her collarbones like wings
spread from the base of her throat to the ends of her shoulders.
a bird held down by skin.
spread from the base of her throat to the ends of her shoulders.
a bird held down by skin.
“N
obody seems to think I can tolerate the cold.”
“Because you can’t, can you?” she had said to him with a snort, back when they’d still been within the blissful warmth of the Scarab. Now, her limbs clattering with cold, Aghavni curses herself for neglecting to fetch her cloak in her haste. Her silk scarf hangs over her shoulders like clammy snakeskin, but it’s better than nothing, and - well, August, with his summer-soft coat and tightly braided mane, has nothing.
She has half a mind to rip her scarf off and pass it to him, but she is too miserably cold to consider doing him the kindness for very long. Perhaps the ice castle will have a heater. Or perhaps he can just loosen his copious amounts of hair. He keeps it neater than I do, she thinks, flicking her gaze to his braids.
“He’s always trusted you. But I’m sure he’s…busy…lately.”
The scratching of claws on cobblestone echoes through the narrow, serpentine streets as they pass the mouth of an alley, and though Aghavni tells herself the noise is from nothing more threatening than a sewer rat, she stiffens before her good sense can set in.
“As he always is.” Her sigh fogs the air with a dreamlike haze. The day her father runs out of ambitions to chase -
That will be a day, indeed.
Aghavni is altogether too glad for the beauty, and distraction, of the ice castle. Just until midnight, she tells herself as she stands transfixed in its flickering shadow. She will allow herself until midnight, like the princesses in her fairy books (that sit on a raised shelf in her room, collecting dust and centuries).
Time tick, tick, ticks away.
“Come on. My lady’s castle awaits.”
Smiling, she swishes her long, golden curls in what she hopes to be a royal air. She had not been among nobility for long enough to be sure, though the thought troubles her little - noble manners can always be taught, when it came time for her to learn it.
“What a grand castle that awaits me,” she remarks, trailing closely behind August as he steps under the glittering arch.
And then they are inside, and Aghavni doubts no longer if she is dreaming; her dreams are not capable of conjuring scenes of such ethereal magnificence. The Solterran castle had been beautiful in a severe, ostentatious way. With its sculpted domes and Midas touched interior, her uncle’s taste for the extravagant was infused into every gold-plated mirror and ruby encrusted cutlery she remembered.
Like preening peacocks, the nobility had been. And a dragon’s glittering lair they had entombed themselves in.
But the ice castle - Aghavni has never realized before that beauty wore another face. The face of a snow queen, pale and regal and...
Forlorn.
Her gaze trails up and up, until they settle upon the looming windows inset with panes of swirling color. Like tapestries, she thinks, when she realizes that the swirls form shapes, and the shapes form stories. Wordlessly, she studies the fables immortalized in ice.
In one of them, a black mare and a golden stallion circle each other like the sun chasing the moon. The stallion’s muzzle stretches towards the mare’s ink-black tail, but never quite reaches. The mare’s hoof lifts towards the stallion’s flame-touched back, but never quite touches. Quietly, Aghavni stretches her nose out towards the panes, and shivers when it rests against ice. Her eyes flutter closed.
What use is there in waiting? It is not yet midnight, but she is not a princess in a fairytale. She is not even a princess, not anymore. She opens her eyes and stills her breath.
“I received a letter today. It was from my father.” August is somewhere behind her, or besides her, she doesn’t look to make certain. Her gaze remains fixed on the black mare’s ice chip eyes. “He hasn't written for a long time, so I expected for there to be more tasks to complete than normal. Trades to settle, caravans to account for. Visitors important enough to escort. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until -” Her voice breaks as she chokes out a soft laugh.
“Raum is coming. The king of Solterra.” The word she doesn't say dangles like a noose between them. The blood king. The blood king. When she speaks again, her voice seems made of snow.
“He arrives in a week’s time. And in my father’s place, I am to go and greet him.”
@August | "speaks" | notes: <3
