I have been many things in this long, endless life of mine. A warrior, a killer, a lover, a mother—a leader. I have been all of these things but beyond that something else, something other. Never quite mortal, always on the cusp of divinity. A little predatory.
I come down from the mountains now like a wraith; like I am finally following some invisible thread that has been pulling me since I disappeared into them all that time ago. I am not alone. When I pass beneath the Arch, there is more than one set of new prints in the well-worn snow-covered path. There is a beast beside me, white as marble, as tall as I am. Fylax does not say much, but observes everything.
I come down from the mountains like a wraith, but there is no old home here for me to return to. I may know Denocte as well as I know each bead woven into my hair but the world is foreign now. The mountains have been home for too long, the quiet, the isolation. I am still growing used to the feeling of Fylax always being at the end of that strange, magical tether between us. I am always expecting them to simply disappear.
It is early, and cold, and the court is barely awake. I am always awake—I have always been awake. I draw the blue fabric scarf of my armor over my head, twist it about my neck. The ends flutter in a sharp, biting wind. A few faces pass. Most pay me no mind, but a few, oh a few glance once, and then twice, and their eyes widen and their mouths gape open.
Some begin to whisper. I pretend not to hear them, as I continue to weave through the streets. I have been many things in my infernally eternal life. Once-fighter, once-savior, once-executioner, once-caregiver. Once-queen. I have not forgotten, and neither have they.
The capital was quiet this morning, yet would soon give away to a few meandering citizens - gaggles of faces moving about in the winter air with spritely smiles. Perhaps the promises of spring were placing an extra skip in their step, tempting them to move lighter, gayer, as if flurries themselves. Or maybe they were simply rising with sun, eager to get to work and prepare for the season to change. This convivial and bright community was one of the many reasons Thomasin would always be proud of her people. While others would argue that Denocte was a lonely creature who hid in the shadows, the lamb would - respectfully - argue otherwise. Denocte was a tapestry of unique and beautiful individuals woven into a colorful history of acceptance and culture.
The budding dryad would be spending her early hours traveling to Night Court from her humble adobe at the foot of the mountains. On her journey there, she'd occasionally pass someone she recognized and she'd offer them a warm smile or a respectful nod, but for the most part, she kept to herself. The wind would bite at her wooly skin, seeking the tender parts of her exposed face and doe-like ears to nip at.
With the sleep still in her eyes, she would notice a part in the sea of traveling commuters. Equines began to move out of the way for a pair of strangers - creatures that were new and foreign to Thomasin's overcast gaze. She heard the people gossip amongst themselves, but Thomasin chose not to indulge in their whispers. Yet, curiosity couldn't help but take her by the chin and fasten her stare to lady.
Could you imagine being so artful, such a masterpiece, that others would move out of the way simply to look at you?
A familiar pain echoed in the dusty mare's heart, as she too, would eventually follow suit and fold out of the pathway. Her eyes would fall to the snow-touched stone, a wall-flower now, content in where she belonged. Yet, she couldn't help by spy through her curtain of speckled lashes.
This woman moved like a feline; a striped wildcat, perhaps feral to all others, but beautiful to Thomasin. A warrior, suited in dark armor and cerulean silk, sauntering with an alien beast who she seemed acquainted with. A delicate pink nose would lift in the air, trying to profile the perfume of petrichor that weeps from the tiger-skinned amazon.
Perhaps if she were more stealthy, she would successfully be able to follow the pair without their awareness. But alas, Thomasin was naturally ungraceful in her movements - like a babe fresh out of the womb, knobby knees and too much hair getting in her way. She followed a few paces behind, curiosity eating at her, temporarily basking in what it must feel like to have audiences paving your arrival. Maybe she mistook fear as admiration, but either way, Thomasin envied it.
I realize too quickly that no part of me has forgotten these night-stone streets, as much as I may have hoped things would look differently. I do not even know where I am going but I go with confidence because I know every street and alley so perfectly, even in the wan morning light. How many times had I stood on cliff’s edge and looked down into Denocte and wondered, and hoped, that there would be nothing and nobody here to remember me?
It does not take me long to notice the girl, following along in the court behind me like a shadow. War made me hyper-aware, and no matter how hard I tried the lioness in my bones could not forget what it was like to always be aware of her surroundings.
I let her follow me long enough to determine that she is not a threat. Whoever she is, the girl is not trying to hide that she is trailing along behind me. Nothing about her says danger. Nothing about her says dangerous. Familiar market stalls and shop windows pass by as I walk. I do not stop to look inside them, nor to greet the merchants and keepers who stare, wide-eyed, at the shadowed face of their ex-monarch.
I do not stop walking when I finally speak, though I turn my head so that my eyes can more easily see the girl beyond the edge of my sapphire scarf. “Were you planning to say something, or only follow us forever?” I’ve caught a glance of her curious expression and remind myself not to be rude. My time in the mountains has not been kind to my humanity and social graces. Fylax drops back, allowing the girl to join me at my side if she wishes. The gryphon towers over the girl, as I do.
I take a moment to consider her, the color of a dormouse with faint brindling on her spine and much more stark, white stripes in various other places. Long hair, ears reminiscent of a deer’s, and eyes the color of winter clouds. When I see the faint pulsing of a heart through a partially exposed ribcage in her side, my nostrils flare. The lioness in my veins purrs and lopes to life languidly. She hums, life, life, life.
My magic aches and yearns at the vulnerable source of energy. I reel it in and turn my head away. “What do you want?” I ask, and it comes out less inviting than intended, even though I am not trying to make friends. I unclench my jaw, ungrit my teeth, and chance another look in the girl’s direction. I definitely do not recognize her, at least. For that I am grateful.
When first hearing her speak, Thomasin had to fight the urge to retreat.
