TO SEEKING.
to finding.
to finding.
There is a lump in her throat and when she swallows, it hardens into stone and sinks down to crush her heart.
She is late, and she does not like the feeling.
Her murmured "Where may I find-" (a pause, as she ponders how to address him and how her address of him will now be analyzed for threads of scandal) "- the king?" draws a bow and a silent nod towards the greenhouse from a young and curious chambermaid.
The lump that is now a stone sprouts claws and dons fangs as the muted light of the greenhouse grows first as a memory and then like a beacon that beckons ships home. Messalina runs her tongue over her teeth and sighs, whether in relief or anxiety even she cannot tell, when the taste of iron that precedes blood tastes of nothing instead.
She forgets to lift her hood from her head before she enters.
The perfume of flowers-in-spring floods her with a melancholy so strong her breath catches, and then her hooves. Love-in-the-mist. Love-in-idleness. The names come to her unbidden as she recognizes each flower by its petals, as if summoned from the pages of a grimoire calling for ingredients she barely recognizes, for a potion she has never needed. Blue star petals, petals like violet teardrops, peel off their stems and scatter in her path from an unfelt wind.
The meandering stone path winds and backtracks amongst vines of ivies, branches of willows, fields of light-drinking daylilies. She is late, but she does not hurry and instead lingers. Blossoms dip their heads to her and she watches them do so quietly, knowing that it is not her they swear their love to.
It is to him.
Finally, when the meandering path loses patience and rushes her to its finale, she finds him at the end of the greenhouse bent over a single rosebush.
The stone that is now a monster shivers and hides behind her hurting heart. The roses in her mane seem like drops of blood in snow compared to the eggyolk-and-summer-sun of the ones whispering secrets against his lips. (Her roses were found and stripped of their thorns. His were tended and kissed of their petals. Therein lies the difference, and it is, once noticed, startling.)
One consequence of Messalina's change is that she has learned to watch others so quietly they seldom catch her at it unless they are expecting to.
A single petal sheds from her hair as she moves her soundless hooves closer, and closer, and closer.
His back is to her, and she wonders if he has noticed her. She hopes he has and prays he has not and keeps looking forwards, towards the roses, because otherwise she would not be able to do what she is about to do.
The flowers remain her only witness as she steps up besides him and rests her head softly, hesitantly, against his back.
Her loosened curls pour like liquid moonlight over his shoulders and tumble silently to the floor. (In her lateness, she has forgotten to braid it.)
Her hood drowns her sight in shadow as she scours her mind for the right words and, unable to find them, whispers ones she hopes are enough: "Did you wait long?"
☾
She is late, and she does not like the feeling.
Her murmured "Where may I find-" (a pause, as she ponders how to address him and how her address of him will now be analyzed for threads of scandal) "- the king?" draws a bow and a silent nod towards the greenhouse from a young and curious chambermaid.
The lump that is now a stone sprouts claws and dons fangs as the muted light of the greenhouse grows first as a memory and then like a beacon that beckons ships home. Messalina runs her tongue over her teeth and sighs, whether in relief or anxiety even she cannot tell, when the taste of iron that precedes blood tastes of nothing instead.
She forgets to lift her hood from her head before she enters.
The perfume of flowers-in-spring floods her with a melancholy so strong her breath catches, and then her hooves. Love-in-the-mist. Love-in-idleness. The names come to her unbidden as she recognizes each flower by its petals, as if summoned from the pages of a grimoire calling for ingredients she barely recognizes, for a potion she has never needed. Blue star petals, petals like violet teardrops, peel off their stems and scatter in her path from an unfelt wind.
The meandering stone path winds and backtracks amongst vines of ivies, branches of willows, fields of light-drinking daylilies. She is late, but she does not hurry and instead lingers. Blossoms dip their heads to her and she watches them do so quietly, knowing that it is not her they swear their love to.
It is to him.
Finally, when the meandering path loses patience and rushes her to its finale, she finds him at the end of the greenhouse bent over a single rosebush.
The stone that is now a monster shivers and hides behind her hurting heart. The roses in her mane seem like drops of blood in snow compared to the eggyolk-and-summer-sun of the ones whispering secrets against his lips. (Her roses were found and stripped of their thorns. His were tended and kissed of their petals. Therein lies the difference, and it is, once noticed, startling.)
One consequence of Messalina's change is that she has learned to watch others so quietly they seldom catch her at it unless they are expecting to.
A single petal sheds from her hair as she moves her soundless hooves closer, and closer, and closer.
His back is to her, and she wonders if he has noticed her. She hopes he has and prays he has not and keeps looking forwards, towards the roses, because otherwise she would not be able to do what she is about to do.
The flowers remain her only witness as she steps up besides him and rests her head softly, hesitantly, against his back.
Her loosened curls pour like liquid moonlight over his shoulders and tumble silently to the floor. (In her lateness, she has forgotten to braid it.)
Her hood drowns her sight in shadow as she scours her mind for the right words and, unable to find them, whispers ones she hopes are enough: "Did you wait long?"
@Ipomoea // the flavor of this post is roses and melancholy with a whole shot of longing?? who is she
