he found the colors to paint her, where the world had left her grey.
H
ad the stars always looked so lovely? Like diamonds atop a black mink stole, wrapped like a ribbon around Mother’s milky white throat. Mother. I wonder… where she is. Under a spill of soft moonlight, Messalina stood as still as a doll, lashes fluttering closed as she tilted her head towards the midnight sky.
The world spun, spun like it did when she’d twirl too many pirouettes in a row — yet when she counted to three and opened her eyes, the world did not stop spinning. Blurs of silver, streaks of yellow. Music — a harp, as soft as a lullaby — drifted from a faraway corner. The festival at night was like a dream, and Messa wished for it to last forever.
A delicate throat angled upwards as she swallowed the remnants of her drink, the glass goblet twinkling like a chandelier. The mead tingled as it traveled languidly down her throat, leaving a trail of warmth and sweetness behind. Delicious, she hummed, as she licked her lips clean and set the goblet aside on a passing tray.
It was her second glass, drained in dizzying succession after the first. She had not been able to refuse when Eros had offered it to her, a half-empty glass already floating by his side — and she was glad, so glad, to have accepted. The drink was delicious, far better than the bitter wine she’d sipped with a stiff smile in front of Mother’s guests. Far stronger, too, though the girl had realized that fact perhaps a little too late.
Cerulean eyes, bright as a lark’s, swept the moonlit glade around her. There was no gold in her vision anymore. Somewhere between the first drink and the second, she’d lost sight of Eros’ gleaming tail in the crowd. By then, Messalina had been too enraptured by her own fading inhibition to care.
The dancer’s hooves felt as light as air as she followed idly behind a trio of giggling girls, their vibrant silks drifting like gossamer in the evening breeze. An ivory curl drifted in front of her eyes, and she blew it back with a puff of air. She’d started off the morning with a head of beautiful braids, and with each toll of the castle’s clocktower they had unraveled like unfurling petals. Now, her hair cascaded in white curls down her back, tangled in flowers and scented with the smells of the forest.
“Look, over there — the Regent!” Messalina’s head snapped up, quicker than lightning, as one of the girls motioned towards a cream-and-crimson figure standing a few paces away. “We should go and greet him, tell him how wonderful Delumine’s festival is. I’ve heard that he was the one who planned the entire affair,” the same one babbled, and Messa wondered with a frown how one could sound so much like a chittering bird. Blue eyes narrowed, as she realized just how much she didn’t want them to tell Ipomoea how wonderful the festival was.
Ivory hooves moved of their own accord as she brushed past them without so much as a mumbled apology. The alcohol in her blood scoffed at the word ‘reputation.’ Her heart raced to a crescendo as she neared, though she paid no mind to it as she halted a hairsbreadth away from his mottled back.
“I — po — moea,” Messa whispered, leaning towards his ear as she dragged out the syllables of his name until they tasted like honey on her tongue. “Were you hiding from me? Ah, but it’s useless — I shall find you every time.” Her eyes shone as bright and blue as sapphires when he turned. A second’s hesitation, and the words fell from her lips like a song. “Will you dance with me?”
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: (takes place after this thread) get ready po she's comin for ya
How often had he heard that call to attention tonight, and in the previous festival days? He had lost count, and still he was always a half beat too slow in his reply. The Regent. When had he become The Regent in truth? The title had been his ever since that walk with Somnus, when the news of Kasil’s exit had been shared. But when Ipomoea looked in the mirror, he still only saw Po — the orphan-turned-Emissary. His new title didn’t seem to fit quite so well on his lips, and when he thought of the position he always thought of Somnus.
Somnus the Sovereign now. And Ipomoea his Regent. I never aspired to this, a small voice whispered at the back of his mind. All I ever wanted was flowers. In Delumine, there was never a shortage — they grew like weeds, in a hundred thousand different shapes and colors and combinations that continued to amaze him come each morning. More often than not, the sun would rise to find him in the gardens, stealing a few quiet moments for himself in the place that he was happiest.
But all too soon his peace would be shattered, and every day he found himself thrust back into the hectic and chaotic world of the Court.
