the ending won't be forgotten
it's written in the stars and the hieroglyphs
it's written in the stars and the hieroglyphs
Antiope cannot help but watch this man closely, cannot help but admire him and look on with equal parts wonder and familiarity. What is it about him that makes him feel so well-known to her? And then she thinks she spots it, when he says, “It’s what I was born for.” As though it is the only explanation necessary for the wonderful things he has done.
“I was born for something, too,” she says, voice lowering as if they stand about a campfire in the night for telling tales and not among the streets of a bustling city. “But being born for something does not give you the passion for it. Being born for something does not mean you actually do it, or do it well.” Perhaps her experience is not the same as his, but she knows them.
Oh, she was born to kill and not to save, god knows. And she had been very good at what she was born to do, made to do. But she had turned away from it, the same as he could have. He didn’t have to help Solterra, that was a choice. One he does not give himself enough credit for.
There is a long pause after Orestes poses his question of what Antiope means by this time. She lifts her face to the sun and her eyes to the clear blue sky, contemplative. “That is a very long story, for another day perhaps.” The corner of her lips curls up as the light glints off her eyes like sapphires.
This time, this chance, this day. This life she has given to herself.
Antiope has taken many things over the years. Lives, mostly, on the battlefield. The Denoctian sovereign can never bring them back, but she can try to give back now. Try to live and do better. To protect the ones she cares about.
She thinks of all the lives Isra put her in charge of when she went away. So, too, the striped woman thinks of all the lives Isra has put herself in charge of, wherever she has gone. Will they both succeed in their tasks? To free and to defend? “I do too,” Antiope responds softly, but she cannot help but think, to fear, that the Isra that returns to them one day will be one she won’t recognize any longer. And then, for perhaps the first time, she thinks of her sisters. Would they recognize her, if they saw her now? Would she still be their sister, after what she has done?
The sovereign buries those thoughts, buries them deeply. Surely they will surface one day after she has gone without sleep for many nights as she often does. But here is not the place for them.
When Antiope’s eyes meet Orestes’ again, blue like stones and blue like seas, she recognizes the divine light pouring from his marks. Again she is struck by familiarity, for it is as much the light of gods as the color of her eyes when she uses her magic, or the color of her axe when it becomes hot enough to burn, burn, burn.
“I might have more in common with them than you think, Sir,” the Queen responds with knowing, with a quirk of her lips. “But knowing you will be enough to satiate me, for now.” Her eyes land upon the fountain and the ring of children’s laughter brings a sharp pang, one she has felt too many times before. It takes care not to let the expression on her face fall away too shortly, though her glance lingers on the sight of the joyful foals a beat too long.
After a moment she turns away, glancing at the faces of the equines who pause to greet their King. She offers them a smile, as she thinks how best to answer Orestes’ question. “Aetherian, a place besieged by a half-century long war,” and when she laughs, it is not happy, or sad, it just is.
“I know something about inheriting fights that are not my own.” And fighting in them, too, and finding peace, and love. And then finding anger, and learning how to wield it better than any weapon, and alongside a weapon. Antiope knows about having to rebuild your life after tragedy. “And you?”
"Speaking."
“I was born for something, too,” she says, voice lowering as if they stand about a campfire in the night for telling tales and not among the streets of a bustling city. “But being born for something does not give you the passion for it. Being born for something does not mean you actually do it, or do it well.” Perhaps her experience is not the same as his, but she knows them.
Oh, she was born to kill and not to save, god knows. And she had been very good at what she was born to do, made to do. But she had turned away from it, the same as he could have. He didn’t have to help Solterra, that was a choice. One he does not give himself enough credit for.
There is a long pause after Orestes poses his question of what Antiope means by this time. She lifts her face to the sun and her eyes to the clear blue sky, contemplative. “That is a very long story, for another day perhaps.” The corner of her lips curls up as the light glints off her eyes like sapphires.
This time, this chance, this day. This life she has given to herself.
Antiope has taken many things over the years. Lives, mostly, on the battlefield. The Denoctian sovereign can never bring them back, but she can try to give back now. Try to live and do better. To protect the ones she cares about.
She thinks of all the lives Isra put her in charge of when she went away. So, too, the striped woman thinks of all the lives Isra has put herself in charge of, wherever she has gone. Will they both succeed in their tasks? To free and to defend? “I do too,” Antiope responds softly, but she cannot help but think, to fear, that the Isra that returns to them one day will be one she won’t recognize any longer. And then, for perhaps the first time, she thinks of her sisters. Would they recognize her, if they saw her now? Would she still be their sister, after what she has done?
The sovereign buries those thoughts, buries them deeply. Surely they will surface one day after she has gone without sleep for many nights as she often does. But here is not the place for them.
When Antiope’s eyes meet Orestes’ again, blue like stones and blue like seas, she recognizes the divine light pouring from his marks. Again she is struck by familiarity, for it is as much the light of gods as the color of her eyes when she uses her magic, or the color of her axe when it becomes hot enough to burn, burn, burn.
“I might have more in common with them than you think, Sir,” the Queen responds with knowing, with a quirk of her lips. “But knowing you will be enough to satiate me, for now.” Her eyes land upon the fountain and the ring of children’s laughter brings a sharp pang, one she has felt too many times before. It takes care not to let the expression on her face fall away too shortly, though her glance lingers on the sight of the joyful foals a beat too long.
After a moment she turns away, glancing at the faces of the equines who pause to greet their King. She offers them a smile, as she thinks how best to answer Orestes’ question. “Aetherian, a place besieged by a half-century long war,” and when she laughs, it is not happy, or sad, it just is.
“I know something about inheriting fights that are not my own.” And fighting in them, too, and finding peace, and love. And then finding anger, and learning how to wield it better than any weapon, and alongside a weapon. Antiope knows about having to rebuild your life after tragedy. “And you?”
@Orestes <3
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
