Spring’s arrival brought with it an improvement in Eros’ mood, albeit a modest one. He has always loved the season—the fragrance of blooming flowers and joy of life anew. Sleep comes easier with the warm embrace of sunshine late into the evening, too. The sun’s arms have nothing on those of his mate, of course, but he supposes a lousy substitute is better than none at all.
This morning is a good one. The melodious chirp of birds draws him from sleep, the traces of warmth and comfort from his dreams still lingering in his mind. With a smile, he presses a gentle kiss to the tattoo on his hind leg and whispers a quiet “I love you” in what has become his new morning ritual. He hopes Aion can feel it, or that at the least he had told him so enough before they were separated.
Sometimes, when uncertainty and insecurity lie heavy in his mind, he wonders if Aion’s love for him ever dwindles. Just the other day had Eros plucked the petals from a daisy one by one, mumbling "he loves me, he loves me not—“
"He loves me!,” the flower had declared. Eros is inclined to believe it; Aion has told him as much many times before, but oh, what he would give to hear it just once more from the man’s lips themselves. For now, though, the flower’s affirmation will have to do.
Today he seeks flowers, too, but for a different reason entirely. Today, he wants to feel beautiful again. And so, he ventures into the fields of Delumine, marveling at the colors of spring painted across the meadow. The tall grasses tickle his legs and flank as he settles himself in the centre of a patch of wildflowers.
With his telekinesis he pinches a lavender one and tugs the stem from the ground, but a soft breeze pulls it from his weak grasp. He frowns, displeased yet undeterred, and picks another; this time he is able to secure it in his tail before it is blown away. He continues on in the same manner until the entire braid is ornamented, proudly admiring his handiwork when finished. If only I had someone to show it to, he thinks, but maybe it is enough—just this once—to feel pretty himself. @messalina
i'm not particularly happy w this, but i hope it's okay!!
<3
Girl of winter. It had been one of the many names Messalina had heard whispered like a curse behind her back, when the maids had thought she wasn’t listening. Which was strange, because how could one choose what to hear and what not to hear? They’d shown little care of hushing their spiteful voices, and she was not deaf.
Regardless, during her days in the king’s court, Messalina had taken a peculiar liking to the supposedly ill-intentioned moniker. Girl of winter. She liked the way it rolled across her tongue, lilting yet eerily foreboding. Like it belonged to a pale-eyed princess of snow, with frost coating her silver curls and ice lining her frozen smile. Born in the throes of an unforgiving winter, the snow had never fully melted from those eyes of vast, crystalline blue. Messalina’s skin and hair were of the palest ivory white, like the frost had leeched her color away with a glacial kiss. They’d described her porcelain smile as cold, and her eloquent words as frigid. The title fit her like an ice-carved tiara.
Under the halo of the spring sun, however, winter felt like a distant memory. The scent of wildflowers clung to Messa’s skin like perfume, as the slender dancer drifted quiet as a doe through the blooming Illuster meadows. Every which way, flowers as blue as sapphires, as red as rubies, fluttered like jewel-encrusted butterflies in the scented breeze. Delumine’s flourishing spring enthralled her. Algernon had been too far north to ever enjoy more than a few weeks of snowmelt, the only plant life being Mother’s precious rosebushes that had encased the castle in a cage of thorns.
As she walked deeper into the meadow, a soft hum drifted like a lullaby from her lips. The song was one she knew by heart, one she had performed to too many times to count. Each twirl and leap was etched into her bones, and suddenly, she ached to dance. A slender limb stretched forwards–and then, the spring was no longer around her, it was in her. Like silk in the wind, the glass-hewn ballerina sprang into riveting motion. It had been too long since her hooves had stepped with such freedom under a dazzling sun. Each twirl she spun elicited a wave of scattering petals, soft as satin across her skin. And gold–flecks of scintillating gold flew across her vision like stars.
Gold? With a start, Messalina ceased her dance at once as wide cerulean eyes fell upon a figure laying along the grass. Eyes of the brightest yellow blinked as wide as her own. "Oh," Messa gaped, valiently straining to contain a cough of embarrassment from permeating her voice. He saw me. "I–I didn't notice you were there." Shifting delicately on light hooves, a silent agony overtook the girl as she looked down in an attempt to regain some composure. Out of half-lidded eyes, she noticed with a soft breath how blooms were twined delicately through hair like ivory silk, softer and finer than her own. He is as beautiful as a doll, was her immediate realization, as Messa marveled how his skin was more exquisite than porcelain.
"Would you care for some company?" asked Messalina, as she dropped into a dainty bow. A reluctance to leave lingered in her gaze. She had to know–how did he work such magic?
@Eros | notes: she wants to learn all his secrets ;u;
He’s dressed in sunlight like a silken robe, smooth and soft and delicate on his skin. It fits him exquisitely, clings to his curves and limns them in gold as if the sun were designed for him, and him alone. It isn’t, of course, but Eros certainly has a way about him of making things seem as though they were—the flowers twined in his tail, the pigment gilding his hooves, the kohl lining his eyes. It is as if his beauty magnifies theirs, not the other way around.
Or maybe that is just how the sun makes him feel.
Warm and comfortable, a yawn escapes his mouth. A lazy, contented smile plays on his lips as he rolls onto his back and stretches, long and lithe with arcing ribs bared. Pop! He can feel his joints crack in his knees and hips. Eros often worries that he’s getting old, that his beauty is evanescent, but he is rarely faced with the reality. When his face begins to wrinkle, or his tail to thin, will he still hold value? Will I still be wanted?, he wonders, then shies from the prospect.
Suddenly, a mare dances past him, twirling and spinning as though she brims with energy and youth. Her hooves reach forward outstretched and he mimics the motion, closing his eyes against the cerulean sky as he braces himself for… Pop! He jerks upright, eyes wide as she stares back at him. She heard me. Color rises in his cheeks and he trains his eyes downward. “Your dance was beautiful,” he mumbles at the daffodil under his nose. In the breeze, it curtsies.
Eros chances a look up, offering a polite smile that belies his embarrassment when she mirrors the flower’s bow. “That would be nice, thank you. I’m Eros.” @messalina
it's just excessive vanity, messa c'x
