On my body, the grace of shadows and in my heart: all Hells
He moves, leonine and black, beneath the festival lights strung over the maze of paths between stalls.The light skims across black, only to be swallowed by his shadows that breathe dark and thick into the night. The heavy crowds part for him as the sea once did for Moses. The air falls more still as his shadows press upon passing bodies.
It is easy to forget when he is here, deep within the vibrant heart of Denocte. Here where vendors sell their exotic wares that gleam with a foreign beauty that is at once strange and alluring to the beholder. There is no beauty here to catch Tenebrae’s eye. What are jewels to a man dedicated to charity? A man who vowed to live upon nothing and give all to his goddess and her court? All of him is for Denocte and as he steps through its busy streets, the darkness gathers to him and swallows him down, down. The Disciple is but shadow here, a piece of Denocte come alive, a piece of Caligo’s temple come loose.
Moonlight and lamplight gleam off daggers that line a swordsmith stall. Tenebrae studies them each. The metal is cold as dawn water in his hands, it is pale as moonlight in his hands. It cuts the air with a song and his shadows splice along its pointed length. The air trembles with smoke and fire-heat. It hums the the melody of song that radiates through the star-speckled sky from a streetband playing in the square.
Tenebrae lowers the silver blade and his shadows linger but a moment more than he as he steps away and back through the sea of souls. The small shrine calls to him where it sits in candle light and shadow. Caligo’s statue sits atop it and Tenebrae prays, his voice low and smooth as whiskey. His prayers taste like liquor in his mouth, his nerves numb with the rhythm of them. It is a chant and a song and soon it is over, soon he lays a tribute to his goddess upon the small shrine’s altar top. It is a sacrifice of roses, they lie healthy and in full bloom. They are pale as bone and lie like twin moons upon the goddess’ altar. They cut stems are dry and Tenebrae knows they will wilt overnight, he ignores the thought, for it feels too much like the parts of him that are dying.
The monk moves on, deeper and deeper into the markets. He follows the thrumming arterial paths until Denocte’s heart lies before him, beating, beating with the passing of the moon at its core. Tenebrae drinks in the sigh of the great half moon, a stone mirror to his own half-moon sigils that blaze atop his brow and on each shoulder. There is moonsong here, here where the silver light bathes all in diamond liquid. Here is where Caligo’s magic nests, here he stands and drinks her deep into his soul. Here he stands and feel that he is a pious man and not a sinner, an angel falling out of the sky, his wings broken, his feathers dying.
@Euphrosyne - So looking forward to writing with you <3 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Darkness falls and Euphrosyne is convinced she could never be a child of the night.
There is a tremor in her body that will not leave her, a wild-eyed sense of terror that seems to worry it’s way deeper into her heart. She had wanted to come to the markets to find something, but what she was looking for she couldn’t quite say. There were too many wants, too many things that had rattled her mind as of late and she had just wanted to feel the gratification of something new but coming to the Night Markets by herself felt more like a mistake then it did an exciting adventure.
She was not used to traveling the world without an escort. She had tried to put on a brave face when she had stepped onto Terrsatellan soil. She knew that her fear had betrayed her that day; there had been pity lining the edges of Raglan’s expression when he had approached, and again later when she had met him in Susurro Fields. She could see the sympathy written on Marisol’s face when she had met her at the Midwinter Festival, alone and without guidance. She was comfortable with pity. She was familiar with fear.
She was not accustomed to the freedom. It had sparked something wild and exhilarating at first. But now, as she watched the thrumming bodies close in around her, she was filled with dread. There was shouting from somewhere behind her. Prospective customers pushed her out of their way to get closer to the jewelry on display. Merchants reached out to touch her with greedy fingers, tugging on the delicate feathers of her wings for attention. Smoke clung to the air, music filled the space that conversation didn’t, and all at once she felt trapped.
But the quick flash of a silver hide catches her attention and she is filled with curiosity instead of fear. The man is pale, bent in devotion at the altar of Denocte’s goddess, the song of prayer thick in the air and sweet on his lips. The flickering light from the dimly lit candles casting shadows across his face. She has never met anyone pious, for surely the men that had occupied her days at the House were not men of reverence. It draws her in like a moth to a flame. She wonders what fills those moon-bright eyes with trepidation. Or is it repentance?
He moves on from the altar of Night’s goddess, soft tendrils of shadows encircling all that he touches, billowing behind him like a veil. She trails him like his shadows; watching him part the crowds easily and trying to follow suit. The moonlight has made him look ethereal, ghost-like in the dim light of Caligo’s embrace. There was no reason for her to find him, no logical explanation for her pull towards this man. But she follows him, until at last he stops at the heart of Denocte.
She shivers next to him, the feathers of her wings gently quivering. Fear climbs its way back into her throat. “Do you feel lost too?” Her voice feels frail and thin in comparison to the heft of his prayer.
On my body, the grace of shadows and in my heart: all Hells
Neither of them belong in the bustle of the Night Markets. But where the crowds part for him, yielding to the swallowing dark of his shadows, they push, pull and pluck at the winged girl who trails him.
