IT WAS RAINING, AND HE WAS LOSING HIS BLOOD,
he was losing his brain, in a cold place, in a ditch
he was losing his brain, in a cold place, in a ditch
The first storm of the winter arrived with a blustery vengeance on the evening Senna's caravan slipped across the glacier-cut gorge keeping Day from Night.
Dark clouds hissed out sheets of sleet and raced each other across the skies. The windows of the gold-chased caravan were sealed shut with beeswax, but when dawn broke, a gust of howling wind cut through the wax like a hot knife through butter and spit snow into the lashes of the pensive nobleman within. He drew his fur-lined cloak tighter around him. The white falcon perched on the sill ruffled her feathers peevishly and tucked her beak into the crook of her wing.
Dunes of sand slowly gave way to mounds of snow. Frost choked the air and froze the tears from smarting eyes. The fine mahogany spokes of the wagon accumulated mud like interest, and thrice was the small procession forced to a halt when a wheel sank into the maw of a snow-choked hole. Each time, Senna swept silently out, stripped of his cloak, to heave at the wheel with his men.
Despite it all, they made good time. Before gloomy noon could slip into icy evening, the caravan pulled up the winding alley that led to the heart of the city, and the white pearl nestled within.
"Father!" Senna looked down as a bundle wrapped in cloth was pushed into his chest, the witch-green eyes of his daughter cutting through the haze of snow.
"The Night's winter is bitter," she hummed, voice muffled beneath an ermine stole wrapped snugly round her throat. An iron handle stuck out of the cloth, and Senna placed the bundle as a wrapped bedwarmer just as its warmth began to seep deliciously into his bones.
"Is this your way of reminding me my age, Aghavnu jan?" he grunted, but his lips edged into a faint, tender smile. "I have missed the cold; Solterra has but one season, and it deadens the senses. But let us not linger."
Nodding with mirth, Aghavni made for the Scarab's doors—held open by a red-cheeked serving boy, shivering in his sapphire satin—her father close behind, Nestor's talons digging lightly into his cloaked shoulder.
They walked in silence, until Aghavni could bear her news no longer. "Manon is back," she remarked, glancing shrewdly at her father as they turned down a lantern-lit hallway. Candles were kept only in the areas the patrons frequented—they were a pain to keep lit, all ten thousand or so of them, even with Vikander's magic. If nothing else, Senna was a fair employer.
"Is she?" He had known, of course. The Enchantress' perfumed message had drifted through his window in the shape of a dove that burst theatrically into flames when read. And according to the flaming script, the Red Rose had received his gift with grace.
"I shall never understand why you favor her so," said Aghavni, with a great sigh. She had written her father of what the woman had done to the child—who had turned out to be older than she, but that was besides the point—so she turned to him now, narrow-eyed yet cautious. She was sharp, sharper perhaps than he had been at her age, and despite her occasional brashness knew the merits of saying too little versus the latter.
"She is an old acquaintance," Senna said after a pause. "And she is skilled, in ways I am not. You will learn, Sol, that some battles cannot be won by force. They are won by subtler things—a cobra in a basket, a rose with death-touched thorns. Temptation. Seduction." His voice, deep as rivers in spring, echoed gravely down the carpeted hall.
"If anything, you would not want her as an enemy."
« ❦ »
August had found her first, but the boy accepted dismissal with a bow and good-humoured grin. Yet Senna's gaze had lingered as August strode away, burdened by a depth of concern the nobleman would never deign to show.
A year—and all the hardships of that year—had hardened August. A newfound edge sharpened his laughing eyes, and shadows gathered at the corners of his storyteller's lips.
Aghavni had not mentioned anything to him, but doubtless she knew the reason behind August's unease. But loyalty had sealed fast her lips. Stemming his sigh, Senna resolved to seek them both out come evening.
He turned to Manon and his faint smile solidified into one of ease. Clearing his throat, he swiped an amber glass from a passing blue-suit's tray and touched it to his lips. To keep the sleep (there it pressed, insistent, at the edge of his mind) at bay for a few hours more.
"Manon," he said at last, breath fogging the rim of the crystal goblet.
The whiskey burned down his throat and left his mouth with a hint of sweetness. Denoctian brews preferred saccharine over the malted bitterness Solterrans so favoured; it was a welcome change, and strangely calming. The goblet clinked as Senna set it down, drained, on a walnut cabinet lined with rows and rows of dripping wax candles.
"I hope the Enchantress did not give you too much trouble," he remarked, low but carrying through the din. His gaze flickered steadily over Manon's sculpted cheekbones to the crown of thorns wound through her starlight hair. It lingered for only a moment, for swiftly after Senna tipped the point of his horn towards the mouth of the winding stairs.
"Come. I admit I am a bit weary after traveling, and my office will make for better conversation than here." His jaw set, and the shadows seemed to deepen in the hollows of his cheeks and eyes.
