this is who we were, before bones, before dirt, before even light. this untameable expanse. this blue mirror-of-god. this heaving, churning proof that we have always been deep, restless souls.
And things without charm rarely ever reveal themselves to have any. He almost ask what she means by that. In the way of women, there seems to be an implication; thinly veiled, perhaps slightly barbed. Vercingtorix only makes a noncommittal noise of agreement, a small mhm.
Antiope does not flinch at Damascus’s arrival; but why would she? She is bold enough to become a queen. Vercingtorix finds this sort of arrogance foolish, however—and also inherently feminine. He does nothing to demonstrate his contempt, however. The gold-and-black stallion only answers her smile with another smile. “No?” He laughs. He supposes he doesn’t, either. “What do you think that suggests about our meeting?”
Damascus is keening a song as old as the world.
Hunger. Vercingtorix, for the first time, spares a glance for his dragon. The great beast is stretching up the cliffside. Although it does not seem right to describe a dragon as such, there is something almost doggish in his expression; a pleading look to the eyes, a softness.
“And this,” he says offhandedly, as one speaks of a child or pet: “Is Damascus.”
"Speech" || @Antiope
we lick saltwater stains from our hands, and yes, they taste like all the shipwrecked songs of our forefathers, but also like every sorrow we used to be afraid of devouring until we understood that this is a place of rebirth too