I shouldn’t think this way, he reminded himself, turning towards the mention of his name. He wasn’t truly unhappy in his role — just perhaps a bit lost. Ipomoea had never tired of talking to people, of meeting new places and exploring new things. Kasil had once said it was why he was perfect for the role of Emissary… and now Somnus believed it would fit the role of Regent, as well. Po was determined to prove them right, but some days he wasn’t so sure how to.
He never saw the trio of giggling girls who had called his name; the crowd and smoke alike were too thick, and the sea of faces had blended together in a nearly unrecognizable blur. Nor did he see when the pale-skinned girl stepped up behind him — but her voice sent a shiver down his spine. Slurred and hushed her voice might be, but he had no doubt that he would recognize it anywhere.
“Messalina,” he breathes, turning his head to catch a glimpse of her sparkling blue eyes. “I was starting to wonder whether you had come at all.”
As he turned, he caught a whiff of the mead coating her breath. It stung his nose - but not in an unpleasant way. He smiles charmingly at her, pretending not to notice. And for a second, he finds himself utterly speechless.
”Were you hiding from me? Ah, but it’s useless — I shall find you every time.” For a second Ipomoea can only stare, his mind fumbling and tripping over itself as he rushed to think of a response, but his lips moved soundlessly. Thankfully, the ever-graceful Messa saved him with another question, this one far more easy to answer. His smile returned in a heartbeat, the Regent willing his nerves to settle.
“Of course, m’lady,” he dipped his head courteously, pressing his dark shoulder against her pale one. “For you, anything.”
He leads her to a clearer section, where less people clog the dance floor and the stars winked down upon them. The whole way, Ipomoea relishes the touch of her skin upon his. “Tell me,” he begins, as his legs begin to move in rhythm and his body sways to the beat, “how are you enjoying the festival?”
t was curious — the world was spinning rapidly around her in a blur of color, yet Messalina felt as if she were swimming through syrup. Slow and dizzy and dreamlike.
Her limbs did not obey her like they normally did. If she were a touch more sober, the discovery would’ve sent her down into a wobbly curtsy, head bowed to hide her heated cheeks as she excused herself in a flurry of skirts and chagrin.
Three glasses of mead, though, did wonders at locking away one’s sense of inhibition for a time when it could be met with the horror it deserved.
"Messalina." A smile bloomed upon her lips when Ipomoea spoke her name, the way the syllables glided off his tongue — different than Mother’s, different than anyone else’s — wrecking havoc to her already fluttering pulse.
“Of course, m’lady.” Her eyes widened a fraction when the regent brushed against her good-naturedly, though she was quick to school it back into nonchalance. Gods knows she still had enough composure left —
“For you, anything.”
A stunned silence descended over Messalina as Ipomoea turned away and pulled her gently towards a break in the crowd. Barely registering his hold on her, she breathed shakily as a sudden flare of panic infiltrated her liquor-induced haze. No one had ever said that to her. It was as startling as an arrow to the chest.
Limply, she allowed herself to be led forwards as she tried desperately to quell the queasiness in her stomach. She had been the one to so boldly ask for his hand in dance, and when he’d obliged, she was the one flustered. Just like how the girls in the Algernonan court had fretted foolishly over the boys they fancied, here she was, losing her nerve from one softly-spoken sentence.
The more Messalina tried to beat any sense out of her unobliging mind, though, the more her head spun. So, quite happily, she gave up trying. The mead in her blood wouldn’t allow it.
“Tell me.” They had stopped in a secluded part of the glade, the chirping of cicadas mingling with the music, and Ipomoea drew her towards him as he began to dance. Her gaze drifted lightly to his, and she marveled at how they were still as pink as spring roses in the silver moonlight. “How are you enjoying the festival?”
Softly, she fell into step with him, her movements balletic as she stepped closer, close enough to see the fluttering of his dark lashes and the pulse of his pale throat.
“It's… wonderful. I have never been to a festival before — we had them, of course, but I," her voice fell as she glanced away, brow creasing. "I hadn’t been allowed to go. I must say, a festival is far more pleasant than a stuffy gala or dinner.”
