DAUGHTER OF STORMS.
Tendrils of smoke curl in her lungs, all cinnamon and nutmeg and the musk of newborn earth whispering against the paper walls. Nostalgia has become a stone dropping in her stomach, heavy and unforgiving. But it is also the stars that tug at her hair spun of moonbeams, glimmering in silver as the sky begins to fade. Uncommonly, her gaze is not on the luster of the sun as it falls ever dutiful to the horizon, dipping below the expanse of trees in the Arma’s shadows. She does not note the burst of violent reds and cruel orange as Calligo’s violet swallows the heavens like gravity. The stormsinger does not even notice the first stars that begin to wake in patches where her vision is not clouded by branches and a wall of mountain stone.
Her eyes are on the pillars of smoke that rise and wisp into the night that falls, never wavering from their fingers that reach towards the first breath of stars. The muscles of her chest constrict, tightening, entwining around her heart in rose vines. Memories and guilt prick at her with thorns, leaving her bleeding and bare under the shadows of the trees that hide her. The darkness that cradles her under the mountain is a phantom wall that separates her from what she desires most. To be home again. And her tribe is no closer than over the crest of hills that tumble from the impenetrable wall that shields Denocte from the world. Only Calligo knows what she would give to find the courage to close the distance from where she stands. Doing so would mean that her new crown, her regency, would be real. Wonderfully, blessedly, brutally real. And she would no longer be their Maiden, their protector. She had known that she no longer could be the Face that they needed; she had known that one day, she would have to look her people in the eye as she stepped down. Aislinn was many things, but a coward she was not. Eventually, she would no longer yearn to join them, noting every burned out bonfire, missing them by moments. The tendrils of their revelry and wood fires still coax her, pleading, and oh how she wants to give in. Drums beat and thrum, building with each breath as the sun sinks lower and lower still. But the murmurs of nightfall pull at her, and she cannot decipher their words. And for the first time, the tinkle of her gypsy coins is a spear that stabs her, and no longer a song that she would do anything to hear. So still, she waits, and watches as silent as the stars above. REGENT OF THE NIGHT COURT
@reichenbach <3
I CAN’T CONTAIN MY EXCITEMENT ”Aislinn speech.” |
