o, the red rose is a falcon
and the white rose is a dove.
and the white rose is a dove.
The world seems to be coming to a close; unsurprisingly, Katerina has chosen to wait out the end times at the library.
Delumine is quiet. Peaceful, even, the way she has always wanted things to be. But turmoil is waiting just past the gates, past the castle and the trees. There are whispers of that island out in the sea, of the black-glass bridge cracking, of skeletons floating down to line the sand. There is the sound of continents coming apart and of magic being torn asunder. There is the knowledge, crisis-inducing, that three of Novus’ courts are coming under new rule at the same time.
So many changes at once. It cannot possibly be good.
So Katerina, tragic, dramatic girl, opera-star with the blue eyes and dark lashes, wears her worry like a pendant and hides out in the one place that has not yet failed her. (She has always been good at hiding, especially in plain sight, and of all the places to be plain…)
The leaves that form the ceiling overhead have turned beautiful shades of gold, red, and burnt amber; they are slowly floating down to line the hallways, crunching under Katerina’s feet as she drifts through each section of the library in random order, nonfiction, poetry, history, cooking. With pale, watchful eyes she notes the new titles, tries to commit to memory the titles embossed into their shiny-fresh spines.
Many of the authors she does not recognize. Which is unusual. That word, that feeling, heightens her discomfort. Discomfort which is almost anxiety. Almost. But not quite.
Katerina is a researcher, so she categorizes: this crippling-cold feeling is something closer to anticipation. It is the anxiety, not of what is to come, but of having to wait for it.
With each stride the prickling of her skin seems to intensify a bit, the itching of her teeth becomes a little worse. This should be comforting. But it isn’t, nothing is comforting now. Shattering-glass bridge. Black magic making the water undrinkable. In the back of her mind she is ready for apocalypse, she is already preparing for deep sorrow. The familiar faces of the feline librarians and the patrons that she sees here so often are doing nothing to soothe her nerves. She only looks at them and wonders what kind of time they might all have left.
Suddenly she feels a little dizzy; oh no, Katerina thinks with desperation, not this—
“Any fool can know. The point is to understand.”
His eyes are blue; he and Katerina are in a garden, part marble, mostly greenery. And the sun is high overhead. Music plays faintly from somewhere far away. She feels herself walking, but it is all a little disconnected. The steps don’t align right. Her joints seem to have a hard time fitting together. It doesn’t bother him, though, he’s happy, he’s smiling, so she is smiling too. She can't not-smile. She would be concerned about that, if she could think straight, but right now it doesn't seem to matter.
She opens her mouth to ask him a question. She can’t remember, she realizes with a start she can’t even really see his coat, his build, anything what he looks like, besides those bright, bright blue eyes. What was the question? Oh. Right. Don’t forget. Stop forgetting, stupid girl. Right. She is opening her mouth to ask him what his name is.
“Wh—"
Something is ringing in her left ear. All she can see is blue, blue flooding the green, blue flooding the ghoulish marble. The sky is bluer than it was and bluer than she's ever seen it. Her skin is blue, which can't be right, and her breath in the air, and the words that come from her lips.
“Who a—“
The ringing is louder, louder still; she can’t walk anymore, in fact, can’t move at all; everything is filmed in bright sea-blue; he is speaking to her but she can’t hear it, she can’t hear anything over the godawful ringing in her ear, and her head is starting to split with the shrill noise of it—
She wakes up with a start. And a migraine. Her cheek is pressed against the cool dirt, a bright ache is pulsating in her temples: when she does manage to scramble to sitting it floods her with a wave of nausea so strong her vision goes black, black, black.
There is a wind coming through the leaves overhead, and it makes a sound like the perfect whisper. Lanterns float dim and yellow against the trees. It's growing dark, and cold, and someone has come by to put a pillow under her head, but as far as she can see, the library has begun to empty out. The bookshelves are still and stoic as ever. There are no patrons, no librarians, either. She is alone. (Alone, alone, alone: it runs through her like a song or a liturgy or a prayer. I know you, darling Katerina, I know you far too well.)
Darling Katerina closes her eyes.
She does not see the dream coming toward her.
