“train your soul to remember where the weapon and the world divide”
“Yes,” Antiope says, because she cannot possibly doubt Isra. And she does not, for all the things Isra has shown, she knows the iron strength and humming rage that waits underneath it all. Antiope knows because when she looks at Isra she can see that they are cut from the same stone.
The gods that made Antiope may not have made this woman walking next to her, but they could have for all the ways that they could be sisters.
The tigress steals a look to the march gathering at the sides, at their backs. These horses are here to see off their queen, who goes to war for a people who cannot free themselves. It is noble, and brave, and Antiope feels nothing but respect, when her eyes take in the shape of Isra’s silhouette against the city and the sky. If there are other things, she is not ready to assess them. She leaves them inside where they belong.
When they reach the sea and the ship and all the ones they will be made to miss, they stop. Antiope’s eyes are like the sea, today. Deep, and dark and fathomless. Even when Isra turns to her and tells her that she will be good for their people, her people. She doesn’t know how to disagree, can’t quite form the words to say, “There will always be a hole, from your heart.”
She has never been poetic, nor poignant. Today is not the day to start, today will not be the day a wild thing like her becomes something refined. “I have already had my retribution,” she tells Isra, as if it can be a promise, or a reminder. She does not fault the sea-woman hers.
There is nothing left for Antiope to seek revenge for, but there is plenty left for her to fight for here. Isra made sure of that, when she chose the striped woman for her Regent. There is so much here for her to cherish and shelter, to foster and grow. She will do her best to stand under these stars and give the court everything they need.
“I will do right by Aspara, as if she were my own,” it isn’t easy to say, perhaps in the way she pauses halfway between the words or the way she glances away afterwards to harden the thing inside her still carrying their names like a fragile flame.
But it is the only way she knows to say it, that will mean something to the both of them. Isra is the only one Antiope has told about them, and in that knowledge she can go, perhaps, a little easier. She can go, perhaps, with the knowing that there will be someone here to watch out for her daughter. To protect her at all costs.
She cannot help the smile that twists her lips at Isra’s next comment, though she sees the pain in her own. “Perhaps I will just have to fireproof the court,” Antiope says, “do you know of any good spellcasters I can reach out to?” The jest lives only a half-life upon her tongue, and she knows they are only delaying the inevitable. There is not much longer they can put it off.
There are lives waiting, across the sea. Soon, Isra will be across the sea.
Antiope wants to ask so many things, but they all sound like staying, and Isra cannot help but to go. So instead she reaches out and draws a circle upon the other woman’s shoulder with a gentle touch, “Go to your own sun,” she says. Burn, soar. Then, Antiope turns her head toward the ones who had followed them all the way to the ocean. Brothers, sisters, mothers, children, “They are here for you,” her eyes are the ocean, cradling them all.
“Speaking.”
The gods that made Antiope may not have made this woman walking next to her, but they could have for all the ways that they could be sisters.
The tigress steals a look to the march gathering at the sides, at their backs. These horses are here to see off their queen, who goes to war for a people who cannot free themselves. It is noble, and brave, and Antiope feels nothing but respect, when her eyes take in the shape of Isra’s silhouette against the city and the sky. If there are other things, she is not ready to assess them. She leaves them inside where they belong.
When they reach the sea and the ship and all the ones they will be made to miss, they stop. Antiope’s eyes are like the sea, today. Deep, and dark and fathomless. Even when Isra turns to her and tells her that she will be good for their people, her people. She doesn’t know how to disagree, can’t quite form the words to say, “There will always be a hole, from your heart.”
She has never been poetic, nor poignant. Today is not the day to start, today will not be the day a wild thing like her becomes something refined. “I have already had my retribution,” she tells Isra, as if it can be a promise, or a reminder. She does not fault the sea-woman hers.
There is nothing left for Antiope to seek revenge for, but there is plenty left for her to fight for here. Isra made sure of that, when she chose the striped woman for her Regent. There is so much here for her to cherish and shelter, to foster and grow. She will do her best to stand under these stars and give the court everything they need.
“I will do right by Aspara, as if she were my own,” it isn’t easy to say, perhaps in the way she pauses halfway between the words or the way she glances away afterwards to harden the thing inside her still carrying their names like a fragile flame.
But it is the only way she knows to say it, that will mean something to the both of them. Isra is the only one Antiope has told about them, and in that knowledge she can go, perhaps, a little easier. She can go, perhaps, with the knowing that there will be someone here to watch out for her daughter. To protect her at all costs.
She cannot help the smile that twists her lips at Isra’s next comment, though she sees the pain in her own. “Perhaps I will just have to fireproof the court,” Antiope says, “do you know of any good spellcasters I can reach out to?” The jest lives only a half-life upon her tongue, and she knows they are only delaying the inevitable. There is not much longer they can put it off.
There are lives waiting, across the sea. Soon, Isra will be across the sea.
Antiope wants to ask so many things, but they all sound like staying, and Isra cannot help but to go. So instead she reaches out and draws a circle upon the other woman’s shoulder with a gentle touch, “Go to your own sun,” she says. Burn, soar. Then, Antiope turns her head toward the ones who had followed them all the way to the ocean. Brothers, sisters, mothers, children, “They are here for you,” her eyes are the ocean, cradling them all.
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
