CYRENE .
per aspera ad astra
The wine would either be a curse or a blessing—she couldn’t decide, for her reeling mind refused to work more than it deserved in the state she’d subjected it to. Still, Cyrene wished desperately to regain some semblance of control over her lethargic limbs. As if on cue, her mother’s words floated to the forefront of her muddled thoughts: “Keep well away from liquor, Cyrene. Those with our blood do not recover from its effects well.” She wanted to laugh. Too late.
In the swirling, undulating vortex of colors, the only hue that kept her tethered to the present was yellow. Golden, butter yellow. Casually, loosely, her amber eyes skimmed along the shadows of Velorca’s sculpted cheeks, lingered at the golden chains that dangled from his silver hair. He had not responded to her noncommittal wish to visit his court—Cyrene wondered at the reason, yet refused to linger upon it long. For her next words, whatever they had been, had amused him; and the soft smile that bloomed across his satin lips dazzled her utterly with its rarity and transient beauty. Those divine lips opened, surely to respond to her jests, when—that’s right, she had touched him.
Horror at her careless error acted like a much-needed slap to her kaleidoscopic mind. Yet just as strongly, just as puzzling, was the delight she felt at how still he had become from her brief, feathered touch; like a marble Adonis, a majestic, somber sculpture.
If he had not offered his drink to her, if she had not accepted, would she have ever touched him? Certainly not—as bold as she presented herself, Cassandra’s solemn upbringing had driven all habit of casual touch from Cyrene’s spirited limbs. And after the sickness, after she had not known the warmth of a living body for a dreadful, ashen month, to caress the face of another felt like a sin. Because all she could think of, all she could see, was how glassy their eyes became when they were dead.
“I don’t mind.”
Velorca’s murmured, sonorous words stripped her wavering constitution to the bone.
“I don’t mind at all.”
So close did he draw to her. She could see every detail of him in radiant clarity; the golden flecks that shimmered in his chrome-kissed skin, the polished golden ring that rested in his velvet muzzle. Gold. He was flaked in it, embellished at every angle with the color that had marred Cyrene’s weary wings and clotted her pounding heart. Her life, it seemed, was carved and sealed in gleaming gold.
Keenly did she observe the way he looked at her; how his eyes rested upon every line of her face with silent, ardent attention. Soon, there would be nothing left of her that remained unscathed. I do not know anything about you. Mesmerized by the swells of his lavender perfume, she ushered her wide, empyrean eyes closed. Tell me, is it foolish?
But it was too late. Far too late. The skies above, the earth below, all lowered their vast, somber eyes as Cyrene brushed her soft muzzle against Velorca’s silken nose. Warm skin, cold metal. The seconds passed her by like minutes, years, as she rested her weary head against his. Her past, her sorrow—all melted into a wisp of silver smoke, as she wished the moment would last just a bit longer.
It took everything left in her to draw away again, and already her crimson skin mourned the loss of contact, sighed as its warmth was stolen by the jealous night.
What troubled her, was that whatever his answer may be—it would not change anything within her heart. Not a thing.
@Velorca | notes: AHH these two will be death of me x.x
