[AW] crumbling light

[Antiope]

of glory which the world hath known

stands she not nobly and alone

T

he attack is over in seconds.

Or, at least, it feels that way. War, it always feels like it struggles on and on, clawing its way through the days, weeks, months, doing whatever it takes to last and last and survive. Almost desperately. But this one, it is different. She remembers walking out to that clearing like walking out to certain death, like she is walking them out to certain death. Is she not leading them to their deaths, every day of their lives?

Has that not, blindly, been her purpose the entire time? How has she been so foolish.

The field is dusted in frost and snow, not white but crisp and frozen. Her breath—all of their breaths—fog in the air, filling it like ash and smoke. She holds her axe deftly in her hand, her shield hanging carefully from the straps of her harness. The ends of her scarf flap in the breeze like some kind of flag.

She still doesn’t know what changed, but when she couldn’t swing her axe down… that had been the moment that everything had changed. Her head turns, just in time to see the other equine aiming the spear directly behind her outstretched legs. It enters between her ribs, burning, burning.

Is that where the burning had been born?

~~~

She wakes, chest searing, half expecting to find green eyes looking down at her with concern. She knows better, she should know better.

Antiope stands, opening doors on empty and dark halls. Her steps echo like voices off the walls, damning and condemning. If they are trying to tell her something, she doesn’t understand them. There is too much hunger in her, too much aching, to make room for them.

Outside it is dark, everything is limned in silver and dusted with winter’s touch. The night is laughing at her; snow falling from the sky like ash, her breaths filling the air like smoke. Her things are abandoned in her room: her axe, her ribbons, her choker, her beads. There is only her, standing in the cold, with her hair wild and long upon the ground, and firelight dancing over the stripes on her skin.

There are smears of red under her eyes that look like they could be bruises or blood but right now on this night Antiope does not look like a god-thing or a god-killer. She breathes in the cold air like a salve for the flame in her chest, and descends the steps of the court to walk the streets below. She has never slept well, anyway.

"Speaking."

Open to anyone who wants to thread with Antiope <3

∞

[Noctiilucent]

Girl in the fire, do you pray when you're on your knees...

Cold; crisp night. Winter has fallen over Denocte. It is not the season of cozy memories circled around a hearth for the former soldier. The ghosts of her past do not hibernate when cold descends upon the land. Noctii picks her way through careful streets swathed in smoke. Incense pours out of the shops she passes by, their scents beckoning patrons in their doors. It is the first time she has been out since the night in the woods, where she and a stranger had been bewitched by a phantom bell in a tower that didn't exist. That seemed like a dream now, the edges of that memory were fading fast. Upon her nape, she could feel the cold chain of Xamis' pendant. It hung like an anchor around her neck, yet still, she did not remove it. It was a reminder of what once was, of what she lost in those days. It made her feel both beautiful and worthless. She was hollow when she thought about the pendant and what it meant.

Noctii watched her breath escape like phantoms from her lips, the vapor disappeared into the sky. It did not think of her. It merely departed. A familiar dwelling came into view, and a familiar figure spilled out into the night streets. Noctii recognized them only from the meetings Isra had held. She knew only their name and title, but she did not know a thing about them. Antiope, Denocte's Regent. A flare of jealousy rose inside the former soldier, jealousy stirred by the fact that Antiope would always be close to Isra. It was a fleeting emotion, but she still felt the thorn prick her as she approached the woman made of mahogany and ivory. The woman is covered in bands of a darker wood than her pelt, it weaves the entire length of her body. Her eyes are marked with small red circles, they are almost delicate, but Noctii doesn't believe they are delicate.

"Antiope? Are you coming to prowl the night streets? Is something amiss?" Noctii asked her, the words slipped past her pale rose lips quickly. She wondered if Antiope would recognize her from the last meeting that was so long ago. She was invisible here to all except Isra. She should change that, but she was stubborn. Noctii was writing about Denocte and her children. There were no books or spilled ink about those who inhabited this land. Not in the same context as she was writing. "Or are you just restless like the rest of us nightwalkers?" She asked again, a smile is slowly forming on her multi-hued face.
 

Words: 438 | Notes: <3 I hope this is okay ! | Tags: @Antiope

... Or do you wait and watch as it bleeds

[Antiope]

of glory which the world hath known

stands she not nobly and alone

S

he isn’t expecting to be approached so quickly, but her Regency had come with a measure of notorietity that some days Antiope finds herself still adjusting too. It is different, to be famed on a battlefield that others fear your approach, than to be famed in a court that others desire to be near you and to know more about you.

Her sapphire eyes are verging on ice floes, lost to sea, as they settle on the woman who steps up to her in the night. At first, she is taken aback by how strangely similar they appear, like looking in some strange warped mirror. Only this woman bears three horns, and dapples where Antiope wears stripes.

She recognizes her, faintly. Has seen her around the court, before. Perhaps speaking to Isra on occasion—but she does not know the other mare’s name. “Nothing is amiss,” Antiope responds, as if to alleviate any fears lingering in the citizens still wandering at this hour. What she cannot do, however, is alleviate herself of the burning in her chest.

The Regent begins to walk, because standing still is like asking for all of the things inside her to come spilling out. She will never let that happen. So she puts hooves to cobblestone, and lets a raw winter’s night breeze dance its way over her skin. “I have always been a night type,” she says, rather simply.

First, because she was always planning battles, or fighting in them, and then because she had finally tasted freedom, and love, and didn’t want to waste it with sleep. Then, she had killed the gods and her anger had fueled her for days, brought her to Novus, where the lioness in her bones had paced and paced and paced. Now, it is often a habit, often a consequence.

“I apologize for not knowing your name, though I have seen you in the court,” it would be remiss of someone like Antiope not to notice everyone, even if she doesn’t know them by name. It is in her nature to take in every detail, to miss nothing. “Is there something you needed?”

But she doesn’t feel like a Regent tonight, doesn’t feel like she could help anyone with anything. She just wants to breathe down the cold air like a compress to her lungs and lose herself in the shadowed corners of the court she has come to know so well.

"Speaking."

@Noctiilucent

∞