you kissed me that morning as if you'd never done it before
The drums called.
The drums called in a violent crescendo of beats, both as steady as a heart and as undulating as a storm. Furiously summiting, then abruptly stilling; reaching toward a thrum of consistency, a beat, beat, beat, beat of hooves in disciplined chaos, and then a sharp turn into dark pandemonium, dark uncertainty, a rising, cresting, challenging thrum of noise.
There was an aspect of the Night Court that spoke deeply to her soul; and the drums of her dance were one. The guide-like company of artists Boudika had joined were happy to have her and her feverish, reverent dancing; they were glad to see her war-like passion in each and ever movement, the way the music possessed her, and the drums stole her control and turned her into a creature other, a creature possessed by near-poetic passion.
That night, during her performance, they had spoken to her in a violent way; a way that altered the course of her nimble feet, possessed her trim limbs, and made her fly with the furious violence of her old life. The flicker of firelight remaindered her of nighttime battles upon the cliffs; the capture of Orestes; the betrayal of Vercingetorix; the blood of dead Khashran splattered on her face; the feel of metal catching on flesh, bone. These things frightened her but, possessed in the dance, flying with the frantic urgency of the drums, she could not escape them.
Beat beat beat and—a spar between her and Vercingetorix, the deep pitch of his laugh when she bested him, the clean pine-stone scent of his skin, the clatter of a wooden sword—
BeatBEATbeat!—Orestes in his water cave, half-horse, half-monster. Rearing. Eyes bright and terrified and enraged—
Beat—beat—beat—Vercingetorix staring, handsome and suddenly steely, saying nothing, then telling her to leave, knowing her for her, for Boudika, for Boudika—
Beat--beat—beat—beat—beat—the falling of the mast, the crash of waves, going under the water—
The dance ended in a bow, and a study tap—tap—tap of a quiet, hollow drum. She sweated, eyes cast toward the floor, waiting for the curtain to close and the darkness to envelop her. There was a crowd; and they jeered, clapping hooves upon paving stones, impressed, their comments floating to her in disembodied sentences. It was excellent. She was excellent.
Boudika left her heart, her suffering, laid out on stage. But it warranted only claps; only the clamour and appreciation of talent, of flash movements, the flutter of her cloth and the effect of the firelight and heady drumming. Such was this new life, of hers, and she felt disorientated as she rose and bowed again, this time for the end of her performance and to recognise the cheering crowd. Then the curtain closed, and she was in the dark.
She left the borrowed garments of the guild at the performance center, and, upon the earlier recommendation of one of her fellow dancers, headed toward the lake to see the Castle of Ice and Colour. Its as a reckless leaving; a leaving that possessed her abruptly, impulsively. She needed to escape the sound of drums and crowds which, in a context completely unrelated, continued to bring to mind the disciplined rows of marching soldiers, the crash of an army against a tribe, the blood in the water—
Boudika’s thoughts were stilled by the silhouette of the castle; vibrant in the moonlight, both dark and bright all at once. It glistened, mirage-like, and the image dispelled her thoughts of war. The effect was the same as looking upon a placid pool, and the mare stood dumbstruck, possessed suddenly by the sheer beauty of it. It was a work of art, and the ephemerality of it made it all the more beautiful—and in a way, delicately tragic. She approached heavily, her breath fogging the winter air, uncertain of how to approach the place.
Her father would have hated it, she know. Vercingetorix would have loved it in his own strange, quiet way. And Orestes—what would have Orestes thought, from his prison bars, of such a sight? The stillness of the place quieted her heart, her mind, her emotions, and Boudika continued to approach, her hooves breaking the crusted snow to dispel the midnight silence.
AND NEVER WOULD AGAIN AND NOW I WRITE ANOTHER LETTER THAT I WILL NEVER DARE TO SEND, COLLECTING MEMORIES OF LOSS, LIKE CHAINS WRAPPED AROUND MY VEINS, AND IF YOU SEE A FIRE FROM THE SHORE TONIGHT, IT’S MY CHAINS GOING UP IN FLAMES. I WAS YOUNGER THEN AND EASILY FOOLED AND THE OCEAN WAS DEEP AND DARK AND BLUE AND I LET THE WATER FREEZE MY BONES. I WADED UNTIL I COULD NO LONGER WALK AND IT WAS TOO COLD TO SWIM BUT STILL I KEPT ON WALKING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA FOR I COULD NOT TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE OCEAN AND THE LACK OF SOMEONE I LOVED
or once, the universe had chosen to be kind to her.
The night of a great snowstorm nearly buried most of Denocte. They had all holed themselves in their homes - all except one. Some straggly kid almost killed himself getting stuck out in the storm. If it wasn't for Morrighan, he probably would have died. She had considered it too, letting him suffer from his stupidity, but it seemed Caligo had something else in mind.
As an apparent gift for the mare's good deed, her fire magic had returned to her. Of course, it didn't come back in its original form. It was much weaker, but Morrighan hoped that in time, it would be back to its full potential. Despite its lesser state, she reveled in it. The warmth coursed through her veins and energized her soul.
There was some celebration happening throughout the Court. Morrighan heard all the commotion and decided to check it out. She wasn't really one for big events, but she could at least see what all the fuss was about. If it was truly that uninteresting, she could always go back home and continue perfecting her magic.
On her way, she noticed something by the lake that looked odd. As she got closer, it seemed to be another strange structure. What was with this place and random buildings appearing out of nowhere? Someone clearly had too much time on their hands.
