb. Not alone. She doesn’t dare.
For all her life she’s been jumping off mountains, off plateaus, off jagged cliffs. For all her life she’s known free fall and the comfort of wings that will catch her. Now, one wing tucked tight against her side, weakened and healing slowly, she has no safety net, no guarantee that if the urge to leap takes her…
Well, Ianthe has oaths to keep and gods to please. She hasn’t the time for such daydreams (she has too much time), nor any luck to test. So when she finds herself yet again at the mountain's base she wanders the paths closest to the ground where no sheer drops can tempt her. Wanders as she has wandered before, will wander again, with no expectation to be joined by anyone – and yet.
Truly, she has no luck. A heretic approaches, golden and starved, scarred and exhausted. Ianthe can’t help but to pity the woman who shivers against the wind’s bite, whose hair is blackened in spots with dirt. A refugee? She wouldn’t be surprised. The Night Court is slow to stir to war, for all their cries, but that doesn’t mean those outside these borders are so fortunate.
“Miss?” She calls out, swallowing a sneer and keeping her distance. This poor, wretched creature could be of use to her General, or at least what word she brings might be. Still, Ianthe is a good bit smaller than her, between predisposition and her still growing body, and she knows to be wary of those who are different. “My name is Ianthe.” She's getting better at this introduction thing. “Might I be able to direct you?”
If she made it to the top, she knows how the air would taste. She knows how clouds would slip about her like thick mist and cover her in dew drops. She knows that depending on the height of whichever peak she made it to, she might be able to look out over the tops of clouds.
Ianthe does not climb. Not alone. She doesn’t dare.
For all her life she’s been jumping off mountains, off plateaus, off jagged cliffs. For all her life she’s known free fall and the comfort of wings that will catch her. Now, one wing tucked tight against her side, weakened and healing slowly, she has no safety net, no guarantee that if the urge to leap takes her…
Well, Ianthe has oaths to keep and gods to please. She hasn’t the time for such daydreams (she has too much time), nor any luck to test. So when she finds herself yet again at the mountain's base she wanders the paths closest to the ground where no sheer drops can tempt her. Wanders as she has wandered before, will wander again, with no expectation to be joined by anyone – and yet.
Truly, she has no luck. A heretic approaches, golden and starved, scarred and exhausted. Ianthe can’t help but to pity the woman who shivers against the wind’s bite, whose hair is blackened in spots with dirt. A refugee? She wouldn’t be surprised. The Night Court is slow to stir to war, for all their cries, but that doesn’t mean those outside these borders are so fortunate.
“Miss?” She calls out, swallowing a sneer and keeping her distance. This poor, wretched creature could be of use to her General, or at least what word she brings might be. Still, Ianthe is a good bit smaller than her, between predisposition and her still growing body, and she knows to be wary of those who are different. “My name is Ianthe.” She's getting better at this introduction thing. “Might I be able to direct you?”
