Antiope
i am the righteous, the touched and the holy
i am the voodoo that you want to believe
i am the righteous, the touched and the holy
i am the voodoo that you want to believe
“I don’t want it,” he says, asking if she does. Antiope looks over her shoulder toward the throne, toward his golden and midnight skin, blanketed in ash. Toward his horns which rise up, up, up to the ceiling.
He climbs the same few steps she has just descended. He climbs toward that throne that holds the bowl of blood that she wears upon her skin. He looks at himself in its polished, reflective surface. Antiope wonders what he thinks of the thing he sees.
When he repeats her words back to her, she remains silent. The striped woman only breathes with empty lungs, and listens with waiting ears, and watches with darkened eyes. He rises up and slams his hooves into the center of his reflection, into the back of the throne.
It rings, and rings, and rings. It echoes high up above them, and into every corner. She delights in the sound, like a warbeat from a different world. Like a cry, or a scream. Finally, she speaks. “I had one already. It was taken from me, by someone I trusted,” her words are flat, her voice detached.
Antiope turns. She rises up that dais again, until her face appears like a specter in the vibrating surface of the throne, just behind his. She breathes in the saltwater of him. Leans a little closer, heedless of the teeth he refuses to show. “Do you want to destroy it?” she whispers, into the dampness of his skin.
And, perhaps, in that wavering reflection of hers, there is a flickering upward curl to the corner of her lips. “I can make you stronger,” perhaps there is something in her eyes that says she is tired of not fighting. That she is tired, at least, of fighting what she is supposed to be.
"Speaking."
He climbs the same few steps she has just descended. He climbs toward that throne that holds the bowl of blood that she wears upon her skin. He looks at himself in its polished, reflective surface. Antiope wonders what he thinks of the thing he sees.
When he repeats her words back to her, she remains silent. The striped woman only breathes with empty lungs, and listens with waiting ears, and watches with darkened eyes. He rises up and slams his hooves into the center of his reflection, into the back of the throne.
It rings, and rings, and rings. It echoes high up above them, and into every corner. She delights in the sound, like a warbeat from a different world. Like a cry, or a scream. Finally, she speaks. “I had one already. It was taken from me, by someone I trusted,” her words are flat, her voice detached.
Antiope turns. She rises up that dais again, until her face appears like a specter in the vibrating surface of the throne, just behind his. She breathes in the saltwater of him. Leans a little closer, heedless of the teeth he refuses to show. “Do you want to destroy it?” she whispers, into the dampness of his skin.
And, perhaps, in that wavering reflection of hers, there is a flickering upward curl to the corner of her lips. “I can make you stronger,” perhaps there is something in her eyes that says she is tired of not fighting. That she is tired, at least, of fighting what she is supposed to be.
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
