[AW] the world is ugly

[Antiope]

tagged
@Morrighan

credit
1 / 2

antiope

/

in me forever the charge of Other,
the blood of my unconscious,
the dark song in me from elsewhere—

Morrighan narrows her eyes at Antiope and opens her mouth, and the sovereign already knows that whatever will come out is not going to help her dig herself out of the very deep hole she has put herself into.

It doesn’t.

The one saving grace of this entire situation is that neither of the pair had decided to take the regent to task for her indecency. The one thing Antiope will not tolerate is her regent starting unnecessary fights with their citizens, and she knows too well that Morrighan is hard pressed to back down from anything. And in this state? Who knows what she might do.

Eventually Morrighan gets to her feet, though not without much stumbling and general unbalancedness. When it becomes clear that Antiope is going to have to shoulder much of the other woman’s weight to keep her on her feet she pulls on her magic.

Her eyes pool to gold, and the regent’s weight becomes like nothing more than a pressure against her side. The night court Queen’s magic has been growing, and she can feel it threading its way warily around Morrighan, for how closely they are standing together.

She knows she could give enough energy to the paint to temporarily clear the effects of the alcohol, but she doesn’t.

Antiope selfishly draws back her magic to her core, the lioness in her bones weaving her way through and through her. Honestly, with how often Morrighan visits bars one would think she could hold her alcohol better. Maybe the pregnancy removed all of her tolerance.

And that’s when the sovereign realizes why she’s angry. Because this woman has a child that needs her, to love and to care for, and she is here commiserating in her self-pity, shirking her duties, as if she is all alone in this world, as if there is nobody who could or does love her. Perhaps it is not the bar patrons who need a reality check.

“You’ll be lucky if that’s all that happens,” Antiope responds flatly, as she pushes open the door and shoulders them out into the street. Fortunately only a few eyes turn toward them, and she carefully turns so Morrighan is between her and the building, and Antiope between Morrighan and the eyes. She leads them down a quiet side street, residential buildings on one side and business the other.

She slows and eventually stops, until it is only them and the walls. Her eyes are no longer gold, but blue and cutting. Like the edge of her axe, like the facet of a gem. She wants to be furious. It is bubbling inside her like a spring, rising like a tide. She wants to tell Morrighan that this is not the reliability she is looking for in a regent.

But, gods, the woman looks pathetic.

“What were you thinking?” Antiope says, as though not really looking for an answer. She holds back a sigh, bites down on all the things that she wants to say. Any reprimand she could give now would probably be forgotten, anyway, if this is how bad off the regent is. “I’m sure you disagree right now, but this is not going to make you forget about her, or bring her back to you.”

Her disappointment is bitter and black, like tar, but more than that is the twisted way that Antiope thinks she understands how Morrighan feels. Killing the gods—as satisfying as it had felt—and choosing not to think about Rezar and her daughter, had not brought them back to her.

It had not made it hurt less, not having them in her life. Sometimes, it still hurts. On nights dark and long and deep, when her body is too restless to let her sleep. When she sees someone with eyes bright and green, or skin black and gold. Even the laughter of children still brings the familiar pangs of loss, because they will always be missing. They were hers, and now they are gone.

But Morrighan is punishing herself for something else entirely, and she still has a child out there. That is why her disappointment tastes bitter on her tongue, when she looks at this woman who had stood in the market square and promised she could trust her.