[Worship] i'll paint them all again

[Messalina]

     

     

     
     M E S S A L I N A . //
     

     

   
As her eyes adjusted to the sudden starkness of the clearing and the garnet patches that gleamed like a burning sunset upon the stranger’s ivory pelt, Messalina abruptly paused in her stride as it dawned on her that she was intruding on a moment never meant for her ears. Had she not spoken so thoughtlessly, she could’ve slipped away, melting back into the fog like a wraith. But her voice was akin to a stone thrown into a tranquil lake; its effects were as inevitable as the ripples that would overcome the once-pristine surface.

Wide, robin-red eyes flitted towards her own sparrow’s egg blues, bewilderment evident in his gaze. For a fragile moment, they simply stared at each other, each not quite knowing how to respond. She, for one, simply wished to quietly retreat and act as if she hadn’t just infringed upon the poor boy and his solitude. After what seemed like an eternity of distress on her end, words mercifully tumbled out of the painted worshipper’s lips.

Orien’s court? Then he is of the same court as I. She took the smallest bit of comfort from that thought, as she’d grown so much accustomed to Delumine that she was beginning to feel a touch of affinity towards all those loyal to Dawn. "I am surprised to have met a fellow citizen of Dawn so high in these mountains,” Messalina replied, dropping into a graceful bow. She willed for her tense muscles to relax, for a smile to replace her frown (she’d failed to correct her grim expression in the midst of their unexpected encounter) as the boy’s uneasiness became more apparent with every stuttered syllable. It would not do to have two skittish birds in these sacred peaks. The girl mused that the gods would take them too lightly then.

As he motioned towards their shared fondness of flowers, her eyes fell upon the bouquet that lay by the offering altar. This is where that flower originated from. What a meticulous eye for beauty he has. Every petal was perfect in placement and hue, stalks held together by a braid of finely woven grass. So this was what went into a proper offering; the gods must be pleased by such a gift.

But his words puzzled her. What Oriens likes? Was he such a partial being, to care more for material offerings than the intent of the heart? She moved closer towards the boy as she approached the altar herself, steps muffled by the dewey moss below her hooves. What a curious one—his dedication in preparing his offering betrayed his veneration, yet doubt still clung to his heart like cobwebs. What does he seek from Orien so desperately? Her expression morphed into one of concentration as his question perplexed her as well. Was her question so… out of the ordinary? Perhaps she had committed some sort of faux pas by asking.

"I am not originally from these lands,” she began, shifting her slender frame towards him. "Where I am from, religion did not hold nearly as much significance as it does here—that is, if it even existed at all. I am not sure.” A frown touched her lips as she struggled to piece together her thoughts, not understanding why she was validating instead of pardoning her previous mistake. "I was not a believer of your gods. I read about them—all the lore, all the traditions—and I was intrigued. But that interest stemmed from a purely scholastic standpoint. The deities remained nothing more than folklore to me.” Her gaze slipped from him to the moss-carpeted earth as words poured like a tidal wave from her mouth.

"Yet even to this day, the beauty of this land continues to fascinate me. There was no such beauty where I came from. ‘Novus—it must be dearly loved to display the blessings of the gods so bountifully,’ was what I thought.” Blue orbs found crimson ones as she peered at him, deeply, for the first time. "Now that you are aware of my position, my opinion may be trivial. But I believe Orien likes your bouquet very much. Your devotion to him is embedded into every petal. Is that not what matters most?” Her words hung in the air. The girl felt… odd, exposed. She’d spoken so much, even expressed an opinion that was uncalled for. It was not like her at all, to voice such meaningless thoughts.

The mountain air had truly turned her mad, she lamented.

— ♕ —

@Ipomoea
notes: she had a lot to say ^^;