MINYA
take that look from off your face
you ain't gunna burn my heart out
you ain't gunna burn my heart out
Their hooves are a choir of song as they step together through the empty castle walls. She moves through these barren halls like spring upon the vestiges of winter. Minya is a spark of colour. She is the grace and beauty of night that fills Solterra’s halls with wild fires and wilder dance.
Always has she felt wrong in her beauty, even as she bathes in it as though it were a bath of gold. Yet never has she felt this wrong. The winter-barren halls of this palace echo with turmoil and emptiness. The sound of the Night Court’s feet are all the music she thinks this place has heard. Her gold jewellery feels cheap as it chimes from her antlers. Minya is a swan within a drying lake.
Though her skin is steel-sleek - though she gleams as polished silver - her body the hue of a gathering storm, sand and dust cling to the hot of her torso. Night’s splendour pours down the slender arch of her throat, pooling in fuschia pink at her feet. Her tail is a silken train behind her, long and elegant and tinged with dirt.
Ah, all of Minya is the truest she has ever been. The sand and dirt upon her skin are as bold as the memories of the servant girl she was as a child. So familiar is she with the dust and the dirt that she does not realise the way she wears it as if it is a sheer garment.
The Scarab girl moves beside Moira; a dancer beside a politician. Oh what mockery of a greeting team is this? They step into the throne room, into the presence of a king. If Minya is the grey of a gathering storm, the silver of ethereal moonlight, then the king is the brightest glow of Day. The sun crawls up his limbs, it claims him with tattoos that weave a story of sunlight across his flesh. His hair curls as solar winds and Minya wonders how it might burn her skin to touch him, for just a moment.
The king welcomes Moira first and Minya does not move from where she tips up her chin and stands like revelry. Then his gaze is upon her and it is as though the sun burns in through the steel of her skin, as if it melts the metal of her. She might flinch, she might turnher gaze away as if pliant. Yet Minya has not been a servant for many, many years. Beneath the glitter of her thick lashes she sets her silver eyes to meet the gold of him. Moira’s feathers brush along her slim sides as they stand close, united. “Minya.” She finishes for the king. “My name is Minya,” the Scarab girl affirms as she lowers into a graceful curtsey.
“We have come to congratulate you on your ascension, your Majesty, and invite you to spend time with us in Denocte.” Her voice, warm as whiskey, trails off as her gaze turns to Moira, waiting upon the emissary to finish.
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| "speaks" | notes: spoopy! <3