If Tenebrae knew Euphrosyne was following him, he does not let it show. Still he moves with grace, even as awareness tip-toes up his spine like fingertips. He should be shivering at the touch of her unwavering gaze, yet it is she who quivers like a leaf clinging to the tip of a branch.
She draws level beside him and he turns to look at her. The girl is slim like a bird. Lamp light pours in caramel gold along the fine bones of her wings. He can taste sugar upon his tongue; a sweet smell that drifts through the air from bakers stalls selling fresh honey cakes. He wonders if the caramel light across the bones of her wings tastes as sweet.
The heart of Denocte beats before the duo. Her soul breathes around them, lit by firelight. But it is here, where the great stone statue of the crescent moon lies that all is bathed in moonlight. It turns the cobbled streets into a silver pool and in the deep light Euphrosyne and Tenebrae stand together.
The monk’s gaze is no longer upon Denocte. It rests, instead, upon the girl beside him. The hue of their skin is similar, though the Disciple is the cold of winter and she, warmer. She is lit by firelight, warmed by the sun. Yet they were still painted in hues of snow-white, silver and honey brown. The breeze sways, twines itself about her slender legs and between the delicate feathers along her wings. When it comes to him Tenebrae smells Terrastella upon her skin: the heat of the swamp, the rugged salt of the wind-swept cliffs, the wildflower fields. He thinks too of Elena, the girl of sun who would sooner dance barefoot upon the cliff-top edge. What is it, Tenebrae wonders, about the wild girls of Terrastella?
He blinks slow, slow. There is no rush, not in the silence that draws out between them. The silence that hears the echo of his prayers. Piety and joyful abandon meet and are hushed here, where Denocte’s heart glows, silver and moonstruck. His shadows reach for her (for they are always reaching), they press along the dark of her body, accenting the dark contours of her face. She looks up beneath pale lashes and the darkness gathers along her lips as moonlight illuminates her pale skin. Euphrosyne glows ivory white, as bright as his half-moon sigils upon his brow and shoulder. As bright as his eyes that glow star-white.
Do you feel lost too?
Frail, frail is her voice. As fragile as her wings and her body, made of air and light. Yet the wind does not snag her words, it does not pull them apart as one would think it might. The monk says nothing but continues to watch her, holding her in light and letting the silence fall between them. It is a veil that feels almost holy. Denocte holds her breath, but there is no tension. Ah the silence waits, it waits for the monk who bathes in the utter stillness and uses it to scour the sins of the day from his body, his soul.
“I do,” he confesses to her at last, watching the way her eyes blink, the way she trembles, trembles. “I am always lost.” Slow is the smile that tips up the corner of his lips, dark are the shadows that bloom there and reach for Euphrosyne’s own lips too. “But is that not part of living, to find yourself?” Then, lower, darker, more pained, “No matter what you might find?”
Silence again, deep and holy and limned in silver. Not once has he taken his eyes from her. Not when her wings are crying for the sky and the wind answers as it tugs at her feathers. He wonders if she might rival any god when she at lasts decides to make the sky her own.
“What do you fear,” The monk whispers, wonders, as he watches her, “when all of the sky is yours?”
She feels the heat of his stare, like moon fire. She wants to drink in its intensity, she wants to know what rests behind his restless eyes, but instead she only meets his gaze timidly They are not much different, bathed in silver light, standing beneath Caligo’s radiance. There is a hum in the air from the music around them and the crowd that has decided to give them a wide berth. The breeze circles and circles, ruffling the curls that have fallen from their ties. Minutes pass after she has asked her question, minutes that drag on and on until they feel like hours, but she doesn’t mind. She takes him in. She studies him as he studies her, and she smiles shyly in return.
I do, I am always lost. She watches the shadows of his face deepen, the way his lips crease, ever so slowly, into a smile. But is that not part of living, to find yourself? No matter what you find?
The words leave his lips tenderly, like he has exposed a wound he does not think will heal. “To find ourselves, yes,” she ruminates on the question an instant more before she whispers: “but to also shape ourselves, our destiny. We all have a choice in who we become.”
What do you fear when all the sky is yours?
“It’s not.” he might miss it; the way the words slide past her tongue. They are soft, and fragile, like all the ones that have come before. She wants to pull them back, to hold them between her teeth and never let go. But they were there, hanging between the two of them, and there was no taking them back. “I-” all of what she wants to say feels wrong, dangerous, like exposing her own secret might drive her to the brink of no return.
She unfolds her wings slowly, gently, letting the bottom pair stretch so he could see them splayed. The tips of several flight feathers had been shorn so she could not use them. They had chosen the bottom pair on purpose, so no one would look at her and see her as blemished; they would not be able to guess that she had been disfigured, desecrated, all so she wouldn’t escape the chains they had latched to her ankles every night.