It was a castle of sorts that was clearly crafted out of magic. It shone differently than any stone she had seen before, but as she got closer, she realized that it was a castle made of ice. There are lanterns inside lit by small flames and they illuminate the ornate designs on the castle's windows. Much like the last structure she came upon, it was an intricate piece of artwork, only this one was much more fragile. Morrighan had half a mind to conjure her fire and melt it into a puddle for fun.
Another stood by the castle, perhaps also pondering its existence, or they were the one that created it in the first place. How fun it would be to see the look on their face if their greatest creation was turned to water.
"Something magnificent indeed," Morrighan said, walking slowly up to the other mare. "But what is the point? A castle made of ice that can't withstand the cycle of the seasons. What a waste." It was clear that she was no artist.
she looked over his shoulder, for vines and olive trees; marble, well-governed cities, ships upon wine-dark seas
The serenity Boudika experienced, still and breathless before the beauty of the ice castle, was as ephemeral as the work itself. For just a moment, brief and nearly imperceivable, her mind and heart were utterly still: even the voices and images of the past were held at bay, the void opened by a chasm of her own imagination. Boudika did not know what Orestes would have thought, and so the idea fell away easily and remained unpursued. Nevertheless, this peace of mind rarely lasted for Boudika.
She was not surprised to hear another’s voice. Something magnificent indeed. The mare turned to assess the newcomer; she was a dark, painted mare with heterochromic eyes and a look of the wild and untamed. Boudika thought, perhaps, she looked familiar; in the same sense that many of Denoctian’s people did, despite Boudika knowing very few by name. Perhaps she had seen the other in the marketplace. Or not at all.
If nothing else, Boudika admired her audacity. The warlander simply rolled her shoulders in a shrug. “Neither can most of us, for more than a decade or so. We’re transient, too… Most of us just less beautiful, and less magnificent.” For a moment, Boudika continued to appraise Morrighan, with the way that Boudika had: clear, unhidden eyes. The colour of them was nearly volatile in the lantern-light, and against a backdrop so pristine—the stark contrast of blood-red against white, of crimson and virgin snow.
“I’m going to explore it, if you would like to join.” The offer was delivered in a neutral tone: neither inviting, nor cold. Thus far, the entire encounter reminded Boudika strangely of the sea: although it was pristinely beautiful, in a way reserved for the grandiose manifestations of life. Transient. The difference here was there was no subdued violence, no promise of destruction in the form of wave or storm. Boudika cast her gaze toward the castle; and once more at her potential companion. “I’m Boudika, by the way. I’m a dancer in Denocte.” Something about the other woman’s demeanour reminded her distinctly of a warrior and, once again, that idea sat oddly with her.
After all, she had risked her life and freedom for a privilege that women in Novus were allotted without reservation. It was a gamble Boudika had ultimately lost and to be reminded of the differences between Novus and her homeland, so starkly, always felt borderline insulting through no fault of anyone in particular. The copper-and-black mare began to pick her way through the ice toward the lighted entrance of the castle, feeling once more overwhelmed by the newness of the land.
BUT THERE ON THE SHINING METAL HIS HANDS HAD PUT INSTEAD, AN ARTIFICIAL WILDERNESS, AND A SKY LIKE LEAD. A PLAIN WITHOUT A FEATURE, NO BLADE OF GRASS, NO SIGN OF NEIGHBOURHOOD NOTHING TO EAT AND NOWHERE TO SIT DOWN; YET CONGREGATED ON THAT BLANKNESS STOOD AN UNINTELLIGIBLE MULTITUDE, A MILLION EYES, A MILLION BOOTS, IN LINE, WITHOUT EXPRESSION, WAITING FOR A SIGN.
hen the other woman spoke, almost prose-like, Morrighan groaned internally. Was this how the rest of their conversation was going to go? She could never understand the artists and their fancy, philosophical talk. In her eyes, the world was a lot more black and white and she preferred to get straight to the point. If she couldn't, often she'd just take care of it with a burst of flame.
Then the mare invited her to join her in exploring the castle. In reality, Morr didn't exactly have anything else to do, so she shrugged and followed along. "Sure, what the hell."
As they went near, she could feel the chill of the ice on her skin, almost like it was a glowing aura. Her hooves grew warmer and the fire inside her almost begged to be let out to consume the frozen castle. Burn, burn, burn, it seemed to chant in her mind and she had to push it aside for a moment. Destruction was in her nature, but now was not the time (yet).
Boudika introduced herself and added her title as a dancer. This was just another custom Morrighan wasn't used to. Back home, there were only warriors and healers. They did not have anyone who was tasked specifically with entertaining. In reality, no one had time for such useless activities.
"Morrighan; I'm a soldier," she replied, her tone neutral as well. Although it was merely a statement, it was a rank she was fairly proud of considering her past.
As the pair entered the castle, she could feel the floor beneath her melt slowly under-hoof. She glanced up at the windows, taking in the intricate patterns and scenery in the ice. One might stare in awe, but Morrighan did not. Instead, she looked on with a brow raised.
"Yeah, someone really had a lot of time on their hands…" she muttered, then looked back at Boudika.
"So why exactly are you a dancer? Is that all you do?" she asked with mostly genuine curiosity. What real purpose did dancers have to the well-being of the Court?
@Boudika oops sorry this took eons. Also Morr might've insulted her but she's just very out of the loop LOL