She smiled demurely as she pulled away again, eyes fluttering closed as the notes of a sweet, aching waltz drifted through the starlit glade. She recognized it — vaguely, she remembered dancing to it for one of her performances as a child, but the memory faded away as quickly as it came.
"Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself as much as I have today,” she said, the confession slipping quietly from her loosened tongue. "Coming here, being accepted so warmly into Delumine — even gaining a position in King Somnus’ court. Sometimes, I am so afraid that it is all a dream.”
That one day, I’ll wake up, and everything will be gone. Even you.
The forest reminds him of a scene from a fairytale tonight, made complete by the stars shimmering overhead and the girl trailing closely at his side. Her shoulder is warm against his, and something about the contact is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.
And in this fairytale, Ipomoea is no longer an orphan, forgotten and overlooked. He’s been transformed into a prince, and it feels as if he could do anything, be anything.
With every step, he wills his heart to be a little more steady, a little more quiet — it’s so loud, and pounding so heavily in his ears, he’s surprised Messalina can’t hear it. But maybe she’s just being polite, and pretending not to notice the way his heart flutters and his cheeks burn every time she looks at him.
Her voice is music to his ears, and he drinks in her words, her glances, her touches like he’s been starved of her all night.
“This is your first festival?” His surprise is apparent - but he can’t help but feel just a tiny bit special, that she had come to this one, that she’d had a choice and had chosen to see it for herself. She was a ballerina after all, had grown up within courts and ballrooms and extravagances. But never a festival? “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” his heart is soaring in his chest, and he finds himself almost relieved but her admission. It’s as if a secret part of him had been afraid she wouldn’t come or - even worse - afraid she would be disappointed in the whole affair.
As she pulls away, he has to resist the urge to press after her; it’s almost an agony, but slowly he falls into a rhythm alongside her. His wings flutter in time with the music, head bowing shyly as he looks at his dance partner from beneath his long lashes.
“If it’s a dream,” he begins, his voice is little more than a whisper, reserved only for her ears, “it’s one I never wish to wake up from.”
Slowly the dance brings them closer, but it’s too slow for his liking. He has half a mind to be bold, to be brave, to step forward and close the distance between them for good.
He almost does: his body wavers, breaking his rhythm, as if he’s on the brink of leaping forward. And all he can think of is how pretty she looks beneath the flickering lights, and how her lips might feel against his -
- he takes a sudden step backwards, feeling abashed. “Messa. I-“
He stutters on his own words, and the fairytale feeling starts to slip away inch by inch.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying the party,” he says again, even though he’s already said it once. And his cheeks burn again in the starlit night.
his is your first festival?” She shifted slowly towards him, to better hear his question, and her heavy head dropped forwards until it was just shy of brushing Ipomoea’s neck. The liquor seemed to have circulated its way through Messalina’s entire bloodstream, at long last. Her limbs had never before felt so heavy, so languid, so free.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he murmured, and she smiled. She was doing a lot of that, smiling, but she found to her delight that she was growing less and less concerned. Why should well-brought-up ladies always pretend to be demure? Why had Mother always required it of her? She had never dared to ask, but tonight, when the stars were so bright, and her heart felt so brave, there was little she would not dare to do.
“The first, yes,” she hummed, pulling away as the music crept to a gentle crescendo. “But I assume for you it is not the first.” Suddenly, as her hooves took a practiced step towards him again, the music picking up its scattered pieces, she remembered the trio of girls who had been on their way towards him. The girls who would have gotten to him first if she had not reached him before.
“If it’s a dream, it’s one I never wish to wake up from.”
A tingle spread up her spine, and her eyes snapped closed. Her mouth parted, but then closed again when an unbidden wave of sickness unsteadied her steady hooves. Her heart raced in her chest, and, biting her lip, Messalina blamed it to the unfortunate curse of intoxication.
Her mind was cloudy and unfocused, like a lipstick-smudged glass that had not been properly polished. Slowly she dragged her steps, hooves catching in the overgrown grass, but before she could halt entirely he pulled away first.
“Messa. I-" he stuttered, and she frowned when the warmth of him was lost to the cool evening air. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the party.” The light of the lanterns was too dim for her to see him properly, and for the life of her she could not puzzle out why he was drawing away. The music had not even stopped, and continued to drift like windblown silk through the glade. Teasing. Too fine and too delicate.