Until a flicker of rare amusement crossed his lips, and he added jauntily over his shoulder: "And I am eager, old friend, to hear the story of how you got away."
☾
Dark clouds hissed out sheets of sleet and raced each other across the skies. The windows of the gold-chased caravan were sealed shut with beeswax, but when dawn broke, a gust of howling wind cut through the wax like a hot knife through butter and spit snow into the lashes of the pensive nobleman within. He drew his fur-lined cloak tighter around him. The white falcon perched on the sill ruffled her feathers peevishly and tucked her beak into the crook of her wing.
Dunes of sand slowly gave way to mounds of snow. Frost choked the air and froze the tears from smarting eyes. The fine mahogany spokes of the wagon accumulated mud like interest, and thrice was the small procession forced to a halt when a wheel sank into the maw of a snow-choked hole. Each time, Senna swept silently out, stripped of his cloak, to heave at the wheel with his men.
Despite it all, they made good time. Before gloomy noon could slip into icy evening, the caravan pulled up the winding alley that led to the heart of the city, and the white pearl nestled within.
"Father!" Senna looked down as a bundle wrapped in cloth was pushed into his chest, the witch-green eyes of his daughter cutting through the haze of snow.
"The Night's winter is bitter," she hummed, voice muffled beneath an ermine stole wrapped snugly round her throat. An iron handle stuck out of the cloth, and Senna placed the bundle as a wrapped bedwarmer just as its warmth began to seep deliciously into his bones.
"Is this your way of reminding me my age, Aghavnu jan?" he grunted, but his lips edged into a faint, tender smile. "I have missed the cold; Solterra has but one season, and it deadens the senses. But let us not linger."
Nodding with mirth, Aghavni made for the Scarab's doors—held open by a red-cheeked serving boy, shivering in his sapphire satin—her father close behind, Nestor's talons digging lightly into his cloaked shoulder.
They walked in silence, until Aghavni could bear her news no longer. "Manon is back," she remarked, glancing shrewdly at her father as they turned down a lantern-lit hallway. Candles were kept only in the areas the patrons frequented—they were a pain to keep lit, all ten thousand or so of them, even with Vikander's magic. If nothing else, Senna was a fair employer.
"Is she?" He had known, of course. The Enchantress' perfumed message had drifted through his window in the shape of a dove that burst theatrically into flames when read. And according to the flaming script, the Red Rose had received his gift with grace.
"I shall never understand why you favor her so," said Aghavni, with a great sigh. She had written her father of what the woman had done to the child—who had turned out to be older than she, but that was besides the point—so she turned to him now, narrow-eyed yet cautious. She was sharp, sharper perhaps than he had been at her age, and despite her occasional brashness knew the merits of saying too little versus the latter.
"She is an old acquaintance," Senna said after a pause. "And she is skilled, in ways I am not. You will learn, Sol, that some battles cannot be won by force. They are won by subtler things—a cobra in a basket, a rose with death-touched thorns. Temptation. Seduction." His voice, deep as rivers in spring, echoed gravely down the carpeted hall.
"If anything, you would not want her as an enemy."
August had found her first, but the boy accepted dismissal with a bow and good-humoured grin. Yet Senna's gaze had lingered as August strode away, burdened by a depth of concern the nobleman would never deign to show.
A year—and all the hardships of that year—had hardened August. A newfound edge sharpened his laughing eyes, and shadows gathered at the corners of his storyteller's lips.
Aghavni had not mentioned anything to him, but doubtless she knew the reason behind August's unease. But loyalty had sealed fast her lips. Stemming his sigh, Senna resolved to seek them both out come evening.
He turned to Manon and his faint smile solidified into one of ease. Clearing his throat, he swiped an amber glass from a passing blue-suit's tray and touched it to his lips. To keep the sleep (there it pressed, insistent, at the edge of his mind) at bay for a few hours more.
"Manon," he said at last, breath fogging the rim of the crystal goblet.
The whiskey burned down his throat and left his mouth with a hint of sweetness. Denoctian brews preferred saccharine over the malted bitterness Solterrans so favoured; it was a welcome change, and strangely calming. The goblet clinked as Senna set it down, drained, on a walnut cabinet lined with rows and rows of dripping wax candles.
"I hope the Enchantress did not give you too much trouble," he remarked, low but carrying through the din. His gaze flickered steadily over Manon's sculpted cheekbones to the crown of thorns wound through her starlight hair. It lingered for only a moment, for swiftly after Senna tipped the point of his horn towards the mouth of the winding stairs.
"Come. I admit I am a bit weary after traveling, and my office will make for better conversation than here." His jaw set, and the shadows seemed to deepen in the hollows of his cheeks and eyes.
Until a flicker of rare amusement crossed his lips, and he added jauntily over his shoulder: "And I am eager, old friend, to hear the story of how you got away."
@Manon "senna" nestor // SO EXCITED - so much I got carried away, forgive the length of this omg