There is heat flushing the contours of her delicate face, and she looks away. She had felt shame before; humiliation was a ritual the guards of the House did not shy from, but this was different. It felt vulnerable, raw, like an ache in her chest she could not be rid of. “I-I’m afraid they’ll find me, and take me back.” The confession feels like a knife to her chest.
There are several heartbeats before she dares to meet his eyes, searching for something she isn’t sure she wants to find. What would he think of her now that he knew she was ruined?
On my body, the grace of shadows and in my heart: all Hells
Nothing about Euphrosyne is bold or bright.
But all of her is moonstruck and deep-dream soft.
The night reveals her slowly, unveiling her from beneath its dark wings, as if she is fragile, as if she might startle and disappear like a swallow at the turn of autumn.
The moon watches them. Her silver face restful yet scarred with tears - for chasing the sun she is no closer. And when the sun comes to find her, she flees, chasing, chasing.
But neither Tenebrae nor Euphrosyne watch the moon’s sorrow, not when they watch each other. He offers the slender girl every piece of his attention and captures the way the moon’s tears glitter like diamond light, pouring down the curls of her hair.
The stars wish to claim her. Tenebrae knows her wings should make her a shadow in the sky this night. Darkness that repaints the sky and commands all below to look up, up at her as she drifts from constellation to constellation… He nearly misses the soft of her voice when she claims the sky is not her own. His ears tip forward catching the words before they are stolen away on the evening breeze.
Tenebrae feels her regret the moment the words have tumbled from their lips. The corners of her mouth tighten and heavy remorse tugs, tugs her bow-lips down. “Is it not?” He asks as his head tilts slowly. His eyes slip from hers and fall down to where she unfurls her wings for him, like a dancer, their arms.
The air still swirls for her. It dances a spiraling waltz that slips about her wings and beckons them up, up, up. But the wind cuts itself upon the sharp of her shorn feathers. Tenebrae’s gaze feels the sting of that too-sharp line. There is no grace where her wings end so suddenly. If her body is a symphony these feathers are a jarring note.
She looks away. The exposing of her altered wings is an intimate thing. Euphrosyne lets her gaze flee his as colour blooms along her cheeks.
Still her mouth does not lift into a smile. Not even a memory of the one she had just worn there. That once shy smile is little more than a ghost at the corner of her sorrowful lips. The monk looks to it and then up to where her eyes hide beneath the river of her sunset hair.
“Why do you feel shame?” Yes, he knows the feeling that pushes her silver lashes down and shields her gaze from his. He knows the way shame is a serpent in his veins - does it slither in hers too? He knows how it has brought a whip to his spine and his whip-scars throb with their remembering. His scars know the perfect pain that paints itself across her face. Wicked, terrible shame.
The girl turns her head away. The space she makes for her pain, he closes. As she trailed him through the teaming streets, her body an echo of his, so now he echoes hers.
The Disciple’s lips reach for her exposed, sharp-shorn feathers. He breathes and the air sighs along their cut length. The feathers do not arch for the sky as they should. They tremble.
Tremble.
Retreating, he turns his gaze back to where the girl now watches him. She searches, she digs into his gaze. What does she look for there? He does not look away. He does not smile. He lets silence frame them both, lets it wash across her aching soul.
“The sky longs for you.” The DIsciple says at last, for never has he seen a creature who belonged to the sun, the moon, the stars as perfectly as she. “Just because they have stopped you flying, does not mean the wind has disowned you.” The shadows turn thin at his command. They drift as smoke in the breeze that twirls through her feathers. “They cannot take what is rightfully yours. No mortal can stop what the gods have decreed.”
Ah, those words slip from his lips like ichor, pooling in terrible gold upon the floor between their feet. Though those words are both comforting and sinister, Tenebrae keeps his starbright eyes on her, still not letting her pull away, to hide, to veil herself in humiliation and shame.
He holds her where she watches him and murmurs, low, potent as liquor, “You are already free. Even if they do come for you, catching what has slipped free can be much harder than keeping what is already caught.” A smile, warm as embers, slips its way upon his lips. A corner of them tips up toward the moon, the stars, the sky, the sky, the sky. “What you now have, they cannot take. Not unless you let them. Do not let them” The last he whispers, soft, impassioned, coarse across her ears. Heavy with friction to remind her, remind her.
“What did they do to you?’ Now something darker stirs. Now his shadows gather and bloom thicker, darker. They twist like thorns, even as they still cut themselves like silk across the sharp-shorn feathers she moves to hide again. In his question something terrible stirs: a vow of vengeance.
What do you fear?
The laugh returns, low like an ache, a groan. Darkness lays itself across his cheeks, his lashes, down the sharp line of his nose. “What do I fear…” He repeats her question, his words rough where hers were smooth. Yet his whisper matches hers and he turns his head to watch her, his half moon sigil atop his brow laying light across her ivory face. “I fear that my faith in my goddess might never be strong enough to save my soul from itself.”
And so it is that a girl more free than she realises meets a boy more trapped than he recognises.
@Euphrosyne - <3 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
05-16-2020, 12:00 PM - This post was last modified: 05-16-2020, 12:01 PM by Tenebrae
