A THOUSAND BUTTERFLY SKELETONS
sleep within my walls.
sleep within my walls.
She had gotten his letters.
Not every one—she had moved around too often for the doves to track her with any accuracy, and sometimes (many times) she had not wanted to be found.
Other times, she'd wanted it so desperately she had almost screamed.
(She never did.)
She'd gotten lost a lot, too, in the beginning; when every dove that had found her had received a letter in return, along with a piece of bread if she had one and a rose if she had that too.
There had been that one time she'd lost her way, deep in the endless Viride. Days she'd wandered, swallowing red berries foraged from thorny bushes like pills, drinking half her body weight in water whenever she encountered her sole companion, the river. She had made herself sick from the berries. For one agonizing night, she had—seen things. Mother. A frozen tundra. Perfect yellow roses. Ipomoea.
When she thought back on it, Messalina knew that she had only found her way out of the forest—emerging breathless from a copse of sewn-together trees days later, sunlight piercing her eyes like millions of tiny daggers—because it hadn't been her time.
To die, that is.
Mother had always said there was a time for everything. A time for meals, a time for study, a time for sickness, a time for death. Time bound them all, she'd said, in an eternal dance of damnation.
Messalina had not died in the forest, because she was meant to die in the sea.
“The flowers have always made for good company while I wait.” She cannot decipher his voice. Ipomoea tilts his head to her but does not open his eyes, and she cannot decipher his voice. She used to think herself good at that, if it had been him. She had always thought—
"I... I am relieved to hear that," she says, flatly. Uncertainly. Uncertainty has always sounded cold from her lips; she is almost glad to find that that, at least, is not changed.
She looks down at the flowers, and wishes to rip them to shreds.
(The violence. It springs on her like a tidal wave, dragging her under until her eyes turn bloody red and her nostrils thin to slits and the feeling—of anger and anguish and fear and delight—drags a banshee's laugh past her sore lips.
But of course she had expected this. She had sacrificed blood at the altar, before daring to come. The wave releases her before she can change.)
"Where did you go?" he asks, and she stiffens. Slowly, as if the arteries of her neck are frozen, she draws back. Until she no longer touches him, not even her hair.
They had promised to meet in Denocte. She had not stopped him from going to Solterra, and she wonders, briefly, if he is angry because she had not stopped him. The thought is brushed away quickly; he is not like that, she tells herself.
Her mouth opens, then closes. She knows it is her fault.
I broke all my promises. She had stopped responding to his letters. She had not met him in Denocte. Instead, she had watched as he'd waited, and waited, and—
She hadn't thought he would wait so long. Her composure had almost broke; she had almost ran to him, almost crossed the market square in three quick strides, almost curtsied low and fleeting to say to him, breathlessly: 'I am sorry. Did you wait long?'
"I was—" What can she tell him? That before Denocte, weeks before Denocte, she had fallen into the sea and drowned? That every time she looked at anything with a heartbeat, she wished to sink her teeth into them and rip? That she had tailed him, like a coward, like a shadow, from Denocte to Delumine without him noticing?
That she had read all of his letters, then sealed them, then tossed them into her satchel before repeating to herself, in cold monotone. 'He cannot know. He cannot know before I learn to control it.' Because: what if he came?
You must remember, Messalina, she had told herself, what you are capable of now.
"I went to Denocte," she says, slowly. "And then I came back, when I learned of your coronation." She does not look at him. Her eyes are fixed, a blank and dull blue, on the grass and the mocking flowers.
A red petal loosens from her mane and flutters to the ground, like a dead butterfly.
"Something happened, before I reached Denocte. But it is—of little consequence. I have learned to control it."
Her voice is almost lost before she reaches the end of her sentence. But she does not hurry to find it.
She has lost many things already.
☾
Not every one—she had moved around too often for the doves to track her with any accuracy, and sometimes (many times) she had not wanted to be found.
Other times, she'd wanted it so desperately she had almost screamed.
(She never did.)
She'd gotten lost a lot, too, in the beginning; when every dove that had found her had received a letter in return, along with a piece of bread if she had one and a rose if she had that too.
There had been that one time she'd lost her way, deep in the endless Viride. Days she'd wandered, swallowing red berries foraged from thorny bushes like pills, drinking half her body weight in water whenever she encountered her sole companion, the river. She had made herself sick from the berries. For one agonizing night, she had—seen things. Mother. A frozen tundra. Perfect yellow roses. Ipomoea.
When she thought back on it, Messalina knew that she had only found her way out of the forest—emerging breathless from a copse of sewn-together trees days later, sunlight piercing her eyes like millions of tiny daggers—because it hadn't been her time.
To die, that is.
Mother had always said there was a time for everything. A time for meals, a time for study, a time for sickness, a time for death. Time bound them all, she'd said, in an eternal dance of damnation.
Messalina had not died in the forest, because she was meant to die in the sea.
“The flowers have always made for good company while I wait.” She cannot decipher his voice. Ipomoea tilts his head to her but does not open his eyes, and she cannot decipher his voice. She used to think herself good at that, if it had been him. She had always thought—
"I... I am relieved to hear that," she says, flatly. Uncertainly. Uncertainty has always sounded cold from her lips; she is almost glad to find that that, at least, is not changed.
She looks down at the flowers, and wishes to rip them to shreds.
(The violence. It springs on her like a tidal wave, dragging her under until her eyes turn bloody red and her nostrils thin to slits and the feeling—of anger and anguish and fear and delight—drags a banshee's laugh past her sore lips.
But of course she had expected this. She had sacrificed blood at the altar, before daring to come. The wave releases her before she can change.)
"Where did you go?" he asks, and she stiffens. Slowly, as if the arteries of her neck are frozen, she draws back. Until she no longer touches him, not even her hair.
They had promised to meet in Denocte. She had not stopped him from going to Solterra, and she wonders, briefly, if he is angry because she had not stopped him. The thought is brushed away quickly; he is not like that, she tells herself.
Her mouth opens, then closes. She knows it is her fault.
I broke all my promises. She had stopped responding to his letters. She had not met him in Denocte. Instead, she had watched as he'd waited, and waited, and—
She hadn't thought he would wait so long. Her composure had almost broke; she had almost ran to him, almost crossed the market square in three quick strides, almost curtsied low and fleeting to say to him, breathlessly: 'I am sorry. Did you wait long?'
"I was—" What can she tell him? That before Denocte, weeks before Denocte, she had fallen into the sea and drowned? That every time she looked at anything with a heartbeat, she wished to sink her teeth into them and rip? That she had tailed him, like a coward, like a shadow, from Denocte to Delumine without him noticing?
That she had read all of his letters, then sealed them, then tossed them into her satchel before repeating to herself, in cold monotone. 'He cannot know. He cannot know before I learn to control it.' Because: what if he came?
You must remember, Messalina, she had told herself, what you are capable of now.
"I went to Denocte," she says, slowly. "And then I came back, when I learned of your coronation." She does not look at him. Her eyes are fixed, a blank and dull blue, on the grass and the mocking flowers.
A red petal loosens from her mane and flutters to the ground, like a dead butterfly.
"Something happened, before I reached Denocte. But it is—of little consequence. I have learned to control it."
Her voice is almost lost before she reaches the end of her sentence. But she does not hurry to find it.
She has lost many things already.
@Ipomoea // my heart
