𝚃𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙻𝚈𝚂

pleurigloss

“All my life… I have been told ‘go’ and ‘come.’ I am told how I will live, and I am told how I must die. I must be a man’s servant and a mare for his pleasure, or I must hide myself behind walls and surrender my flesh to a cold, silent god. I would walk into the jaws of hell itself, if it were a path of my own choosing. I would rather die tomorrow in the forest than live a hundred years of the life appointed me.”

— The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden.

daimonas

smile  falters  at  recognition  of  failure.  there  was  self-hatred  blossoming  within  the  river  lord  because  if  he  could  not  get  rosemund  out  of  their  father's  last  action,  what  fool  was  he  then?  what  kind  of  ruling  lord,  leader  of  vassals  and  head  of  a  family  would  he  if  he  could  not  break  her  free  from  the  chain  forged  by  a  dying  man  and  dragon?  a  hand  falls  upon  sisters  shoulder,  and  the  hurt  he  tries  to  hide  so  heavily  from  her  escapes,  if  only  for  a  moment.  he  would  do  his  utmost  to  get  her  out,  to  set  her  free  from  the  chains  so  she  once  more  could  be  a  forest  nymph.

"i  would  like  nothing  more  than  to  go  back  home,"  a  gentle  push  is  given  to  slender  sister  to  move  as  this  conversation  should  be  kept  between  them.  the  river  within  his  sister  was  strong,  the  waterfall  unrelenting  and  her  words  could  perhaps  become  her  grave  one  day.  "we  keep  to  ourselves  and  I-"  he  wanted  to  tell  her  he  could  break  her  free,  but  as  of  right  now  he  held  nothing  in  his  hands  which  the  dragons  wanted  more  than  her.  "this  is  not  a  conversation  amongst  people,  let  us  venture  back."

shesnakes

though she has always spit the bridle, rosemund allows this lead eris takes ⸺ the gentle suggestion of his hand guiding them away from the harbour and through the thick of the marketplace. they pass in silence for some time, her gaze landing on what is presented before her: foreign wares and faces, children gathered joyously around the makeshift stage of a puppeteer, the piles of horseshit from the animals towing the merchant carts. each their own proof of life, but ros cannot see them as anything but vestiges of their ruling dynasty: dragon scales littered where there should be none. their silence holds until they reach privacy, seated and sequestered once more in empty walls.

“father’s foolish gamble is not your fault, eris. do not feel i lay this blame on you. but what is your plan if the lord hand decrees a wedding to be tacked onto this list of events so recently expanded ⸻funeral, coronation? what reason have they to stay the proceedings if an allegiance with the riverlands benefits prince aeryn’s claim to the throne? very shortly we may be out of time. and i promise you should it come to that point ⸻" here she holds his gaze, strong as the wood their family banner rests up. ”i will find my own way out.“

dewinter

Maimie McCoy as Milady de Winter in The Musketeers (2014–2016)

warstudy

@shesnakes          ╱          𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲

"though i suppose you must find me exaggerating my own size," and my import, "to find the capitol of the realm too small." a concession, than, this next question. a thing much like the feel of his hand patting atop her own: but a small kindness.

"is it different from the skies, my lord?"

gratitude  tints  his  concern,  equal  in  parts  for  her  honesty  and  the  trust  that  allowed  it.    ❝    i  would  never  ask  you  to  conceal  the  truth  of  your  feelings,    ❞    aeryn  murmurs.  a  pretty  platitude  masquerading  as  a  promise,  though  there  were  times  it  never  even  occurred  to  him  to  lie⸻clumsy  missteps,  childhood  reprimands  to  say  nothing  if  he  could  only  manage  what  they  called  meanness.  even  today  he  cannot  quite  make  the  distinction  between  fact  and  supposed  cruelty,  and  so  he  has  always  been  tempted  to  silence.    ❝    there  are  places  in  the  red  keep  that  might  give  you  the  solitude  you  seek,  but  i  suppose  open  air  too  is  a  fairly  high  priority  ...    ❞

even  the  mere  mention  of  starfyre  is  enough  to  bring  a  giddy,  boyish  grin  to  his  lips.  true  interest  sparks  a  glimmer  in  his  eye,  rumbles  in  his  chest  like  his  lady's  fire  and  spews  forth  from  his  throat  just  as  uncontrollably.    ❝    there  is  nothing  quite  like  riding  on  dragonback,  lady  rosemund.  i've  heard  some  try  to  compare  it  to  being  on  the  high  seas,  but  there's  a  weightlessness  to  it  that  just  cannot  be  replicated.  although,  i  suppose  my  technique⸻more  of  a  crouch,  not  astride  like  one would  ride  a  horse⸻lends  itself  to  the  sensation.  there  is  nothing  holding  me  to  the  dragon  save  her  reins  and  some  straps  clipped  to  my  boots,  you  see.  others  will  bridle  their  dragons  if  they  can,  slip  a  saddle  over  their  spines  to  the  poor  animal's  discomfort,  but  this  is  the  best  position  for  both  her  and  me,  my  qēloszys.    ❞

oh,  he's  spoken  too  much.  stupid,  foolish  boy.  no  one  wants  to  hear  this.  no  one  wants  to  hear  you.  eye  averted,  the  prince  finds  a  new  audience  in  his  shoes.    ❝    forgive  the  tangent.  sometimes  i  forget  to  let  myself  breathe.    ❞

shesnakes

rosemund slows in foot as the prince paces faster by way of tongue, chin canted slightly to the side, the coordination of one thing trying to match another. she has never heard him speak this passionately ⸺ she has never heard the prince speak this much. yet he culls his own thought, a pause of silence the executioner, wielding his own apology as blade, and ros finds the urge to lift that knife from his neck. stilled entirely now, her gaze a rises from aeryn’s pale neck to the leather covering one eye. “in my experience, breath has very little to do with passion, my lord. in fact, it quite often robs us of it entirely.”

“you called your dragon something.” she looks for the echo in her mouth, pausing only long enough to find the right sounds of repetition. “qēloszys.” a fair enough iteration from a tongue more used to freshwater than brimstone. “i’m afraid i understand little of old valyrian; there is much use for it in the fields of riverrun. what does it mean?”

electrocorrosive

“She is so beautiful she is unnatural; her beauty is an abnormality, a deformity, for none of her features exhibit any of those touching imperfections that reconcile us to the imperfections of the human condition.”

— The Lady of the House of Love, Angela Carter