Curt, cut like glass, exposing the budding dryad and her clumsy attempts at following from a distance. The question hung in the air between them, a sort of hesitancy beginning to build in Thomasin – for she wished to ask where she was going, the knight and their strange alabaster companion, but found that the gaze of the Amazonian had severed her vocal cords.
Was she conjured from Thomasin’s well-loved stories? Crafted from the ink and paper, leapt off the page to conquer dragons and save damsels? Mystery cloaked this stranger, this enigma, and curiosity couldn’t help but encourage the dusty mare to follow and leer, to ask how it was possible to demand the attention of these citizens without saying a single word?
How does one become so captivating? Somewhere inside her jewel of a heart, Thomasin wished to harness such a power.
Find an excuse.
“Excuse me,” she murmurs, sheepish and a bit ashamed at being spotlighted. Despite her meekness, she chooses to move up closer as the beast makes way for her.
The second time the wraith spoke, she had unknowingly seized the smaller one’s voice. The lamb swallowed, an audible gulp, blinking away the stress of finding a reason to have followed her.
Do not confess you were following because you were admiring.
“Have you traveled to worship Caligo?”
At the mention of the goddess, Thomasin felt herself a bit more grounded – though she would need to ask forgiveness for the slight deceit, never wishing to necessarily lie, but never wanting to expose her odd and eccentric habits of admiring strangers.
Her gaze would settle on the cobblestone and dirt underneath their feet, too diffident to look the woman in the eye, she spoke quietly as if a breeze in the spring. “I participate in group worship, a choir, and I couldn’t help but feel inclined to ask if you might be joining us today? We always enjoy new faces.”
Thomasin glanced up at the tigress, quick, as to not be rude to stare, but long enough to count the blood-red pearls underneath her eye. She was hungry to know her, longing to hear her stories, wondering if she once a wall-flower too, like herself, and how she managed to escape the confines of the wallpaper?
I roll a shoulder and slow my predatory pace to something more leisurely, something more unhurried, less urgent, to allow the girl to join me. She speaks softly, in an almost reprimanded tone. I’ve spoken too harshly, it seems, and made her feel as though she’s done something wrong. My sapphire eyes pause on the other equine’s face with an almost questioning look, a concerned lift to my brow.
Her words, however, catch me more off guard than I am ready to admit. Even despite my recent stop at the temple on Veneror, I had hoped Caligo would stop following me everywhere I went. Foolishly I had hoped the demi-goddess would finally leave me alone. That, of course, could never be true. I had abandoned her people, and by extension the demi-goddess as well. If I know anything of the divine it is that they never let go.
“No,” I say, tempering my voice, “I am not here to worship.” I am not here to bend a knee, nor bow my head. I am tired of always being found beneath the deities in my life, even when I disregard their existence. I was made with god-blood and magic—I am practically a demi-goddess myself. I refuse to genuflect any longer.
The young woman continues to speak quietly, looking at the street beneath them as she does. Not the most confident, this one. The night has always been a place for those who are unaccustomed to the light. The night has always had a way of being whatever one needed it to be, regardless of their struggles. It appears that even after so long this has not changed.
When I next part my lips, it is not to say that Caligo would not want me; nor that I am not interested in singing her praises. I bite my untameable tongue and say instead, “I have other matters to attend to in the court.” It is a lie. Even as I say it, I cannot deny that it is. “If that was all…?” It comes out as a question, merely because I find it difficult that someone so timid would go around asking strangers to join her in merry prayer and devotional services.
In reality there is no reason for me to be here, really, except that I am trying to convince myself it is time to stop living among the wild things in the Arma and begin to live among the civilized once again. I have never been very good at being civilized, with my weapon and my magic and my eyes all made for war. I was built to kill, and I have always been very good at that. Killing enemies, killing gods, killing hope and light and love. I have no reason to be here, and a part of me is waiting for the court to chase me out for what I have done.
As her heart plummeted in her chest, Thomasin was not a stranger to the feelings that suddenly took her body hostage. Saucer ears would wilt at either side of her head as she listened to the answers the Amazonian gave her – why she expected anything different, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps if she was honest from the beginning, she wouldn’t have found herself in this scenario. Doe eyes would blink as she looked at the cobblestone, deafened to the flurries of citizens moving around them as they carried on with their morning.
A subtle venom was laced in the tigeress’ voice – Thomasin was sure of it. She knew how she looked in comparison: meek, fragile, a flake of ash in the presence of a mighty flame.
A deep breath would shoot from her mouth as tears threatened to spill over her cheeks and render her an absolute fool.
Do you slay dragons? Do you rescue maidens? The sword at your side, do you wield it? Are you a hero to the people?
Can you teach me how to be brave?
“I apologize, it was out of my place.”
Thomasin’s mouth was in a straight line as she elevated her head, overcast eyes void of any sparkle they momentarily held. The silence would grow between them, the lamb observant as she painted one last mental image of this stranger; any and all stories she could have admired blown away with the winter breeze, a fleeting feeling of naivety and embarrassment would replace her daydreams.
She could have sworn, just for a second, she was talking to her mother.
“Of course, you have business to tend to, my mistake for interrupting.” Thomasin would linger in her stare for a moment more, the tears that once rimmed her eyes had disappeared, and she would turn her body away in a melancholy fashion, a bit numbed.
The dusty mare would refuse to make eye contact with her, a sudden and abnormal coldness taking residence in her head, empty eyes blinking with a final dip of her head. “May Caligo be with you in your journeys.”
And just like that, Thomasin would depart from her brief moment of boldness and bewilderment and return to her pursuit of morning worship just as soft as she was before.
"talking."
tagged: @Antiope she's such a squish so im gonna close this one out!
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