She had lay in the arms of the gods as the world shattered about her.
Llewelyn saw daylight in snatches and glimpses, careful to never see or be seen by any others that may approach the sprawling temple. Fear of the unknown had shifted the femme’s interpretation of others, had taken the world view that she had cultured from days spent in luxury and shook it out to the dregs. Gone were the morning tea sessions with her beloved Matteo; gone were hours spent lingering in corridors, pretending to admire some tapestry or flower while listening in on the servant’s gossip; gone were the endless hours of practicing calligraphy by lantern light in Dawn’s sprawling libraries. Indeed, her days had been both narrowed and stretched in the seasons since she had taken refuge with the restful dead; narrowed by the singular purpose of survival and stretched by the constant curiosity-tinged anxiety that worried at the edges of her psyche.
Cradled in the long-vacated chambers of monks and looked after by those holy enough to have been laid to rest beneath the cathedral, the damsel supposed she was not lacking for company; though at times she would have preferred more talkative peers.
Sighing into the distorted reflection offered by a polished brass serving tray, Llewelyn gave herself a few seconds to blink away tears before dipping the brush into the last of her golden body paint. The pigment at the bottom of the little jar was thick and unwieldy, resisting the press of the mink bristles and causing the maiden to grunt in frustration. The paint pot, its accompanying brush, and her favored emerald cloak were all the courtier had given herself time to grab before she fled Delumine, and the finality of reaching the end of the pigment struck the mare with a grief that she hadn’t expected.
Since the day that she had fled from the sundering of the earth - that hateful mountain spewing ash and hellfire from crumbling lips of brimstone - at the side of a silver mare with a voice like iron, Llewelyn had found herself running to the only true safety she could think of; religion. How silly it had made her feel at first, to supplicate herself at the stony feet of the once-palace and pray for asylum from invisible gods. Yet, as the days shifted to weeks and the weeks to seasons, the maiden found herself relaxing amid the comforting presence of a creed, recreating her lifestyle amid tombs and relics.
And though she supposed it should have been something to prepare for, that last sticky droplet of paint, Llewelyn hadn’t ever given thought to the notion that it simply could just run out. Another shuddering sigh escaped plump lips as the mare stared into the empty confines of that little jar, the full reality of her situation reaching down to press it’s weight to her thin shoulders. Carefully, so carefully, she had rationed out her stores of food, of water, of that golden pigment; but now, over two seasons later and deep into the grasp of Autumn, the understanding at her lack of permanence in this place struck at what semblance of security she had mustered.
It was time to leave the cloisters, to venture out of the world that she had shrunk to the size of a cathedral and to see just what had occurred while she hid atop the god’s mountain.
So the mare braided her mane back, the ebon and ivory locks hanging thick and heavy along her left shoulder, a comforting weight. Donning her emerald cloak, the familiar garment draping over a body thinner than when it had last been worn, the Dawn Court Scholar breathed in deep the scent of dust and crumbling rot. The scent, she had learned, was the perfume of Time; the aroma that all things eventually succumbed to as their bones dried and fell to ash.
In a way, she would miss it, but she also hoped that she would never be forced to return to this life of tombs and shifting mortar. With pursed lips and squinting eyes, Llewelyn stood at the doorway of the chapel, muscles tense beneath the plush fabric of her cloak. Questions battered themselves against her skull, none of which she had the answers to. “Well,” she murmured, voice hoarse from disuse, “Farewell to what I’ve known, salutations to whatever befell the world in my absence.”
The words were wry, dry, and rather tremulous, but the courtier stepped out into the chill mountain air despite herself. Unexpectedly, Llewelyn felt bliss; at the crisp autumn sunlight cascading over the precipice to perch upon her back, at the birdsong twining through the foliage, at the impossibly fresh air flowing into her lungs - cool and pure as spring water. The scholar lifted her face toward the noonday sun, full lashes glinting with unshed tears as she sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods who had sheltered her despite her questioning faith.
The world is changing faster, uglier, stranger than he could have imagined. An island rises from the sea. An island falls into the sea. Tyrants rise and fall, kings vanish into the twilight. Monsters roam the woods.
A boy watches, heart in his mouth– under his tongue where it’s safe and warm and pink. A boy holds close the things that matter. And when the things that matter are not there, he holds close their memories. Llewelyn’s absence was something visceral. There was not an empty space where she once filled his life. Instead, quite the opposite, there was something like a stone. Grey, opaque, cold and rough to the touch. Heavy, so unbelievably heavy for a thing that was not really there.
The boy loves and hates his stone.
He doesn’t think of it, not usually, but it’s there, it’s always there. It does not even inspire song, or poetry, the way he imagined such a weight would. It just hangs heavy and grey and impossible to ignore, although he tries his hardest. It doesn’t help when the summer burns its way to autumn, and autumn crumbles into winter, and all the world grows colder and darker and indifferent to the boy who just wants time to slow down for a little bit, if it could not stop.
