Antiope
oh Lord, tell me you love me
am I Lilith or am I Eve?
oh Lord, tell me you love me
am I Lilith or am I Eve?
She dampens the light of her axe until it is a soft glowing, like a flame or an ember. Less of a burning, more suffused. Shadows become thicker, heavier, soft-edged. They rush in to swarm around them, to mold to their curves and hollows like a skin.
Antiope does not know how to say that she was born on an altar, and how she has killed on one, and how those two things make no difference to her. She has already been sacrificed, she thinks, long ago. Sacrificed and risen, and come to claim the things that she had lost.
“And I think that you give me too much,” the woman responds with a weak chuckle, “They are only bright while they burn up and fade away.” Until there is nothing left of them but a memory, but a trail that, too, will fade. When Ipomoea sighs, Antiope turns to look at him.
His voice is so quiet that she finds herself leaning a little closer to hear him, finds herself buried in the shadows and the whispers. And then the Denoctian sovereign smiles something fleeting, something gentler than she’s felt in a long time. Like life, or love. Like spring blossoms. “I cannot imagine a heart that would not listen to you,” Antiope says honestly, “And, in any case, at least you once knew how. Far easier to remind yourself of something than to learn it anew.”
She has never known how to pray, to worship. How to fall to her knees and give herself over to something greater, bigger, more than she is. She was born on an altar, and it was as much for her as for the gods that made her.
She was not praying when she killed them.
When he asks her to stay, the woman does not know exactly how to respond, but she does not leave. Antiope feels that she is intruding upon something intimate, as she watches Ipomoea press his muzzle to Oriens altar. Something familiar, and friendly. And she wonders if she ever felt that way about gods, even her own. Though she tries, there is no memory of such.
“To tell you the truth, I never expected to set foot in a temple ever again,” the woman says, turning away from the altars, the effigies, to look out into the night. Everything is red, like blood, like a sunset. “I know why she does not speak to me.”
"Speaking."
Antiope does not know how to say that she was born on an altar, and how she has killed on one, and how those two things make no difference to her. She has already been sacrificed, she thinks, long ago. Sacrificed and risen, and come to claim the things that she had lost.
“And I think that you give me too much,” the woman responds with a weak chuckle, “They are only bright while they burn up and fade away.” Until there is nothing left of them but a memory, but a trail that, too, will fade. When Ipomoea sighs, Antiope turns to look at him.
His voice is so quiet that she finds herself leaning a little closer to hear him, finds herself buried in the shadows and the whispers. And then the Denoctian sovereign smiles something fleeting, something gentler than she’s felt in a long time. Like life, or love. Like spring blossoms. “I cannot imagine a heart that would not listen to you,” Antiope says honestly, “And, in any case, at least you once knew how. Far easier to remind yourself of something than to learn it anew.”
She has never known how to pray, to worship. How to fall to her knees and give herself over to something greater, bigger, more than she is. She was born on an altar, and it was as much for her as for the gods that made her.
She was not praying when she killed them.
When he asks her to stay, the woman does not know exactly how to respond, but she does not leave. Antiope feels that she is intruding upon something intimate, as she watches Ipomoea press his muzzle to Oriens altar. Something familiar, and friendly. And she wonders if she ever felt that way about gods, even her own. Though she tries, there is no memory of such.
“To tell you the truth, I never expected to set foot in a temple ever again,” the woman says, turning away from the altars, the effigies, to look out into the night. Everything is red, like blood, like a sunset. “I know why she does not speak to me.”
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