The girls had been wearing silk, too. “Are you saying that because you are leaving?” Her head buzzed like cicadas in summer. She hated cicadas. “I am thirsty. Let us go for some refreshments,” she said, before he could reply, because she did not want him to leave.
And, brushing a curl back into place, she made her way — not yet stumbling, not yet graceless — towards the sparkling pitchers of drink.
He remembers his first festival, when the traveling merchants had come to Solterra.
He was just a boy then, an orphan begging in the streets of the capitol. They had been the most extravagant people Ipomoea had ever met, their liveliness clashing wonderfully with the heat and tensions of the Day Court. He had been drawn to them, hopelessly, romantically - how could he not? They had everything an orphan like himself could ever want, freedom and spirit and hope.
“No,” he hummed. Ipomoea had been to many festivals since that one. “Definitely not the first.” And yet there was a feeling blossoming in his chest, the sense that this one was important, more so than the others. He already knew he would remember tonight above all others.
She drifts closer to him, ever closer, and Ipomoea is unsure if it has more to do with the wine and sweets they’ve indulged in, or simply a desire to be near one another - but he hopes it’s the latter. If it were any other night he might have at least tried to keep his distance, he might have reverted to his mask of shy and overt politeness, a mask that would keep her carefully at arms length, all while laughing over the sound of his frantically beating heart. Perhaps he would have shied from her touch, or led her back to the crowds where the lights were bright and left no place for them to hide, excusing himself on the slim basis of needing to “take care of something,” which of course actually meant running off and catching his breath before the fire rising in his cheeks could give him away for good.
Any of those options would make for an appropriate choice. He was a Regent, and she a Champion; there were no explicit rules that dictated a relationship between the two, but surely it was implied? Surely that was what they all meant when they said “Duty, Honor, Country” and stitched those words into every sworn oath.
But tonight Ipomoea is selfish, surprisingly so.
Those three words are far from his mind, fading away alongside the party and the lights and the noise. It’s all just background, a dull and colorless world that pales in comparison to the slow and languid dance they’re locked into. Overhead the stars are bright, smiling down in knowing silence as they pass beneath their silvery glow, and it seems to Po that they don’t seem to shine quite so brightly on any of the other swaying couples.
He wants to listen to those stars - he does - but uncertainty clings to the ends of his coattails, holding him back. When he pulls away they seem to dim, his heart and soul alike roaring at him to do the opposite, to move forward and lose himself in her bright, blue eyes that smile up at him. ”Are you saying that because you are leaving?”
It sounds like an accusation. His mouth opens and closes, and he realizes too late that they have stopped dancing, and they alone were still amidst the other dancing pairs. “No -“ he starts, but she cuts him off before he could think of what else to say. ”I am thirsty. Let us go for some refreshments.”
And then she is spinning away, like a ballerina exiting the stage in the middle of her act, leaving the crowd - leaving him - confused and wanting more. It felt unfinished, in a slow-burn, maddening sort of way; and perhaps that was what she wanted.
The fairy lights sparkle across her pale skin, the rose in her hair red and bright and alluring, a symbol for love yet in stark contrast to her formal, even stiff carriage. The crowd parts around her, the Champion of wisdom in a room full of scholars, and Ipomoea feels something like a kid watching the festivals of Solterra again, as he watches Messalina weave across the floor.
“You know, I’m not actually sure what’s in these,” he says sheepishly, as he gestures towards the sparkling pitchers. “I can’t say I’m not curious.” He hadn’t even bothered to ask - there were so many kinds of mead and wine and spirits, it all was hopelessly out of his league. And yet the basins were half-empty, and he routinely saw caterers returning to fill them, so clearly his advisor had made a deft choice for him. He wouldn’t know - he’d only had one drink tonight, and there were enough options to make his head spin before even indulging.
He shifts his gaze sideways to Messalina, peering at her from beneath long lashes. A fleeting smile brightens up his features, and he hopes to brighten up her’s with it. “Penny for your thoughts?” he asks innocently, and a glass rises into the air, hovering midway between them. Inside its spirits are red, as red as his eyes and her roses.