Up they go to the mountain, the boy and his stone, the very top of the mountain where he went sometimes to look across Novus and think. It was not so much a place of prayer for him, as he believed prayer was best expressed by the way one chose to live their life. But while he was at Veneror he would often sing a song for his god, for all the gods while he was at it, or leave small tokens he was not sure did anything, but they certainly couldn’t hurt.
He flew, of course, and while it was easier than climbing it was still no easy feat. By the time he lands at the peak, his body is slick with sweat and his short mane windswept and tangled. The sun is well and risen, pooled in crisp golden light. He steps forward and finds himself face to face with…
"Llewelyn?" The boy feels a little like all the air has left him. A little cracked-egg broken. He looks behind him, in case this is some horribly cruel and elaborate prank. Nothing but sunset. He glances past her. Nothing in the shadowy cavern at her back. His eyes are wide with emotions that fight for control: confusion, celebration, anger. Between the fragile balance of the three, there is no space for relief. Not even enough room to breathe. "What the fuck is going on?" He still is not convinced this isn't a trick. “Are... are you okay??”
Mateo blinks back tears. The stone rolls around in his stomach. He missed her so, so much.
Fall had never been an ugly time for even the darkest and grittiest reaches of Novus. Indeed, as far back as the mare could remember, Autumn had always been a blaze of brilliant color before fading into the sleepy comfort of winter; one last fanfare before a gentle and temporary death. Yet, as the courtier gazed down the mountain’s flank and toward Dawn’s golden heart, Llewelyn found herself steeped in awe at the magnificence she beheld.
Nature had been hard at work painting itself in a riot of color and scent, heralding the approaching chill of season’s end with an almost violent show of beauty. Leaves fluttered gold, scarlet, vermillion, and a million shades between, their brothers and sisters fluttering to the earth one by one like candle’s flame. Once they reached the ground, though, their light did not go out, it only dimmed as they were covered in hoof prints and their crackling siblings.
From there, the soft scent of rot and rich, rich soil drifted heavenward - such an unexpected and welcome reprieve from the dank mustiness of the grave that had become Llewelyn’s constant companion in these past seasons. She could feel her tail twining and undulating gently in the whisper-soft breeze, the muscles about her shoulders and spine relaxing into a blessed calm while the sun caressed multicolored skin.
The sun caught the golden markings beneath her eyes, reflecting the light back into closed lids and setting the amniotic dark aglow with the gentle latticework of blood vessels and tissue. Llewelyn sighed, contented and careful - oh, so careful - not to break the moment that had been forged from part chance, part necessity.
The moment was broken regardless.
“Llewelyn?”
Some time in the future, she would be sure that some tiny part of her, some sentimental corner, had known he was coming and had chosen that time to step out of the cathedral. The Fates were kind and cruel and nothing at all, and they played with the lives of mortals just as mortals played with their own lives in turn. So as her eyes opened, Aurelian irises focusing on the charcoal image of her Mateo (after all this time, could she really claim him to be her own?), her surprise was not as bright as her joy.
He was beautiful. Winged and dark and smooth as obsidian glass. He was a picture of memory, a magnificent imprint of the present, a dazzling promise to future splendor.
Tears welled and threatened to spill over hunger-sharpened cheeks, though through them she smiled as if seeing the sun for the the first time. The scholar struggled to find words, to speak to him with a voice unwavering and reassuring, but all that spilled from her lips was a tremulous, “Language, my Beloved. That’s no way to speak to a Lady, you know.”
Explanations could come later, words upon words and emotions given name, but for now? For that fragile, wonderful, heartbreaking moment? Llewelyn had no use for words. A single step forward and suddenly she was flying toward him, malnourished body being pulled into the safety of his orbit once more as she sought to embrace her (because she could never stop seeing him as hers) most adored and revered confidante.
And amid the cacophony of feeling and overwhelming sensation of belonging, a comforting line of matronly advice began to ring in Llewelyn’s mind; Etiquette, the customary code of polite behavior...
Her emerald coat hangs a little differently than how he remembered. And he had an excellent memory, particularly of beautiful women. Particularly particularly of the woman he saw so often, so regularly, for so long. Is that the faint outline of her bones? Hips jutting out like stones the river rolled smooth? He frowns, just a little.
The golden paint on her right leg is cracking— it must be old, dried. The cracks reveal slivers of skin he’s never seen before. It is a little thing, but he will remember it for years to come. He smiles, just a little.
She smiles, bright and bold, radiant. Mateo’s never felt so useful in his life as he does now, being able to bring that smile to the world. The weight of it makes him feel fuzzy at the edges, like a poorly remembered dream. He smiles, sweet and charming.
“Language, my Beloved. That’s no way to speak to a Lady, you know.”
He doesn’t hear anything after Beloved. That one word sinks like a barb into his skin. Something awful wonderful, painful beautiful. Poetry unravels in his belly, sudden and sharp as the first snowfall of winter. And like that first snowflake, falling impossibly slow and lonely, the herald of the army to follow, the pieces of his heart fall into place.
