once upon a time;
‘Where have you been?’ Giver asks.
They are in their tower, high above that black ocean of pine. They sit on a pile of bearskins and soft pillows, trimmed with ermine; his shackles of silver sing gently as he talks.
From either side, she can hear the crackle of a fire, chasing away the cold that seeps in through the broad, glassless windows.
‘I was with father,’ she replies softly, her floral crown nestled atop her pert, indigo curls. ‘I found him.’ Here, she feels no sadness over it, nor confusion. Here, she speaks it without hesitation and without fear. ‘He lives in a kingdom, far-far-away.’
Here, she thinks of it fondly.
He tilts his strong, beautiful head, the bright, silver ring around his muzzle catching that strange fire-light. ‘Father?’
‘Yes.’
She can see his jaw worry, tighten and loosen, his brilliant, brown eyes dropping to the ground.
He isn’t supposed to think here; he isn’t supposed to question, here.
‘I have to go meet someone, Alight...’
And so it replays;
They are by the shore—sinking into the white sand of Tephra’s southern beach—and she is looking at herself refract on the water’s pitch-black surface. Over her shoulder, he stands abreast with her—Spark. ‘When are you going back?’ he calls to her, and in between the sweetness of his tongue against his teeth, Alight can hear a womanly giggle.
His tone says: because you are interrupting us. Please leave.
Plop.
The water shrinks away from her offering—some thick, meaty chunk falling from the underside of her jaw, exposing her bone-white mandible. She falls, piece-by-piece, into the ocean, until what is left is a tongue lolling over her flat, yellow teeth and a pair of amber eyes sitting queer and bright in her hollow sockets.
A skeleton, skinned and gutted by jealousy.
‘I d-do not w-want to go.’
But go she must. The giggle gets louder and louder, pressing hard on her eardrums, and thrusts of Giver’s laughter join with it. It is merry and anxious and expectant, and it chases her from her own dream world.
***
She wakes up at first light, her ears still ringing with the admixture of aphrodisia and lapping waves.
She screams, pacing the beast-lair. It echoes off the sand and limestone and traveled onward into the endless bowels of the hinterlands.
(How could he!
—that black-bonnet, those lips, drinking deep those miniature stars.
—those necks, encircling each other a hundred times over, impenetrable…)
She runs, avoiding the detection of her father, because that kingdom is ugly and dirty and dry—desolate, like that pockmarked moon— and Alight is meant for prettier things. Alight is meant for arable lands and fecund passages; she is made for fairytales and she was made for that moment, with him.
(—she was made for that moment, with him.
—she was made for that moment, with him.
—SHE WAS MADE FOR THAT MOMENT WITH HIM!
Usurping tart!)
“MAGICIAN!” she twirls and turns, breath labored, her wings wooosh-ing and sparking in the air. Others turn, heavy-lidded and irritated to look at her, pacing away to find the quiet she has disturbed.
“MAGICIAN!” she knows it will work. She had felt they way they were sewn together by the fairy-magic when she gave that voltaic magician her power back. And, because she was powerful, Alight could sense her frantic calls would make it to the silvery mare’s ears, wherever she was
‘Tell me when, and he’s yours.’
She had promised. She is indebted. They need her.
“MAGICIAN!”
They are in their tower, high above that black ocean of pine. They sit on a pile of bearskins and soft pillows, trimmed with ermine; his shackles of silver sing gently as he talks.
From either side, she can hear the crackle of a fire, chasing away the cold that seeps in through the broad, glassless windows.
‘I was with father,’ she replies softly, her floral crown nestled atop her pert, indigo curls. ‘I found him.’ Here, she feels no sadness over it, nor confusion. Here, she speaks it without hesitation and without fear. ‘He lives in a kingdom, far-far-away.’
Here, she thinks of it fondly.
He tilts his strong, beautiful head, the bright, silver ring around his muzzle catching that strange fire-light. ‘Father?’
‘Yes.’
She can see his jaw worry, tighten and loosen, his brilliant, brown eyes dropping to the ground.
He isn’t supposed to think here; he isn’t supposed to question, here.
‘I have to go meet someone, Alight...’
And so it replays;
They are by the shore—sinking into the white sand of Tephra’s southern beach—and she is looking at herself refract on the water’s pitch-black surface. Over her shoulder, he stands abreast with her—Spark. ‘When are you going back?’ he calls to her, and in between the sweetness of his tongue against his teeth, Alight can hear a womanly giggle.
His tone says: because you are interrupting us. Please leave.
Plop.
The water shrinks away from her offering—some thick, meaty chunk falling from the underside of her jaw, exposing her bone-white mandible. She falls, piece-by-piece, into the ocean, until what is left is a tongue lolling over her flat, yellow teeth and a pair of amber eyes sitting queer and bright in her hollow sockets.
A skeleton, skinned and gutted by jealousy.
‘I d-do not w-want to go.’
But go she must. The giggle gets louder and louder, pressing hard on her eardrums, and thrusts of Giver’s laughter join with it. It is merry and anxious and expectant, and it chases her from her own dream world.
***
She wakes up at first light, her ears still ringing with the admixture of aphrodisia and lapping waves.
She screams, pacing the beast-lair. It echoes off the sand and limestone and traveled onward into the endless bowels of the hinterlands.
(How could he!
—that black-bonnet, those lips, drinking deep those miniature stars.
—those necks, encircling each other a hundred times over, impenetrable…)
She runs, avoiding the detection of her father, because that kingdom is ugly and dirty and dry—desolate, like that pockmarked moon— and Alight is meant for prettier things. Alight is meant for arable lands and fecund passages; she is made for fairytales and she was made for that moment, with him.
(—she was made for that moment, with him.
—she was made for that moment, with him.
—SHE WAS MADE FOR THAT MOMENT WITH HIM!
Usurping tart!)
“MAGICIAN!” she twirls and turns, breath labored, her wings wooosh-ing and sparking in the air. Others turn, heavy-lidded and irritated to look at her, pacing away to find the quiet she has disturbed.
“MAGICIAN!” she knows it will work. She had felt they way they were sewn together by the fairy-magic when she gave that voltaic magician her power back. And, because she was powerful, Alight could sense her frantic calls would make it to the silvery mare’s ears, wherever she was
‘Tell me when, and he’s yours.’
She had promised. She is indebted. They need her.
“MAGICIAN!”
PHOTOGRAPHY © TASHA MARIE
@[Cordis]/@[Cassi] - if you still want/have time to this this IC, I suppose it can just be a short thread, but in any case. I have now hoarded Cordis.