[P] the moon is drunk

[Manon]

we don't have to worry bout nothing
'Cause we got the fire and we're
burning one hell of a something

No.

They hang around her like tree boughs bending beneath the weight of their leaves, brittle and begging to snap to relieve themselves. She stands between them all, with a bloodied body and sides that heave with the effort of the aftermath; and even the white parts of her are smeared with the red as it all blends together and paints her as someone not her. That isn't her, as the soon-to-congeal liquid trails fingertip marks down her spine and across her face, tracing the diamond placed so securely there, over ears that once held a crown--that crown, that circlet of twigs and thorns crushed beneath the hooves of the fallen that lay in a heap about her, crystals shattered, lackluster.

No.

She was alone, but not really. How alone can someone be with the sins of their past resting peacefully upon their brow, whispering, reminding them of a darkness that threatened to lift them by their throats? But they weren't her sins, they couldn't be her sins; she has killed, surely, but the number that is strewn across the landscape is more than her mere hooves could amass solo. Everything told her she did it, that she, solitarily, committed these crimes and was the sole blame--but she didn't believe, couldn't trust it. She knew better, despite the mounting dread and the racing of her heart yelling to be released. She wanted to scream, to stop the shaking that wracked her dripping body, blood pooling at her feet as she stood unable to move. And then he laughed. It was more haunting than the massacre that spanned her sight, more evil than the deed she had done. It rose out of a shadow of a creature that she could not make out, but she didn't have to guess at who it was: her father lingered with his apparitional appearance, joyfully applauding her for a job well done.

No.

Maybe she did scream, or maybe her jaw hung wide in the horror she had just witnessed; it was a dream, it had to be dream. She threw the throw off her body, the one that had kept her warm in a bed so snug, and jumped to stand. There was no taste of iron in her mouth, no droplets of blood that stained her wooden floors red; her room... she was in her room, in the White Scarab, and though her sides heaved just as they had done moments prior, she was safe. She was not standing in the middle of those she had slain, not lost in the midst of a battlefield she didn't recognize. She was home, at least in as much of a home as the Scarab could be to those like her who claimed no fealty to any one place. Most importantly, though, she was truly alone--no black, shadowy figure materializing as a father she never met. No laugh that sounded like a god she didn't believe in. She hated him, both in and out of her dream-like consciousness, and she needed to get away. She needed to get out of that space slowly closing in around her, one she tended to feel so comfortable and confident in, behind that door with the clearly marked red rose. That night though, through the haze of a just-awaken daze, she needed to leave that comfort behind and, really, leave his ghost in her place. Maybe he'd be gone when she returned.

In a flurry she left the confines of the Scarab's walls, all decor hung neat staring at her as she pushed through the hallway, down the stairs, and brushed past those few guests that remained in the darkening night to play their games and tell their tales. No one dared open their mouths to speak to her, for surely she would snap back with bared teeth and words that stung like the coming winter. She had just recently returned from a long hiatus away (albeit one she was forced into) and leaving again so soon was bound to raise suspicion among the devout patrons. She wouldn't be gone long, no, just enough to drown whatever managed to plague the spaces of her mind.

And though the soft touch of the coming cool weather ran its fingers across her cheek and sent a chill along her back, she set out into Denocte and toward a place she and Vikander found soothing in their restless nights. With her pace quick, she managed to reach the edge of the lake with her thoughts still swirling and heart beating determinedly. Without hesitation she gently placed one hoof into the lapping waves, then the other, and soon enough her loosened mane was floating along beside her coppery body that became indistinguishable from the silver-kissed dark water. It was cold, colder than she expected the still-Fall night to bring, but she welcomed the way it stole her breath, and, subsequently, the thoughts that raced. Her gems gleamed beneath the glowing moon, reveling in the way they could shine unabashed. She, too, beamed under its watchful eye and stared off into some far-away place. The water trembled though she was still, and she didn't turn to look at him as he waded through as she had just done. There was no fear that she felt, no reason to think she was in danger; she would have been dead by then if he desired  it so.

She had been somewhere else when he entered her line of sight, curling around her as she had often done to others. Finally, softly, her tri-colored eyes flicked to him, more of a washed-out blue as the moon reflected back at the partial one on his face. Her features did not change, and there was no smile to welcome him, as his words broke whatever spell befell them and rang against her ears despite the hushed nature of their simplicity. Running from. No, maybe that was her some moments back, but she never ran from anything. She brashly pushed headlong into things, into others, into action. Under normal circumstances, no one would have thought her capable of running away from anything at all.

But she could tell, at least there with a stranger in the middle of a lake that wrapped them together, she wasn't under normal circumstances.

Her response wasn't immediate, instead tipping her head slightly to the side while she pondered the one who approached willingly in chilling water. She certainly wasn't special enough for someone to go to such lengths without a reason; maybe that would be the night she died, but instead she merely feigned innocence and blew a breath that fogged between them. "A nightmare." Her voice was a sewed blend of the smooth surface spreading around them and the face of the moon's craters, lilting and as soft as his; she didn't wish to disturb the peace that had enveloped them. And without a shift in her demeanor, she accepted him fully and whatever fate he might have brought her. "Have you come to be another?"

the red rose

CREDITS

@Tenebrae this turned into an essay, but MAN did it feel good to write <33