And then— time speeds up, and they’re tangled up all sweet and dangerous. He wraps his neck around hers, presses his cheek to her shoulder. Her skin, it smells like something forbidden— no, it is something forbidden. He knows this.
He knows this.
But he can’t help himself. She’s here and now, they’re closer than they’ve ever been and— and— yes she’s forbidden but he lips at her shoulder anyway, a stolen kiss, clumsy and unsure as a colt, because he thinks he might never have the chance again.
The silence that follows then scares him, as it builds with so many possibilities— good and bad— mostly bad— and so he scrambles to fill it with words. “Forgive me, my lady, I forget my gods-damned fucking manners sometimes.” He laughs into her dusty skin. It takes every ounce of self control (which was something he did not possess in spades) not to nip at her skin in playful joy. Not to kiss her again, this time less chaste. “I missed you, Llew. How have you been?” He had gotten so used to how dark and crooked the world had become, the brightness of her presence almost burns.
It is a lovely feeling, this kind of almost-burning. He would not trade it for anything else in the world.
Had gravity always been so strong? Had the weight of sunlight and air upon her thin shoulders always pulled her so steadily toward the earth? Llewelyn felt the constant press of it tugging along her bones, a gentle and insistent plucking at each muscle and joint. Oh, how the maiden wished to cast it off, to toss her horned head and fling that wretched burden from body and soul. How had she suffered such a ponderousness for so long without noticing? How had she simply tolerated it’s presence?
The courtier’s ebon brow crinkled and relaxed in the same breath, a realization dawning that she was not being yanked down, but rather toward. A peculiar certainty unfurled over Llewelyn’s strained spirit and kneaded it into a kind of welcome submission; banishing her questions in the face of Mateo - strong and sure and home. So quickly had gravity shifted, the center of her universe wrenching unceremoniously to the impish pegasus who was lipping at her shoulder and holding her tightly enough to bruise.
If only he knew just how tightly she would hold him if her wasted form would let her - hard enough to shatter, hard enough to never again feel the chill of his absence. Yet, she was confined to the limitations given by the company of graves and dust, and was resigned to only the softest of touches. In a way she supposed it was only proper, for she to play the part of a frail damsel swooning in the arms of her honorable savior. But — as Mateo would well know — Llewelyn had never been one to settle for much of anything that inconvenienced her, and the mare suddenly found she was mightily inconvenienced.
A tiny, wordless sound of immense displeasure leaked from between the femme’s lips as she adjusted her stance just enough to bury her nose in the fragrant mass of Mateo’s shoulder feathers.*
So many transgressions and trespasses were occurring, and Llewelyn could hear the cynical whispers of her gemstones stirring beneath the watchful sun. Yet, regardless of her upbringing, of the clear rules that had been set by so many before her, the mare found that she couldn’t quite care at the moment. Some time later, once her old chambers had been aired out and fresh tea had been poured, perhaps she would feel guilty for her breach in decorum. Maybe she would hang her head in shame within the privacy of her bathing chamber and swear a renewed oath of careful - gods, so careful - chastity.
But as the scholar let her eyelids float shut and allowed herself space enough to feel safe, she wondered if decorum and stately image would ever hold the same sense of security.
The mare had thought her memory of him had been accurate, that years of togetherness and secrets had allowed her mind to craft Mateo’s image with lifelike accuracy; the picture of his laughing face had kept her warm through the desperation of her self-imposed exile, after all. Yet, as loath as she was to admit any mistake, Llewelyn realized that in comparison to the flesh-and-blood stallion, her own remembrance was a poor and pale imitation.
She found herself laughing along with him, the sensation soft as dove’s down, as he spoke of manners and his lack thereof. Llewelyn supposed, in some distant corner of her mind, that she could die like this and not regret it - to die happily was all one truly wished for, wasn’t it? To avoid all the fear and pain that comes from an average mortal death, and to find pleasant release in the Great Severing from life and limb. The maiden laughed again, though it was more of a huff than a true chuckle as she rolled her eyes in amusement.
A beat of silence followed as the femme considered how to respond - just how would she summarize the fear and the wretchedness that has encompassed her great, useless exile?
“I’ve missed you more than I knew I could, Mateo,” Oh, how soft and true those words fell, “And I have seen much better days...” Another breath of consideration and another few pulses of quiet broken only by birdsong, “Tell me what you have been doing - what I’ve missed - while you escort me home?”
She would leave it up to him to pull away, to start down the daunting path that lead down from the holy mountain and into the basin that housed their nation. In truth, she felt no pull, no sensation of belonging to the distant earth below; but wherever he went, she knew she would follow.
*Luckily, this action quelled the demanding mare, resulting in a contented sigh.
Sooo choppyyyy and I’m sorry for the wait my love<3
@Mateo
