Cyrene
Remember this when you are king;
I moved the earth and the water for you.
—
Musty, dust-covered scrolls rustled in grudging protest as Cyrene flicked a crimson wing absentmindedly against her side. How long had it been since she’d felt the dew-soaked grass beneath her hooves, the burning sun against her feathers? Far too long, she sighed, sharp lion’s eyes glancing every which way except at the yellow-paged tome sitting sternly open in front of her.
"I am thoroughly sick of books,” she voiced aloud, sable curls nodding in agreement as she slumped forwards in frustration. As the smell of ancient paper and gods-awful history filled her nostrils, the spirited nymph wondered for the umpteenth time that day if she would ever be cut out for the role of Emissary.
It had felt like ages ago when Florentine had spoken those fateful words to her under a rose colored sky; in reality, little more than a week had passed since then. But what a frenzied week it has been, Cyrene lamented, looking bitterly at the mountain of paperwork spread out around her like a curse. It had been a rough transition, resuming her studies again after so long gallivanting through enchanted forests and seaside towns. How she missed it, the traveling! The sights, the sounds; every night, they whispered silk-spun stories to her in her dreams.
Yet despite her grumblings, Cyrene regretted nothing. For her court, for Florentine, she would toss her soul to the flames if that was what was required of her as the Emissary. No longer was she the flighty, reckless girl of her springtime youth. The plague's grisly reign had made sure of that. Still, she almost wished for some excitement…
And did the gods grandly deliver. Cyrene lifted her head sharply in surprise as a breathless maid burst through the heavy oak doors of the study.
”Queen Florentine requests your presence immediately in the throne room, Lady Cyrene.”
"Thank you. I shall hurry to her immediately,” Cyrene answered, papers scattering every which way as she dashed out of the room in a rush of feathers and curls. Florentine had never summoned her with such urgency before, and the young Emissary felt her heart flit in her chest like a startled sparrow as she flew through the keep’s labyrinthine halls.
It was by nothing short of a miracle that she found herself in front of the throne room’s gilded entrance in a matter of minutes. She was not yet familiar enough with Terrastella’s castle to know her way around, and Cyrene’s exasperated instructors now sent maids to escort her every morning, to ensure she arrived to her lessons on time.
As she stepped across the marble floors, amber eyes widened in bewilderment as a familiar, razor-boned boy knelt, trembling, in front of an equally distraught Florentine.
“L-Like it had a-already been written.”
"You called for me, Florentine. What has happened?” Cyrene asked, steps quickening to carry her to Flora’s side as she sought the queen’s amethyst gaze. The closer she approached, the more she could make out the boy’s anxious face, slick with cold sweat. Is that… "Auru? Are you alright?”
Puzzled, she lowered her head to examine the parchment Auru held up with shaking telepathy. And with each poisonous word she read, dread lodged itself deeper and deeper in Cyrene’s stomach.
The flames of discord, of bent and broken bonds, had been lit.
Or had it always burned there, steadily, under Dusk's lavender skies?
@Florentine @Auru | notes: so sorry for the wait! but cy is here and ready to rumblee >)
Remember this when you are king;
I moved the earth and the water for you.
—
Musty, dust-covered scrolls rustled in grudging protest as Cyrene flicked a crimson wing absentmindedly against her side. How long had it been since she’d felt the dew-soaked grass beneath her hooves, the burning sun against her feathers? Far too long, she sighed, sharp lion’s eyes glancing every which way except at the yellow-paged tome sitting sternly open in front of her.
"I am thoroughly sick of books,” she voiced aloud, sable curls nodding in agreement as she slumped forwards in frustration. As the smell of ancient paper and gods-awful history filled her nostrils, the spirited nymph wondered for the umpteenth time that day if she would ever be cut out for the role of Emissary.
It had felt like ages ago when Florentine had spoken those fateful words to her under a rose colored sky; in reality, little more than a week had passed since then. But what a frenzied week it has been, Cyrene lamented, looking bitterly at the mountain of paperwork spread out around her like a curse. It had been a rough transition, resuming her studies again after so long gallivanting through enchanted forests and seaside towns. How she missed it, the traveling! The sights, the sounds; every night, they whispered silk-spun stories to her in her dreams.
Yet despite her grumblings, Cyrene regretted nothing. For her court, for Florentine, she would toss her soul to the flames if that was what was required of her as the Emissary. No longer was she the flighty, reckless girl of her springtime youth. The plague's grisly reign had made sure of that. Still, she almost wished for some excitement…
And did the gods grandly deliver. Cyrene lifted her head sharply in surprise as a breathless maid burst through the heavy oak doors of the study.
”Queen Florentine requests your presence immediately in the throne room, Lady Cyrene.”
"Thank you. I shall hurry to her immediately,” Cyrene answered, papers scattering every which way as she dashed out of the room in a rush of feathers and curls. Florentine had never summoned her with such urgency before, and the young Emissary felt her heart flit in her chest like a startled sparrow as she flew through the keep’s labyrinthine halls.
It was by nothing short of a miracle that she found herself in front of the throne room’s gilded entrance in a matter of minutes. She was not yet familiar enough with Terrastella’s castle to know her way around, and Cyrene’s exasperated instructors now sent maids to escort her every morning, to ensure she arrived to her lessons on time.
As she stepped across the marble floors, amber eyes widened in bewilderment as a familiar, razor-boned boy knelt, trembling, in front of an equally distraught Florentine.
“L-Like it had a-already been written.”
"You called for me, Florentine. What has happened?” Cyrene asked, steps quickening to carry her to Flora’s side as she sought the queen’s amethyst gaze. The closer she approached, the more she could make out the boy’s anxious face, slick with cold sweat. Is that… "Auru? Are you alright?”
Puzzled, she lowered her head to examine the parchment Auru held up with shaking telepathy. And with each poisonous word she read, dread lodged itself deeper and deeper in Cyrene’s stomach.
The flames of discord, of bent and broken bonds, had been lit.
Or had it always burned there, steadily, under Dusk's lavender skies?
@
